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!

Iranian Welcome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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