Safarnameh

Back home in Virginia

2008-05-12T18:09:00.003-04:00

Greetings from the sweet, sunny south! We arrived home safely on May 7, and our long 24 hours of flying went flawlessly. Stayed tuned, we'll share our summer travels speaking and learning, as they unfold.

Break a Leg!

2008-04-27T05:36:00.002-04:00

It has been an interesting couple of weeks for the world. Hillary won the Pennsylvania primary, Mikail Gorbachev publicly professed his faith in Jesus, and I fell down and broke my leg.

Our Friday hike started very well. David and I, our dear friend Mohammad and two of his family members started out near Mt. Damavand bright and early. Mt. Damavand itself is the highest peak in Iran and the highest volcano in the Middle East, over 18,000’ high—the Mt. Fuji of Persia. We were having a leisurely walk at 9000’. A Kurdish man had been high up on a ridge picking greens that he would sell in town. His two big canvas bags bulged as he greeted us and walked by. A young man was making himself tea over a fire near a flowing river. We stopped for breakfast ourselves and out came tea, home made bread, home churned “pumice butter”, freshly ground walnuts, feta cheese and jam. Nearby was the source of a mineral spring—a burbling from a small collection of rocks. The water was tangy, almost sour, and deeply refreshing

We crossed the stream and ascended higher. Tulips were blooming—vibrantly yellow and red. Tulips exist in Iran as wilflowers. (And of course it is from Central Asia that Dutch traders received their first tulip samples and the rest, as they say is history). The Persian poet, Ferdowsi (935-1020) wrote about Ferhad, suffering unrequited love for the beautiful Shirin. He fled to the desert and wept, each tear he cried turning into a vibrant tulip. I thought about tulips, Ferdowsi, Dutch bulbs and photographed many of these lovely, petite wildflowers.

Next came a series of little caves, set into a severe wall of rock. Those, said Mohammad,are probably where wild boars sleep. Boars are from three to six feet long, like greenery and running water and are not known for their pleasant temperament. There are also sheep and gazelle in the area, and shepherds' dogs wear large spikes on their collars and harnesses to ward off wolves.

We decided to go down hill--- down a steep little path strewn with loose rocks—so that we could ascend a better upward path offering panoramic views. I had not gone very far when I heard two distinct snaps—the first, my hiking stick as it broke neatly in two, and the second my leg. (ouch)

I provided quite a morning event. Helpful Iranians stabilized my leg, offered me candy and chai and kept me company. The Iran Red Crescent Society sent out six strong men and a litter. They bravely carried the substantial American lady down a steep hill, across a river, and up another hill to a waiting ambulance. Mohammad was bravely helping carry me. Huff puff puff. Into my ear he said, “Mother, how many kilos do you weigh?” “Probably best not to contemplate,” I answered breezily.

Now—nine days later, we are back in Qom. A surgeon has put in a “bio plate” and screws to help my bones knit and in a week I’ll be fitted for a traveling cast back to the States. The Tehran Hospital was everything one could have hoped for: professional, friendly, efficient and caring. I have received several bouquets of flowers from Qom, chocolate covered figs and many yummy meals from our Armenian friends in Tehran. David waits on me lovingly as we contemplate our flight home in ten days.

Life is good! And I am a fortunate woman.

Visiting the Villages of Qom

2008-04-08T03:41:00.005-04:00

Qom is a province as well as a city. Set in Iran’s central plateau, the province of Qom boasts more than 250 villages within four counties and an elevation that rises to 3000 meters (9000+ feet). On Monday our friend English Mohammad called. “You have been wanting to see more villages, haven’t you?” he queried. “Let’s go today.” Off we went -- he, friend Mahmoud and Driver Mohammad (who has a superb grasp of Iranian history).

The air was brown with dust as we headed south to the village of Kahak. The earth was set in tones of basic beige as we rode past large hen houses and and small factories. Up ahead the road was being crossed by goats and sheep. An older man was in their midst on a tired looking donkey. No dogs were in evidence to help out. “My father taught me how to herd,” said the man humbly. “Now I have had hard struggles in my life and must do this work again. Please excuse me. If I don’t watch the animals they will be run over.” He placed his hand over his heart in a respectful good-bye and retreated on his donkey.

Seven hours, 200 kilometers and twelve villages later, my heart was full of images of traditional Iran. Imamzadehs are the defining feature in Qom province, at the heart of spiritual practice for the Shia. Shia Muslims differ from their Sunni brothers and sisters in a couple of major ways. One is their love and respect for their own “twelve infallible imams” (and hence their name “Twelver Shia”). Shia believe that Imams- Muslim leaders- must be members of the family of the Prophet Mohammad, and wise spiritual leaders, able to interpret the Quran and shariat, as well as giving political leadership. The twelve infallible Shia Imams (beginning with Ali, the Prophet Mohammad's son-in-law) are considered “infallible”, without error or sin. Hundreds of the Twelve Imans descendents ("the household of the Prophet") are buried in imamzadehs (shrines which serve as sites for pilgrimage and prayers) in Qom Province. The Imams and their family members are experienced as sources of intercession before God and able to give spiritual guidance to both the living and the dead. Very often cemeteries are adjacent to shrines.

We went into three imamzadehs on our ride, the first one in the lovely village of Kahak. “I remember this place,” said Mahmoud, who is the fourth of six brothers. “When I was a child, my mom would come here every week for prayer.” The pyramid shaped dome of the shrine is reminiscent of the Safavid period, with beautiful turquoise tiles. People inside were gently touching the grill work around the burial place and offering up their prayers.

We stopped for lunch at the “Blue Ship Restaurant” which offers takhts (wooden platforms with pillows to recline against) inside and out. We choose outside under a canopy and ordered lunch. Nearby, six businessmen had finished their meal and were passing around a large water pipe with mint scented tobacco wafting out. Our driver went inside to get tea and to order our meals. He pointed to our group and said to the waiter, “we are there, with that woman who is a stranger here.” “Well,” said the young waiter, “actually she is not a stranger. She and her husband have been here several times with a professor friend of theirs.” We ate and chatted and enjoyed the day. One of the businessmen wandered over with a question for me, with English Mohammad and Mahmoud serving as translators. “I know,” he began diplomatically, “that people express themselves differently all around the world. We have been watching your conversation and we notice that you often nod your head up and down vigorously (nodding one’s head up, once, in Iran means “no”, by the way) and gesturing dramatically with your hands. If it is not impolite, we would like you to explain the meaning of this.” “Well,” I said, “when I nod my head I am trying to communicate that I am listening intently and with interest. When I gesture with my hands, I am emphasizing my words. It is not impolite to do this in the west.” “That,” said the man, “is quite interesting. I will tell my friends.” Hand over his heart, he wished us a happy trip.

Off we went again, down the road. We passed a family of four on a motorcycle. Springs of water became more abundant and orchards of fruit trees appeared with small villages clustered nearby. Cherries are grown here, apricots, peaches, hazelnuts and walnuts. Qanats (small canals) run down the roadside, sending precious water to irrigate in the right directions. Another lovely Imamzadeh appeared—this one with little guest rooms where pilgrims and their families can spend the night (for $1.). We kept driving up hill and stopped for tea and coffee at the source of a spring. Our elevation had climbed to 5500+ feet and the air was cool, clean, moist. Spreading out a blanket by the running water, our driver pulled out a thermos so that we cold mix our hot drinks. Walnut trees hung overhead. An old man rode by on a donkey, holding long shovels across the animal’s back. A lark and a goldfinch flew by. Birdsong and running water bubbled around us.

Want to see one more village? Sure! We headed to Bidaqan, the most remote of the day’s villages. The landscape went steadily up, through rocks and boulders. I couldn’t decide if the scenery was more reminiscent of Death Valley or Jordan near the Dead Sea. A young herder sat on a hillside, his chin resting on his knees. To his left stood several dozen black goats, standing shoulder to shoulder like a chorus line, peering at us with their funny horizontal pupils. We got out to chat. “I can’t talk too much right now,” called down the young man. “I have been up working since 4 am (it was now 6:30 pm) and I am dead tired. Also, I smell like my goats right now and besides that I am shy.” The goats made agreeable noises in his direction as he spoke. A big, blond dog to his right looked off toward the horizon, bored with both humans and goats. There was a movement behind us that caught the goatherd’s attention and he leaped to his feet. “Stay right here,” he said, moving quickly away. “One of my dogs could be a danger to you; he is very protective of me.” Fifty yards away a black bear like head peered up, then an enormous mastiff got to his feet. The herder rubbed his back with his staff and spoke soothingly to him. We waved good-bye and drove off.

Imamzadeh Esmail was perhaps the loveliest shrine of all. It sits at the end of a 10 mile valley. The little shrine was likely built in the 1300s, the tiles on its pyramid shaped dome a vibrant turquoise. Inside tiles have imagines of three Mongol horsemen on them. (It was in the 1200s that Ghengis Khan paid Persia a memorable visit). The inner entrance way had beautiful Kufic (pre Arabic) writing. A man (an engineer we met later) was on his knees praying. This little holy place was full of the tranquility of centuries of prayer.

Outside three large dogs were on the hillside, surveying the sunset. I was so glad to see dogs that I went over to talk with them, which worried my companions. One was a black and white sheep dog, one a spotted mutt with close cropped ears, the third a large blond animal. They wagged their tails appreciatively. The village of Bidaqan (which has the highest elevation in Qom province) used to stand around this shrine, before the newer village was moved down the hillside several miles. Part of the old hammam (bath house) still stands. “The other houses,” said the caretaker, “we had to bulldoze. They were falling down and full of snakes.” The tile on the beautiful prayer tower was being renewed. The call to prayer sounded. Darkness fell and foxes began to emerge. The dogs barked with enthusiasm.

We wound our way back toward the big city of Qom, down the long gravel road, through the small village, back to the main road. On the ridge top we could see small clusters of lights in every direction, villages tucked into the hills and stream beds. The stars overhead were starkly clear. A rabbit skittered across the road. All was quiet.

Easter Week in Turkey

2008-03-30T23:49:00.002-04:00

Happy New Year, Happy Easter and Happy Passover! We are now back in Qom after a lovely nine day holiday in Istanbul and other towns along the Sea of Marmara. Landing at 8pm last night, we made it through Iranian customs, fingerprinting and luggage retrieval in only half an hour - a record of efficiency and speed. Unfortunately the airport is using a new, bright blue indelible ink for fingerprinting folks from our country. One stamps each finger and thumb in two rows, then both thumbs together, then all 8 fingers from palm to tip. We were true blue by the time we were finished. But the young officials were pleasant and agreeable. We enjoyed exchanging New Year’s blessings with one another.

We spent four fine nights in Istanbul in a humble (and fun) hostel, between Aya Sophia Church (now museum) and the Blue Mosque. We ate marvelous sea food, saw dervishes whirl, took a public ferry up the Bosphorus to the mouth of the Black Sea, and found a vibrant English speaking church with whom to celebrate Easter Sunday. Venturing across the Sea of Marmara, we enjoyed several nights in a Christian retreat center and from there wandered to neighboring towns for a hot mineral water soak, views of Roman ruins and beautiful tile work. Nearby Iznik, we found, was once called “Nicaea” – site of the First Ecumenical Council in 325 AD which authored the Nicene Creed, a statement of Christian orthodoxy that both the East and the West gave assent to. (The old church is now being lovingly restored). We chatted with fellow travelers and friendly Turks—school teachers, a shepherd (an affable woman in a head scarf surrounded by new lambs), men on tractors, shop keepers and historians. More bus riding west took us to the Gallipoli peninsula and to the ruins of Troy. What a feast of history, conversations and miles of good walking every day.

In a few more days our classes will resume for our final five weeks before returning to Virginia for son Andrew’s college graduation. The heat is rising—in the 80s (F) today and soon we will need our water cooler on to bring cool moisture into our apartment.

Welcome to 1387

2008-03-17T04:45:00.003-04:00

Happy New Year! With the spring equinox this week, the Persian New Year – 1387- arrives. No Ruz, as it’s called, is officially a five day holiday and unofficially a two week vacation when even national newspapers quit publishing and most institutions shutdown. People traditionally travel to their home villages, older people bearing gifts for younger ones, reuniting and feasting together.

Anchored in old Zoroastrian traditions, the grand festivities of No Ruz were old when Kings Dariush, Xerxes, and Cyrus ruled Persia. Majestic bas-reliefs at Persepolis (its building begun by Dariush the Great in about 518 BC, just for No Ruz ceremonies)show 21 delegations (Arabs, Medes, Indians, Parthians, Elamites…) bearing New Year’s tributes for the king. I remember a line of Armenians, holding their gifts in their arms, waiting to approach the throne. Cypress trees, ever green, ever living, were before and behind them as they marched through No Ruz long ago.

On Wednesday night ("New Year's eve") there was celebrating with small bonfires all over our city. Fires were lit in the streets and people jumped over them to symbolize leaving the past and its troubles behind, and being purified in one’s leap of faith into a new year.

In Iran families often display seven items (beginning with the “s” sound) on a table in their home for good luck. The display should have apples, garlic, a gold coin, goldfish in a bowl, vinegar, seeds that have sprouted and a mirror. Mothers should eat a hard boiled egg for every child they have. It is best not to return to work until after the 13th day of No Ruz (considered unlucky) has passed.

And then there is shared food—one of the most lovely features of Iranian hospitality. One cooks to receive guests. One cooks and gives food to strangers. One cooks for the poor. One can, if in a hurry, buy delicious roasted chickens in the market to take home. (To order a cooked chicken, one asks in Farsi for “Yek (1) Kentucky.” I recently perused a holiday menu posted outside a restaurant : camel meat stew with potatoes, chicken with saffron gravy, beef stew with pomegranates and walnuts, rose water with sugar and saffron, tea with cardamom, cinnamon and ginger.

No Ruz is also a time to remember one’s neighbor. “Are you traveling for No Ruz?” we are being asked daily. “Will you come home with us?” (to Tehran, Kashan, Damavand, the Caspian Sea). “When? Why not? If you don’t we will miss you too much.” The word for neighbor in Farsi is “hamsayeh”, meaning “also (my) shadow.” A neighbor is part of one’s being, one’s heart, one’s concern, one’s own shadow. Our friends in Iran live like they mean this.

No Ruz is about to begin and Holy Week has arrived, for Christians on the western calendar. Holy Week is an invitation to a different kind of metamorphosis. “He
was,” wrote Isaiah, during Israel’s sixth century BC exile in Babylon and Persia, “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief…. He was wounded for our transgressions crushed for our iniquities, upon him was the punishment of the whole, and by his bruises we are healed” (chapter 53). Holy Week, for Christians, is a hinge of time from which we reflect on what it means to suffer redemptively, to be prepared to lay down one’s life for one’s beloved friends, to endure persecution nonviolently, praying that God will pardon one’s enemies, to trust completely in the promise of all Abrahamic faiths: the resurrection of the dead. And soon it will be Easter Sunday, when everything is made new once again.

Like a Watered Garden

2008-03-09T14:11:00.002-04:00

Today was a bad chador day. Riding in the elevator to our class room at the Institute, I checked the small mirror on the wall. “Look,” I said triumphantly to David, “ my scarf is on really well. Hardly any hair is showing in the front.” “Yeah,” he said, “but you have another problem. Your whole chador is on the floor around your ankles.” Dang! I bent down to pick it up just as the elevator stopped and a man entered. What timing!! “Linda, what’s wrong?” said the concerned voice of a friend as he got on and viewed my puckered face. “Ah, nothing, just the usual hejab troubles.”

We attended two classes and prepared to go home to study for Farsi. Packing up my book bag I again turned to David and asked, “Is my chador long enough in the back?”
“I believe so,” he said, “you’re walking on it.” I came home and pitched my unfortunate chador in the washing machine. Tomorrow will probably be better.

Spring has come to Iran. The doves are singing early each morning and pollen is bursting forth. Soon it will be the Persian New Year (beginning on March 19), a two week celebration that all of Iran loves. Beautiful gold fish in small bowls, pots of fresh greens and decorative mirrors are for sale on the streets, symbols of renewal and new life.

Long ago Second Isaiah wrote: “The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail (58:11, NRSV). Second Isaiah was writing toward the end of the Babylonian exile (597-539 BC) for Israel. He had his eye on the Persian ruler Cyrus (see chapters 44:28 and 45:1) who would be God’s instrument of liberation and home-going for some of the Jews. Of course only a remnant returned to rebuild the Temple under Ezra and Nehemiah. A great many Jews stayed in Babylon and further east, in the beautiful cities of Persia (Iran).

The desert here is once again beginning its brief and beautiful spring blooming. Farmers’ fields (cotton, oats, barley) are green. Roses are being fed and nurtured for their heavenly May perfume. But the desert will define the growing season in no uncertain terms.

On Valentine’s Day last month, David and I treated ourselves to another magnificent desert city: Yazd, city of Zoroastrians. We rode the night train, boarding at midnight in Qom and disembarking at 7am. Six of us shared a sleeping car, first sitting knee to knee chatting, and later, when we unfolded our modest berths, laying like loaves of bread on shelves. Above us were two Zoroastrian gentlemen. David and I were in the middle. A friendly young Muslim couple wanted to be on the bottom, where an exit for tea or restroom was significantly easier.

The heater was on full blast; windows didn’t open; my hejab was nice and toasty as I lay on my “shelf.” Gradually I slept, until a 6 am voice called out “Namaz, namaz” and the train came to a stop. Another town, I thought sleepily. A mass exodus ensued and we were quickly left alone in our sleeper with the Zoroastrians. Everybody else was getting out—not at a town, but to pray. A roadside prayer room was ready to receive people of both genders and all ages as they streamed from the train. (I tried to imagine a group of Christians getting up at 6am without complaint to pray by the roadside… ). Desert was all around us. Brown hills, brown buildings, little sign of vegetation.

Our week-end was a delight – walking through the Old City with its mud hardened walls and lovely inner courtyards. We were invited to attend a Zoroastrian ritual, their annual memorial for their beloved dead. Incense was burning alongside graves, sometimes a fragrant burning stick simply stuck in a pomegranate. Huge cauldrons of Ash (“osh” i.e. lamb stew) were cooking. Seven mobeds (priests) stood before hundreds of people and lead them through the ritual—raising hands in greeting to the sun, emphasizing the Zoroastrian affirmation of good thoughts, good deeds, good actions. We were warmly invited to the “potluck” dinner afterwards, eating succulent bowls of Ash. Zoroastrians had come from Canada and India for this special time. “Have you been to India yet,” a lovely woman asked me. “If you haven’t, you’ve missed everything!” The women were dressed in beautiful colors—greens, blues, oranges. We were invited to homes, to visit fire temples and schools and charities. Water, I thought, looking at the brown hills all around us, is one of the things that makes gardens bloom, and the other is hospitality.

Back in Qom, we have received wonderful guests from Holland, S. Africa, the US and Canada. We attended a two day conference in Iran entitled "Women, Peace and Divine Religions." Daily we learn and grow and are transformed.

Interfaith Dialogue: First Trust, Then Understanding

2008-02-12T02:01:00.000-05:00

The young women were sitting on the couch across from me. We had just met that evening and we found that they both were working on their master’s degrees. They had come to visit Albertine; who was visiting us from the Netherlands. She had just arrived from Yazd and from a very exciting snowboarding trip in the Alborz Mountains. It was an evening of coming and going of students from various Universities. When ever inquisitive young adults get together there often is a very lively discussion and tonight was not an exception. Linda and I felt like the old ones if all our guests had not been our own children’s age.

It was all well and good until one of the young women asked me, “What does a pastor do anyway?” I had to think this over for no ready answer would do.” You see I was in the city of Qom and the two young women were in chadors. Both spoke slightly accented but very fluent English and one in particular was heading for study at the Institute for Religious Studies which had a focus on the three great Abrahamic Religions seeking to translate the classic texts of Christianity and Judaism. Let us call her Sarah. Sarah believed strongly that a government had a duty to support the religious culture. She was skeptical of our comments that in the West we had found it necessary to separate church and state. Sarah particularly was skeptical when we indicated that citizens could express their opinions over religion and faith in the public domain. Her experience in life suggested that if the state were not overtly religious (read Muslim) then the people would not be faithful.

So what could I say to here that would translate? What now that I have had a few days to process the rest of the conversation, what do I think was helpful and what was not?

I first thought about the way a mosque is supported and the role of the Muslim cleric. It was so different than a Christian pastor in America. I started here. “I have observed that the Cleric or Ruhani sometimes is assigned to a mosque but many clerics are scholars that speak occasionally on special occasions at the mosque. The cleric assigned to the mosque sees to its upkeep and that the times of prayer are conducted each day. The cleric is not the one who must lead worship. There is not a membership list for the mosque. All Muslims are considered apart of the “Umma.” Am I right so far?” (Sarah gave me a nod of the head to indicate a yes. She was listening intently.)

After this affirmation I went on, “The pastor of a church or “kelisa” has a very different role. I want you to think of a shepherd out on the edge of Qom. He is responsible for the well being of his flock. He knows which each one is and he makes sure he stays near them. The pastor of a congregation is said to imitate “Isa” or Jesus. The Bible speaks of his being the “good Shepard.” The pastor is responsible for knowing the basic concerns of the members of the church. The pastor usually is responsible for leading the worship and bringing a message. There are many activities in the church, such as, classes on the bible, youth activities, and prayer groups. He or she may counsel or visit in their homes for special events or just to be apart of their life. When the pastor knows what is concerning members of his/her “congregation” or church the message on Sunday morning is often centered around what he or she thinks the people need to hear from the bible. Not all clergy are pastors but most are.

Even when I felt that I had covered the basics about the pastoral role I was unsatisfied because I could still sense a very different experience between these bright and gracious young women and what we experienced in Christianity. The discussion was complicated by their lack of first hand knowledge of how Christians lived even in Iran. The separation of religions is significant and even when in Tehran a Christian and a Muslim work together the fellowship and sharing of faith experiences between them is circumspect and often non-existent. When I asked about Christians in Iran my young friends seemed to be very certain about the relationship of these minority religions to the Islamic Republic. Further discussion made me aware of how little real experience backed the strong beliefs they held. It made me realize how unique the activity of the Mennonite Central Committee is and how precious the trust they have developed among the clerics of Qom. Iran has at present a very isolated atmosphere that is only partially perceived by Iranians since their expectations for travel often is not as great as those of us in the West. As I share with the people of this nation I am amazed at the depth of hospitality and at the same time the experience that many have not traveled or explored their own country. They know about it for they are well educated. But Zorastrian, Christian, Jew, and Muslim have very different ways of being in this world and with very different experiences. It is difficult for Muslims to experience the ways of minority religions. The professors at our institute ask us, out of respect and interest, how this or that event in the church year is experienced and what is its significance? They may have read about the church year for they are highly educated clerics but to hear a Christian share their understanding and experience is helpful and perhaps unique.

There is a great divide between Christian and Muslim, particularly between East and West. Perhaps we have just awakened to the fact that we understand the Muslim faith even less than they understand us! What does it take to bridge this chasm? It takes more than facts; it takes experiencing life together. It takes an exchange of visitors between the East and the West. It takes a very intentional inviting of our neighbors who are Muslim into our churches and our homes. It will take time to build trust for we continually need to remind ourselves that we are the majority religion in the West with all its implications.

For myself I have a much better understanding of my own faith and what I believe as I live in a land of many unfamiliar customs, beliefs and experiences. Just living in the former Persia with all its history and tradition makes a difference. I can read a book in English here or there; but reading it here helps me see through a different lens. My ambiguity about Islam has vaporized but not totally gone away. The levels of difference go deep and exist from a history that has gone separate ways for close to fifteen hundred years. How can we expect not to have significant differences? Only charitable interaction and faith based trust can speak to this condition.

From Ashura to Ash Wednesday (January 19-February 6)

2008-02-07T14:36:00.000-05:00

Part one:

Welcome to winter! Qom has spent all of January and the early part of February in the “ice box.” Frigid temperatures (12 or 13 degrees F many mornings), 18 inches of snow and ice (some still remains on our roadways), frozen water pipes (three times -our neighbor helped us thaw them with a blow torch), keeping our modest heaters going and experimenting with lining up pillows inside our doorway to keep out the chill have been the reality for us and for many in central Iran. Brrrr.

On January 18 we headed to Tehran to experience our first Ashura celebration. Ashura (the 10th day of the Islamic month of Muharram) commemorates the death of Husain, a grandson of the Prophet Mohammad who was killed in battled near Karbala, Iraq. The martyrdom of Husain is remembered with great reverence, this beloved Iman who stood up to corruption in Muslim political life.

The streets of Tehran were lit with brightly colored lights. Temporary stands had been constructed and free tea, milk and chocolates were being given away to all who would come. Hot bowls of soup were offered and many sheep were slain—sometimes lying at the side of the road. We came upon groups of men in solemn procession, slapping their chests and chanting as they remembered the tragedy of Karbala. This is at the heart of Shia spirituality: the memory of loss, of existential injustices, and the moral imperative to live a just and faithful life.

On Friday night our friends took us to a special occasion. A wealthy family who owns factories were, with their employees, making a special effort to feed the poor during Ashura. We were invited to join in. We entered a good sized yard in which 20 huge cauldrons were simmering (they would each yield 500 bowls of lamb stew) and people were taking turns stirring. First the men stirred and then the women. We shared dinner together (men in one room, women in another) and were warmly welcomed. The woman next to me said, “My daughter lives in Tampa.” She also liked Los Angeles. Another asked what it was like to live in Qom and seemed pleased that we found our neighbors so friendly. Early in the morning all this stew would go to S. Tehran, to feed the poor.

(David) My friend ushered me into the company of the leading bazaaris or merchants. Men came and went with a TV portraying on a national network the rituals of Ashura. The men greeted each other warmly. Except for the cleric who taught philosophy at the University of Tehran, almost all were older than me. As they came and went my friend told me, “this man is heading on business to Washington, D.C., this one is into appliances, and this one is my present client who is starting a chain of restaurants.” It was explained who I was. The grand gentleman who hosted this gathering asked about my impression of Iran. I gave a positive in Farsi and they were pleased. Then my host went into a lecture on the present situation in his country. One of the points he made was to suggest that the British were still behind much of the economic problems of the country. This is a common refrain from the generation now in their late sixties and seventies. These men poked a little at the cleric and he responded in kind. He held his own in the discussion. The group was irreverent by nature. The gentleman heading to the US asked me about my take on social life in America. I cannot remember what I said but we kept it light hearted. One man stuck out among all the others. He had greeted us at the gate. He seemed to be in charge of the big vats of food. He helped people find a seat in this inner gathering. He was not one of the helpers hired to feed us. So what was he? I asked my friend. “He is a major bazaari dealing in a carpets. He helped us when a foreign friend needed an estate settled. He serves everyone here because he believes in helping others.” Later we had a long chat with this gentleman as we waited for the women. He had one of those charitable hearts that transcends culture and religion. It was quite an evening!

Part two:

In worship at “our” Armenian evangelical congregation we were still singing Christmas carols on January 19 (Armenians had just celebrated Christmas on January 6) and drinking lots of hot tea afterward. Church, too, had had frozen and broken water pipes. The pastor, while writing his sermon had heard “rain outside”, then realized that the “rain” was inside, right under the broken pipe.

Classes are rolling along and we are getting lots of books read. In the evenings we often have friends over for tea and conversation. One group likes to review movies and do an occasional Johnny Cash imitation. Another friend likes to talk about physics and astronomy, another is interested in the American primary elections. One afternoon at the library, David met a sheik from Burkina Faso, in full native regalia. The man had excellent English and was glad to chat.

A friend invited us to dinner and his dad came to pick us up. “I am,” said his dad, “sixty years old. And my car is thirty!” The old Paykan (modeled on the British Hillman) creaked and groaned but ran alright. At home the family was gathering—our friend, Mohammad, his younger brother, their parents, a married sister, her husband and 2 year old, and the star of the show, 92 year old grandfather. Grandpa was more agile than I, sitting cross legged on the floor without difficulty. He was bright and articulate and had no impairment in his hearing. “I was,” he said (as translated by Mohammad) “born in 1915. I had no chance to go to school and have never been able to read or write. My family of origin had ten people in it. My parents farmed for a wealthy man—they grew cotton, oats and wheat, horses and camels. When the crops were harvested, my parents would load them into saddle bags on the backs of camels and bring them into the Qom bazaar. When I was 14, I began to work full time, too. Three other men and I farmed a large property for a wealthy man who was not good to us. We grew oats, cotton and wheat. At harvest time we put everything in four equal piles. The owner took three piles of produce. We four peasants divided the fourth pile and that was our pay. We used to wear long cotton tunics with a wide cumberband. My mother made these. But Pahlavi didn’t like us to wear these outfits to town; he thought we should wear suits. As a child I memorized poetry and parts of the Quran. We had a very pious family. That’s what I think the younger generation should know now—have a strong faith and be willing to work hard. They have many good opportunities that I couldn’t have imagined as a child.”

Now it is Lent, the season of spiritual examination before the great celebration of Easter Sunday. David and I went to an Ash Wednesday service at the Roman Catholic church in Tehran. Perhaps 30 people were there, and the priest gave a fine homily. He had been to Qom for interfaith dialogues and knew several of our friends here. “I have,” he said ,“been a priest in Tehran for more than 40 years. You can’t imagine the changes I’ve seen.” Ashes on our foreheads, we sang and prayed and hoped together

Two Feet of Snow in Qom

2008-01-12T06:11:00.001-05:00

Suddenly our desert world has become white. Three men are on the roof of our apartment building tossing heavy snow over the side. The highways are slick with ice and packed snow—in a place that has no snowplows, salt trucks or snow shovels. This, evidently, happens every half century or so. It is gorgeous.

Last week we joined a Mennonite Learning Tour (twelve persons) from N. America for part of their journey through Iran. What a lively bunch of students, academicians, educators, clergy and medical professionals. It was a joy to us to see some new areas of Iran—Qom and Tehran have been our usual hubs of travel.

Kashan (an hour south of Qom) has its own little ziggurat—Tell Sialk – that may predate the larger ziggurats west of here in Mesopotamia. Kashan is a place that claims to be the hometown of the Magi who sought the Christ child in Palestine. If so, their city was already 5500 years old when they left it to follow an unusual star.

Our modest small bus broke down south of Kashan, near Natanz. For two hours we perched by the side of the highway and waited for a replacement (a slightly larger and much newer vehicle). We heard the tinkling of bells. Across the highway and down half a mile was an Afghan man with a herd of sheep and goats. He had five large dogs and an old mule. Darkness was falling and he was herding them toward the pen and his hut and safety for the night. Between my Farsi and his Dari we had a very modest conversation. His wife and children were back in Afghanistan. He saw them every year or so and took them some money. He was very pleased to have Polaroid photos taken by a member of our group, and to be given a bar of European chocolate.

Esfahan was next on the itinerary—a beautiful city along the banks of the Zayandeh River. It was Friday and hundreds of people had gathered along and upon the Khaju Bridge to listen to folk singers. On the bridge’s lower level an older man played a flute while his friend sang a lilting song. Up above a television personality (The “Mr. Bean” of Iran) was entertaining crowds to great applause. People were paddling swan boats up and down the river. Picnics were spread out in sunny spots. We walked through the enormous Imam Square—surrounded by beautiful old mosques and a splendid bazaar. A Sufi man was playing a Tar up on a rooftop – first Verdi, then Mozart, then a Rumi medley. We found a little synagogue preparing for Friday prayers and were welcomed inside for a bit of conversation. People were putting out prayer books and giving the carpet a final vacuuming; soon the Shabbat candles would be lit. We spent the next morning in Jolfa, the Armenian quarter on the far side of the river. Within the church compound Santa was making the rounds as Christmas songs resounded from the loud speakers (including am Armenian, Christmasy version of “Macarena.”)

An hour north of Shiraz we pulled into Pasargadae. On an enormous plateau, ringed by snowcapped peaks, sits the tomb of Cyrus the Great. Among the nearby ruins of three Achaemenid Palaces have been found the cuneiform inscription “ I am Cyrus, the Achaemenic King.” Not too far way four rock tombs are hewn into the hillside, at Naqsh-e Rostam. In relief above each tomb entrance are kings standing at Zoroastrian fire altars; subject nations support them from below. Although still a matter of discussion, these may be the tombs of Darius I and II, Xerxes I and Artaxerxes I. And then, an hour before sundown, we were at Persepolis—the great ritual city begun by Darius I (about 520 BCE) and developed over the next century and a half. Monumental staircases (with tiny steps, perhaps for horses to mount during No Ruz, New Year, celebrations), huge gateways and columns, beautiful reliefs showing representatives of 28 nations bearing their gifts to the king among cedar and cypress trees. Other names and initials are chiseled here and there, including “Stanley, New York Herald, 1870.” Xerxes has an inscription which notes that Ahuramazda (the Zoroastrian deity) created happiness for humanity.

Then beautiful Shiraz itself —the tombs of beloved poets Hafez and Saadi. The weather changed abruptly and became bitterly cold. We heard that snow was descending rapidly in Qom and Tehran. Shiraz is the home of splendid gardens, elegant cyprus trees, orange trees bearing sweet fruit, and date palms. We toured the Affifabad Palace and I noted the gift shop: Native American dolls with headdresses and Shrek bubble gum were available. We walked through Karim Khan’s Citadel where old photos were displayed: people worshiping at the Friday mosque in 1911, a gymnast with two people standing on his outstretched arms, a little boy with a cat on his lap, and the ceremony of the removing of the veils in 1937--- women with bobbed hair and felt hats.

Our evening to return by air to Tehran and then by bus to Qom was a challenge. We arrived at the Shiraz Airport at 5pm and boarded our fight at midnight. It seemed like it was the only plane to leave that night. The sky was clear; those famous Iranian stars were sparkling; the air was arctic cold. We had a fine flight and checked into a hotel in Tehran at 3am. The streets were largely empty and would have made fine skating arenas. By the following afternoon we were back in Qom, where the Learning Tour continued with their busy schedule of lectures and visits.

Deep in true winter, we continue to study Farsi and Quran and theology. We often entertain friends with tea and conversation at night. The world outside is being refreshed by deep moisture as the earth sleeps.

David's Christmas Sermon

2007-12-28T03:49:00.000-05:00

Sermon for the International English Church
Christmas Day 2007

We interrupt this regular programming for a newsbreak. This is an important announcement. So, may I have your attention, please? There has been a child born this past night. It was in the early morning hours of 25 December. Eyewitnesses say that this is no ordinary birth. In spite of the humble surroundings there is a sense that something momentous and special has occurred. We are at present trying to sort out the story.

We have reported on the significance of the Roman census for weeks. We have reported that this census has brought difficulty and hardship to many. The lack of rooms in key cities of origin has left many without provision, particularly in the far corners of the Roman Empire. Judea is one such place. Our sources have found that towns such as Bethlehem, Jericho, and even Jerusalem have not been able to provide the needed hotels and inns for those registering according to the decree of Caesar Augustus.

If reports are to be believed, the mother of the child born is named Miriam. Our sources, religious in nature, have used the phrase “born in the fullness of time.” We have been unable to find a satisfactory explanation for the use of this language since there seems nothing unusual and nothing majestic about a story of a mother birthing a child under harsh conditions. We have found that her presence in Bethlehem was due to the registering of her betrothed. The man’s name is Persian is Yousef. The couple had humbly settled for a warm place of bedding in a stable below the guest quarters of a local inn.

Rumors are already circulating about this couple and their child. Some have made extraordinary claims and some are hinting at scandal and indiscretion. Shepherds, note the unreliable source, from the nearby countryside had been quoted as saying that they had seen a vision of angels bidding them to visit the child in Bethlehem and the vision of angels proclaimed this child the long awaited messiah or anointed one. At the same time, word reached our palace reporter that three visitors from Kashan in Persia had appeared in court with a most unsettling story for Herod. The Magi, or Persian wise men who study the stars, had noted that a King was about to be born. They had followed the long foretold wisdom of the stars. A special congruence of stars directed them to the capital of the Jews in Jerusalem. They inquired where such a child was to be born. Herod consulted Jewish scholars called scribes and encouraged the Magi to pursue their inquiry in Bethlehem. It is uncertain what Herod will do next but it seems, according to reliable and undisclosed sources that a new King is most unsettling to Herod and threatening to his reign.

On the scene in Bethlehem there are rumors. These rumors mostly come from connections arriving from Galilee. The child has been named Isa bar Yousef in the Persian. Some have derisively spoken of the child as Isa bar Miriam. They question the propriety of this birth, suggesting that the family is perhaps covering his illegitimacy. This seems to compromise the idea of a royal birth in the line of David. Further reporting is needed to clarify this issue.

As further news unfolds we will take newsbreaks to follow this general report. Of course, our reporters on the scene will keep you posted. This is David Wolfe signing off from the news desk. Have a good day.

Well that was some report. It sure kept my attention. Did it yours? The story in the New Testament is even better. You can see that this is one of the most amazing stories of the ages. Each Christmas we put ourselves in the place of the holy couple, the wise men, the shepherds, and sometimes even the manger animals. All the characters who surround the story as it is filled out in our legends are given voice to express their amazement and awe. It is the greatest story ever told. As Christians who come from many lands, north and south of the equator, we love to share this miraculous story. Each year we are asked to live into the story. Even if it were not surrounded by tradition and the transformation of the world with its good news it would draw us. We reenact this story without much bidding for it is unthinkable to live a life of Christian faith without celebrating what God has done for us.

Each of us gathered here lives in a land that is not our native home. The customs of home countries are foreign to many whom we deal with daily. We are called upon to adjust to a very different religious and holiday calendar. Unless you live in a neighborhood that is predominately Christian, your neighbors are going about their daily lives without recognition of this most special day where we celebrate the birth of a child whom we call “Immanuel- God with us.” We who live in Iran can draw upon our special experience of being in a culture that is not our own. Perhaps, we can empathize with this child who comes among us as savior. Perhaps, we can reflect upon this special Incarnation- the humbling of the Son of God whom men and women experience as the second person of the Trinity.

In the 17th Chapter of John we find Jesus praying for his disciples before giving himself over to the authorities. He says something in verse five that indicates his awareness of the glory that he gave up to come to earth. A colleague of mine in Oregon in the United States noted this scripture and began to wonder if Jesus had a sense of this “sending.” (I am indebted to Dan Cammack for his post,"The Word Became Flesh," in Barclay Press for November 28, 2007 where he asks the questions that help structure this sermon.) During this Advent season I have taken his reflection seriously. I ask you to join me in appreciating the sacrifice of our Jesus who came among us, humbling himself for our sake. We worship a God that cares about the creation.

What does it mean that God became flesh and dwelt among us? How can I personalize the impact of the incarnation and make sense of this most blessed of seasons? Some questions help.

First, did Jesus miss his home while he was here on earth?

Second, can Bethlehem shine any light on our understanding of being born again?

Finally, what does Christ becoming a child teach us about humility?

These are only a few of the questions that enrich our lives as we seek to live more fully into the Kingdom of God.

Our family calls the US home. My three children are right now gathered with my son in law and his family in Miami, Florida. We are away from our home and we miss Mexican American food, going to Little Havana Restaurant on Biscayne Blvd for a meal, traveling to the mountains of Virginia to cut our own Christmas tree, and visiting my brother in his home in Kansas. We miss our church family in Virginia.

I wonder if Jesus missed his home when he came to earth. Did he ever remember what home was like? Jesus prayed as an adult, “And now glorify me in your presence with the glory I had with you before the world began.” Did Jesus remembered his native home? When I am tired or discouraged these rituals and customs from home beckon the loudest. The pizza with real tomatoes sauce with pepperonis on top, the turkey at Christmas with gravy and dressing all are missed when we think about our warm familiar traditions. The adventure of life even well lived in a foreign land are colored during these special holidays that Christians celebrate around the world. Did Jesus long for home during lonely moments?

When Jesus showed his love for us we often think of his crucifixion. Perhaps his birth, his incarnation also shows us his love for us through his sacrifice in coming to earth to dwell among us. He humbled himself so as to provide us with life abundantly; to bring us the good news that the angels proclaimed to the shepherds. Just as you and I miss our homeland I wonder if we have a special appreciation of how much Jesus gave to come among us as a stranger in a time and place that was full of strife and discord.

When a child comes into the world we hold our breath until we hear that first cry. Not only is crying one of the first signs of life, but a baby cries to communicate its distress and desires and when they get a little older it may be a shriek. I suspect Jesus cried when he came into the world.

I do not know anyone who remembers being a baby in arms but when we enter a new culture we often refer to the experience as one of culture shock. We may feel disoriented and at the mercy of colleagues and friends even to help us do the most mundane things. For those unsuspecting of this disorientation there also may be some crying.

Just think, when Jesus told Nicodemus he must be born again, he knew what he was talking about. He had experienced birth for himself and knew what it was like to live as a child who must depend on others. Do we know what Jesus had in mind when he spoke of being born again or born from above? I wonder if in our way of thinking we have room to consider being born again as culture shock. Two Duke University Professors in America wrote a book they entitled, “Resident Aliens.” We truly are “resident aliens” when we give our lives over to Christ and are born anew into Christ’s fellowshipping community. Now our homeland is the Kingdom of God.

Finally, I want to come back to the theme of humility. I have been studying Farsi since February with a break to travel in the US last summer, talking about Iran. The most humbling endeavor here in Iran is not finding my way in the culture but make a fool of myself in Farsi. For many in the US who seek to serve in missions, travel is to Latin America. Their first task often is to learn Spanish or Portuguese. Henry Noewen tells of spending a year among the Indian people of South America. He published a journal of his experience entitled, “Gracias” and reflects upon this spiritual pilgrimage. Having left his academic position at Yale University he hoped to find a new place of service. He did not count on the difficulty and loneliness of fumbling over a language in which he did not have great dexterity. It was particularly a foreign experience because he had made his living in Europe and America at major universities by his talent in expressing the human condition as only a theologian can. Others find language study so humbling that to learn how to count and name ones colors is impossible to deal with. Often a missionary faces the stark reality of beginning life over. Many a person cannot deal with the fumbling attempts to master a new language and rely on the good will of the people of the land.

Christ truly humbled himself and dwelt among us. He chose to come not in a chariot of fire or with a sword as a conquering hero. He did not choose to live in a palace but to identify with the common person.

The Kingdom of God is not primarily for the proud and self-sufficient. As the prophet Micah put it, “He has showed you what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Jesus modeled this for us and each year he asks us to be a part of this greatest story ever told.

I want to end with a story that a colleague, a fellow hospital chaplain, told recently. Let us call him Charles. Charles was carrying a pager in a major university hospital and took all the crisis calls for that day. His pager went off and Charles hurried to the floor where a family was huddled around the wheel chair of a very elderly man. Charles stopped at the nurse’s station and asked the particulars. He found out that the man’s wife had just died so he went to comfort. Charles compassion and training served the situation well for the family parted and let him enter into the life of this grieving elder.

The first thing the man said was, “I do not go to church.” There was a pause to see how this was accepted. It was a test and Charles passed the test. The old gentleman then began to tell his spiritual story. “I pray to God daily and often. But I have never learned the first name of God, have you?” The response was predictable, “No, I haven’t,” said Charles. The man in the wheel chair straightened himself and looked Charles straight in the eye. “So, I named him Sam. Yes, when I talk to God I address him as Mr. Sam God.” Charles was a little taken back. You do not learn the first name of God in seminary or in clinical training. Then it struck Charles, what a wonderful intimacy. A whole lifetime of friendship with his friend “Sam.” It would hold him well into the future. Charles reflected in a devotional piece for chaplains that he still remembers this elderly gentleman who taught him a lesson in intimacy. An intimacy with his friend, Mr. Sam God, no less.

We too are called in this season to travel to that stable in Bethlehem and to hold the hand of this child. (Remember to get permission from his mother since little Isa may be tired from too much attention from people like us). Could it be that we could look into his eyes and see into eternity? Could it be that we could carry his spirit with us more diligently in a world that pushes us to forget our walk in faith? Could it be that at the manger we can rest and celebrate the unfolding story of the birth of “Immanuel?”

I ask you to look upon the quiet and humble acts of the Holy Spirit at work in the world in that day and this day remember the special relationship we are called to with a living Christ. One who did not exploit his relationship with God but emptied himself to be born in human likeness.

Thank you God for this most wonderful revelation of your nature. May we this day live more deeply and humbly into the fellowship of Christ.

Amen.

David E. Wolfe
Tehran, Iran

Fourth Week of Advent: Agape Love AND Christmas in Tehran

2007-12-26T07:33:00.000-05:00

The fourth week of Advent came and went in a hurry. Our MCC Area Representatives (for Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Palestine) came and spent most of a week here. With the Bylers we had fine conversations, a little site seeing and some excellent coffee drinking. "Yalda" came and went--- the shortest day of the year (21 Dec) which in Iran involves getting together with people you love and eating lots of watermelons. (We saw piles of rinds in the street the next morning, waiting for trash pick up). Gifts continued to find their way to our door—a wind up Santa who plays a drum as he walks, a beautiful paperweight globe of the Kaaba (this is also the month to make a hajj to Mecca), a burgundy table cloth from Esfahan, cards of blessings.

We decided to head up to Tehran on 24 December, to be ready for Christmas morning worship. Our friend, Mohsen drove us the ninety miles to Tehran. Half an hour south of the big city, he stopped for gas. Grinning and pointing, he directed our attention to a field nearby. Three random camels were grazing happily (no magi seemed to be attached to them).

The gospel reading for the week came from Matthew 1. A very young mom decides to trust God with it all; the incredibly decent Joseph accepts a mystery being birthed; a baby is born and immediately calls together a whole community of people. Even magi following a star wind up in Bethlehem , “overwhelmed with joy.”

David preached at the International Christian Fellowship (an English speaking church)on Christmas morning (see sermon which will be posted shortly). The church was full of S. Africans, Zimbabweans, Nigerians, Malaysians, Philipinos, Norwegians, Germans, French & two random Americans. We sang all the favorite carols with joy--- once in our various languages. The cat which belonged to the German Church parsonage family made several grand entrances. He was put out; he came back in. He was put out, he went and sat outside the large windows, directly behind where “his humans” were seated and yowled. He came in and discovered the table heaped with fellowship food. A toddler wept when the cat was put out yet again—protesting in loud meows as he was carried by the nearest available human.

Later we heard our kids’ voices on the phone—happy and healthy in Miami- and wished son Josh a happy 25th birthday. Now, back home in Qom, we are awaiting the Mennonite Learning Tour which plans to arrive in Tehran on 30 December.
But the great thing about Iran is that Christmas in coming around again-- on 6 January, when the Armenians- both orthodox and evangelical- celebrate the birth of Jesus. The nature of divine love is to create, include, trust and treasure. Once again we welcome the Christ child into our hearts.

Third Week in Advent : Joy (while waiting)

2007-12-19T03:23:00.000-05:00

A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God’s people; no traveler, not even fools shall go astray.... And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (Isaiah 35: 8, 10 – NRSV)

Now we’re midway through the third week of this holy season of waiting, the week of joy. Joy, I read, is from the Old French “joie” which is from the Latin “gaudere” – to rejoice, i.e. to experience unalloyed happiness and well being. We are waiting, with positive anticipation, for that unalloyed, unsullied delight-full well being that God promises the human family through Jesus.

Actually the above verse (8) from Isaiah gives me great hope. When all of God’s people head toward the holy city, Jerusalem, so beloved by us of Abrahamic faiths, not even fools will get lost and go astray. I am taking this to heart in my own case especially. It is a comfort.

Waiting, hoping, anticipating joy at the initiative of God is a deep part of the heritage of Qom, this amazing city in which people have resided for 6000 years. Last Friday afternoon (the “Sabbath” here), David and I went touring with the “English majors” – three great guys majoring in English who are undergraduate students. They hired a taxi and driver with a fine knowledge of Qom’s history, and off we went.

Our first stop was the “Forty Daughters Mosque”. It is a lovely old place (14th century) of prayer, commemorating the murders of forty young women on their way to Mashad long ago. People were praying within the modest courtyard—mostly women in chadors, but also a line of men against one wall. Inside the shrine, forty little stools each bore a rose on top. It was full of praying women, their kids enjoying a quiet run around the perimeter. A handprint, in clay, of the grandson of Imam Hussein (the third Imam of the Shia, himself the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad) was embedded in a wall. I paused before a threshold, unsure whether to enter. “Go on in,” I was told, “you are welcome everywhere.”

Just then a man in his forties noticed David and came over toward him energetically.
They exchanged a few words—neither fluid in the others language. The man gave up on that, grabbed David and kissed him on both cheeks. (By now the English majors had arrived to translate). “It is so good that you have come,” the man (Ali) was saying, “you will be blessed now.” He rooted around in his coat pocked and removed a small piece of carpet with Arabic writing interwoven. “Here are the first four verses of the Qu’ran. It is for you.” More looking in pockets and then he came back toward me. “Here is special perfume for prayer… the fragrance that the Prophet gave his daughter, Fatima, on her wedding day. It is for you. I am so glad that you have come, so glad.” He bustled off to pray, still beaming and looking over his shoulder.

We piled back into the taxi and emerged near several cone shaped buildings with aqua roofs. “Tombs of the Garden of Gonbad-e-Sabz” said the sign—from the 13th (Christian) century. Across the road was a more modern cemetery, expansive acres of stones centered around a mosque. At one entrance a man was making popcorn over charcoal. The English majors bought a bag for us to munch on as we strolled in.

Grave stones were embedded in the ground under our feet, impossible not to walk on. People gathered around some of them, placing flowers in little vases, sitting and drinking tea, quietly praying. Every 36 years it is permissible to add a new level of graves upon the old level; gradually the cemetery grows higher and higher.

We heard trumpets coming, a procession with flowers, a platform carried upon which rested a young man’s shoes and clothing. “Do you hear that melody on the trumpets? It is very popular for funerals in Iran, first composes just after the terrible earthquake in Bam when tens of thousands lost their lives”. Candy and flower petals filled the air. When a young person dies, they are “given treats” as though it is also their wedding. A woman covered in a large chador said, “You can go closer if you’d like, have a good look. I have,” she continued, “a daughter who lives in Poland and another who lives in Austria.”

Adjoining this area was the Martyr’s Cemetary. More of the omnipresent faces of young men (so many under 20 years of age) who had died in the Iran-Iraq War of the 1980s. A large banner with the smiling faces of two young brothers. The faces of three young men killed two years ago on a pilgrim’s bus to Karbala, blown up along the way. The pictures of four young Saudi Shia who “stood up” to Wahabis in their homeland, and were killed. On and on and on the cemetery went, heart renderingly. “But,” said one of the English majors,” we are people of the resurrection. Death is not the end, and so we have the courage to go on, living and working and waiting.

We drove through the “Hidden City,” also called ‘Afghani-town.” It was a densely packed neighborhood of Afghan refugees. Some of the features of people here are almost Mongolian, people of the great steppes of Asia. Beautiful, sparkling material is sold for women’s dresses, unique Afghani foods and music. People gaped as we walked along speaking in English. “Can you understand Dari?” we asked one of the English majors. “Some of it,” he said. “It’s like Farsi was hundreds of years ago.”

Twilight was falling. We decided on one more stop: the Jam Karan Mosque. Situated on the southern perimeter of Qom, this enormous mosque is the site of a vivid dream one thousand years ago. The Mahdi (the 12th, Hidden Imam of the Shia) appeared to a shepherd in a dream, and requested that this mosque be built. A friend our age told us that when he was a child and came here to pray, Jam Karan was two small rooms. Now it is an enormous complex that can accommodate thousands of people. Tuesday evenings are especially packed with pilgrims.

It is here, many people feel, that the end of time will be ushered in. The Mahdi and Jesus will return together, perhaps on a Friday, call humanity to ultimate accountability and begin a reign of peace and justice on earth. I picked up a complementary chador and went in to the women’s side

Two dozen women were standing in a courtyard, writing. They had paper (8x10 inches) and with brows furrowed in concentration, were fully engaged in the process. Under a roof was a raised green metal box—perhaps two feet square – with a young woman in attendance. Each letter was carefully placed in the slot on top of the box—entering a well. From this well, the Mahdi will read each letter, consider each petition and act as intercessor for the faithful.

We walked around the magnificent mosque, domes shining green in the gathering darkness. A television crew from Tabriz stood with camera and microphone out front. “Looks like you’re going to be interviewed,” said one of the English majors. “Is that alright with you?” The camera rolled and we began, David and I answering in turn the gentle questions that came. “Where are you from?” “What do you most wish for?” “Does any of this connect with your own faith as Christians?” “What do Christians think about waiting?” “You know, you are very welcome to be here.”

We finished up and headed for our car. The call to evening prayer was sounding and people were hurrying through the gates, into the mosque. Qom continues to be a city of prayers and of pilgrims (8-10 million visit annually). First a Zoroastrian holy city, then a Christian holy city, and now sacred to Shia Islam, Qom was destroyed by both the Mongols and by Tamerlane. It is an indominable place.

Near our car a small form emerged from the darkness. A little Afghan girl (perhaps 8 years old) was selling fortunes. “Want to buy one?” she asked, “they are all very good.” We bought several (they were bits of lovely poetry from Hafez) and left her in the parking lot, waiting and hoping.

Second Week of Advent: Peace

2007-12-10T13:40:00.001-05:00

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.”

First Week of Advent: Hope

2007-12-04T02:57:00.000-05:00

“In the days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established at the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it… He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks, neither shall they learn war anymore.” Isaiah 2: 2 and 4 (NRSV)

A couple of weeks ago David and I were in Jordan for an MCC staff retreat near the Dead Sea. Afterward we had several days to travel and enjoy the area and struck out for Mt. Nebo (which the Greeks called Mt. Pisgah). The seasons were changing and this Wednesday morning was brisk and blustery. Our taxi driver had us at Mt. Nebo before the 9am tour buses rolled in. We, like Moses, stood looking out at the land west of the Jordan. Jericho was at our feet. The Dead Sea glimmered to the southwest—aqua near the shore line. The land of Moab was all around us. I thought about Moses, peering over into the land of promise and in an odd way identified with him. In our lives as Christians in Qom, there is so much that we see and will never enter.

But what struck me most was the old church, into which we went and prayed. It was inhabited by monks and all sorts of pilgrims from the 3rd to the 9th centuries. Beautiful Byzantine mosaics and baptismal fonts adorned the church. But what touched me most deeply were the prayers—centuries of them – that reached out and included us as we sat quietly. The communion of saints was present to us and with us, an unexpected benediction.

Next we drove down, down, down to the Jordan River, just north of the Dead Sea. Bedouins tents were evident in the rocky landscape (what DO their flocks eat?) and occasionally they and their sheep filled the roadway. Camels grazed. We passed through a checkpoint and kept going. Bethany beyond the Jordan is the town that archaeologists identify with the baptizing work of John. Two old churches and three old chapels are in the midst of excavations. Jordan is allowing many Christian communities to build churches and monasteries near by.

Our guide was a Bedouin man of about 30, with excellent English and a fine grasp of history. “My father,” he said, “didn’t have much money to help me with university. I am the 4th son of the 6th wife.” He cheerfully showed us springs and wadis and archeological remains. “Come on,” he said, “ let’s go down to the river where the Lord was baptized.” A new Greek Orthodox church, full of exquisite icons, sits on the hill just up from the Jordan River. We wandered down to the Jordan and put our hands in it…. cold and at this spot, not deep and not wide. Israel is only 20 feet away, on the other shore. “Now don’t” said our guide, “talk to any pilgrims on the other side of the Jordan. Don’t smile at them, wave to them or answer them if they want to chat.” We look up at the reeds growing on the other bank and the Israeli flag flying just above us. A guard with an automatic rifle was right behind our small group on the Jordan side.

Climbing back up the bank and toward the museum, our guide said, “Look a minute. Do you see those antennas up on the hill in the distance? A wall? The towers? That’s Jerusalem. Pilgrims used to come here on the Roman Esbous-Linas Road, from Jerusalem to Jericho to here on the Jordan, then up to Mt. Nebo. You’re looking at the holy city that we all love.”

I though of our staff retreat near the Dead Sea. At dinner, the hotel had live music each evening. Two middle aged couples got up and danced with such joy—people from a Christian village near Bethlehem. Pilgrims still come to Jordan from Palestine, but past check points not Roman milestones.

Now suddenly it is Advent, the season of arriving, the season of the coming. Tehran is bright with Christmas decorations—three shops near where we worship have beautiful cards, wrapping paper and small, artificial trees. (I bought at 18” tree and am inordinately pleased with it). A young Muslim woman asked David for advice. “I want to buy nice cards for my colleagues at the office, most of whom are Christians. What makes a good greeting card for Christmas? What should the blessing inside say? Do Christians have a favorite color at this time of year?”

This week of Advent waiting is often called “the week of hope”. How badly we need to claim the positive anticipation that the gospel makes possible, a gospel that proclaims good news for all people, on all sides of borders, in every circumstance of our lives.

Home Bored with a Cold

2007-11-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

Christmas- the luxury of noticing what one misses about home

I knew it was coming! What a marvelous trip through Qatar and then to Jordan; still I knew it was coming. I felt that scratchy throat; the thick head and the pressured feeling in the eyes. When we go home with an over night flight from Doha to the new Khomeini airport I knew I had lost the battle. So, here I am with a headache and the other accoutrements of a cold. In my pained and bored state of mind I decided to make a list of what I missed most about home. Now do not get me wrong; there are many things that I could say I missed about Iran when in the States last summer. With the holiday season about to begin and the busiest shopping day of the year just past I am noticing my what I took for granted in the dear old Martinsville of Virginia.

The most obvious thing I miss is being able to jump into the car and drive to visit one of our children. Thanksgiving saw all of them together in Miami without us. Family comes first on the “what I miss list.” I need not elaborate since this is obvious to most of us. What is not so obvious is the comment by one of our children that something is wrong with a holiday when your parents grow up and move away from home.

Next on my list is missing the comics in the daily newspaper. I picked up a copy of the International Herald Tribune from the Doha airport and read the comics. They had Calvin and Hobbs, Blondie, (no Zits though), Beattle Bailey, Doonsbury, etc. I laughed my way through them and as an extrovert had to read them to Linda. I miss the comic strips.

I miss the rituals of Christmas. It really starts with Thanksgiving and then the Hanging of the Green in church and proceeds through the events of Christmas (where I usually get a cold)! I was thinking about coming out of the church on Christmas Eve. The night is cold and often rainy in Southside Virginia. The street lights remind me of my vision of Christmas in London. The time is right to go home and open one present from under the Christmas tree. I miss the rituals of Christmas.

I miss the recreational activity of eating food. When we were in Jordan we spent several days at a hot springs. MCC had gotten quite a deal at a very nice Dead Sea hotel. (They told us not to get used to it. That is what Quakers and Methodists would have said also!) Each meal was a recreational activity of sampling wonderful middle eastern food. I ate too much and even found the eggplant quite tasty!

I miss watching basketball on TV and keeping up on my Sports Illustrated. I promise myself that when I get back to the US I wlll take off the remote every channel that is not sports or news. That way I will not waste time surfing.

When the language in the country you live is not your native one, you are unable to fully enjoy a number of its cultural events. I suspect in Tehran there are enough cultural events that do not need a working knowledge of Farsi. What I miss is live theatre. Our copies of “Law and Order” are great (I wish I had purchased “House”). What I miss is the Christmas productions at church and the civic productions in town. I promise to get seasons tickets when I get back into the states.

What I notice is that in the busyness of life in the US I do not take time to enjoy what is the most nurturing. I miss the following; sitting around the table and having a good laugh with friends; having a good theological discussion with colleagues; greeting friends in the grocery store; shopping for books in Greensboro at Barnes and Noble; and eating at Mi Ranchito and seeing someone I have not seen for a while (while enjoying that California Burritto).

I miss listening to NPR on the radio; most often as I travel through out the city of Martinsville and then hearing a colleague or friend asking if I heard thus and such.

I miss spice tea and Christmas treats; I miss visiting in the homes of church friends and neighbors. I miss phone calls from our young friends around the country (though we have wonderful calls from young friends here in Qom).

When we were in the Amman airport we found a Cinnabon and indulged in a Starbucks coffee (the Christmas blend.)

I do not want to leave you with the idea that we have not developed meaningful rituals in Iran. We certainly have! I very much enjoy our evening coffee or chocolate ice cream bar. I enjoy hearing the calls to prayer throughout the day. I enjoy the call of the peddlers and the recylers as they make their rounds through out the day. I enjoy listening to Christmas carols on the ipod. I enjoy the sound of children playing soccer in the courtyard outside our window. I enjoy hearing the chirp of small children in the apartment above. I enjoy visiting in the homes of professors and Armenian friends and the rituals of the tea, rice and meat dishes and the fruit that starts and ends a meal. I very much enjoy the new web sites I have been introduced to in the Middle East whether from Arabic news or Russian news sources, to mention only a few.

Two things are going on in our lives, at least; one, we are in the stage of our tenure overseas where the newness has worn off and we miss home; two, we are able to step away from our life in the US and see what is life giving; things we were unable to see when caught up in the day to day activities of life. I miss the interaction with people that I had at work in the hospital. I recently emailed my successor at the hospital and realized that I although care about the work I did as a chaplain, some of the things I cared about then have little interest now. What I care about now is the way I touched peoples lives and how I enjoyed the way people touched my life. The things I listed above that I missed are linked to people and rituals of life. Without them life has little meaning. I have been blessed with a richness that I sometimes take for granted. I am learning that in other societies lives also center around the joy of relationships and rituals. Mental health in Iran is strong because of this reliance on family, friends and the rituals of life. They may have all the variety of choices we have, but life is not centered around the things of life but the appreciation for life shared together.

A Reflection on Community

2007-11-08T01:23:00.000-05:00

Coming to Qom is quite an adventure! Yet even in an adventure there is a time when you long for the comforts of home. We often say that the deepest thing we miss is our home, our friends, and our children and usually in the reverse order. Then the evening comes and one of us comments on the day just ending. The refrain goes something like this: “My what a wonderful day! Can you believe what we experienced today?”

I often wonder if I am missing something because most of the time I feel quite at home in this Holy City of Qom. There is such a contrast between the city of Tehran and the Holy city of Qom. You do not even notice when a man in a turban walks by you or climbs onto the bus in Qom. It is quite noticeable in Tehran. We recently came home via Metro and then bus. On the metro a cleric, dressed in common clerical garb, was traveling between Talighani and Khomeini stations. I could see the young men on the metro watching him board and depart. (Maybe it was because he was not wearing any socks. This is very unusual here since the dress of cleric covers him form head to foot.)

While we are the only Christians or Masihi (means follower of the Messiah) in Qom of which we know, we certainly are very well received. With its hundreds of bookstores, all religious books, its numerous religious schools, its shine to the 8th Imam’s sister, Fatima Masumeh (meaning the infallible) it stills feels like a friendly city. Yes, it is a city where the industry is religious study. It is a city that only ten years ago was a much sleeper one. It is a city where on my daily bus rides and my biking from home to the Institute to the downtown area for supplies I see at least a hundred clerics in turbans. In all this we find it fascinating.

I (David) have never felt any animosity or ill will from the clerics I meet. The clerics can be in there own world as they do the ordinary chores of life. I see a cleric in very fine attire and wearing a very well kept turban carrying home for lunch a sack of greens or haggling over the price of a new computer. When the clerics are not preoccupied and we make eye contact they acknowledge me in a very warm and friendly way. In our apartment complex our neighbors across the hall moved out and a very nice and pleasant cleric has moved in. His English is not as good as my Farsi and so we have not had a very long conversation but he just is the nicest man. We have been here since February and he is the first tenant of the complex to figure out our address and put sign up on the street to help people find us.

It is these kind of things that make life interesting.

In spite of our decision to take this challenging work it is always in our minds that we could not do this alone. How did this privilege come about? I have listed four reasons to keep me grateful for this opportunity. One does not step out in this adventure solely because of ones own merit.

First, the work of the Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) in offering to help in the early 90’s with disaster relief was most important. I was at dinner with several professors about a month ago. One of the professors told me why he especially respected the MCC. The MCC came in to help in a time of need and without strings attached. They just wanted to help when there was a need in the world. He indicated that this was very refreshing I a world of calculation.

Second, there is a need to have life experiences that helped us learn to appreciate other cultures and be comfortable in meeting strange customs and different ways of living. It feels like our lives have been a preparation for this form of service. We did not get here with out the opportunities to work cross culturally in El Salvador, earlier in Jamaica, and then the most blessed and fulfilling endeavor is our friendships with the African American Church. It seems like God had given us experiences that help us accept the ebb and flow of being in a very different culture.

Third, we have been humbled by the realization that there are many people in many places that enable us to do what we do. Coming home this past summer we realized the prayer support, the support team that enables us to leave home and children and pursue this adventure.

Fourth, we are touched by the good will of many in the Muslim world who want to find ways to increase good will among people’s in a world of distrust and self interest. No matter how different our theologies are around a good number of issues, the good will and desire for peacemaking is a universal hunger among many of the people with whom we have come in contact. Today a massive demonstration took place in Tehran to protest the economic restrictions that the US has place on Iran. We followed the event on the TV. In the middle of the afternoon one of our close friends called and told us that this was not directed against us or the American people but just against the policy of the American government.

All of these points are worthy of further discussion. I wish to elaborate on two of them- number two and three.

When I got home in early July I started to add up all those who supported us in the few months we had been away. The realtor, our financial people, my brother as power of attorney, the neighbors, those that checked our house and saw that someone was hired to work the yard, the friends that took care of our animals, the prayer partners, those who encouraged us through emails and those who read our blog site. I will not mention names since that will leave out someone but the amazing group of people that keeps the home fires burning while we are away. You do not sojourn by yourself for it feels like the prayers of our friends and their churches have given us extraordinary opportunities to experience new and amazing things. The most important part of the whole experience for me is the strong and growing awareness how important interfaith dialogue is in a world where the press and the anxiety of globalization often pushes for distrust and conflict.

I now want to turn somewhat philosophical if you will indulge me. I read the NY Times on line. I particularly like the commentary. One of my favorite commentators is David Brooks. I do not come from the same part of the political spectrum as he but I deeply respect his integrity and clarity of vision and even his wisdom. If I disagree with him it always comes with a new clarity. This past year he gave the commencement address at Wake Forest University. It was very thought provoking. He said something we often do not think about in our individualistic society. He pressed home the idea that we bring together in our lives all the experiences of our ancestors. He quoted a modern geneticist who suggest that over the centuries we have within us a genetic link to our ancestors and all the experiences of their lives effect who we are and how we are wired. While there are some who transcend their background and ancestry and move it in a new direction, most of us are being carried on the backs of our heritage, our culture, our civilization, and our religious forbearers.

Books, Needles and Blind Men

2007-10-29T05:53:00.000-04:00

Autumn has come to Qom. The air is cool and sweetly fragrant, morning and evening.
Villages an hour west of us have snow on the ground. When we take an evening stroll, the desert sky is a bright, clear canopy of lights and a sweater feels good under my manteau.

David and I now spend an hour each morning watching tv in Farsi. We are able to understand parts of the news and enjoy children's shows. I recently read a book written for young children that a friend loaned to me. A lovely young cockroach (with a beautiful Persian face and wearing a flowered chador) is urged by her father (a widower with only this one child who is "the light of his eyes") to choose from among her suitors and get married. He is a very old cockroach and wants to know that his daughter will be well and happy in life. She seriously contemplates all of her suitors, and settles on a good looking mouse who is a perfume salesman. A compelling plot with a cross cultural marriage. It is my favorite Iranian story so far.

We recently spent a morning at a local clinic, having blood drawn and a chest x-ray done so that our student visas can be processed. I sat for an hour in a small room with twenty-one women in chadors, as we all waited for the busy nurse. A variety of children waited, wandered and wailed. When I entered the melee, a younger woman immediately stood up and offered her chair. I politely declined. She insisted. I declined and was given a gentle push from behind. A woman my age said firmly, "You are our guest. Sit!" I sat.

A teen-ager had her blood drawn and promptly passed out. She was laid on a nearby bed, patted, given sips of water, encircled. A little girl of seven or eight wept with fear as her blood was drawn and a dozen women made cooing noises in her direction. Finally it was my turn. "Where are you from?" asked the harried but pleasant nurse. "America." Murmurs of wonder around the room, smiles, heads shaken.

I rose with the cotton ball in the crux of my arm and headed across the room to the tape dispenser. Two women beat me to it. One taped my arm and the other patted me.
"Good-bye," I smiled as I left. The room rose as one, each woman with a hand over her heart. "Good-bye, good-bye. We will pray for you."

On the drive back through Qom to our apartment, a line of rapid movement caught my eye. Seven older men, single file and holding onto a rope, were moving energetically down the sidewalk. Their faces were bright and cheerful, talking and laughing as they went. Three men help the rope with one hand and a white cane with the other. Interspersed were four sighted friends. Faces lit by trust, care, forward momentum and community life, they wove and bobbed up the street like a kite's tail, fluid and joy-full.

Happy Birthday, Doris Lessing

2007-10-22T03:14:00.000-04:00

Doris Lessing, writer extraordinaire and this year's recipient of the Nobel Prize for literature, was born 88 years ago today in Kermanshah, Persia (now Iran). Her dad, who lost both a leg and his health in WWI, worked for the Imperial Bank of Persia. Her mom was trained as a nurse. Doris spend the first six years of her life in two magnificent Persian mountain towns- Kermanshah and Tehran.

In 1925, her parents, British citizens, bought a maize farm in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe)which was never an economic success, but was deeply formative to the young Doris. At a tender age she regaled her little brother with passionate, adventurous stories centered in rural Africa. She was sent to a rigid convent school in town, followed by a girls' boarding school, from which she fled at age thirteen, to enter the work force. This ended Doris Lessing's formal education.

In the spring of 1980, I (Linda) was 25 years old and teaching a Women's Studies course at a community college in Indiana. The class read "The Golden Notebook"
(pub. 1962) with obvious relish. Protagonist Anna Wulf kept four notebooks of thoughts on her life-- red for political thoughts, blue for memories and dreams, yellow for fiction writing and black for desciptions of central Africa. Anna's goal ws to integrate them all (and hence all of herself) into one gold notebook.

That was a lovely spring for me. I liked teaching at night as a balance to pastoral ministry. Our first nephew was born in April and I remember joyfully writing "Jeffrey Andrew" on the board in big letters. We were preparing to move to Winston-Salem that fall, still the city dearest to my heart. My old class notes had these Doris Lessing quotes:

Think wrongly if you please, but in all cases think for yourself.

Laughter is by definition healthy.

Any human being anywhere will blossom in a hundred unexpected talents
and capacities simply by being given the opportunity to do so.

I have found it to be true that the older I've become, the better my
life has become.

We are all of us made by war, twisted and warped by war, but we seem to
forget it.

"Choose a quote," I had written on a test, "and write at least 500 words of response. Include some thoughts on issues that Doris Lessing has addressed in
"The Golden Notebook" such as : the rights of an individual in society, the role of a social critic pushing against cultural restraints, the identity of women in a male engineered world, your thoughts on racism and political responsibility toward 'the outsider'."

Twenty-seven + years later, I think that Doris Lessing's quotes and questions deserve another round of reflection and response as we honor her long, honest,
creative life, which began here in the mountains of Iran.

Happy Birthday, Doris!

Observations Coming Home From Iran

2007-10-17T10:00:00.000-04:00

I love to have out of town visitors as guests in our home. Better yet is picking someone up at the airport who has never visited our town. This usually entices me to take the most scenic route home. I wind them through the beautiful North Carolina and Virginia countryside with woods on all sides; drive past lovely houses on the ridge top near our home and finally drive by the lake at the bottom of our road. I vicariously try to see the countryside through the eyes of my guests. What do they make of the red clay soil, the tobacco sheds, and the lush forests? Besides being fun I hope that each time I do this I have a little better insight into my community. What is it that I notice that I use to take for granted?

When Linda and I returned from Qom, Iran to the US after five months away, I saw through different eyes my home country and my home town. I also recognized changes in habits that I had acquired regardless of how quickly I might revert to old form. Also, I had not anticipated how obnoxious I would become to my wife and children as I noted what I thought to be brilliant comparisons of how things are done in Iran verses the US. In spite of their dampening of my enthusiastic obsession about Iranian culture I was grateful for the joys that I have found in both cultures.

Since I cannot obsess with them, let me use you, the reader, as my target of enthusiastic obsession over Iran and the United States. What did I notice upon our first visit home after living in a very different culture half way around the world.

First, I was surprised at how deeply I felt about the friendships that I had made in only a few short months in Iran. There is something about this Iranian culture that as you become a friend you move beyond superficiality and convenience. You are not just associates or acquaintances. You live life together. Friends check in with each other every few days or feel a sense of loss. The common refrain is, “I missed you!” I found myself upon entering the US thinking, “When the time comes I will be ready to go back to my home in Iran.” Because telephone, land line, calls are so inexpensive by US standards from Iran one of our young student friends called us regularly from Iran during the summer. This is motivated from an extreme loyalty to family and friends built into Middle Eastern culture. “I will not betray our friendship,” is a common compliment and ultimate affirmation. When young people befriend older parent types (and we sure qualify) they enjoy calling you “dad” and “mom.” Family in this area of the world looks out for one another. If I ask a friend for advice on how to get service help he will direct me to some friend or family member out of loyalty to this bond.

It was so good to be back among friends in the US whom I missed. It was fun to catch up and to share my story with those I deeply care about. I now have two countries that I can call home. No matter how complicated this can get I find that I want to make sure my life never gets too cluttered to value my friendships. Sometimes in America I find myself too busy to nurture these blessings of time well spent with friends. I need only remind myself how much joy the slower pace of life brings out in me in Iran.

Second, I was amazed how much energy people in Europe and America put into their pets. When we got off the airplane in the Netherlands we headed to a small roadside inn north of Amsterdam . When we arrived it was sporadically raining and the temperature was about 20 degrees C. We had just come from Qom where the temperature was about 40 degrees C. and with a restless dry desert wind. We took a walk luxuriating in the moisture and the coolness. We met a cat about thirty yards from the inn coming our direction with much dignity and poise. His tail was proudly erect and his eyes said, “If you are nice I might rub your leg and let you pet me. Aren’t I special!” We could not have been more pleased to accommodate this grand representative of the pet world.

Now this was only the beginning. When we looked at billboards on our travels by train in the Netherlands we saw cats and dogs in every conceivable setting fleshing out the warm fuzzy effect the advertiser sought. It was even more so in the US! I believe that there were more animals in advertisements than pretty women! I am sure there must be a sizeable segment of the West that does not have an affinity to dogs and cats and other more exotic pets but they are mighty quiet. Ask Michael Vick!

We must confess that while in Iran the one thing we found hardest was not having an animal in the house with which to talk. Linda had me talking to the stuffed animals because she was so deprived of animal companionship. Animals in Iran, not so true of Northern Tehran and other places, but in general, are more utilitarian; meaning they have a purpose and they are not to be pampered. Birds are prized pets here in Iran and even then the adoration we American’s display toward them in the US is severely muted. What I did not realize coming from the US was just how much animals are a part of our culture providing companionship and even family. The Iranian shepherd loves his animals but they are farm animals. The cats have a place in the city but they do not have bushes and shrubs to protect them from the street. They seem to be ignored and so are very wary and unfriendly. In some circles of Shiite thought cat and dog hair upon ones clothes while being warm prohibit one from entering into the prayers of the day.

Now this is not a universal in Muslim countries. Far from it; in Morocco they love cats. The palaces have holes cut for cats to come and go as they please. Nothing is too good for a cat. They say that you treat a cat right and it will be a witness for you when you approach the pearly gates! I suspect all along the Mediterranean Sea this is true.

So if an international incident ever happens due to Linda and David expect it to happen because we went off the deep end with our need to pet and talk to a cat or a dog.

Third, this observation has to do with the secular nature of the west. I was so surprised how much I had gotten use to living in a culture where religion was factored into daily life. One of our student friends procured a cab driver from his neighborhood to pick us up. Our student friend interpreted. This driver talked about good moral behavior, what gave him meaning in life, and authentically reminded us to be good people. It was not forced nor said because he knew we were clergy. It was not said to change my religion. It was just the common way to talk to respectable strangers. His conversation (mostly a monologue) was natural and good natured. If a Muslim person has a problem with Christianity generally they just will not be speak to us. Anyone who is friendly is glad we are people of faith and they say it is a very good thing that we visit Iran.

What I wonder about is why we cannot in the West have a more natural way of discussing our values without thinking we need to change another person. Somehow, we all too often have this idea that when we talk about life issues we cannot talk about belief without putting it on others or trying to change them. I found myself pondering the need for a happy medium. There are people in America and Europe without any language to talk about their source of values and faith. While the importance of human rights and liberties is essential for good living it would also be good to have a pinch of the flavoring of a Islamic country where “faithful” living is free to be expressed and valued in the market place and in the neighborhood gathering. (Sorry if this sounds like I have gone to preaching. What I am advocating is more cross fertilization between cultures. I have learned that I need to get beyond the tribe and believe we can learn something from other peoples and other cultures).

Four, I was bemused and mildly shocked by the hectic pace into which I put myself upon return. I experienced what we often speak of but seldom can step outside of: namely, the frantic pace of life in the US.

I comforted myself that I had taxes to do and catching up on household matters after some six months absence. The spiritual disciplines that I had developed in Iran were much more difficult to maintain once home. I found that I used space fillers such as TV and newspapers and household chores. I also tried to jam too much into my day. There are just so many fun things to do and I am like the kid in the candy store who finds it hard to deny myself anything. We live rich lives in America but there is little incentive to space out our day with more reflection and contemplation. Few are saying “less is more.” The cultural message is fill your day with one more event, more stimulus, more activity. I am particularly susceptible to this and I am not sure I find the joy I might have if I cut out about a quarter of my opportunities (I started with half but thought that too radical.)

Mental health issues are real in Iran but collaborative research Iranian/ American indicate that incidence of mental health is less here.! The daily pace of family life guides the culture here. It is the balance needed to decrease anxiety levels and to keep a person’s priorities straight. It is hard to be as anxious about ones work if he or she knows life will go on because we have invested well in our family, in a primary community or a friendship circle. They do this well in this less western and modern culture. For instance, families are obliged here to back their own even to the point that if you receive a major financial penalty in court and cannot pay your family is required to help you out if they can!

Fifth, when I walked into my home in Martinville I was amazed at just how many things we have in our house Every closet is full of things. I am not talking about books now. I simply am talking about all the things we spend our time shopping and using and repairing to make life simpler.

Recently, after arriving back in Qom, Linda and I went downtown to get a lamburger (they call it a hamburger). It was mid day and there is about six long blocks of shops to reach the Haram and then another two to get to the bazaar complex. We noticed a lot of young men and women window shopping. Being a consumer is fun and the shops downtown have all kinds of merchandize. There are children’s stores with toys and others with clothing. There are all the stores you would see in an open air mall; except not mixed in with a butcher shop and very specialized (a store for men’s underwear only or a store just for suitcases.) The windows display beautiful clothing including dresses little of which you see on the street and worn under a chador. Still, the desire to look at dresses, shoes, suits, etc., are as real as in the US. What you do not see is the volume of items cluttering a home.

Commercials on bill boards and on TV are simpler but no less appealing. Iranians if they want to disparage a product they say it was made in China. Sound familiar? But you just do not see people spending most of their time with accumulation.

I do not know where this will take me but there is this feeling that the basement full of items I have collected over the almost three decades of marriage are a weight on our lives- practically and spiritually.

When we were in training we met a very special couple heading to Kenya. Their length of service is five years. They left behind at two grown children with families they dearly loved. Good family. The couple is in their 60’s and they sold all their household goods or gave them to family. They have almost no foot print in the world now. There is a wisdom that comes with travel. You find out how little you need to live abundantly.

Sixth, I saw in a new way just how prosperous the average wage earner is in the US. I drove up to Patrick County and the Blue Ridge Mountains several times in the summer. On highway US 58 there are an amazing amount of just very comfortable homes of all sizes and types. But the amazing amount of working class people who have the opportunity to live in the home of their dreams is a real blessing in America. The average person has a chance with ambition and ingenuity to live a middle class life that is comfortable. We many take this too much for granted. What I see in the rest of the world is different. Young people do not take for granted that a good life will be theirs. Many seek to learn English which gives them much more flexibility to choose their own way in the world since it is the international language. People are earnest to work hard and use their wits to help their families live a good and healthy life. This is a struggle elsewhere for the safety net is your family and you do not live just for yourself but for your extended family.

Seventh, the amazingly verdant land we live in does not exist in many parts of the world. Some countries are to crowded; some countries and even regions are lacking in moisture and good soil. Almost all of the Islamic countries of the world with the exception of Malaysia and Indonesia are arid. This effects a great deal the way people think and live. God has given us a land of very rich resources and we have a culture that has harnessed better than most the resources of enterprise and technology.

The West has such a variety of goods and services and water and food supply. This colors ones way of living. Just in little things it is noticeable when you return to the US. It is extremely dry in Qom. When I wash my face and hands I also wash the back of my neck just because it is so cooling with almost immediate evaporation. The living water the Bible speaks about is so much more precious as an image since I came to Iran. The dusty desert continually forces one to dust off ones shoes. The taking off of shoes at the door just makes sense here.

I hope that this obsession with Iran is slowing a little through this epistle- length writing. We just live in a very different culture and world and it behooves us to know more about lands so different in culture than our own. When in the US Iran seemed so far away. Yet when we got on a plane it was just four hours from Europe. When we arrived in Qom it felt so comfortable to come into our very pleasant apartment yet is so different than the home in Martinsville. Differences do not need to be better or worse just an amazing variety to be appreciated in a world made by God with a special twinkle in his eye. How much God must love variety!

Iranian Welcome

2007-10-13T15:13:00.000-04:00

Grace and peace to you from Qom! Our flight from Frankfurt to Tehran was smooth and by 12:30 a.m. on 1 October, we were standing in a congenial customs line at Tehran's older airport. Our passports were examined, all ten digits were inked and printed, we collected our luggage and emerged in front of the airport terminal, blinking.

A fine looking Sufi stood nearby. He had a face like King Dariush, sculpted at Persepolis. He was a study of stillness and serenity, his large dark eyes attentive and engaged. Three women in manteaus smoked and chatted. A teen-age boy with hair
elaborately sculpted in gel strolled about talking into his phone. We sat on our luggage and took it all in.

By 2:15 a.m., there was still a remarkable amount of life around us. A toddler in a yellow ruffled dress with matching hair ribbon bucketed back and forth pursued by
a diaper bag toting father. People sipped soda pop. Teen agers gathered in small clusters. It was Ramadan in Iran, and people were looking forward to their pre-dawn breakfast. Iranians, it seems, find that sleep is strictly optional.

Our ride came. I felt embarrassed by our heavy, heavy suitcases (books!). It was a Night of Power among Iran's Shia-- a ritual celebration of the Quran being given to humanity. Mosques were full, traffic was heavy, some streets were completely blocked. Our friend and the driver had a challenging time getting to the airport.

We headed south on the Persian Gulf Highway and were in Qom by 4 a.m. As we passed the Shrine, lit up like a glimpse of paradise, little groups of pilgrims were seated along the dark roadside, sharing breakfast before day break and the beginning of a new day of fasting.

Lugging our mega-luggage up to our apartment, we unpacked a bit, showered, went to bed. We knew what the next twelve hours would bring! By late morning our door bell would be ringing with welcoming neighbors. Fresh fruit would be given, warm bread from the bakery, sweets especially for Ramadan, soda pop, roses and a CD of soothing music.

But at 4:40 am we were just glad to lay down. The sky was lightening to the east.
The first call to prayer was echoing in the streets. We were home.

Back to Iran after summer storytelling

2007-09-25T10:06:00.000-04:00

Autumn has arrived here in southern Virginia; the calendar clearly says so. Last night David and I took a long walk - down the steep incline of our street to Lake Lanier, where dozens of geese and swans were sleeping for the night. A deep mist lay over the earth-- humidity nestling in the low places after a day of heat, with cooler weather promised soon. Ever present deer munched in neighborhood gardens. Crickets kept up their warm weather chorus.

We walked and reflected together. This summer we have spoken 35 times in a variety of contexts: grade schools and churches, colleges and retirement communities. Christians, Jews and Muslims attended. We enjoyed fellowship with the Assembly of God, Baptists, Church of the Brethren, Disciples of Christ, Friends (Quakers), Independent Christians, Mennonites, Roman Catholics, United Methodists. Our "storytelling" included descriptions of our days studying in Qom, the joy of being a guest in an Iranian home, building friendships and trust via MCC/Imam Khomeini Institute's Muslim-Christian Exchange, prayers for dialogue and detante. Discussion was richer than we could have guessed.

One twelve year old boy had read "The Bookseller of Kabul" and wanted to talk about good books. An elderly woman wanted to know how to encourage interfaith dialogue in her own town. People asked endless questions about Iranian cuisine and poetry, the beauty of the countryside, friendships and studies. I tallied up our speaking occasions and realized that we have spoken to nearly 2000 people in July, August and early September.

This week-end we catch our flight back to Tehran, with great anticipation. We are eager to resume our studies and our friendships in Qom, worship with our Armenian friends in Tehran, and our Farsi language skills (modest though they are).
Our thanks to so many of you who hosted us this summer, prayed with us and for us, and continue to support the work of peace and reconcilation. Stay tuned! Autumn is beginning

Storytelling 1 : Netherlands

2007-07-23T14:41:00.000-04:00

We left our apartment in Qom on a Thursday in late June when the mercury was heading for 42 degrees C (a toasty 107 degrees F). Our “water cooler” was no longer cooling our apartment (ditto for everybody else in the city) and our classes had been completed for this school year. On our last evening, Mr. Haghani from the Imam Khomeini Institute came to visit, bringing our passports, visas and two huge tins of Sohon—Qom’s delectable “pistachio brittle.” With immense fondness we said good-bye to him, packed up a few items of clothing for summer time and rode to Tehran’s airport at 4am.

The British Air flight to Amsterdam was comfortable and I found a friendly woman with whom to chat. “Are you a born again Christian?” she wanted to know, “I have lots of friends who are.” We drank coffee and talked about our kids. I slept. Soon we were in Amsterdam – a fine mist and 19 degrees C (about 65 degrees F)—heavenly.

Storytelling is what our summer “back west” is all about…. connecting with churches, schools, retirement communities, community groups, anybody who would like to talk…. sharing the many positives of life in Iran and the importance of interfaith dialogue. We began right away.

The next morning David and I awoke with minimal jet lag. Our modest hotel room was over a restaurant/pub in a village north of Amsterdam…. comfortable beds, trees and canals all around, a field of cows across the street. We enjoyed our breakfast and two strong cups of Dutch coffee, then immediately rented two bikes for the day.

The Netherlands must be one of the finest places on earth for a long bike ride. Bike paths are abundant, motorists respectful, people of all ages cycling vigorously. We set out toward the Zuider Zee and the fishing village of Monnickendam. The bike lane took us south and then northeast. Sheep elliptically fat with wool stared at us meditatively. Sleek coffee colored milk cows munched on emerald green grass. Church spires were evident in each little village—always with a brass rooster shining on the steeple top… a reminder of Peter’s betrayal of Jesus and our ongoing need to be very humble about what we insist we’ll be able to do. We pedaled on. The cool wind in my face and hair was a benediction of sweetness.

We stopped at Monnickendam as the shops were opening up. David’s luggage was circulating somewhere between London and Amsterdam, and he was a man with a mission…. a pair of socks and a bag of underwear. Mission accomplished, we biked down to the lovely little harbor full of sailing ships. A woman sat on a bench reading, a golden Labrador retriever sitting beside her. A group of octogenarians zipped by on their bikes, heading south. People climbed over their sailboats and readied them for a day on the water. Café tables sat in the sunlight awaiting customers.

We biked on to Pomerand for lunch and a respite from pouring rain. People all seemed to carry ponchos and umbrellas as a matter of course; little kids ran through puddles; baby carriages were equipped with plastic “windows” that snapped in place against the rain. By early afternoon we were back in our hotel, a lovely 20km stretch of Dutch scenery in our hearts.

The innkeeper was waiting for us. “Your friend Mr. H. called in your absence,” he said, “he is in Amsterdam and would like for you to call him right away.” Oh, good—our Dutch teacher/ grad student friends whom we met in Qom last spring, and hoped to reconnect with. I recalled our first sight of them on the streets of Qom—redheads and blonds, a groups of 12 or more, striding purposefully along as David and I ate a “lamb-burger” in one of our favorite spots. “They are definitely not Iranians, “ said David sagely. A day or two later we were invited to a lecture on Sufism at the Khomeini Institute with a “Dutch group” who were in town for several days on a two week cultural tour of Iran. We had much in common.

We planned to meet for coffee right away, and wandered to the bus stop right in front of our inn. It was now pouring full force. We got off at Amsterdam’s Centro Station, and met our friend inside. Together we walked toward a large building with “Jesus Loves You” alight in neon on the top floor. It was the old Salvation Army building, now gifted to “Youth With a Mission.” Two more friends were waiting for us. David and I shared deeply about our first half year with MCC, our love for Qom, our challenges with Farsi, our hopes for ongoing friendships and understanding. Our three friends shared a deep love for Iran (one has been in the country several times) and their hopes for cultural tours and dialogue between people to build friendship, and international understanding. Their deep faith and passion for Iran was impressive. The evening ended far too soon.

The next day David and I boarded a train for Amersfoort, to meet with two Mennonites and two Quakers after a Mennonite Church Board Meeting. (Dutch trains are also wonderful things—comfortable, spacious, quick). We had met M. and several other Mennonites in Tehran in April as they were touring Iran for four weeks. Our hearts were united in the desire for dialogue, detante and renewed relationships of friendship and trust between Abrahamic faiths.

Despite of our efforts to use only bikes, buses and trains, we did need one taxi in Amersfoort. We flagged done a young guy with a personable manner, and he efficiently wove through the streets to our hotel. We shook hands as we prepared to roll our suitcases inside and register ourselves. Thinking that we might need his taxi services the next day, David asked for his name and phone number. The man smiled with warmth and handed us a card with his mobile phone number. He had heard us chatting about Iran and our upcoming meeting re: interfaith dialogue. “By the way,” he said, “my name is
Muhammad. And I am from Tehran.”

Back home in Virginia

2007-07-07T16:25:00.000-04:00

More soon, friends!

Streams of Living Water: Damavand

2007-06-11T05:02:00.000-04:00

Damavand is an old, green city that rests at the base of 18,000+ foot Mt. Damavand – Iran’s Mt. Fuji. It is just an hour’s drive north and east of Tehran, steadily up and up, until snow capped peaks fill the horizon. Last week-end (that is, Thursday and Friday), David and I went home with our dear friend, Quaker Mohammad, and got to know Damavand a bit.

Streams of living water are at the heart of Damavand’s old history. Originally a holy place for Zoroastrians, then a significant Jewish community, its inhabitants have long tended walnut and cherry trees. Irrigation canals several hundred years old take advantage of high elevation snow melt and the abundance of the Tar River. Although the surrounding mountains are as brown as a camel’s pelt, the city is lush with chlorophyll.

After Quaker Mohammad’s family (mom, dad, siblings, uncles and aunts) welcomed us with open arms and a sumptuous meal, the three of us went for a walk. Up the mountainside we climbed, stepping along the narrow rims of the irrigations channel— was three feet wide and nearly as deep, extending for several miles. Water tumbled and sang its way down hill—clear and clean. We turned a corner and heard a shriek—Q.M. immediately spun and turned his back. A group of four women and several girls were bathing and splashing—basking in the freedom of sunshine and good company. Soon they gave the “ok, come on” shout and we walked on past—perfect etiquette observed and their bath only temporarily interrupted.

Downhill and to the right, Q.M. shouted greetings to a neighbor who was watering his cherry trees. A half built house stood on a knoll overlooking the river. The poet Hafez’s beloved bulbuls (nightingales) were singing from the trees around us. We descended to a gravel road and strolled along the river and gently back uphill. A family of Kurds (descendents of the ancient Medes) were having a picnic near a spring. The women were dressed in bright colored long dresses, sandaled feet, bare forearms and a simple head scarf. They looked vigorous and unvanquished.

As the hill became steeper we came upon an old man in a green skullcap,plodding up the hill in plastic flipflops. He chatted cheerfully with Q.M. as a roar came behind us. Two very young men in an ancient John Deere tractor, a wagon hitched behind them, pulled up. They paused mid hill with a grand grinding of gears to help the old man pile into the back, comfortably situated among burlap sacks. He grinned and waved merrily as they rumbled past us.

In the city itself, we walked past the empty Jewish synagogue, locked up with a sturdy padlock. The Hebrew engraving over the door was in good shape. The older adjoining building still had beautiful stained glass upstairs--- now used as an apartment. Q.M.’s father (born in the 1950s) grew up with Jewish friends and neighbors, went to school with them, loved them. By the middle sixties most of Damavand’s Jews had emigrated—the last old people dying in the 1970s. Behind us a stream tumbled by giving coolness and strength. The Jews had chosen a heavenly spot to worship.

Later we spent some time at the Jewish graveyard, trying to read the inscriptions. The most recent graves were from the 1970s—the oldest so worn by wind and weather that they were illegible. Most stones were in Hebrew, with two Farsi lines at the bottom, giving name and dates. Interestingly, two stones were completely in Farsi : one woman’s read “Welcome to my grave. Please pray for me as I have prayed for you.” A man’s stone nearby said “He lived cleanly, thought cleanly, acted cleanly, all his life. He lived and died well.” It was holy ground—leaving me with a sad longing for this community now gone, for not having known these lives lived so well.

Breakfast the next morning was on the rooftop. Q.M.’s brother and sister-in-law, who gave us lodging for the night, had it all arranged. We spread a carpet in a shady nook, then a tablecloth. Wonderful sangak (flat bread cooked on hot stones), fresh honey, cheeses, walnuts and hot tea appeared. In the distance lay the turquoise dome of Damavand’s thousand year old mosque, built in turn, over a Zoroastrian fire temple A Sufi tower (800 years old, to commemorate a Sufi who died 1000 years ago) was just uphill. Behind us were mountain peaks with patches of snow and ice at their summit.

Q.M.’s uncle, a generous man who lived in Japan fifteen years ago, decided to drive us toward Mt. Damavand’s summit—where many large villas are being built. People (often from Tehran) come out just for the week-end. Meanwhile, families of Afgani people do the upkeep and safeguarding. Pink houses, green houses, some with fanciful turrets and many stories dot the hillside. Over our heads, near the summit, we could see a tunnel, one of many leading over and through the Alborz peaks toward the Caspian Sea. Q.M. does not approve of the new spread. “Simple life is what I like,” he says firmly, “see how they build and then neglect their gardens?”

Then we found a herd of goats—perhaps one hundred of them along a stream, three pack mules tied up nearby and a family picnicking on a blanket. A man of fifty stood up and came to greet us. He was the owner of the flock, traveling all summer with his family as they seek higher and higher ground for grazing. Looking at his goats (a few were standing on the rocks, most were asleep in the hot sun), he said, “Everything I own is right here.”

Big dogs laid “dead asleep” in the heat… five of them for the flock of one hundred. The man whistled and called to them in a low voice—each dog whimpered and wagged in response—a deep connection to their human.
A younger man sat nearby on his haunches—a handsome, tanned face and ready smile. He is the true “goatherd”—the one who stays up all night and keeps an eye on the flock.

Meanwhile, a woman got up and began to bring us bowls of food--- the usual Iranian impeccable manners. This extended family of eight will continue to travel together until the end of the summer. In autumn, the goats will be driven down the mountainside to market and sold. Then the family will return to their home village for the winter, until the cycle begins again.

Time for Damavand’s famous ice cream—still churned from real cream, with pistachios and sweet toppings. The car was parked under an enormous sycamore tree that engulfed the shops on either side. A modest shoe shop was on the right--- built around a weighty tree limb that projected through the roof. An old man sat inside, shoes neatly arranged on shelves, green leaves sprouting around him. When we left the ice cream parlor he was doing a brisk business as families hunted for summer sandals

Damavand—city of living water and singing nightingales, where old ways and new live side by side. My spiritual chlorophyll level has been renewed. And David and Q.M. are planning how they will one day scale Mt. Damavand together.

A Journey to Tehran for Pentecost

2007-05-28T15:06:00.000-04:00

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.

Kashan Bazaar

2007-05-19T02:45:00.000-04:00

Linda and I were entering the famous bazaar of Kashan with a most welcome escort of a student and a professor. It was about 9:00 AM and the shops had just opened for the day. (Kashan is a lovely university town about 90 miles wouth of Qom). We had driven from the north edge of the city where Kashan University is located. As we rode in the taxi, a nondescript Paykan that looked like a throw back to a 1955 Rambler, we watched the countryside change from barren and flat desert to tree lined boulevards with residential homes. Between homes were empty lots barren of any vegetation, a reminder that this city was the work of human efforts to make the desert bloom over several millennium. Again the residences changed to tree lined streets with two foot deep gutters filled with water running down each side. The water flowed swiftly from the west as the city sloped down from the mountains maybe 20 kilometers to the west. The further west we traveled the clearer the water became. Behind the gutters were trees of eucalyptus and cedar. Traffic increased with each intersection, each round-about or in Farsi maydan as our cab driver maneuvered around the chaotic traffic. Our taxi driver stopped before an unassuming set of shops and our guides told us we were at the bazaar. We looked more closely in the growing heat of the desert day. The shade of the archway we saw looked enticing but what caught our eye was a row of shops on either side of the archway that extended back until we could see only a vague glint of glass, cooper and bright plastic objects. We had arrived at the long anticipated Bazaar of Kashan.

If the name Kashan sounds familiar you are correct for this is an old center for the rug making along the silk route. Home made carpets that cost the price of a luxury automobile or a comfortable home are made here. Kashan also claims to be the home from which the magi wandered west to find the Christ child in Bethlehem.

As we stood outside the taxi getting our bearings, we were almost run over by a large flat cart being pushed by a worker. A truck was parked on the side of the street, full of carpets rolled in plastic. We followed the cart as it entered the archway and maneuvered its way through the ever increasing number of shoppers, shop keepers and workers. The bazaars are the center of almost every community in Iran. The bazaars of Iran anticipated the malls of America by many centuries for they are enclosed and can be multiple stories high. They are as ancient as the silk route made famous by Marco Polo. They existed from ancient times and are the central core of each city. Through the bazaars in Iran, almost 70% of the trade of the country is controlled. They are a community all of their own.

Our purpose for going to the bazaar was the usual: we were hunting modest gifts to take home for our family and we wanted to explore the famous rug industry of Kashan. We were not disappointed. We got much more.

The prof and I took the lead for we talked more than looked. Linda was with an outstanding student and native of the city. Our new friend and I were so much on the same wavelength after a day together that we laughed at the same time at what we saw. One stall was computer goods, the next stall was the entrance to a fine men’s clothing store, the next stall was a butcher shop where the butcher was cutting up a side of lamb, and then a pastic good shop spilling out on into the aisle-- the same plastic goods that you see at Dollar Genral or at the Saturday flea market in the US.

What struck us was the striking difference between the booths. Some of the produce would have been familiar to a Jewish exile in the time of Jeremiah. Some of the goods could have been in a mall in a wealthy suburb of Orange County California. The new with the old, the simple with the complex. Each walkway had side aisles where you might find workers dying wool in big vats and laying them across lines held up by wooden beams. The next aisle might have perfumer makers, gold merchnts, herbal pharmacies.

Just after the butcher shop we began to follow our noses toward freshly ground cinnamon. We found two large grinding stones. Each started with a flat grinding stone of some ten feet in circumference laying its side. A much smaller stone on its side circled around a post and an arm came out beyond the large grinding wheel. It did not take much imagination to picture a mule hitched to the stone. Now the arm was attached to a Briggs and Straton engine on a cart. The cart went in a circle and a large paddle was handled by the attendant who avoided the circling cart to push large chunks of spices and herbs under the grinders. What an aroma!

Each grinding machine was in its own arched room. The ceiling was made of dirt and straw like much of the older homes in the desert. It had an arched ceiling and was cool and comfortable. The arched roof had a hole in it so that air could enter and be cooled like a cave yet keep out any moisture in the infrequent rains of the desert.

The merchant who operated this amazing invention was very pleased to show off his equipment. Our merchant took us through his whole operation and we could smell the freshest cinnamon that makes the cans we buy at the supermarket seem anemic in comparison. Our host did not speak but made signs with hands and noises of excitement for he knew we were guests in his country. The prof turned politely toward us and told us the man was deaf. Of course we purchased two spices, cinnamon and one we had to ask about which was cardamom. They make our apartment smell divine.

Our next excursion was to a much larger avenue off the main artery. We saw a large pool and a domed ceiling with light shining in. It was an old caravansei—where merchants from afar and their animals were once given shelter. On every side we saw empty shops that once housed businesses. Two were still in use and updated for modern working conditions. Outside were stacks and stacks of carpet, much of it hand made of the finest materials. The famous Persian rugs! In a well lit corner a young man had a scraper that looked like the large head of hatchet. He also had a rag that he had made wet. With these two items he was cleaning carpet. How? He took the hatchet head and scraped the carpet. Off came lots of lint. I would have torn up the carpet but he knew the right pressure to put on the head. The next booth held a single carpet laid out flat and it covered the whole room. A man with a comb like tool was slowly pulling one thread at a time back into place on this carpet as he repaired it. How many days to repair this carpet I do not know but that it was worth the effort as its beauty and intricate design was immediately apparent.

On down the row a elderly woman wearing her black chador was buying wool from the wool merchant. (Watching the wool being dyed is a story in itself.) There was no pretense of who was in charge of this purchase. She tested several wool strands first with a yank and then with her teeth. She held it up and pulled it apart holding each end and judging its quality. If there was a guild for women making rugs she was a leading member. Chador or no chador, skill and experience trumped everything else.

My final entry tells of the “used” shops, thought this does the shops down one alley an injustice for their goods were of every quality and age. We saw scales 300 years old and huge gates of wood with small human sizes doors within them. We saw little shops on a side court yard with spiraling upper floors of special odds and ends with treasures of unbelievable interest…items collected over the centuries and hand made in places everywhere in the middle east.

The amazing thing is that everyone to whom we spoke knew we were guests in their country and asked us if we had been to the bazaar in Esfahan! Then they talked at length about the bazaar in Tehran. Each with a different tone of voice. The Tehran bazaar was noted for its size but the one in Esfahan, well it was indescribable, they said. When we asked about an item of special merit they told us we might find it in Esfahan. What an adventure this will be.

P.S. Eat your heart out shoppers. The exchange rate is about 925 to 1 and antique items that are modest in price are around 4 to 6 dollars! But let me warn you, our friends knew how to bargain. We would have paid more for our few items purchased. They keep us from showing too much interest in an item until the sale was made and we were out of the shop! We looked at hand made rugs that were about 5’ by 4’ and sold for $225. Our friends put their heads together and said lets see if we can do better. The next place was willing to sell us two for about $115 a piece! Too bad we did not have the money in hand and they do not take credit cards!

I am your passing guest

2007-05-09T15:46:00.000-04:00

We were in the bakery the other night waiting for our sangak to come out of the oven. Bakeries in this part of the world produce just one type of bread and people queue up ten or twenty at a time to take home a fresh armload for lunch or dinner. Sangak is my favorite flatbread- two feet long, with sesame seeds on top, baked on red hot stones in the enormous bakers’ oven. Steaming hot, it is pitched onto a table to cool and stones are carefully removed before heading out the door again. Made without preservatives, it truly is daily bread—delicious for the day and like shoe leather by the next.

Flatbread has been made in the Middle East for the past 12,000 years or so. No wonder the bakers seem to know what they’re doing. One guy continually bends over a tubful of dough (perhaps a meter in diameter and just as deep), spreads it carefully on a long handled paddle and once formed to his satisfaction, pitches it into the gas powered oven. The other young guy keeps an eye on all the sangak that’s baking and quickly removes them at precisely the right time for waiting customers. Men waiting sit on benches around the cooling table, scooting through when it’s their turn for bread. Women have their own bench to the right of the door. An older man with the cash box presides over a small table by the women’s bench. People hold up fingers to indicate the number of pieces of bread they are paying for. Everybody seems to know whose turn is next. David and I were carefully acknowledged as we waited (standing off in a funny place from everyone else, we hadn’t figured out the queue yet) and when our turn came around, the sangak was ours (for about 8 cents per two foot piece),

Besides 12,000 years of flatbread making, Iranians are awfully good at friendship and hospitality. Pizza Mohammed took us home for lunch this week. His wife had cooked a feast of lamb and chicken with all the trimmings. It was just the usual lunch crowd at his place- his wife and two kids, sister-in-law and husband, brother-in-law, youngest sister-in-law, and both of his wife’s parents. Such gentle people—playing with the kids, sipping tea, asking about our lives. We ended with a vigorous game of backgammon--- Pizza Mohammed has promised to make us world champions in strategy.

P. Mohammed went on to talk about his sister and brother-in-law who work in a medical clinic in a small village in the mountains. They have been in the village for 20 years, he says, they have become “mahram” to the people there. Later in the day, I asked T. Mohammed (teacher of Persian) to elaborate on what it means to be “mahram” to someone. He said that there are two meanings. One is to be close kin—and so deeply tied to the intimate family system. The other is to be “mahram” by choice—to be 100% trusted, welcomed, invited in even though originally non-kin, even a stranger. If you have become “mahram” to me, I have given you my heart, welcomed you as a close family member, held nothing back.

The door bell rang earlier this evening. A neighbor (upstairs) introduced herself. We tried speaking in English and Persian and finally settled on French as our mode of communication. (Those of you who have heard my French know how sad this is). She spends half of her time in another city, half in Qom. I told her I was a Christian. She vigorously waved three fingers under my nose and said in impeccable French—“Moses, Jesus, Mohammed. Three great prophets, one great God, it makes no difference to me or to God. I am so glad you are here. Let’s be friends.”

David and I spent an evening at the Bazaar last week & stopped for a fruit drink on the way home.
The place was full of young adults (all the women in chadors) chatting and having fun. One young woman smiled at us as she devoured her ice cream. On her way out with friends, she called over her shoulder, “Good-bye my sweet guests.” On the bus home an older woman peaked out of her chador at me and solemnly winked. As she off the bus she grinned and held up the peace sign.

“I am,” says the Psalmist (39:12a) “your passing guest, a sojourner like all my forebears.” As I conjugate verbs (up to three tenses now), study the Quran, learn the history of the Shia people, worship with Christians in Tehran and accept the gift of friendship from so many, I think of these words. The Middle East is so very complex, nuanced, volatile. Our few months in Iran teach us that it is also welcoming, a kind place to sojourn, and a part of the globe where one may be offered the chance to be truly “mahram.”

Personality of a Nation

2007-04-29T06:50:00.000-04:00

Can an airport tell you about a nation? Probably not. Heathrow is so chaotic that I believe it is not representative of Great Britain. Most countries put their best foot forward when it comes to visitors making their entry into a nation. There are exceptions- Linda tells me that her experience of the airport in Madrid was very unique. One airline did not post the country or city of destination on a electronic sign at the gate or on a comprehensive arrival/departure screen. She tells of passengers going from gate to gate asking if this is where such and such a plane will be departing. Is this plane heading for Amsterdam she asks the airline staff at the gate? All ignore the young woman who kneels down in the door way to the ramp and changes her baby’s diaper! People stayed congenial.

Nations seem to have personalities too. In central America, El Salvador has a distinctly different personality than Guatemala or Honduras. Most countries pride themselves on their perceived attributes. I know of one county in Europe that looks down on its neighbor because it has electric and telephone poles instead of underground cable.

Someone told us to immediately get acquainted with the people when we enter a country. The warmth, industry, cleanliness, and family orientation can tell you a lot. If a culture is friendly and warm and hospitable to guests, then this says something about the possibility of that nation for the future. It suggests a way that other nations might relate to that culture in order for better understanding.

I think this holds for our experience in Iran. We have told you of the friendliness of the people on our plane trip coming to Iran. It was striking. People seem genuinely open and friendly when they ask where we are from. I have experienced no initial reaction of hostility because I am an American. If they did feel that because I am a Christian I am ritually unclean, they keet that to themselves. If they felt strongly about American foreign policy they certainly did not or do not link it to me or to Americans in general. I have many times had men get up and give me their seat on the bus and on the metro (in Tehran). Why? Because I was a stranger in their country; a guest.

What I believe is that when a people are this warm and open then they are open at the grass roots level to accept a different view of America. Their view is not set in stone. In many ways it is as restricted to mystery and hearsay as is ours is of Iran.

I hope you hear that in spite of the great mistrust between America and Iran there is possibility. Here, in general, are the things that Iranian people believe that makes it hard to like America.

First, people believe that we are treating them unfairly. They believe that they have the right to develop nuclear technology for peaceful purposes under the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. They see it as an issue of fairness and the common person from professor to cab driver to student to laborer believes that the only purpose for nuclear power is to make electricity. This is what I read in the English Language newspaper. This is what is said on TV and by the government. They do not understand that our distrust is due to the way their government supports organizations we call terrorist, and oks their revolutionary rhetoric. They only see us in Iraq and not helping the Palestinians.

Second, they forget about the US Embassy take over and minimize its importance. In a nation where 2/3 of the people are under 30 years old, this is ancient history.

Third, they see America as the cause of the overthrow by the CIA of their elected government in 1953. This is very big to them.

Fourth, they see us as the link to colonialism; most recently British. They see America as having taken over the meddling in Iranian affairs from the British. Older Iranians still blame many misfortunes on the crafty British coming in and causing things to happen. For better or worse we are seen as the latest colonialist power wanting to take the resources of the country and not giving anything back in return. They saw the Shah and his friends making money off of oil but not giving it to the people.

Finally, the newspapers seem to always be concerned about the prestige of Iran. The papers talk about this accomplishment and that accomplishment and there is little said about failures. Every delegation from another country visiting and honoring Iran is spoken of in their newspapers and on TV.

The backbone of the country is the merchant and trader. This is a country of small businesses and shops. One business trades in light bulbs and extension cords. Another company sells purified water only. Another has produce. The person who labors believes that certain government agencies are economically favorable to a few. Those who live in wealthier north Tehran have one view of human rights and those in working class south Tehran have another view. Many in south Tehran believe that the more conservative life style of Muslim countries is appropriate and this lifestyle structure is very much bred into the system. They like this while also finding themselves very angry when they see nothing happening regarding economic reform as promised by elected officials. This group is nationalistic and conservative and less concerned about getting their political view across than having prosperity come to the nation. Most people think America must be a very violent country and dangerous to live in yet at the same time think we are very powerful. They think every American citizen has the pull to get things done. We all know that there are ways to influence government but Iranians in general give us too much credit.

Iranians are much more upfront about religion being a big part of the life of the country. Even if a person is not devout they expect the public domain to be dominated by talk of religion. They may not like the way a religious leader handles things but they expect them to be in leadership. In Iran the religious establishment is the central source of power in the government.

Iranians marvel at the number of churches we have in the US, but wonder how religious a nation we are. People ask if our friend back home really believe in God. They are very bewildered by the disparity between our beliefs and our actions as Christians. They have little understanding of the nuances of Christian belief. Sound familiar? We have a hard time sorting out actions of Muslims from their beliefs and we have uncertainty about the many religious voices we hear and the very different emphases Muslims have. What is a Shia Muslim; what is a Sunni Muslim? Why cannot Shia and Sunni Muslims get along? “They believe the same thing don’t they,” we might ask? The tension among different Muslims is very real and goes back centuries.

An American professor told Linda and myself recently that if you visit Iran and are here a week you think you can write a book on the country. If you are hear a month you think you can write an article about Iran. If you are here a year you realize that you might be able to tell stories about your experiences but you hold off on writing.

I am clear about one thing, Iranian people wish American’s good will. Yes, maybe a second thing; American and Iran have been so isolated from each other sense the Iranian Revolution in 1979 that we know little about each other. This is dangerous when you have as much power as the US holds. It is dangerous when we want to see effective and life-giving use of our influence. There are many view points within this experiment in government in Iran. It is partly a theocracy and partly a democracy with a long history of diplomacy. Finding ways to get acquainted as peoples is in everyone’s interest.

Sit Gently

2007-04-18T00:58:00.000-04:00

Lately I have taken to climbing steps. Covered as I am in a manteau and headscarf, it is just too warm to enjoy a vigorous walk out in the growing desert heat. Our apartment stairs, however, tucked into the center of our six story building, offer a cool and aerobic alternative. I begin at ground level—our communal parking space which is enclosed in sturdy gates and walls. Often a neighbor, Little Mohammed (aged 8) is kicking his soccer ball around. He perfects his agility by lunging happily as the plastic ball careens in a new direction. We greet each other with grins.

I ascend to floor two where our apartment is. Directly across the hall, our neighbor is nearly always cooking something succulent. Curry, tumeric, cinnamon waft from beneath her door. (Often her meal preparations set off our smoke detector, which is another reason I like her). Up to the 3rd, 4th, 5th floors. It’s lovely to see all the shoes kicked off in front of doors… a clear sign that one’s neighbors are home. There are Mama’s and Papa’ shoes and a tiny child’s. Some one’s gas bill has been shredded and tossed down the steps like confetti. A TV is going loud and strong—afternoon Soaps maybe.

I trot up to floor number 6,my favorite—the roof. Doors open to the west and to the east—with sturdy bolts to keep them from banging in the breeze. On the east side of the roof are half a dozen “illegal” satellite dishes—bringing in hundreds of channels in a variety of languages. (Some of our university student friends have offered to hook us up one, but we have, so far declined). As I walked out onto the sunshine, I look north into the heart of Qom. Mosques gleam, a golden dome from the beautiful Ma’sumeh Shrine radiates in the distance, houses and streets form neighborhoods enclosed by large boulevards.

I cross over to the roof’s west side, a spider’s web of clothes lines and a central place for women’s private conversations. Today a black chador is fluttering on the line next to brightly colored baby’s clothes. A neighbor is there with clothes pins in her mouth. She gives me a hug and smiles around the pins, hangs onto the clothes she’s hanging and also manages to keep her chador on. Iranian women are amazing.

Looking to the west are primal, sharply peaked hills that are pure barren earth. A shrine to Khidr (who, in the Quran has a conversation with Moses, a bit like Melchizadek and Abraham in the Hebrew Bible) perches on the tip top of one of these hills. And behind the desert dirt are the snow capped, lush Zagrob Mountains that go all the way to the Iraq border. I love to look at the Khidr Shrine, the Zagrob Hills, to remember the day we climbed up to the Shrine—small and womblike inside, with the Tree of Life painted on the ceiling, over and over, and people sitting gently on the floor, praying.

To sit gently together is something Iranians are good at. On the crowded city buses (women crammed in the back, men packed in the front)—there is a heartening accommodation to one another. Packages are put on miscellaneous laps, children shifted here and there, the elderly and strangers always offered a seat. David and I have ridden the crowded Metro through the labyrinths of Tehran five times in the past 2 months. Without fail, some one has offered us their seat.

Having dinner with a Persian family usually involves many people on the floor around a plastic table cloth as sumptuous food is placed in the middle. Sitting cross legged, or legs bent to one side, everyone included and in close proximity to their plates, can be a bit of an engineering feat. Eating with our friend Fatimeh’s family, we were reduced to laughter as we all scrunched together. “There is,” said Fatimeh, “a saying that we have here. It is, 'sit gently'. Sit gently at your meal Sit gently in your life.”

Monday night David was watching the 11pm news, part of which is in English. On came the horrifying news of Virginia Tech’s massacre. By Tuesday morning our phone was ringing. English Mohammed was offering his sympathy and wanting to know if our university aged kids were alright. “My heart is sad with yours,” he said. “But how is it, that someone so crazy could buy guns and all that ammunition?” Later Quaker Mohammed called. He is bringing us dinner tonight, to lift our hearts, and also saffron ice cream (sinfully delicious, made of real cream with large pistachios). “I am,” he said, “caring specifically for your health because you are so sad. I will come and sit with you."

Easter with the Ayatollah

2007-04-11T05:32:00.000-04:00

This is our first Easter in a land where only a minority celebrate the risen Christ. We spent some of Easter morning with one of Qom’s Ayatollahs as the Mennonites (MCC) staff spoke to him about relations between his Institute and the work of MCC in Qom. We were sad because we missed our services at home during Lent and Holy Week. It helped when we arrived at the institute and were brought into the Ayatollah’s presence with camera’s rolling, to hear warm greetings of “Happy Easter, Happy Passover and Happy New Year!” This was the translated version. It felt very good to have an acknowledgement of our very dear and special Christian Easter. We are learning to adjust to a new way of living out the faith calendar.

So……….

When in a Muslim country how do you know if it is a holiday? People work six days a week and take off one day only which is Friday or jomeh. Then it is back to work. Before coming to Iran, I wondered how I would handle a whole new way of organizing my week. In reality it was more disorienting than I thought. I wondered how workers could survive working a long six day week. I wondered how families could eat at 9 PM in the evening and go to bed with a full stomach. I wondered how men could get up at dawn for prayers and then go to bed past midnight.

Well, let me share with you my thoughts so far. I am by no means an expert after two months in Qom but here is what I have concluded so far.

First, getting up at dawn every day means that the man (literally man) has to leave home very early and he (literally) often gets off work around 8 pm. I know because I see them in the pizza place picking up a to-go box about 8:30 pm. The answer- there is a time each afternoon when many people go home for lunch, to spend time with family members and to take a nap. Linda and I have been to lunch as guests and all the family being home in the middle of the day felt very relaxing. “Lunch” lasts from about 2 to 4 PM and a lot of shops are closed during these hours. This is for real in Qom! Services such as barbers and grocery businesses may be open but a lot of others are closed. Tea is also a very communal ritual that paces the work load and gives the worker a break. If one is able to (work and life tasks permit) one stops work at around 12:20 PM and 6:20 PM for prayers. Most of the ten Iranian TV stations have these times scheduled on TV for prayer. You clearly know when it is time !

Second, people eat around 9 PM. For me it is not so difficult (except for the occasional maalox.) Our daily lives revolve around Farsi lessons from 4 to 7+ PM. Then dinner around 8:30 PM. We then have the world’s best ice cream around 9:30 PM. Our bodies are adjusting to this because I think we eat a lot less heavy foods and enjoy more tea with fresh fruit, yogurt and curried chicken, a salad of very fresh vegetables fixed with dried figs and walnuts and three kinds of raisins. On top of this is a vinegar. This is not just any vinegar, but grape. It smells more like grape juice but has that acidic taste of vinegar. Each different way of making the grape vinegar has a different medicinal benefit. So, with a very healthy diet and just a little meat- fish, lamb and chicken served mixed with a lot of rice and vegetables- I must be eating a lot less fat. (Except when Linda goes to bed I bring out the potato chips!)

Third, and this is the pearl of great price! When you wake up in the morning and do not hear the refuse collectors calling you, it is probably a holiday. It could be the death of a great Imam. It could be the death of a martyr of some note. It could be a Persian holiday. It could be the birth of a prophet or of the Prophet. So far, this year seems to be filled with days like this. Last week was the last day of No Ruz- the new year. With its fourteen days of new year's celebrations the last day is an ecology or nature day. Many people take their families on a picnic. Our little nearby park had over 100 people sitting in the walk ways with a picnic lunch at noon. It was cloudy and cold but they wore their coats and they certainly were enjoying the company of their families!

So, the holidays seem to help people deal with the long work week and the refuse collectors have been my clue that a holiday may be in process.

I kind of like how recycling takes place here. The garbage is picked up two days a week but by that time most of the recyclable materials are sorted through. I have seen clothing neatly folded and left next to the street. I have found fancy deserts not finished left by the street for these recyclers. Everything of value is carted away by those who know how to use them. There is a major emphasis on cleanliness in Muslim culture. It begins with the Koran where the faithful must wash their face and hands (ablutions) before prayers. It continues when each municipality hires a significant number of men to take a broom and clean every gutter by hand throughout the city. It moves in the way food is produced to make it “halal.” The purity of food is valued by society. Recycling is reinforced by those in poverty; every product that has value is worth the time and effort to save.

All of this is under girded by the Muslim belief that one should respect the world that God has created. There is little in the way of seeing the creation as just a tool to be used for humanity’s happiness. There is a reverence expected toward everything in nature and everything created by human endeavor. This carries to the belief that one should eat as little meat as possible because there is to be sensitivity to the animals God created. When this is expressed this sounds very much like the way our Native American citizens view nature.

A final note: not only do we take our garbage and trash to the curb but we also put a little sack under a tree with our latest chicken bones. You see the cats (gorbeh) of the neighborhood need to know which apartments have the best cuisine and who their friends are! I think they get the first part but knowing we are friends is coming rather slowly!

Holy Week Begins

2007-04-02T05:30:00.000-04:00

We just learned the word for holy in our Persian lessons - “ moqadas” – to be ‘set apart’ from ordinary time. And so Holy Week begins for us in Qom, in a city where it is not celebrated and not known. A curious experience for David and I who have spent our whole lives centering around the church year and the celebration of Resurrection Sunday.

Last Friday our “English major” guys from a local university came by to spend the day. It was the end of a challenging week and we were ready for a break. We began with lunch at “Pizza Mohammed’s” a few blocks from our apartment. David and I and the three boys sat around a table sipping Sprite, eating personal pizzas and salads. The poet Rumi came up for discussion (as poets so often do here). I asked where a bookstore might be that offered Rumi in parallel Persian/English. Various options were discussed. Pizza Mohammed and two of his helpers came out from the kitchen to offer advice (M. also wrote down Rumi’s “correct” name for me--- Jalal ad-Din Mohammad Balkhi). A few lines of poetry were offered up. “I myself,” said a young man passing through, “vastly prefer the poet Hafez. Forget about Rumi.”

We took a bus north through the city and got off at the Shrine. The place was still bustling with No Ruz (New Year’s) pilgrims. Nearby merchants were doing a good business selling sweets, kabobs, scarves, prayer rugs and beads, changing money from the multitude of nations represented. I was dressed in a black manteau (like a long black cape) and was a novelty among all the chadors. “Hello, welcome, Amrikayi?”

(We recently were told an “American joke” at a friend’s house over lunch: Four people were sitting together eating apples and each person found that they had a worm in their apple. The French person threw the apple away and got a new one to enjoy. The German took out a pocketknife, cut out the worm, carefully cleaned out the bad part of the apple and then ate it. The Chinese person, grateful for the apple, ate the whole thing. The American, upon discovering the worm, had the apple orchard bombed.”)

We strolled through the crowds and passed dozens of shops… machine made carpets (a fraction of the cost of handmade ones and lovely with silk threads), qalyons (water pipes or hookahs), beautiful fabrics for draperies and upholstery, small appliances, gold jewelry, clothing. A little fenced in park was off to one side of the road … one of the ubiquitous “martyrs’ memorials” of Iran. Photos of oh-so-young men were in individual glass cabinets, flowers and other family pictures around them with an electric light to be switched on as darkness falls. Below each set of pictures are memorial stones— with name, dates and Quranic blessings. Most of the stones we looked at give 1980 as the death date. Earnest faces look out of photos, fresh scrubbed and wide eyed. Were these boys 16? 17? 18?

A woman in full chador sits before one of the photos, head in her hands and weeps for her son. A hand gently pokes me from behind. I turn and look into an old woman’s face. She has tattoos between her eyebrows and between her fingers… an Arab from Iraq. I slip a small bill into her hand. Up and down the sidewalk (between the Shrine and this Martyr’s Memorial) sit many older women, faces mostly (sometimes completely) hidden by chadors but palms outstretched, begging. “Oh,” says one of our English major friends,” this is so sad to me. These women are widows from little villages. They are ashamed to be here but they need to survive.”

We stroll together into Qom’s traditional bazaar—a labyrinth of passageways with occasional high, fine domes. (Some of it was damaged by Saddam’s bombing campaigns of the 1980s and is slowly being restored). The fragrance hit me first. Spices- cinnamon, curry, cardamon, peppers. Spice merchants offer large, sculpted piles (a foot high and 2 feet across) of multil-layered spice concoctions that one buys by the kilo. There is an “herbal pharmacy” with hundreds of mason jars full of leaves and berries. Three men sit behind the counter smiling. “Madam,” says one man, “ do you speak German?” “No,” I reply, “only a little Nederlands.” Immediately he switches to “Hollandisch Dutch” without missing a beat. We pass a bakery—two men shoveling dough into the mouth of a huge hot oven—flames are dancing inside. We walk passed a hammam- a traditional bathhouse. There is a beautifully painted arch overhead, with a Zoroastrian- looking sun smiling down. A mosque is closeby.

We peer down a set of stairs into a huge, domed area. The traditional carpet dealers are down here—selling hand woven rugs. The place is quiet at the moment. The carpet men have a modest shop full of priceless rugs. We are shown a peach colored silk carpet, and larger rugs woven with pure wool that is hand dyed. There is a stack of “indigenous” small rugs just inside the door from all over Iran. Some of the patterns put me in mind of Native American work in the southwestern US. A man can be seen through an upstairs window mending a carpet. We troop up a little corner stairwell and he welcomes us into his small workplace. He has a priceless handmade carpet before him (rose colored and full of flowers around the tree of life). He is “bringing balance” to the rug before it can be sold—adjusting lines of flowers to be perfectly symmetrical, changing sizes and shapes slightly. It is mind boggling work to me—how can he possibly do it? He is, he says, 50 years old and first became apprenticed to a carpet maker at 13, in Tehran. Yes, it is difficult work and also peaceful and meditative. He sits cross legged on a thin rug and smiles over his work.

We wander some more. An older man hails us into his shop. He sells yarns for carpet making--- raw wool, raw silk and blends of the two in burgundy, azure blue, greens and golds. A large photo of Ayatollah Khomeini hangs front and center over the back wall. Under it is a modest sized picture of a serious young man in black turban taken in the 1940s?). “That,” said the merchant (through our young interpreters) is my father. He ran this shop before me. I still use his abacas for business records and lock money in his old metal box.” “This,” he says, indicating a photo on the wall of a man who looks just like him, “was my brother. Today is the 40th day since his death, so I am remembering him today and later we will have a special ritual. Can you sit down? Shall I order some tea?”

When it is time to leave the bazaar we go reluctantly. A light rain is falling outside and humanity is still busy. The lights of the Martyr’s Memorial have been switched on over each youthful face. A café run by Iraqis is doing a brisk business. A young merchant stands at the door of his shop with a tiny goat at his feet. “Want a good picture?” he asks, “wait a minute.” He gets a baby bottle full of milk out of a fridge inside. The tiny goat immediately jumps up on his lap and begins to drink. We smile and wait nearby under an awning for the bus. The call to prayer is sounding. The rain comes down. An old woman stretches out her hand.

March 26 : A Week's Snap Shots

2007-03-26T03:57:00.000-04:00

Walking from home to the Khomeini Institute for our Quranic Studies class, we pass a beautiful candy store that sells Qom’s famous “pistachio brittle“ candy (soaked in saffron oil). Looking in the plate class window I see a young chadorid woman busy behind the cash register. Overhead, dominating the wall, is a framed reproduction of da Vinci’s “Last Supper.”

We worship with a burgeoning church in Tehran founded by Messianic Jews before the Revolution. A woman on violin and man on flute accompany the congregation to heartily sung, hauntingly beautiful hymns in Persian. Over the door outside, the elaborate flowing script next to a simple cross, reads “This is my command, that you love one another.”

David browses through the English section of the excellent Imam Khomeimi Library. He finds Salmon Rushdie’s "Satanic Verses" and "A Feminist Critique of the Quran."

We have lunch (a feast of fish, chicken, rice, lentils and pickled peppers) with an Iraqi family from Karbala seeking refugee status (anywhere!). An extended family (2 sets of parents and 7 kids between them) live in two rooms with a tiny kitchen and a toilet “out back.” The home is clean and welcoming. After we eat we are invited to the tiny kitchen to wash our hands as the host holds a clean corner of the communal towel for hand drying. After we are again seated on the floor, he comes with a spray bottle and perfumes our hands.

Noor is with us in the Iraqi household. She is 16 years old, obviously brain damaged and can walk only by holding onto a wall or a hand for "balance support". (Going down the flight of stone steps to the “outhouse” in the yard is a major feat for her). Noor smiles at us and then goes back to watching her soap opera—“Days of our Lives” with Arabic subtitles. Noor was a bright, vivacious 12 year old when a rocket landed on the family home in Karbala. In panic, she ran out into the street to escape the burning roof and was hit by a passing car—sustaining a devastating closed head injury. In Iraq (and now in Iran)--- no therapy and no rehab. When she isn’t watching the soaps, says her mother, Noor sits and cries.

We go to the Armenian Club in Tehran for dinner with two Armenian pastoral couples. It is such fun to be in western dress (no scarf and manteau), laughing and perusing the fine menu. We note that they don’t offer the omnipresent “Turkish coffee”, here it is strictly “Armenian Coffee”. A piano player starts up in a corner of the room and soon a guy is crooning “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.” We can hear voices wafting up from the big reception room downstairs—in Russian then in French. (The Armenian Club is open to all Christians in Iran, non-Muslim visitors and diplomats.)

We follow a car through Tehran’s traffic. It has an “ichthus” sticker on the back, marking the driver as a Christian. I wonder how many Christians back home in N. America would have the courage of a simple bumper sticker in this complex and sometimes volatile context.

We climb a large hill (pure desert dirt and gravel) 6 or 7 km from our apartment. It is “Khidr Mountain” with a little shrine to St. Khidr (a mysterious person in the Quran who has a conversation with Moses—rather like Melchizadek and Abraham in the Old Testament). We are with 4 young university students who have packed a picnic lunch for us all. Iranian families gape at we two Americans as we walk by. (It feels a bit like being an enormously unusual and colorful bird that people want to watch and point to). I smile and “salaam” to the women as our eyes meet. One woman says (translated by our young friends) “I will pray for you in the shrine.” Another woman puts her hands on her heart and says “May you live forever” (i.e. “May you inherit eternal life”).

Happy New Year, 1386

2007-03-19T14:23:00.000-04:00

The Persian New Year (No Ruz) officially begins on the spring equinox (21 March) and the streets of Qom bear witness to the coming weeks of celebration. Florists offer stunning fresh azaleas, gloxynias and pussy willows. Small globes of gold fish and tanks of turtles are offered on nearly every corner. Our favorite pastry shop now only offers large boxes of goodies, not individual treats by ones and twos. Kids have been blasting off firecrackers every night in great glee.

In celebration of the New Year I decided to go to the Beauty Parlor on Saturday (a first here in Iran). My hair, last done in Martinsville months ago, was begging for new life. David sat hunched over the computer, reading BBC News as I headed out the door. “I’m leaving now,” I said, “and will return even more gorgeous in a few hours.” “That,” he said, “would be difficult to imagine.” David is picking up pointers in diplomacy here in Iran, as well as practicing a bit of ta’arof (the exquisitely detailed art of politeness) that is deeply embedded in the culture.

(I digress for a recent illustration of ta’arof here in our apartment. The doorbell rings. It is “Quaker Mohammed” who has come to visit. I buzz him in. He appears at our threshold smiling.
Me: Come in, Mohammed. David and I are glad to see you.
Him: Is this my mother?” (He knows I miss our kids).
Me: Is that our Iranian son? Come drink tea with us.
Him: I cannot. I am being tiresome.
Me: Nonsense, come in.
Him: I should go home right now
Me: Mohammed, you are welcome. We will be very sad if you leave.
Him: I am a burden to you.
Me: Mohammed, no more ta’arof. I mean it. Come in and have some tea.
Him: Good! I dislike ta’arof. I will not use it any more.
Me: Super! Now, here comes David and I’m making some tea.
Him: (sounding both sorrowful and slightly triumphant): You see—already I have made you tired. I have spoiled your afternoon. )

Down the streets of Qom I went—about 6 blocks from our place. The Beauty Parlor had a sign overhead & a large canvas-like curtain across the door. I scooted through and found myself in a hallway of glass with double doors at the end. A closed circuit TV camera was in evidence, lest any male barge in unawares. I entered a bustling hair place with several dozen women waiting, waxing, dying and drinking tea from fine cut glass. Several stopped and gaped as I came through. I ask for “Maryam” and while waiting was prepared with photos of our family to show. Women clustered around for a good look.
They commented on Andrew & Abi’s red hair & Josh’s dark hair. (This is David. I was offended because the woman wondered if Josh was really mine since his hair was so different. For some reason they took Linda’s word that he was hers!) They liked Alex’s looks and wanted to know what country he was from. (Cuban-American didn’t translate).

They turn to me-- “Are you American?” Are you a Muslim?”
Me: American and Christian. (My Farsi has expanded slightly beyond vegetables and now includes 4 verbs, though past tense is still iffy).
Them: Is there a Christian church in Qom?
Me: No, we go to Tehran to worship but we live here in Qom.
Them: That is not right. You are our guest. You should have a church here in Qom.
Me: Well, with a million Muslims in Qom and as far as I know, two Christians, that would be difficult to keep going, wouldn’t it?
Them: You should not have to travel to Tehran. It will make you tired. It will give you a headache. Something should be done.

Several hours later I emerge rather blond (our linguistic interchange over hair color was challenging) and so relaxed I am nearly in a stupor. I have had almond cream rubbed into my face and my scalp massaged and moisturized numerous times. I have been fed wonderful pastries and tea. I have been patted and hugged. I am a new woman ready for a new year.

Yesterday (Sunday) David and I took a bus north to the Shrine. Most of Qom was shut down, storefronts secured and bolted in honor of the holy day—the death date of the Prophet Mohammed. The bus was quiet (thought it took 2 tickets each instead of the usual one) and the streets silent until we were within range of the beautiful golden dome. Humanity was everywhere! Pilgrims from Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Iraq, India—Shia with different clothing and customs but the same heart for faith and formation—lined the streets. As we stood near a Shrine entrance, the processions began to emerge for their circuits through the streets. Young men beat on drums as circles of men marched, chanted “Oh Hussein” and flung small metal whips (ritualized not actual) over their shoulders. Camels (also shampooed, coiffed and blond) came next—covered in elegant green velour blankets… a baby tethered next to its mother. Then trumpets, effigies of the Prophet Mohammed’s casket on shoulder top, more men chanting. A speaker was pulled along on a cart with a microphone, reading the Quran. People chanted along; many thumping their hearts in time with the drums. One old woman in chador fell to the ground and wept quietly behind us. A man sidled up to me. “Do you need any translation,” he said in English. “Can I help you understand anything? You are very welcome.”

The procession was long and began to repeat itself. Each town or group seemed to have their own mullah who chanted prayers. The rituals were slightly varied but whether beating their breasts or using the whips, they were clearly mourning the death of their beloved Mohammed. Out of this mourning and the martyrdom of the great Shia Imams, there is a permeating gratitude for those spiritual leaders that have gone before them to show the way. We moved down the line and through an arched opening. Stalls were set up with merchandise - every third stall full of books from the Prophet, Imams and poets. We crossed the great dry riverbed through the center of town where pilgrims rented tents and large tour buses parked. We made our way toward home, stopping at our favorite hamburger stand. (Not really hamburgers but lamb-burgers). Soon friends will be joining us here for dinners and tea and conversation. A little toy box in the corner is ready for young visitors. May this new year- 1386, bring us all peace and joy, insh’allah.

One month in Iran

2007-03-10T02:14:00.000-05:00

Today is "Avbain", a Shi'ite holy day, a 14 day marker in a cycle of mourning and remembering the martyrdom of Imam Hussein in Karbala, Iraq. Although it is Saturday (the first day of the new week), our street is quiet. The old man who pulls a cart and yells "Nan-e khosk" ("dry bread") which he collects from everyone and sells for goat food has not come by. Another fellow who is the local recycler (I can't yet decipher what he is saying) hauls away plastics and metals, old lamps, a battered suitcase. He isn't around either. All is peace and sunshine.

Yesterday a friend, Mohammed, came to the door with a true Iranian breakfast for us-- "halim". It is a winter food (about to become unavailable as the Persian New Year begins with the spring equinox)-- a thick, stiff paste of bulghar wheat and lamb.
One puts oil on halim, then cinnamon or coconut, then spoons it down with the help of warm bread right from the baker's oven down the street. Mohammed is a "ruhanee" a cleric, more impressed with the love of God than with jurisprudence. He is doing his M.A. thesis on, of all things, Quakerism. The first time he met us (two Quakers in Qom-- what a sense of humor God has), he astounded us by asking "Are you Hicksite of Gurneyite? What is a silent meeting like? How long do you preach in a programmed meeting." And then, with feeling, "I am a Quaker (Shi'ite Mulsim version, that is). I am your son." Mohammed is also a fan of John Wesley's sermons. "Very solid," he says, "the man walked with God."

We walked downtown on Thursday to load up on new computer cards (we bought 3 cards, 90 hours on line, for $12), pencils for Persian class and fresh produce. I love looking at the faces as we stroll. An Arab man all in white, his wife beside him in full black chador--her face completely covered in black damask. A teen-ager selling brightly dyed baby chicks on the sidewalk-- little kids squealing with delight as they pick them up. (Poor birds). A younger boy with a parakeet who will pick out a poem for you with its bill, for a coin. We indulged in a hamburger at a fast food place -- it was ground lamb on an 18 inch fresh roll-- absolutely succulent.

Qom is full of cars, motorcylces and buses -- busy but much less chaotic than Tehran. Autos are often Kias, or old (25+ years) Paykans-- the old Iranian national car modelled on the British Hillman Hunter of the 1960s. The more affluent drive
the new Iranian "Samand"-- "It runs," said a proud taxi driver, "like a Peugot, has better AC for the desert, is less expensive than a Japanese car to build and can run on either propane or gasoline." There are some Mazdas, Peugots, Citroens, Nissans,
and very occasionally a Mercedes or BMW. Buses seem to be Fiats, Renaults, Mercedes. But for scooting around in traffic-- like a singular fish navigating the waves, motorcycles are definitely the rage. One motorcylcle held a serious looking cleric in a white turban. His older mom was seated behind him-- hanging on to him with one hand and her chador with the other.
Another black turbaned cleric (indicating direct descent from the Prophet Mohammed) had two little girls in front of him as he wove through traffic. Pulling up to a nearby school, he lifted them down carefully, adjusted head scarves, wiped a little nose and patted their cheeks as they went on through the gate.

Riding on city buses remains fun -- usually quite crowded but always relational in the give and take of scrunched bodies getting on and off (women through the back door, men through the front). One old woman was muttering through her shopping list and my heart delighted to recognize "eggplant, carrots, olives, tomatoes." Students often call out something in English. One univeristy student, full of laughter, said, "Ok, the fun is over. Now we will keep you on this bus for 444 days."
His buddies chorkle with laughter. An older man beside him raises an eyebrow and gives him "the look." Instant English-Persian translating is going on for everybodys benefit. A woman beside me sighs audibley and pats my arm. Seventy percent of Iran's population is under 30 years old. Life before the Islamic Revolution of 1979, before the Ayatollah Khomeini is not part of their lived memory-- it is only folk lore for them.

We have been invited to lunch and supper in many homes. The parents of Mohammed (a different Mohammed, who is an English major at a local university) had us for dinner. Their names are Sediqah ('honest') and Reza ('satisfaction'). Sediqah and Reza were 13 and 23 when they married. They now have 8 grown children (Mohammed is the 7th) and many grandchildren. The youngest, a high school boy, is named "Ruh-allah" ('soul of God'). " That is often what we call Jesus,"
says Mohammed, "soul of God." It is between 1-3pm. Everybody is home for lunch. Father (who drives a bus and is perhaps 60 years old), oldest brother (a local barber) and his wife and 3 kids, the teen-ager, others who are in and out. It is a time to lounge on the carpets, play with young children, catch up on the day. Sediqah helps me figure out my Arabic chador (which has sleeves, which I like). She hoots at my efforts to put it on and then lovingly shows me the right way.

Fatimeh, a 21 year old physics student come to visit in the afternoon. She wants to do graduate work in astronomy "because there is so much mystery there" and to be fluent in English. She is beautiful, energetic, full of questions, and is a 6'3" basketball player. She is working to gather a group of 4 of 5 young women to speak English once a week in our apartment.
"You will have to charge them all a little money," she says, "or they will not come on time or do their work. They will treat our group too casually. " I tell her no money. She says I have to. Finally we agree that she can set a modest price, collect it once a month, and we will go together as a group and give it to charity. (We decided to try to find a group that works with Afgan women refugees). I complement her on her red polo shirt. Fatimeh says, "My mother (a retired primary teacher) loves your prophet and has great devotion for him. Every Christmas she gives each of us a little gift in his honor. This was a Christmas present from her."

I give Fatimeh, Quaker Mohammed, and English -major Mohammed and their families some scripture shells from "Miss Billie" Burnett in Arkansas. She has taken sea shells-- small, medium and large, painted them, gilded the edges- and beautifully written little verses from the Old and New Testaments. She prays over each one and has given them to mission groups all over the world. Now they are circulating through Qom. "I wonder if you would have another for my sister, for my uncle, for my friend...." they say. And when David and I are together with these wonderful young adults, we often read a Sura from the Qu'ran together and then portions of the Gospel.

Tomorrow it will be a month since we left Amsterdam on a KLM flight to Tehran. What a gracious month it has been. The Iranians we continue to meet live out two frequently heard proverbs here: "Guests are friends of God" and (the response when you thank a host for good food) "May your soul be nourished." Thanks be to God.

Snap Shots of Iran- An Occasional Entry

2007-03-01T04:30:00.000-05:00

I (David) thought it would be fun to start a new section of this blog for images within events that have caught my eye. My hope is that by sharing these visuals within a larger story I might elicit a question or a comment from you. Hopefully the emotional essence is found in the images that are a part of my memory. These snap shots might give you insight into our experience of Iranian society. We welcome your reflections and hope that they will be part of a dialogue across cultures and faiths.

Oh, I may throw in a few real snap shots as it seems appropriate!

• An excited David walked down the isle on the KLM flight from Amsterdam to Tehran. What would I experience in this new land? Would I be welcomed? Would people be aloof or friendly? I look ahead toward my seat and meet the eyes of a couple in their 60’s. They are clearly Iranian. How I know I cannot say now. They wave to me and ask, “Where are you going?” I tell them, “Qom.” Their eyes widen and then immediately soften. “Welcome to Iran. We hope your stay is a blessed one.” As I wonder at this greeting my eyes meet several other passengers and their eyes reflect warmth and interest.

• I am out jogging. Is it proper to do so in Qom? Let me take a chance. I need the exercise. I start down the street. Wow. I am in worse shape than I think. I pull up and pant. I start up again. A motorcycle flies by and a young man in a most friendly voice shouts, “Hello. How are you?” He glances at me with a friendly smile and then is lost to sight as he powers up the street with a friend on the back.

• There are three pizza places in one block near us. We are out walking in the evening after getting fresh produce. We look up at the sign over one pizza parlor and then down to a floor beneath it. We see a young man sitting on a raised platform on a beautiful Persian rug. On the platform is a hookah. He is smoking the hookah(water pipe). There were Persian rugs as far back as we could see and each with a hookah. The hour was early- about 7:30 pm and the young man was alone. Perhaps he was early and waiting for friends who would arrive later for an evening of talk.

• I am riding my bike on Boulevard Amin. It is about 8:30 pm. All the shops are open. I am looking for a bike shop I had spotted earlier. I weave in and out of the sidewalks because I am just getting my courage up to ride on the main road. I glance over at a store front. There are perhaps eight men sitting on each side of the office area. The office store front is about 12 feet wide. There is a desk at the end of this office with a younger man in a chair behind it. There is an animated conversation going on. I look up and the sign above says radiator shop. I chuckle to myself about business at this hour as I ride on. Three doors down is a financial office of some sort. There are two rows of chairs along each wall and 7 or 8 men are sitting in the chairs and they are in an animated conversation. Oh, I get it! This is the way men spend their time in the evening.

• We are window-shopping on our way to the produce stand. We are on one of the roundabouts (or maydans in Persian). We look in a shop window and see men’s clothing. This is a nice shop. Linda exclaims, “Wouldn’t Abi like to be here! That men’s jacket says Versace! I wonder what she would say that jacket sells for in Bal Harbor!” The next day I go into the shop out of curiosity (and with the consensus of Linda and Abi that I should maybe get it). I stop into the store. They do not speak English nor I Farsi. I show them I that I like what I see and guide them to the jacket. They show me several other brands, some Versace and some Gucci. I then hear distinctly that they are made in Iran. Aw! How much is the price? They write on my newspaper, $42! Do you think I bought it? Would a simple living Quaker or Mennonite be seen in a Gucci jacket? Please advise. The truth will be revealed in one week!

• It is evening. It is about 9:00 pm and in this community time for dinner. Wally has left us for the US and we decide to venture out for ice cream (excellent ice cream bars in coffee hard coating with creamy flavored ice cream inside). It is our first time on the streets. Homes are enclosed in a courtyard so all you see are walls some 8 to 10 feet high of grey or brown plaster (or in our neighborhood marble). This is broken by the bright lights of a neighborhood grocery store on the scale of a 7-11. The streetlights are not extremely bright by US standards. We wonder if the streets are safe and if areas are to be avoided. I look ahead and see a father caring a small child in his arms and the mother walking beside him. She is in chador, As I look, I it dawns on me this is a safe place to walk. I look at Linda and we realize the same thing. This simple image is a symbol of many things in Qom- safety, family, community. Since then we have ventured into most areas of our neighborhood. We had the impression that most people in Qom did not go out at night. Not! On the main Blvd there are beautiful restaurants with families pulling up about 8 pm or later for dinner. The women in chador and the men in suits. Still the snap shot of the little family was our intuitive cue to many things.

• We have just left the southern outskirts of Qom. It is arid desert and little grows without effort and irrigation here. Salt permeates the soil so moisture is not a guarantee of plant life in this environment. The soil is often red and the small hills simply look like huge piles of dirt. You sense the ancient age of the land. We arrive at a restaurant along the highway for lunch. The décor is dominated by 10 platforms with Persian carpeting. Railings break the sections and carpeted pillows with tightly packed filling rest along the railings. Our meal is brought to us and placed in the middle on a tasteful plastic tablecloth we might use for a picnic. We eat and then it is time for prayers. Mr. Haghani excuses himself. I use this opportunity to visit the restroom. Mr. Haghani is going to the same place. When I leave the stall I observe Mr. Haghani. He has his sleeves rolled up and he is letting the water roll down from his hands to his fore arms. I remember a picture of the ritual ablutions before prayer. I am witnessing this. I am not seeking to break into his preparation so I wash my hands and leave. I notice men going into an adjoining room. It is carpeted and a few men are prostrate in the position of prayer. This then is the prayer room required in a restaurant that is not near a mosque. The image is of the ablution. This brief glimpse into the sacred.

Sabbath Rest

2007-02-23T03:28:00.000-05:00

It is Friday noon here in Qom; time for a sabbath rest. Most shops have closed down until sunset. People are heading to mosques for worship. A week ago David and Wally and I were worshiping with Armenian Christians in Tehran. Today we
are at home, reading, reflecting, being grateful. A week from today we will hope to go to Tehran again, and find the English speaking church which meets there once a month.

This past week has been full of relationships, learning and connecting. Our Farsi teacher comes to our apartment every day and with infinite good humor and patience teaches us words, writing, sounds. I could now visit with our upstairs neighbor-- who wants to be friends-- and name fruits and vegetables for her, or call out primary colors. Our Islamic studies professor meets us at the Imam Khomeini Institute once a week. He is serene, focused, welcoming as we dialogue together about the Quran, the Bible, what it is to hear the Word of God. ("The Word," he said in last week's lesson, "is the same Word that John calls 'the Logos' in the beginning of his gospel.")

Wally Shellenberger. helpful and patient friend, has gone home to Indiana yesterday-- after 10 days with us. Thank you, Wally! You helped us in 100 ways and we will miss having you here for lunch!

One day this past week, a car and driver arrived at our door. We had been waiting to go on a rural drive with Mr. Haghani,
our dear cleric friend and Director of International Affairs (and international students) at the Imam Khomeini Institute. Instead we heard, "The Ayatollah is waiting to see you now." I hastily donned by chador, David grabbed his notebook and off we went, to the office of Ayatollah Misbah, Director of the Institute. We were ushered into his office with the usual Iranian courtesy and thoughtfulness. The Ayatollah had eyes that were gentle, merry and appraising. He let a warm silence gather and then began his welcome. " I am so glad you're here. You will find it more difficult to live in the east than in the west,
but what you can learn among us will make up for it. " He searched our faces: tea was poured and fruit offered; I ventured one hand out to grasp my tea and prayed that my chador would stay on (it did). "I will pray for you," he said. "Welcome to Iran."

We (David, Wally and I ) drove with Mr.Haghani and a driver south and a bit west of Qom, towards the town of Kahak. Here in Iran shepherds still tend their flocks. One young man stood just at the edge of his flock, chatting with an old man holding a donkey by a rope. The sheep were carpetted in thick black wool. A mile more down the road a teenage boy sat on a straight backed chair under a tree - his flock both white and black and very wooly. Resevoirs and irrigation canals birthed groves of olives, pomegranates and sour cherries. The desert floor slowly rose up toward the Zagrob Mountains-- snow capped beauties before us. We lunched together in a restaurant composed of carpeted platforms. Climbing up, settling against pillows and drinking tea, we awaited lunch -- beautiful trout from the Caspian sea, rice with saffron, salads full of fresh produce, flatbread just baked and still warm.

Later in the week we travelled to the university town of Kashan, an hour an a half south of Qom. It is famous for its carpets,
elaborate and breathtaking old homes, and antiquity-- being continually inhabited for at least 4000 years. We met several professors (whom Wally knew) and were ushered into an English class. "Do you recognize this voice?" grinned the professor as he turned on a cassette player. It was a speech by President Bush. Oh yes, I do believe I recognize who that is. David and I introduced ourselves and fielded questions from students. "What do you think of the war in Iraq?" "Do you support the poilcies of your president?" "Do you belive in a Messiah who will come back at the end of history?" "Do you see any terrorists here? (snickers)" The hour was over too quickly and we promised each other another visit, and perhaps a formal lecture on Christian spirituality soon.

On to dinner at a professor's home. He and his wife and two children welcomed us with open hearts. A big, fat English copy of Harry Potter (#6) lay on the floor. They had recently had a sabbatical half year in England. "I read through the Gospel of Luke with a Christian neighbor," my new friend said. "It was so lovely. Excuse me now for just a moment, I have to pray."
More feasting on food, conversation, hopes, community together.

Yesterday (Thursday), the MCC initiated Ecumenical Peace Group came to Qom, lead by Ron Flaming. We were fetched by a driver who took us to the grand Quranic Library and then helped Davd and I practice our fruits and vegis in Farsi while we awaited the bus of North Americans. (Our conversational skills are a bit limited but we're willing to offer what we can--- pomegranate, orange, banana, potatoes...) The bus drove up-- obvious in its grand size. We waved to Ed Martin and called out as he and others crossed the road to us. What fun to see the group (15 or so) of peace activist Christians-- Mennonite,
Quaker, United Methodist, Episcopalian, Pax Christi, Sojourners, the National Council of Churches. "Linda, is that YOU?" said a familiar voice. It was friend and Friend Jessica from the Quaker UN Office in NYC-- we had last seen each other in Manhattan. She continued, "I knew that familiar voice as soon as I heard it. I can't believe you're here." (This group is here in Iran for a week, religious leaders working hard to de-escalate the rising tensions between Iran and the US. A PBS camera crew was along-- be watching for Bill Moyers' old show "NOW" which will carry clips of this delegation in the near future).

We later went as a group to the Hazrat-i-Ma'sumeh Shrine here, with its golden dome and twin minarets. It houses four Safavid shahs, two Qajar rulers and many officials of the Qajar court. Inside the main gate is a large courtyard full of people-- talking, praying, walking with little children and very old people. A group of young men walked rapidly by with a funeral bier at shoulder height, chanting in unison as they headed to the front gate. Intricate mosaics, archways, piles of rolled prayer rugs, large fountains, beautiful humanity with faces that were Chinese, Afghani, Persian, Arab...

We went back to the bus. A group of women in chadors with angry voices were in front. "Americans! What are THEY doing here?" Immediately the PBS camera crew got out, as well as several women. "We are peace church people. We oppose war in any context. Our hearts are broken over Iraq. We have deep regret for our country's policies and practices that have brought you such pain." Oh. The voices went down a decibel. Oh. "We are pilgrims from Iraq, from Babylon. If you are people of peace, we would like you to come and stay with us as our guests. You are welcome in Babylon." A middle aged woman and I held each others hands, heads bowed, then looking into each other's faces. I took off my earrings (that my dear friend Missy had given me years ago from New York) and put them into her hand. "We have," she said, "no electricty, no water, no gas for all these years of war. Why? Why? Why?"

Qom on a sunny Saturday

2007-02-17T02:54:00.000-05:00

We spent two good days and nights in Tehran. What a mega-city! Other large cities we have taken taxis through (Buenos Aires, Managua, London) feel like a stroll in the suburbs compaired to the immensity of Tehran. The highlite of our time there was meeting members of the Armenian Christian community-- both orthodox and evangelical. We also know how to find and ride the Metro and buses (with lots of help from Wally).

On Friday morning we worshiped with the evangelical congregation and were warmly received into fellowship. As we were gathering for 10:30 worship, an old man came down the center aisle to find his seat. His hands were raised and he prayed gently all the way to his pew. A children's choir (11 lively boys and 2 smiling girls) sang several numbers. We were given a bi-lingual hymnal (Armenian/English) and sang along to "What a friend we have in Jesus", "Tell it to Jesus," "There is a place of quiet rest" -- just like home (except for the Armenian). This will be a good worshiping community for us as Christians. Our hotel was full of young adults for a Tai Kwan Do competition (from China, Kazakhstan, Russia) -- lots of energy and life.
In the morning, when the smog had not yet settled in, the Alborz Peaks-- gleaming with snow-- were clearly visible from the hotel.

Back here in Qom, we are beginning to settle in. On the bus ride back yesterday (2 hours for $1.25), three women in chadors sat right behind us-- a small child on a lap. A hand appeared through the seats and poked my shoulder. It was the middle aged grandmother. "Excuse me," she said, "do you speak Farsi?" No, sorry, I replied. One of her daughters said in very broken English "where are you from?" America.
At once a chorus of beaming smiles and "Welcome, welcome."

Here in Qom we continue to notice many wonderful things. Video games are readily avaiable-- including "Civil War" (US that is) and "Narnia". Valentines cards were offered in stores on the 14th. Fruits, vegis, and nuts are abundant and beautiful.

It is chadors that are my Waterloo. I must wear one in the Imam Khomeini Institute (where I am currently using this computer) -- an all male institution (except for me) and into shrines. I decided I would wear a chador for practice last Thursday, as David, Wally and I walked around Qom. It is a large semi-circle of black polyester (so it won't wrinkle) with a little bit of elastic to go around the head. One puts the elastic around one's head and then throws all the black yards of cloth backwards and voila-- one is a chadori woman. Theoretically.

My first try with the chador. I donned the elastic, tossed the cloth backwards. The whole 9 yards (maybe literally) landed on the floor behind me. I anchored it on my head more slowly and it seemed to stay. We walked down the street. I looked into a storefront window and caught a glimpse of myself. David said, "Well, the front of your chador is way down low and the back end is hiked up very high." Oh me. So, in the midst of other people (all the women in chadors and no one else seeming to have any problems), I jerked the chador forward. Better on the back end, but it made my headpiece crooked. I was looking through the world with my right eye (mostly), because my left had material over it-- material that shouldn't be over my face at all. I jerked the material to the right. Better, but I could feel the elastic head band slipping. If it lets go of my head, the whole chador is coming off again-- not backwards this time but sideways. I walked up onto a curb to get a better glimpse and nearly clipped a trash receptacle. The chador still looks odd. I slip it off (it's coming off again anyway) and fling it over my head in a new way. Good! It feels secure.

The city bus comes by and David and I jump on--me into the back with the women and David up front with the men. Railing separate us, but we can see each other. I look at the other women who are eying me with curiosity and amusement (and, I think, sympathy). At this point I look like a displaced Mother Superior who has had a bad
day-- rumpled and off center and dragging lots of black material on the left side.
I look at the other women's heads. Their elastic does't show on top but mine does.
I reach up and feel mine. Oh yes-- my chador is inside out and, I think, backwards.
An old woman stands firmly in front of me and pats my shoulder.

(I have, by the way, told this story to both the Armenian Christian women in Tehran and some Muslim women in Qom-- everybody gets a kick out of it). (:

On Monday we will begin Persian (Farsi)classes and on Wednesday we begin studying Islamic faith and practice. We continue to be surrounded by hospitality and kindness. Qom, in our first week, is a very friendly place. Hopefully our phone will be connected very soon & we can call and email from our apartment.

Settling in Qom

2007-02-13T03:10:00.000-05:00

David and I arrived in Tehran with Wally Shellenberger (one of our MCC predecessors here in Qom) in the wee hours of Monday, 11 February. Our five hour flight from Amsterdam was flawless and friendly. Iranians on the KLM flight were so open and friendly-- plying us with their emails, phone numbers and invitations to visit.

Our flight full of people emptied into the Tehran terminal. Hundreds of people were queued up to pass through customs-- perhaps eight lines of forty people. Wally looked up at those waiting for passengers, smiled and waved. There was Mr. Hoghani, our mentor at the Imam Khomeini Center -- heading in our direction. We were taken out of the very long lines and taken to a very short (think 4 people in front of us instead of 40) line for diplomats and flight crew and ushered through with dispatch.
Following Mr.Haghani, a cleric with white turban and flowing cape, we felt very warmly welcomed and cared for. His ready smile and warm eyes (while handing our passports through each line) made our entry to Tehran easy.

Outside the terminal, our poor driver began the challenge of cramming large duffels of books into his taxi. I looked toward the terminal-- a short distance away.
A woman in full chador stood in front, awaiting a ride. Dirctly behind her, on the inside wall of the terminal, a huge tv projected a UNC basketball game.

By 5am we were settling into our lovely, two bedroom apartment in Qom. The neighborhood knows that the new "masihis" (Christians) have arrived, and have greeted us warmly. Little corner stores are bursting with lovely vegetables, fruits and nuts. An old man pushes a large cart down the street, calling out as he comes.
He is collecting old bread from homes, which he will sell for goat feed. Little "charity boxes" (looking like mail boxes) line the streets and people regularly drop money inside for the poor. Eyes are welcoming as we walk the streets
and get to know people.

Last night we dined on beautiful Persian carpets, pillows behind us, with friends working with the Imam Khomeini Institue for Research and Education (who are our supporting group here in Iran). Sumptuous fruit was our beginning, followed by rice with saffron, chicken cooked in walnut saunce with pomegranites, okra in tomato sauce, lamb, tea. Conversation betwen we Christians and Muslims was rich -- we discussed Quakers, Mennonites, mentoring, theology. Our Muslim host affirmed that we "owe each other love, because we all worship the same God."

Tomorrow David, Wally, and I will go to Tehran for two nights-- to meet people within the Red Crescent Society there, Armenian Christians, and to worship with the English speaking Christian church that meets on Thursday night. On Saturday, we will begin Farsi lessons with our tutor, in our apartment.

Our emails (via yahoo) seem to be "bouncing back." Be patient with us and we'll hope to get things straightened out. Andrew, Josh, Abi and Alex -- we will plan to call you on Friday or Saturday.

Happy in Holland

2007-02-10T16:17:00.000-05:00

It is Saturday night here in Den Haag, the last of our five nights with Kusse cousins for this trip. Tomorrow night we catch a plan to Tehran and then ride on to Qom, our new home for the next three years. We should arrive in Tehran about 2am on Monday, the 12th, if things are on schedule.

This has been a lovely week. Our Monday night/Tuesday morning flight to Amsterdam was full of secondary students from Liverpool. We were blessed with good energy, good laughter and a good tail wind that got us into Schipol Airport an hour early. It was such fun to see our family members again-- as ever, the children have really grown and the one year old we saw and hugged for the very first time.

On Wednesday we went to Den Haag, to the crowded, coloroful, odoriforous central market. Dozens of fresh fish lay in beds of ice like a piscine hallelujah chorus.
Fresh fruits and vegis from all over the world were offered, and plenty of free samples, in order to become experientially convinced of sweetness and succulence. A full 2/3 of those shopping were in hijab-- Muslims from Morocco and Turkey. The spire of a brand new mosque was a short distance from the market.

On Thursday it snowed. Not just a few flakes but a wet, soppy, windy inverted rice bowl coming down in blinding white. We went to Delft and took a stroll through one of my favorite cities on earth. We had good strong coffee and apple cake and warmed our cold hands. Rounding a corner later, we caught three police officers lobbing snowballs at each other.

On Friday we celebrated cousin Ellen's 35th birthday and lots of family members calldc znd came by to visit. The simple love of family bonds ... more coffee, more laughing and story telling, more joyful wishes.

Tonight we have just returned from two hours of conversation at a neighbor's home,
Turkish-Dutch people and one Moroccan-Dutch man. They graciously invited us in (more wonderful tea and delectable treats) to talk about Muslim-Christian relations.
Conversation was open and warm and loving. We shared our many dreams for the new year-- that each person personally search for God, that we (Christians and Muslims) learn to understand each other, that there be peace between the US and Iran, that each person look at him/herself very earnestly and work to correct their own deficiences, not others, that People of the Book learn to cooperate while practicing their own faiths.

One of our new friends ended with a "joke" that goes something like this:
A man was walking on the streets of New York City and saw a pit bull attacking a little girl. He immediately ran to the child's aid and killed the dog, thereby saving her life. A journalist ran up and said, "How wonderful that a fellow New Yorker intervened to save a child." The man said, "I'm not from New York." "How wonderful, then," said the reporter, that a fellow American risked personal harm to save a little girl." "Actually, I''m from Pakistan," said the man. The next day the newspaper read "Pakistani Terrorist Kills American Dog."

David and I left our time together (3 Christians and 5 Muslims) longing for more conversation and friendship together. I asked our little group if they thought that on the Day of Judgment, God will be disappointed that "People of the Book" -- Jews, Christians and Muslims -- do not love and appreciate each other. "Disappointed? No," said one young Muslim man. "I think God will really be angry with us all."

Off to Amsterdam

2007-02-03T17:59:00.000-05:00

Here in Lancaster County, PA there is a lacey covering of snow and ice over trees and turf. I went to Wal-Mart with two friends, driving into the parking lot right behind an Amish horse and buggy. The horse's respirations were brightly visible in the brisk air. I was impressed that the horses had their own set apart stalls - roofed and ribbed with strong timbers. (This has raised my regard for Wal Mart just a tad). Today (Saturday) our visas for Iran have arrived -- a good thing since our flight to Amsterdam leaves on Monday morning. And this afternoon two friends showed me how to don a full chador and keep mostly covered while extricating a hand or two needed for shopping and carrying. It has been a fruitful two weeks.

David and I have officially completed our two weeks of orientation here at MCC headquarters in Akron, PA. What a lovely space it is for training, learning, sharing, worshiping. We were part of a group of 27 "orientees" heading to cities in the US and Canada, as well as to Haiti, Bolivia, Kenya, Mozambique, Cambodia and of course, Iran. As near as I can tell, we ranged in age from 24-65. Friday we "internationals" were lovingly commisioned, prayed over and sent forward to serve the Lord. The buildings seem too quiet with most people gone to catch flights around the world.

For 10 hours today, we-- along with our four predecessors in the Muslim-Christian Exchange in Qom (2000-2006), and our MCC supervisor, Ed, have been around a table, eating, drinking coffee, describing and debriefing Iran. We have heard stories (funny, serious, encouraging and sad), read maps, heard a brief description of our new apartment, the rigors of learning Farsi and Arabic, the fun of Persian poetry, and Iranian hospitality.

I have, however, had odd cultural withdrawal symptoms. Into my rolling duffle have gone travel Scrabble and Yahtzee games. I went to Barnes and Noble and bought a DVD with a whole year's worth of "Law and Order" on it. I have squirreled away some murder mysteries for late night reading. I plan to load up on coffee in the Netherlands to go with the Cuban coffee pot (our little cafeterra). David is his normal self, though, and showing no aberrations.

These two weeks have been a good space to reflect on core identity as a Christians....as people who know Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord. Several things have lodged in my heart: first, that we can trust wholeheartedy any door that God opens in our lives and invites us to walk through; second, the Gospel's call to risky, open, transforming love can only be lived out day to day as a praxis, not as an abstract philosophical principle to which we assent; and third, to be a "test plot" for the Kingdom of God (to use Clarence Jordan's agricultural metaphor) is a good definition for any new mission in life-- we plant with love and faith and wait to see what God will cause to grow.

So, here we are, bags re-packed, hearts full, spirits ready. On Monday morning (very early) we will be enroute to the Philadelphia airport and to Amsterdam, then to my Kusse cousins' home near Delft for the week. Until then, Godspeed!

Co-Missioning

2007-01-20T10:01:00.000-05:00

Our bags are packed; we're ready to go. KLM/Royal Dutch Airlines allows us two - 50 lb suitcases. David and I have carefully weighed and re-weighed each one. My rolling duffel weighs 50.2 lbs and is full of clothes -- hot and cold weather-- shoes and boots-- which I plan to leave in Iran. My second, smaller suitcase, has 5 lbs of yarn and knitting needles and 45 lbs of books (including one 900 page novel). My fat journal and heavy reference Bible (with all the underlining and great notes) go into my enormous purse so they can't be lost or sent by accident to Bombay or Nairobi. Our passports are laying in a chair by the front door. David has taken our 12 year old cat, Smoky, down the street to our neighbor, Jan, who will keep him for us.

Last Sunday at our beloved "sending church" -- First U Methodist-- we were commissioned by Pastor Ron and our prayer team (who will pray for our time in Iran daily). I looked up some definitions of commissioning for clarity. To "commission" is to appoint someone with a task and to give them authority for that task. The origin of commission is MIddle English/Old French -- "committere" -- to entrust, to put something precious into someone's care and protecton. As David and I knelt for prayer and the laying on of hands, the surge of love, peace and unity would have brought me to my knees had I been standing. In the congregation sat a Muslim friend from Kosovo--"You will be happy," she said firmly. "God brought us safely here and God will care for you there."

Later in the week I went for a routine medical test. The woman doing medical records was warm and pleasant and very fond of David during his nine year tenure as hospital chaplain. She said to me, "Aren't you at least a little bit afraid?" I thought she was referring to the test or the disease it might reveal and looked at her befuddled. When I realized she was referring not to a mammogram but to living in Iran, I responded with a hearty "Oh, no, I'm delighted at the opportunity." Then it was her turn to look at me with confusion. It called to mind a phone conversation I had with a family member who asked no questions about what a Muslim-Christian Exchange might be like for two ministers but did give me a good lecture about sanity.

As we leave for MCC Orientation (which will last for two weeks), I think of all of you who are co-missioning with us... congregations who are becoming our "prayer partners," those with hearts for reconciliation, many working for the Peaceable Commonwealth in myriad ways; those who feel anxious about our going and those who feel perfect peace. All of God's people are entrusted with the precious, living call of the Gospel --- to live life as a journey of trust, embracing the invitation to live anywhere at all as brothers and sisters. "For Christ himself is our peace... he has broken down the dividing wall, the hostility between us.... he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father" (Eph 2:14ff).

Epiphany 6 January, 2007

2007-01-05T12:02:00.000-05:00

This is 12th Night-- Epiphany-- the 12th of the "12 Days of Christmas." I credit a Greek Orthodox friend in Florida many years ago with my delight in Ephiphany, magi and the Feast of Lights (when young guys from Tarpon Springs dive into deep waters, after a priest has prayed a blessing and then flung a cross far into the waves). Dying and rising again, traveling to new depths, the mystery of the Gospel as it is flung throughout the world.

Matthew alone of the Gospel writers mentions the magi (the plural of magus)-- a hereditary, priesty class among the Persians and Medes, showing up in Jerusalem. They made not only Herod nervous and upset but "all of Jerusalem with him."
Rome wouldn't quietly acquiesce to another pretender to Jerusalem's throne and no one wanted or needed more civil unrest. Despite the obvious tension, these "wise men" insisted on knowing where exactly the King of the Jews had been born.

The magi (more than one of them and bearing three gifts) are cloaked in mystery and are usually seen by the Christian church as indicators of the vast gentile world looking for the Savior who came for them, too. People in the early centuries of the church simply understood the magi to be Persians -- mosaics and artwork of the era always show them in Persian attire. It's rumored that the Church of the Nativity in Jerusalem was spared sacking by a Persian army in the 7th century because the lovely fresco inside showed the magi, the three kings, dressed as elegant Persians.

Marco Polo, during his 13th century ramblings, named the city of Saveh, southwest of Tehran, as the final resting place for these magi. Other Persians maintained that the magi were buried in Ecbatan-- a bit farther southwest, near the tomb of Queen Esther. Tonight I sit here in southern Virginia and ponder them once more. Were they Zoroastrians? Searching for the Messiah-King that the Jews had made known? Skilled astrologers and astronomers, certainly. Magicians, conjurors, wise men? And if so wise, why did they come to a Roman collaborator like Herod?

Imagine these wealthy gentiles, used to casting astrological charts for royalty and noble families-- planning the most auspicious times for weddings and contracts, predicting the destiny of a child. Their services were highly valued and well paid. Yet something in the heavens caught and kept their attention. Leaving court and palace for the boondocks of Palestine, they continued west until they entered the occupied territory of Jerusalem and then Bethlehem, overwhelmed with joy to be in the presence of the Christ child.

The magi, in their long and odd journey (what other wealthy gentiles would have left lovely and sophisticated Persia for the backwaters of Bethlehem?) ask a central faith question: how far are we willing to travel, how much discomfort will we endure, to be in right relationship with God and with one another? The magi seemed to know what they had seen among the stars and to trust that God was working hard on humanity's behalf. They wanted to show up and cooperate with what this mysterious God was doing.

Epiphany -- the "shining forth" of the star and of the Christ child that the magi found, reminds me that the Christian gospel holds out hope not just for "us" but for all of humanity. Agape love can never be privatized. We are given the ability to love what and whom we should love as a free gift of this amazing God who continues to come into a world that has broken itself. For the nature of God's unconditional, gracious love, is to make all things new.

Tree of Life

2006-12-06T15:11:00.000-05:00