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