The King Under the Car Park!

Some British scholars have long suspicioned that one of their former kings was buried beneath a modern parking lot. After much research by the University of Leicester, it was recently confirmed that, indeed, the remains unearthed there were those of Richard III, the last Plantagenet King of England. About 100 miles north of London, a group known as the Richard III Society recently and proudly proclaimed that DNA records from a distant relative now confirm that an excavated skeleton once held the body and bluster of the former king from the fifteenth century.

Richard Three was mortally wounded in the Battle of Bosworth, the last great skirmish over the crown in the War of the Roses. The dead or dying Richard was flung naked across a horse and carried back to Leicester. Sometime after his death, his remains ended up buried in the local church. Not long thereafter, Henry the Eighth trashed the church and, in current time, that very sacred space has become a profane parking lot.

Modern-day archaeologists unearthed the skeleton in an earlier dig. Since Richard III had scoliosis and since the skeleton evidences a curved spine, secondary proof provides additional confirmation to the DNA verification. Apparently, poor Richard had his buttocks punctured and his head decapitated, likely due to the nasty and symbolic acts of his enemies in the immediate post-battle celebrations surrounding the death of the monarch. There is now a plan afoot to reinter the royal remains within the currently sacred space of Leicester Cathedral, an American football field’s length from the current car park.

This scenario got me to thinking about the fickleness of human fate, the transient nature of social geography and the limited potency of once-powerful earthly institutions. Kings and potentates, especially in conflict-ridden lands and times often conclude their lives in very un-royal circumstances. Remember the once imperial, egregiously powerful and fabulously wealthy Saddam Hussein, who ended up hiding, like a rat, in an underground Iraqi hole in the ground, with some unused jockey shorts as his only treasure? But, I have also seen similar things happen among the un-royal. As the one-time Pastor of a church located in the wealthiest zip-code in Houston, Texas, where dirt still sells for at least a $1 million an acre, I witnessed, up-close, the final state of some very rich and powerful people. I can attest to the reality that times change, power is fleeting, even lots of money is no guarantee of long-term dignity and, of course, death comes to all of us. A once-proud and powerful king buried beneath a common, utilitarian slab of asphalt or a once-sacred space that now is striped so that people can park their motorcars and “pay & display” – these are but parables of what happens to every one of us and much of the terra-firma that is hardly as firm as we would like to believe.

All of this got me to thinking, not so much about real estate gentrification or decline, but about what “permanent footprint” I and my cherished institutions should aim to leave on this planet. If the ecological people have alerted us, and rightly so, to the effects of our individual and corporate “carbon footprints” which we leave on the earth’s surface, I am wondering, today about the emotional, ethical, moral or historical “footprint” I and my family, my church, business or school should aim to leave behind. Knowing that, someday, like old Richard Three, most of what I have worked hard to build, as well as my time-worn and battle-scarred bones will be erased or entombed somewhere in a humble, dark and unrecognizable place, what evidence that I once lived do I want to remain?  What, indeed, do I wish to leave behind as a legacy?

As I reflect seriously on these existential and indeed extraterrestrial questions, I am convinced that most people actually care little about a fancy gravesite or an elaborate marker representing their lives or institutional efforts. Despite messianic visions and selfish needs to make an impact or to leave a “mark” on this old world, our powers are actually quite limited and our time is always shorter and less than we want to admit. How about you? What are you up to in the “here and now” that has a “snowball’s chance” of being significant, beyond the ravages of time? What message would you aspire to “shout out” from beneath the car park?

Lucy, Hizzonor and Me!

“Back in the day,” when Lucy got into trouble, as she nearly always did, Desi would eventually come home from work, enter the apartment and you knew exactly just what he was going to say when he discovered one of his wife’s misadventures. With that heavy, Cuban-accented English, the handsome band-leader would look directly into the frightened eyes of his zany, red-headed, madcap wife and say: “Lucy! You’ve got some splainin’ to do!”

I thought about that classic, memorable phrase from fifties sit-com television recently. It popped into my head in the middle of a report on the death of controversial and outspoken former Mayor of New York City, Ed Koch. In the retrospective on Koch’s political career and the review of some of his notable, acerbic, public comments, one of his infamous Koch-isms jumped out at me. The Mayor is reported to have often said to those opposed to one of his positions: “I can explain it to you, but I can’t comprehend it for you!”

While I’m not ready to endorse all of the colorful lines of the former mayor, who often yelled out his limousine window to New Yorkers on the street the question, “How am I doing?”’ he actually was quite close to saying something absolutely profound about interpersonal communication. He almost artfully articulated two essential and practical components of healthy interpersonal interaction. With what some may perceive as naïve impertinence, I herein dare to tweak or redact hizzonor, guided by a sincere respect for the recently-deceased elected official, but also by a desire to advance the dialogue.

Yes, Mr. Mayor, it is indispensable for one to splain oneself. Desi and I would agree. And, you are also correct that, no matter how well-done the explanation, genuine and effective communication between persons doesn’t happen until or unless the other chooses to work hard to comprehend the message that is being sent. We should always ask those with whom we disagree “How am I doing?” on that. And (here I try to enhance the mayor’s line), healthy comprehension of another’s position must be done from the point of view of the message-sender. You are correct, Mr. Koch, that no one can comprehend for another. But genuine hearing of the message, especially on difficult subjects, only happens when both sides strive to comprehend, not only from their own point of view, but from the perspective of the other.

This is what I hear, these days, when folks refer to someone who may disagree with them as just not getting it. Perhaps that is what many moderns mean when they say, about a particular point of view, “I get that!” By the way; I am not focusing here on any one particular subject about which we might tend to disagree. Choose any of the many issues that increasingly have come to divide our world and have resulted in so much rancorous polarization in fields such as economics, politics, religion, child-rearing, the shape of the family, law-enforcement, fracking, climate-change or even the entertainment industry.

Run a little experiment. Check it out for yourself. Are those with whom you are in disagreement capable of splainin’ themselves? On the other hand, are you competent to splain your own contrarian views? Do you seek first to understand, then to be understood? And, most importantly, are you willing to crawl into the perspective of the other and comprehend it from behind the eyes, from his or her point of view?

I often see this process unsuccessfully struggling to work itself out in the ceaseless ranting that now routinely passes for communication on Face Book and other ostensibly high-tech methods of personal or political advocacy. Sadly, there is precious little splainin’ by those who vociferously promote a cherished position and seek to convert others to their personal side. Because so much vitriolic advocacy these days appeals subtly to our fears, I suspect that many are unable to explain their positions because they have been swept along by an emotional torrent that allows for little introspection and rational analysis. What results is a kind of knee-jerk reaction which further eschews serious consideration and drives directly to ever-more-simplistic conclusions, where the issue easily gets personalized and a spokesperson for the opposite view is depicted as evil incarnate. Likewise, anyone else who disagrees is also demonized. Because it is so easy to hit the “Like” button or to share someone else’s language, swept away in our Irrational fears, we are often enticed simply to borrow someone else’s rhetoric or to be carried along by the emotional undercurrent of a frightening but persuasive presentation.

In the end, like Lucy, I must take responsibility for splainin’ myself; and, with the Mayor, I must do the hard work of comprehending. But, also, in the audacity of this (humble-but-accurate) blog-writer, I must also take on the perspective of the other guy to the extent that, whether or not in the end, I agree, I get it. Sadly, too often I am afraid to risk examining my own hidden fears and unexamined motives for accepting or rejecting a particular position, I can neither splain my own stance well or get what the other person is advocating.

I’m trying hard to splain myself. Do you get it? How am I doing?

Dona's Desire!

She honored her teacher and the others in her English-as-a-Foreign-Language class by working hard to prepare a verbal presentation. It was November 28, 2012, the day that we would celebrate a century of freedom for her native land, Albania. During the class break, when many at PORTA – the Albania House in Athens were celebrating with soft drinks, cookies, flag-raising and home-made treats, she told me that she would offer a presentation to her upper-level class after the break; I asked her not to do it until I could return from similar celebrations that were happening downstairs.

When I returned to her classroom, Andrew, her teacher, asked, “Dona, did you have something special that you wanted to present?” Her eyes darted about with some anxiety as she said, “Yes,” looking nervously at the notes she had written in pencil in her notebook. With an inner bravery that likely has conquered her fears on many occasions, she began to speak, looking directly at me; it was as if she wanted me, uniquely, to understand her story and as though this telling was intended as a special gift for me. With hard-earned English fluency, she struggled a bit, always teachably accepting the slight corrections to grammar, syntax or word choice offered by her teacher and her fellow English-language learners. She never lost the open, responsive spirit typical of a good language-learner, despite her powerful desire to tell her story.

She reminded me that she had taken this independent initiative to do this unassigned project following an exhausting day on the job, despite the reality of her weariness from work. All of our adult Albanian students are tired after their work - if they are fortunate enough to have a job. But Dona was determined to write-out and practice in English this special talk. The celebration of her motherland’s day of independence and its freedom from external domination is important to her. And she sincerely wanted to tell her treasured story in my native tongue.

Dona’s contribution was more than just a demonstration of a growing conversational English competency. It was more than an exhibit in cross-cultural communication. It was even more than an illustration of the powerful desire for human freedom for all peoples. Dona illustrated why we teach English-as-a-Foreign-Language to at least one hundred Albanians during every session at PORTA. We want Albanians to speak the English language, of course, to widen the world of opportunity for them. But, what is more, we want Albanians to be able to verbalize what is important to them, to articulate the deepest treasures of their hearts and their most prized values.

Thanks, Dona, for doing just that!  

Immigrant Jesus!

It was the final session of the term and the students in the Level One, English-as-a-Foreign-Language class had convinced their teacher to have a party. Although it usually doesn’t take much to get this particular teacher, (or any Albanian, really) to a party, the plan was to study for an hour and then, to have a Christmas party. Janice and I planned our schedule so that we could show up in time for the celebration.

As soon as our vehicle turned on to Dikaiou Street, where PORTA – the Albania House in Athens is located, we could hear the lively music, blaring away. Because this first-year class is larger than most, we offer it in the Gallery, where Albanian artists often display their works. A professional trio (clarinet, accordion & guitar) was providing the music and “the joint was rockin!”

As is too often the case, when we arrived, these adult students showed far too much deference to us, hurriedly making a space of honor for us at the head table. From out of nowhere, plates of delicious, home-cooked food began to appear for us. Raki, the traditional Albanian “home brew” was served and we did lots of toasting, all around.

Before us was an exultant crowd, dancing, partying and enjoying each other. Janice and I have come to know most of these people only since the beginning of the school year. I recognized that they come from a variety of backgrounds. Back in their home country, some were doctors, engineers and professional people, while others did not complete high school. Some have ancestral links to the historic Roman Catholicism of the north of Albania, the traditional Orthodox Christianity of the south or to the Islamic or Bektashi faith traditions from throughout the country. But today, few if any of them have any sort of personal faith of any kind, owing to the fact that, for half a century, their homeland was dominated by a dictatorial, radical, Communist ideology which required them to live as though there is no God. What unites these Albanians is that all are immigrants in Greece; they have come here in search of a better life, despite the reality that Greece historically, has been antagonistic toward immigrants - most especially Albanian immigrants.

The other feature that fuses these good people is that, despite their differing backgrounds, each has found help, hope and wholesomeness through PORTA. At a time in Greece when these qualities are in short supply, PORTA has literally been an open door of opportunity. Indeed, when Edi Rama, the former Mayor of the capital city of Tirana, Albania and the Albanian Socialist Party’s nominee for Prime Minister was recently in Athens, he referred to PORTA as “a bright, shining light for Albanian immigrants in Athens!”

When the music ceased and I rose to make an extemporaneous speech to this disparate, partying crowd, my mind raced as I thought about my improvised remarks, in this context. Albanians are tolerant of my limited fluency in Shqip, their traditional language. But, my anxiousness had more to do with content and context, than language.

We work hard at PORTA to respect all who come through its doors. Albanians know that we have come to them in the name of Jezusi. They understand that, although PORTA’s program includes many things, every, single thing that we do, we do to honor Jezusi! They also understand that we strongly believe in spiritual freedom and that we never attempt to push our faith on them. They know that we always want them to be free to decide for themselves where to place their personal faith. But the party was a Christmas party and I felt an honest urge to speak about what English-speakers sometimes refer to as “the reason for the season!”

But how does one speak of Jesus to a group of people with little apparent need for or interest in religion and even less information about him? I reminded these friends that, like them, Jesus came from an immigrant and oppressed family. Joseph & Mary were forced to abandon the familiar comforts of home at an awkward and inconvenient time when, under the pressure of a tyrannical, foreign government, they left Nazareth and travelled by foot to a destination that must have seemed a lifetime away from familiarity. Although Christians piously sing about this “little town of Bethlehem,” for them it surely must have been a strange place, where they found themselves not belonging, perhaps unprepared, surely unable to secure lodging, certainly unwelcome and definitely required to register for the patently unfair purpose of paying egregious taxes Even before any post-partum adaptations, the fragile, holy family, including the only recently-circumcised, infant Jesus, was coerced into becoming impromptu immigrants again and exiles-on-the-run, when they fled to Egypt, to escape the tyranny of Herod’s imposed, yet insecure power.

Despite the fact that most of these adults have little prior acquaintance with Jesus, my Albanian friends showed an almost immediate empathy and understanding, as I described Joseph’s family and the newborn Jesus in this fashion. The looks on their faces suggested that they had found a painful point of personal connection with this mysterious, incarnational narrative from long ago. They seemed to identify with Jesus and with his story, when described that way.

Of course, it was just one brief moment, followed quickly by the lonesome wail of an Albanian clarinet and the unspoken search for intimacy, hope and personal meaning embodied in traditional Balkan folk dancing. But, my sense was that the distant, bright-shining light from Bethlehem’s star had, once again, broken through the darkness. Hope so!

A Cross-Cultural Christmas

Since Thanksgiving Day is a foreign concept in the Balkans, it is easier to get in the “Christmas spirit” earlier here in Athens, Greece. As the usually mild, Mediterranean weather turns cooler and November stretches its long, skinny legs, we’re “putting up the tree” because 2012 will most certainly be our last Christmas as residents of Athens. We’ll be out of the country next Christmas and will be retired and back in the States for Christmas, 2014. To commemorate this 2012 milepost Christmas, we’ll welcome our adult sons and wives and will share this holiday time against the backdrop of the dominant cultures in which we do our work.

Christmas celebrations in Albanian culture are relatively new, at least from the perspective of recent history. Since the Apostle Paul preached the Gospel “as far as Illyria” and since Albanians are descendants of the Illyrians, they celebrated Christmas in some fashion from the beginning. But, thanks to 500 years of Ottoman domination, Christmas celebrations were replaced by Islamic traditions. Then, from the mid-twentieth century, Albania was ruled by a paranoid, isolationist, Communist dictator who insisted that there was no God; churches were closed and Christmas celebrations not allowed.

When we lived in Albania, despite the fact that Communism had fallen a decade earlier, a revisionist version of the holiday “myth” still remained. Ingeniously, the atheistic culture captured the essential social functions of a modern Christmas story and rewrote the script from a secular standpoint. By merging the popular Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve narratives, children anticipate the arrival of the “Old Man of the New Year” - a cross between Father Time and Santa Claus - who brings gifts to good children. Since few Albanians are Christians, the Good News of the coming of the Christ Child in Bethlehem is celebrated by only a small number of Orthodox, Roman Catholic and evangelical believers in Albania.

Until recently, Christmas day in Greece was a minor holiday, when compared with Easter. The pervasiveness of the Orthodox Church, with its preference for celebrating the Feast of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors (December 8), where presents are exchanged and the Feast of Epiphany (January 6), where young men dive into cold waters to retrieve a cross that has been blessed by a priest, makes December 25 less important.

On Christmas Eve and sometimes later, children travel from house to house, singing “kalanda,” Christmas carols. With small triangles and drums, they receive sweets, figs, nuts or coins. Greeks attend midnight mass and return home for a big family meal. Lamb and pork are roasted and “christopsomo” (Christ bread) is made in large, sweet loaves, with various shapes and decorations, reflecting the family profession. The main symbol of the season is a shallow bowl with wire suspended across the rim, from which hangs a sprig of basil wrapped around a wooden cross. Water is kept in the bowl. Once a day, the mother dips the cross and basil into holy water, sprinkling every room of the house, to keep away the “kilantzarof,” (bad spirits) which appear only during the 12-day period from Christmas to Epiphany.

In recent years, secular Christmas, with trees, Santa images, bright lights and retail sales has arrived in Greece. The largest Christmas tree in Europe is now erected in Syntaugma Square; unfortunately, due to riots, the tree was burned a couple of years ago!

When our kids come this Christmas, we'll attend the Christmas Eve service at our Greek Evangelical church and will sing hymns, read Luke’s account and hear the old, old story of how God loved us enough to come and dwell among us. In Greek, we’ll wish them “Kala Christougenna” and in Albanian, we’ll say ““Gezuar Kristelindje!” “Merry Christmas!”

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!”

MUNDESIRA!

Mundesira!

It falls to me each year about this time. Others who could do it as well, perhaps better; but each year, it falls to me. While at least four teachers of English-as-a-Foreign-Language at PORTA – the Albania House in Athens are busy welcoming adult students to their classes and orienting them to the year ahead, I have the dubious distinction of giving examinations in our book-lined library. Wannabe students, late arrivals show up with eager hope that this exam will demonstrate that they possess sufficient knowledge of conversational English to place them in an upper level English class. Because they appear after classes are full or during the “drop/add” period, they strive frantically to find a coveted place on our waiting list or, perchance, to score well enough to gain entry in levels two or three.

The filestar (beginner) class is always the most crowded and always the first to exceed the quota. So, each year, students who have only a passing, street-level, acquaintance with English (or less) purport to be “advanced” and strive to prove it on the qualifying exam. At PORTA, as with any educational institution, we have rules and expectations: we have a limited time for registration, a maximum number of students in each class and only two weeks for late entry students to begin classes.

The economic crisis in Greece hits immigrants like these impoverished Albanians first and hardest. Many have lost the two or three part-time jobs they had just a few years ago. Many now have time on their hands. Many see developing a fluency in English as a hedge against the perils of the crisis and a help toward a better job. And, so, in recent Septembers, I have been administering even more placement tests at PORTA. Because we do not charge for these classes, many see them as the “great deal” that they are.

A couple of years ago, when I told Ilir (not his actual name) that there was no room for him in the class, he insisted (Albanians often insist) that “there is always room for one more.” When I said that all chairs in the room were filled, Ilir said, “I’ll bring my own chair!” This year, we have purchased 20 new chairs and now, without doubt, we have no more room.

It is difficult to say “no” to adults who want so anxiously to learn. The unacknowledged messianism which runs beneath much of what I do cries out against ever saying “no.” But I must; for the sake of those recently-admitted to the classes; I must, for the sake of our returning students; I must, for the teachers’ sake; I must, for the sake of acceptable pedagogy! The fire marshal says I must!

While these would-be English students say that they are seeking entry into an English class, you and I know better. We know that their search is actually for something far more fundamental and important than merely fluency in the world’s most popular language. Like Albanian immigrants almost everywhere, they are in search of what, in their native tongue, is referred to as mundesira – opportunity. Repressed and isolated under a dictatorial Communist regime, a desire for mundesira is what led these Albanians to leave their impoverished homeland in the first place. Mundesira accounts for the statistical reality that more Albanians live outside the boundaries of their motherland than within them.

Mundesira is also what has brought us to Athens. Because we are blessed to have it in abundance and so many are not, we have come here out of a fierce compassion and a heavenly obligation to be the presence of Christ among Albanian immigrants. Indeed, it is because, in Jesus Christ, we have discovered God’s love and because that love has opened infinite doors of mundesira for us that we are here, teaching English, giving placement exams and doing a variety of other things through a center named PORTA, which, fittingly, means “door.”

Mundesira, for some may be unevenly distributed or woefully delayed by the pragmatic, human realities of budgetary, time and space limits. Mundesira, at least for now, may be easily limited by one’s English proficiency or the lack thereof. Mundesira is often curtailed by the pressing reality that, as human beings, no one, not even well-intentioned and highly motivated Christian workers, has an unlimited supply of it.

For now, at least, we comsole ourselves by the acknowledgement that the mundesira of God’s unmerited favor is spread without limits to all people who are willing to accept it and live in light of it. And the only placement exam necessary is the willingness to ask for it and to trust God to give it.