Beggars on Holiday!

One of the predictable curiosities for expats living in Athens, Greece is the reality that almost everyone in this town takes a holiday in August. Sometimes, it’s the entire month; sometimes, it’s for two weeks; but, you can always count on very little getting done in August because nearly everyone who is normally here is somewhere else – on a sun-drenched island or a quaint village where great grandparents once lived and where the family still maintains a house!

The already, painfully slow Greek bureaucracy moves even slower during August. Mom & Pop street-corner businesses close completely, their windows and doors locked and shuttered down; the entire family is away, with signs left on the door wishing potential customers “Kalo Kalokairi!” “Happy Summer!”

The ordinarily clogged, tiny streets are much easier to navigate. Locating a parking space on my street in Pagrati is actually possible in August!

Among the “closed for holiday” businesses on my regular walking pathways, I have also noticed that the beggars are absent. The very-tanned young man with scraggly hair and dirty flip flops who ordinarily sits on a sheet of cardboard is nowhere to be found. The pre-teen Roma girl who holds a sign reading “Peinao” (“I hunger”) in one hand and, in the other, loosely cradles a crying, month-old infant with a dirty diaper is absent. Her treasured spot in the shade is vacant.

It caused me to ponder: Do beggars take a vacation? What do they do when not begging? Where do they go? Do they take their begging trade to a holiday spot? Are people on vacation more or less likely to give money to a panhandler?

While I am still searching for answers to those questions, it occurs to me that all of us –including you and me - are actually beggars of a sort! None of us, in our own right, earns the right to take a breath or to have a thought. Every one of us stands before our daily existential moments with our hands out, asking – yea begging – for another opportunity to live, to think, to breathe, to give, to receive and to become. What one of us has, in our own power, an inexhaustible supply of minutes to live and a guaranteed lock on a fully developed potential? Why is it that most of our prayers are selfish petitions, exposing us as beggars, asking God for what we want?

We are all, I insist, like panhandlers in this perilous, penultimate paradise of a world. While signs in the London Underground Metro warn that “Busking is not allowed,” every person I know lives most of his/her life in desperate need – of friendship, meaning, fulfillment, worth, legitimate response and other essentials. Although it is rarely in the forefront of our minds, all of us are very needy and unable, in our own strength, to meet those essential needs. Like a person who uses credit cards to finance a holiday, we travel about in our lives without knowing the full cost of our own mortality and rarely stopping to give thanks to the “ground of our being” (Paul Tillich) who generously gives “every good and perfect gift” (James 1:17) to us beggars.

“Hey, buddy! Can you spare me a dime?”

Another Trolley Ride!

Heading home from a downtown meeting with my Greek tax accountant on the same day that I sold the company car in preparation for our upcoming departure from Greece, I boarded trolley number 11. Well, I got on the trolley and grabbed one of those plastic wrist straps that hang from the ceiling. The driver was actually still in the street, arguing with the open-top, double-decker, tourist bus driver who had parked in his curbside passenger pick-up zone.

After a few minutes of in-your-face shouting and gesturing between the two drivers, as only Greeks can do, our guy hopped on board and, at last, we pulled away from the stop at Syntaugma Square. As we merged with too much traffic, the driver shouted several, well-chosen epithets, I guess, therapeutically to himself, but at a volume level which likely pierced the ears of most of those at the back of the bus. Another day at the office for this unshaven, shirt-tail-hanging-out jockey of one of Athens’ bendable, electric-driven people-movers, stuffed with folks like me, just wanting to get home.

Before we had travelled the distance of two city blocks, a boisterous argument broke out between a woman and a teen-ager, further up on the crowded, aluminum tubed, stiflingly hot, moving trolley. Since I couldn’t catch the gist of the argument, I asked the young girl next to me what it was about. She said, “They are having an argument!” (Duh!) Trying to be patient, I asked, “What is the nature of the argument?” In response, the now-bored and slightly irritated little girl in jeans and a tank top said, “This country has many problems. It’s the crisis. People get angry at other people.” I figured that was her final explanation, so I did not press further.

About that time, the pot-is-as-black as-the-kettle trolley driver stopped the vehicle in the middle of the street. To the accompaniment of a clamoring of auto horns, the driver used those same vocal chords which we had heard earlier and, looking into that long, rectangular mirror,  shouted back some words to the conflicted couple. Loud and with an irritated tone, he insisted that this type of boisterous, public dispute would not be tolerated on his bus and that these two miscreants should show some respect for him and his passengers and shut up! Lacking that, he asserted, he would be forced to kick the offenders off the bus!

As the trolley lurched forward, I noticed the extremely-short, almost-to-dwarf-sized, lady standing in the aisle. She nearly fell into the lap of a teenager who was proudly wearing a Miami Heat, official professional basketball logo shirt. When she regained her balance, she gazed up wistfully at the wrist strap above her head, slightly more than twice the reach of her child-sized arms. With resignation on her face, she shifted her tiny body-weight, as the driver moved us along, weaving from lane to lane, in search of some hard-to-find traffic advantage, against the flow of too many drivers, too much impatience and too little progress.

When we stopped at Agios (Saint) Dimitrios’ Church, the kid in the Heat jersey crossed himself three times in Greek Orthodox style - right to left to mirror the actions of the priest, as contrasted with Roman Catholic style - left to right. He concluded his religious gesture with a salute. I’m not certain if the salute was to the church, to God, to himself or to some of his friends who were disembarking at that stop. At any rate, I was impressed with the basketball fan’s finesse and gesticulating flexibility in merging the genuflection and the salute. Many Greek Orthodox people cross themselves when they pass a church. Although the official church position is that they are placing the cross on themselves, asking God for a blessing and remembering the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, functionally it serves as a sort of rabbit’s foot, carrying the same popular benefit as throwing salt behind one’s head, as a wish for good luck.

Indeed, in the midst of these times of difficult economic crisis in Athens, Greece, getting along with others at a superficial social level is about as likely as a dwarf-lady making solid contact with a public transit wrist strap made for normal-sized people. Whether from the right to the left or from the left to the right, with or without a final salute gesture, whether you follow the Heat or not, today will you join me in praying for this dysfunctional economic and social system in Greece and for all of my friends here who struggle to get along and to get home, while the trolley inches along in steamy traffic on a hot August day?

From My Veranda!

The soft rain slowly fell just beyond the edge of the balcony. Because of its larger size, the Greeks here refer to this blessed appendage which hangs out over the street, four stories below, as a veranda. How cool was my elevated seat at noon on this October day in Athens! How sweet the smell of gentle rain! How privileged was I to sit at leisure, eating hot ham sandwiches and chips and drinking from a tall glass of chilly milk, enhanced by a not stingy but just correct number of ice cubes! Life is good! My purposeful preoccupation with a computer keyboard and small screen was blessedly interrupted by this further evidence of what the French refer to as la vie, the life which is my privilege, these days.

And then …. And then, my relaxed concentration turned to those far less fortunate than I. And then, it occurred to me that the rain so welcomed by me on my veranda was not at all hailed by those in Athens who no longer have a proper home and sufficient shelter. Immigrants (historically the poor in Greece) and now an increasing number of Greeks are facing hunger and homelessness in ever-growing numbers. Those whom the current economic crisis has pushed closer to and beyond the edges of the normal human comfort zone must surely not be enjoying this petite shower as much as I am. Raindrops falling on their heads are neither refreshing nor are they the stuff of carefree song lyrics. For these, even a tiny bit of rain brings inconvenience at least and moves their precarious existence a step closer to personal and familial desperation.

That wonderfully hot ham sandwich repast, the aroma of which filled our apartment and spilled over on our veranda, would certainly seem a fantasy to those for whom any type of warm meal is now a distant and fading memory. When I poured that tall glass of milk from the container, I worried not that the carton was emptied, since my Alpha Beta (Άλφα-Βήτα) supermarket was just a few blocks away; on Friday, our weekly shopping day, I will surely purchase more milk. But, many of my fellow comrades on planet earth for whom the crisis has drained their savings will have no such opportunity to obtain this life sustaining liquid.

What must a man of privilege do in the face of such crying need and economic disparity? Must I curse the conscience that brings the poor to my mind when I am enjoying life? Am I to ignore the plight of those who, often through no fault of their own, are in distress? Shall I shut my ears to the pleas of poor children who long for bread to eat and milk to drink? Or, shall I repent of my wealth, sell all that I have, depart from my vaunted veranda and go to live among the homeless on the streets of Athens? I am, after all, in this city because I care for the less-fortunate!

To conclude my meal, I pray and solemnly will to redouble my efforts to be the presence of Christ among the needy. I promise to take the energy and nourishment provided by ham sandwiches and milk and head out to help to feed Athens’ growing hungry, regardless of race, religion or background. I commit never to take for granted a day’s meal and always to offer as much of me as possible to help the helpless. I choose to eat less, so that others may eat more and to give more of my resources, so that those who have less may have actually more.

Oh God, may I never lose the dry, nourishing veranda view! For the sake of those who are wet and undernourished, I pray!

Janice Bought a Whirligig for Our Front Veranda!

Janice bought a whirligig for our front veranda! With a multitude of bright, shiny colors, larger and smaller spinning wheels shaped like petals, it is truly a thing of beauty and a joy – at least until it breaks. The poor man’s stained glass object looked adorable while still in its clear plastic wrapping. Even this sometimes jaded, exceptionally frugal, old curmudgeon could justify the not-so-extravagant one Euro cost, purchased from the street vendor at the Laiki (people’s market) and regrettably, almost certainly, made in a sweatshop somewhere in an Asian country.

At home, this simple object-de-art was easily assembled and proudly planted, its plastic spike poking in the dirt in a pot, near the edge of our veranda. Almost before it left my hands, it commenced a rapid spinning motion, the small petals rotating furiously and the larger ones whirling recklessly and freely in the constant, ambient breeze of our sunshine bright, Athens front balcony. Solomon in all his glory could not have been more brilliant in color or hopeful in outlook! For moments, perhaps longer, I stood in rapture, watching the wondrous gyrations, marveling at the elementary engineering, revealing profound beauty that was already at hand, waiting for this simple device to channel it and deliver it to me, amid its brilliant revolutions.
 
At times, as I go about my too-cloistered and too-busy important life indoors, I catch a glimpse of the state of things on our front balcony. When no one else is looking, I peek beyond the sliding glass doors, to spy on our latest adult toy. Sometimes, many times, actually, it is turning and churning its little heart out, resplendent in all its temporary, multicolored glory. At other times, when all is still or when the sun has finally set, it proudly stands motionless, as if resting, less vibrant and less circling, but a no less viable, solitary and compelling work of art.

Methinks a parable of beauty is planted in that pot on my home’s front balcony. This simple artistic treasure, in ways powerful, spins and shines forth even larger and yet more colorful truths. Beauty is, indeed, all around us, ours for the beholding. But, this natural loveliness often awaits an elementary mechanism to catch our attention, as well as the wind’s cooling breeze and the sun’s brilliant rays. Curiosity and the craving to take notice are the simple means created by our Maker, at least potentially, in every one of us; these two are always essential for fuller and more blessed sightings in this dull gray universe of ours. When the Spirit moves or the wind blows, those who have eyes to see and are willing to risk the peril of looking can perceive the movement and the beauty. But, it is also true that even in the still and dark moments, the potential for beauty stands as near as my veranda.

Life’s spinning, glamorous wheels often go unnoticed by most of us, but they continue to spin anyway, showing us that beauty can never be halted or hated away. Oh, what cosmic and eternal waste we humans tolerate in our busyness and our lower-level preoccupations with less becoming things! At other times, when there is neither sun nor wind, the loveliness remains, powerfully present, like the intricate, well-placed panes of a stained glass window in the night's half-light or the petals of our little whirligig standing at silent rest,  just before dawn.

O God, thank you for creating light and movement. And, thank you, as well, for conceiving still and dark. Give me the grace, the grit and the gumption to discover the wind, uncover the light and enjoy life’s whirligig moments at their brightest and best, despite my pedestrian predispositions. But, O Mysterious maker of silence and stillness, may I also courageously learn how to cherish color and celebrate the wind of your spirit when it is still and dark!

Holy S**T!

In Athens, we are quite accustomed to leaving the church house on Sunday morning and being met by beggars, hoping to “cash in” on the generosity of folks who have recently been thinking about God, compassion and the call to care for others. Often, a young girl waits near the church gate, asking for money or trying to sell Kleenex. But last Sunday, something novel took place on the sidewalk in front of the church building.

I missed it, because I had to depart early, to make some time-sensitive deliveries and return to pick up Janice in time to make our next Sunday assignment. She was still laughing as she got into the car and said, “Do you see the young man with the rolling cart? He is trying to sell things to the worshippers.”  “Yes,” I said, waxing historical and analytical, “that is happening more and more these days. It is another consequence of the hard economic times in Athens!” 

“But, did you see the shirt he is wearing?” Janice asked. “No,” I responded. “What’s so special about his shirt?” As I looked closer at the man, I saw it on the front of his shirt; as big as Dallas, were these words: HOLY S**T! The desperate and hungry man had stationed himself in the traffic flow, hoping to make a few coins by hawking several small items. Somehow, the language on his shirt seemed a deliberate turn of phrase, intended to enhance his marketing for the church crowd.

It got me to thinking: What exactly is “Holy S**T” anyway? Now, keep in mind: I have an earned doctorate from a reputable seminary; I have done post-doctoral study; I have studied theology and taught it for many years. And, what is more pertinent, I have had much practical experience with S**T, both inside and outside the church, But no one has ever told me what qualifies as Holy S**T.

Was our sidewalk entrepreneur actually trying to target his potential customers by wearing that shirt? I honestly doubt it. Was the shirt his not-so-private estimate of the quality of the merchandise that he was selling? Probably not. Was he using that phrase in the way I hear many use it today, as a kind of Robin-to-Batman-like way to express astonishment and amazement!

Or (and I suspect this is more likely the case) did this non-English speaker have any idea what his shirt was “saying”? Perhaps he bought the shirt because of its cheap price or its color. Perhaps, the shirt was a charity item that was given to him. In this Greek language setting, we often see non-English speakers wearing T shirts with messages on them that they themselves are unable to read. My guess is that this is what happened here.

In any event, this T-shirt sermon reminded me of the awful and persistent devaluation of words, these days. In addition to the too-frequent use of profanity and other language previously classified as “dirty words” and the pernicious spread of hate speech, it concerns me that we use words in a most careless manner in this modern day. It seems so easy, in a Face Book sort of way, to be trite and use well-worn expressions, to overstate one’s case or to exaggerate. Some seem only capable of saying what they have heard others say. When we misuse, overuse or otherwise abuse the language, without thinking about it, words always lose their capacity to communicate content and emotion accurately and precisely. When we call ordinary things “holy,” then nothing is “holy.” When we call everything “S**T,” then nothing is “S**T!”

Pearls in the Making!

It was Frederico Fellini, the noted Italian film director, who said that “all art is autobiography.” In that vein, Fellini also said that “the pearl is the oyster’s autobiography!”

Although the ancient Greeks liked to suppose that pearls were the tears of the gods, the crude reality is much different. In fact, a pearl is a natural gem created by a living organism. Under the right circumstances, when a foreign object is introduced into a mussel or oyster, the creature coats the irritation with a substance called nacre, the very same material with which it builds its shell. Layers of nacre are required to make a shiny pearl.

If that be the case, then by metaphorical parallel, Albanians in Athens, “foreign irritants” lodged within the life of Greece, are, at least potentially, pearls in the making! I can’t help but notice that pearls are made out of the irritating conflict between that which does not belong and the “belonging environment“ of living organisms.

Note also that it is the very substance with which the oyster or mussel protects itself that pearls are made. Thus, Greek resistance to Albanians’ presence is the “stuff” from which the Albanian gem is being created.

Today, most pearls are cultured; that is to say, they are actually created in artificial settings, since natural oyster beds have been largely removed, due to overfishing. It remains true, however, that the most valuable of pearls are those found in natural settings, created in the “real world.”

Today, in the hardscrabble reality of Athens, Greece, I am going looking for my Albanian friends - pearls in the making!

City Welfare

The tragic events of this past week in Athens, Greece have been broadcast all over the world. Only the most myopic, distracted or ADD-afflicted among us could have escaped the report of widespread public demonstrations in this city, in response to the proposed austerity measures which are, in themselves, a response to Greece’s crushing financial woes. As part of a plan which caused the reluctant EU and the IMF to agree to provide “bail out” funds to Greece to the tune of 150 billion Euros in the next three years, Greece’s most recently-elected political leadership, with a Joannis-come-lately sense of righteous frugality, promised to push through legislation intended to reduce significantly the country’s unacceptable, looming deficit-to-GDP. Greek citizens, especially those employed in the public sector who can expect to see their salary checks cut from 14 to 12 each year and can no longer anticipate retiring at age 50, were understandably upset.

Of course, public demonstrations and strikes in this “cradle of democracy” are as regular as pigeon-droppings and usually more easily tolerated. Greeks make an outdoor sport of protests and strikes from workers at all levels of society. Ordinarily, they are peaceful, with resort to violence coming only occasionally and then, from students and others urged on by anarchists and far left groups who seem to have a vested interest in both protest and hostility.

At the height (or was it the depth?) of the protests, however, a home-made incendiary device was thrown into a bank and three innocent civilians (bank workers required to work through the demonstrations outside) were killed as a result. This certainly raises the ante and increases the level of concern.

The Albanian immigrants with whom I work, already at risk, due to powerful discrimination against them, are likely to feel the first effects of Greece’s austerity measures. Reflecting on their situation, my mind went to another group of immigrants. Years ago, Jewish exiles in Babylonia were also forced to live as the underclass among people who found every reason to dislike them. To their dismay, the Jewish exiles learned that they would be required to live as aliens among their former enemies for many years.

The prophet Jeremiah, speaking a word from God, told them to settle-in and expect to live in this adopted country for at least 70 years. They were told to marry, buy land and try to make themselves at home. Underwriting all of this advice, the prophet said: “Seek the welfare of the city into which you have been called, for in its welfare, you will find your own welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:7)

Shalom, that quintessential Jewish word, is used here. While shalom can be translated peace or welfare, it means far more than simply the absence of conflict. It is normally understood to encompass a mutual sense of wholeness and justice.

What a superb idea for all of us in this conflict-ravaged city. Lets work together to seek the welfare of this place! Immigrant or native-born! Public or private worker! Those soon-to-be subject to economic pressures or those who already have been for years! If each of us and all of us could recognize that our best welfare is to be found in working for the good of all concerned, not just a privileged few, things might just change! Hope so!

Strike Out for Greece!

By now, much of the world is aware of Greece’s nasty little secret! After many years of “creative” accounting and hiding the facts, it is now apparent that Greece is in debt, big time. Since fudging on taxes is a way of life here, and many Greeks routinely under-report their actual incomes for tax purposes, it will come as no surprise to learn that the government, too, has been less than forth-coming! In a country where cheating on taxes is so common that two different receipts are offered by merchants (one in which taxes are paid and the other in which everyone agrees to “look the other way”), the recent news that the national debt is far higher than has been heretofore reported is not at all unexpected.

By now, you also know that the European Union, after years of patiently working with Greece to get its deficit and debt under control, has, at last, begun to apply blunt pressure on this “birthplace of democracy.” At the recent, called elections, the presiding political party was cast out and the new governing Grecians, themselves having been in power often in the past, have gallantly announced that the dirty house will be cleaned and that strict procedures are in the works. Austerity measures are hastily being pushed through the Parliament in a manner that will probably negatively impact the cash flow of almost everyone in the short-run, except, presumably, the cash-strapped government!

In a country where strikes and protests are as ubiquitous as pigeon poop, the announcement that taxes will be raised and that certain benefits will be curbed, such as lifetime job security and 14 months of salary each year for government employees, has been met with howls of public protest. In the “Grecian formula,” everyone strikes over something or other. The trash collectors, bankers, physicians, bus drivers and lawyers strike routinely. Often, general strikes are scheduled far in advance, sometimes for reasons that are not yet clear at the time of the strike forecast; the assumption is that sufficient grievances will have surfaced in the intervening months, so that a future strike will be necessary.

It is fittingly ironic that the most recent group to announce a strike in Greece in the protest over the need to levy more taxes has come from the tax-collectors themselves! While the logic of this could be difficult to extrapolate, the bean counters in the tax offices are taking off a couple of days in deference to the “unfairness” of the proposed, rigorous government measures.

If it were not so serious, I would be laughing!

Growing in Athens

At 8:00 AM on New Year’s Day, 2010, I slid open the heavy glass door and went out on the veranda to check on the plants. The mild, typical Athens weather was comfortable, so my plaid pajamas were warmth enough. This open, exterior space is as close to the good earth as we are allowed from our apartment on the fourth floor in the old, Pangrati district of downtown Athens, Greece. The flower boxes, overcrowded by giant, venerable yucca plant trees that now reach to the neighbor’s veranda above, grant precious little space for a few plants to grow. Since we have just returned from a 2-month sojourn in the States, we are especially pleased that Ana’s good weekly work has kept most of the plants alive in our absence.

I also went outside to finish rooting that crawling, green, ground cover that I harvested on Christmas day, while visiting Sounio, at the southernmost tip of the Greek mainland. Although I have no idea what the name of the plant is or how to replant it, it seems hardy. I found it in what appears at first to be a non-hospitable habitat, crawling over the rocks and shallow soil close to the sea. With luck and enough care, I’ll be successful in transplanting it to the tiny, concrete flower boxes that give definition to our large balcony.

Like the green, crawling “stuff,” I, too, have been transplanted – at first from my native Mississippi southland to the booming metropolitan landscape of Houston, Texas; and then, after over thirty years, Janice and I moved, first to Tirana, Albania and then, to the ancient city of Athens. To take a “son of the South” from the Magnolia State to the Balkan cultures of Albania and Greece, by way of urban Houston, Texas is, perhaps as challenging as moving rock-crawling, green ground cover from the shallow, but damp seacoast to the fourth floor of an urban balcony. But, Janice and I have made that transition. With care from many, hard work on our part and not a little patience, we have moved ourselves and our many "foreign" mentalities to this busy, multicultural milieu. And, after almost seven years in the Balkans, we are feeling, if not fully “at home,” then, certainly comfortable. On our best days, we would even admit that we thrive in this place!

Likewise, our Albanian friends in Athens have been transplanted. From an isolated, neglected, economically lacking culture, ruled dictatorially by a suspicious mentality that brooked little opportunity and a truckload of fear, over half-a-million immigrants from Albania have now come to Athens. In the early days they came without the luxury of legal documents. Increasingly, today they come in the open air, seeking to abide by the ever-changing and often discriminatory legal procedures of their new host country.

Albanians in Athens, like everything that is transplanted or uncultivated, need lots of care. They need room to grow, water and other basic necessities, attention and nurture. As surely as Ana and I need to tend to the plants on the balcony, someone needs to care for Albanians in Athens. By God’s grace, Janice and I are honored to have that charge and, in 2010, return optimistically to that task.