Back home in Virginia

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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)

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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!