Here endeth the postings of BLOGS on my trip to Greece. I can't wait for time to work up the photos and videos.
I had trouble posting these blogs daily, as internet opportunities were sometimes too expensive and sometimes non-existent.
So if you want to read the last few in sequence, you will have to scroll down the list of blogs and end up with the one on Patmos and Ephesus.
Thanks for reading my impressions. I hope you gained something of value.
Ephkharisto,
Jim
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Patmos and Ephesus
The wake-up call was early today. Dale and I ate with four senior ladies from the south. They leave their husbands every few months to go touring like this. One of them was a Mrs. Bradshaw. “She won’t tell you this,” one said, “but she is Terry Bradshaw’s mother!” She was 90+ but didn’t look a day over 80. If you don’t know who Terry Bradshaw is, forget it!) Disembark at 7:15. On bus #10 and off to the Grotto and Shrine of St. John.
There are but 3 towns on the island, home to 1000 people. Three grammar schools, one high school, and a theological seminary. So students go to Rhodes, Samos, or, more likely, Athens for university. Not much opportunity here besides tourism. They do have some agriculture and flocks of sheep or goats—but not numerous.
It rains here November through March. But no rain in summer, when tourism is highest. So they have tankers sailing in twice a week to supplement what water is caught in roof-run cisterns. Some day they’ll have desalinization, such as supplies this cruise ship with water you can drink safely.
St. John was exiled here as an old man, probably in his 80s, by Emperor Domitian. Exile meant one is stripped of all possessions and all rights and sent to slave labor in the stone quarries here.
Tradition has it that on the ship bringing John to Patmos a storm arose, sweeping overboard a young son of a traveler. John prayed immediately, and the boy was swept back into the ship. Several accepted the Gospel at once. It was typical in those times for people to be impressed with any Power that could produce results, be it pagan gods, sorcerers, soothsayers or whatever. (It reminds me of my evangelist friend, Dave Walker’s message, “What Has Your God Done for You Lately?”)
On shore the captain told the Roman official administering the island. He also believed and released John from his chains, giving him leave to live in a cave in relative freedom. Here John secured a scribe, Procopius, to whom he dictated his writings.
John had the appearance of Christ here, which terrified him, issuing in the Apocalypse, addressed to the churches of Asia Minor where he had been staying when arrested.
There is a church there on the slopes, next to a school. When we visited a service was in progress. A priest decked in embroidered and en-jeweled garments and mitre, splashed incense as the teacher and boys sang the liturgy. As you may know, Orthodox churches use no instruments—voice only. I circled twice to get more of the rich flavor.
It’s a long winding stone stairway—outdoors—to reach this little niche on the rock. We saw a flat stone where John would lay his head to rest and one he used to steady himself to rise up.
Contrary to what many think, John did not die here. After the assassination of Domitian, Emperor Nerva released many Christians. John then returned to Ephesus and died there—the only apostle to die a natural death at an age over 100. Some say 120. But most scholars settle on age 104. Life expectancy then was 45 to 55 years of age.
Bussing to the high point we were guided through the small church, with painted saints and bishops dating back many centuries in some cases.
At the very top there is “the best museum in the Aegean” displaying treasures such as the 3 kilo mitre wore on special occasions by the archbishop when he visits. (That is nearly 8 pounds of weight—a lot to have on your head for more than a short time!) There were also manuscripts, including pages from a Gospel of Mark made in about 490-520 AD. Another notable was a parchment portion of Revelation, 10th century.
One icon was a painting of Jesus (waist up) with a look of suffering that is quite moving. A young painter, Dimitrious Ephthalmousious (that’s what it sounded like to me) was rejected because his work showed too much emotion for the monks. They liked that “flat” style of iconography. Unable to find work anywhere in Greece, he emigrated to Italy and then to Spain. Spaniards could not master his name, so they referred to him as The Greek. Bingo! That’s why that icon had hands with really long fingers—El Greco!
As I write this in Dale’s and my cabin #4020 we are once again at sea, heading for Ephesus. When I get there I’ll be listening for what the Spirit has to say to the Church.
(Next day.)
“Save the best for last.” A good motto.
And that is just what happened this afternoon, Sunday, March 18, 2007.
The ruins of Ephesus lie inland about 3 miles from the shore. Yet in Paul’s’ time it was a port city. In 2000 years silt from the river has filled in a long flat plane that would make a fine airport if it were not for flooding in the rainy season. So the city is high and dry now.
Most of the ancient city was buried under 4 to 12 feet of soil until recently, It is still being excavated. A truly awesome scale here. A temple of Artemis stands on the highest ground. Then there’s an amphitheatre for the politicians, not far from their offices.
Aqueducts brought fresh water for this ancient city of 250,000—one of the largest of cities in Roman times, the largest being Alexandria (400,000) A system of clay pipes delivered water to the baths, where poor people from outside were required to bath in order to prevent the spread of disease. Houses had bathrooms with drains to a sewer system that brought wastewater to the sea.
A long avenue holds offices of professionals on either side, with gods on pedestals appropriate for the profession, whether lawyers, doctors, philosophers and so forth. Walking on marble steps that Paul and he early convert walked upon, we descend gradually to the hospital, indicated by the medical symbol of the ancient world with the two entwined snakes. Further down is a house built for Hadrian, with the head of Medusa on the keystone of the arch, guarding the house from evil.
Next is a junction where the great library stood, second only in size to that of Alexandria. All the scrolls have been lost to earthquakes and fire. It has four goddesses by the two entrances: wisdom (Sophia), destiny, ___, and knowledge (Epistemethe). An avenue heads north to the gymnasium (floors only), while the main avenue broadens to about 50 feet going to the Agora. This is about ten acres in size and would have had goods of all types from around the world. Our guide points out the corner where the synagogue is thought to have stood. Paul always preached in the synagogues first, before going to the Gentiles.
No wonder Paul spent several years here preaching in this vibrant metropolis, making many converts, whom he would later chastise for their wayward ways and factions. It may been the San Francisco of its time.
On a distant hill is a small fortress where Paul was imprisoned for his own safety during the great riot of the silversmiths, who saw their lucrative business going the way our buggy whip industry went after the switch to automobiles. He would be a prisoner most of the rest of his life, as we now know. Here was the beach where he said farewell to the church elders after the incident with Eutychus.
And to think that a few decades ago all this was under soil where goats and sheep were grazing for a thousand years. Ephesus was abandoned in the 10th century after earthquakes and other calamities sent the remaining inhabitants inland to the Christian Ephesus with a church built over the tomb of St. John.
And think of what one will see here a few years hence, when the 40% excavated becomes 70% or higher.
After a week following the footsteps of Paul one begins to feel and smell and look with new eyes—eyes that are old by two millennia.
The ancients were state of the art in their technology—much more advanced than I had thought. This was part of super-power culture of its time, yet Paul fearlessly brought the Gospel of Jesus to that world. Christian faith is fully up to challenging the power centers of any culture, ancient or modern.
To this short, balding, brilliant man I owe a great debt.
To Paul, the apostle to us Gentiles, we must say thank you.
There are but 3 towns on the island, home to 1000 people. Three grammar schools, one high school, and a theological seminary. So students go to Rhodes, Samos, or, more likely, Athens for university. Not much opportunity here besides tourism. They do have some agriculture and flocks of sheep or goats—but not numerous.
It rains here November through March. But no rain in summer, when tourism is highest. So they have tankers sailing in twice a week to supplement what water is caught in roof-run cisterns. Some day they’ll have desalinization, such as supplies this cruise ship with water you can drink safely.
St. John was exiled here as an old man, probably in his 80s, by Emperor Domitian. Exile meant one is stripped of all possessions and all rights and sent to slave labor in the stone quarries here.
Tradition has it that on the ship bringing John to Patmos a storm arose, sweeping overboard a young son of a traveler. John prayed immediately, and the boy was swept back into the ship. Several accepted the Gospel at once. It was typical in those times for people to be impressed with any Power that could produce results, be it pagan gods, sorcerers, soothsayers or whatever. (It reminds me of my evangelist friend, Dave Walker’s message, “What Has Your God Done for You Lately?”)
On shore the captain told the Roman official administering the island. He also believed and released John from his chains, giving him leave to live in a cave in relative freedom. Here John secured a scribe, Procopius, to whom he dictated his writings.
John had the appearance of Christ here, which terrified him, issuing in the Apocalypse, addressed to the churches of Asia Minor where he had been staying when arrested.
There is a church there on the slopes, next to a school. When we visited a service was in progress. A priest decked in embroidered and en-jeweled garments and mitre, splashed incense as the teacher and boys sang the liturgy. As you may know, Orthodox churches use no instruments—voice only. I circled twice to get more of the rich flavor.
It’s a long winding stone stairway—outdoors—to reach this little niche on the rock. We saw a flat stone where John would lay his head to rest and one he used to steady himself to rise up.
Contrary to what many think, John did not die here. After the assassination of Domitian, Emperor Nerva released many Christians. John then returned to Ephesus and died there—the only apostle to die a natural death at an age over 100. Some say 120. But most scholars settle on age 104. Life expectancy then was 45 to 55 years of age.
Bussing to the high point we were guided through the small church, with painted saints and bishops dating back many centuries in some cases.
At the very top there is “the best museum in the Aegean” displaying treasures such as the 3 kilo mitre wore on special occasions by the archbishop when he visits. (That is nearly 8 pounds of weight—a lot to have on your head for more than a short time!) There were also manuscripts, including pages from a Gospel of Mark made in about 490-520 AD. Another notable was a parchment portion of Revelation, 10th century.
One icon was a painting of Jesus (waist up) with a look of suffering that is quite moving. A young painter, Dimitrious Ephthalmousious (that’s what it sounded like to me) was rejected because his work showed too much emotion for the monks. They liked that “flat” style of iconography. Unable to find work anywhere in Greece, he emigrated to Italy and then to Spain. Spaniards could not master his name, so they referred to him as The Greek. Bingo! That’s why that icon had hands with really long fingers—El Greco!
As I write this in Dale’s and my cabin #4020 we are once again at sea, heading for Ephesus. When I get there I’ll be listening for what the Spirit has to say to the Church.
(Next day.)
“Save the best for last.” A good motto.
And that is just what happened this afternoon, Sunday, March 18, 2007.
The ruins of Ephesus lie inland about 3 miles from the shore. Yet in Paul’s’ time it was a port city. In 2000 years silt from the river has filled in a long flat plane that would make a fine airport if it were not for flooding in the rainy season. So the city is high and dry now.
Most of the ancient city was buried under 4 to 12 feet of soil until recently, It is still being excavated. A truly awesome scale here. A temple of Artemis stands on the highest ground. Then there’s an amphitheatre for the politicians, not far from their offices.
Aqueducts brought fresh water for this ancient city of 250,000—one of the largest of cities in Roman times, the largest being Alexandria (400,000) A system of clay pipes delivered water to the baths, where poor people from outside were required to bath in order to prevent the spread of disease. Houses had bathrooms with drains to a sewer system that brought wastewater to the sea.
A long avenue holds offices of professionals on either side, with gods on pedestals appropriate for the profession, whether lawyers, doctors, philosophers and so forth. Walking on marble steps that Paul and he early convert walked upon, we descend gradually to the hospital, indicated by the medical symbol of the ancient world with the two entwined snakes. Further down is a house built for Hadrian, with the head of Medusa on the keystone of the arch, guarding the house from evil.
Next is a junction where the great library stood, second only in size to that of Alexandria. All the scrolls have been lost to earthquakes and fire. It has four goddesses by the two entrances: wisdom (Sophia), destiny, ___, and knowledge (Epistemethe). An avenue heads north to the gymnasium (floors only), while the main avenue broadens to about 50 feet going to the Agora. This is about ten acres in size and would have had goods of all types from around the world. Our guide points out the corner where the synagogue is thought to have stood. Paul always preached in the synagogues first, before going to the Gentiles.
No wonder Paul spent several years here preaching in this vibrant metropolis, making many converts, whom he would later chastise for their wayward ways and factions. It may been the San Francisco of its time.
On a distant hill is a small fortress where Paul was imprisoned for his own safety during the great riot of the silversmiths, who saw their lucrative business going the way our buggy whip industry went after the switch to automobiles. He would be a prisoner most of the rest of his life, as we now know. Here was the beach where he said farewell to the church elders after the incident with Eutychus.
And to think that a few decades ago all this was under soil where goats and sheep were grazing for a thousand years. Ephesus was abandoned in the 10th century after earthquakes and other calamities sent the remaining inhabitants inland to the Christian Ephesus with a church built over the tomb of St. John.
And think of what one will see here a few years hence, when the 40% excavated becomes 70% or higher.
After a week following the footsteps of Paul one begins to feel and smell and look with new eyes—eyes that are old by two millennia.
The ancients were state of the art in their technology—much more advanced than I had thought. This was part of super-power culture of its time, yet Paul fearlessly brought the Gospel of Jesus to that world. Christian faith is fully up to challenging the power centers of any culture, ancient or modern.
To this short, balding, brilliant man I owe a great debt.
To Paul, the apostle to us Gentiles, we must say thank you.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Rhodes on St. Patrick's Day
Saint Patrick’s Day, 2007. But no sign o’ the wearin’ o’ the green here. It’s all the blue of the deep blue sea.
Bouganvillias are in bloom, rich in that luscious color. The Island of Rhodes today. A place where St. Paul stopped briefly as he hopped, skipped, and jumped from Corinth to Jerusalem on what would prove to be his last visit to his natal land.
Bus with guide takes us 20 miles south to Lindos. We hike up to another acropolis, where there is an overlay of ancient cultures. The Hellenic ruins peak through via an outdoor set of stairs, barely visited. This ouwl have led Paul up to the temple of Diana at the top. It is bein reconstructed now, incorporating some original elements still extant. Once again, the view of the azure sea is stunning. There is also a Byzantine church with a perhaps 40 foot section of the walls still reaching for the sky. And lastly there is a fort built by crusaders in the 13th century.
It’s quite a hike up here. So Marilyn opted for the donkey lift that takes you most of the way up. Jackie decided she would take the trip down for 5 euros.
Well, the donkeys are not too thrilled about their lot in life. I take video of Jackie mounting the small brown beast. Behind her are a couple of women who really need Jennie Craig, if you know what I mean. The last one suddenly finds herself rolling off onto the ground. The saddle was unequal to her, I guess, and did an earthward rotation. Helped to her feet, she seemed OK. But she got her money back and took the walking path. I saw her sitting to catch her breath later. “Are you OK?” “Yes—just a bruise or two.”
Meanwhile Jackie is heading down. But they guy holding the rope keeps looking back and the other Mrs. Lard, whose donkey is leaning against Jackie’s for support, nearly pushing them off the trail—which in places is near the cliff and there are no guard rails.
I got down to the village first and filmed Jackie getting off. “You OK?” “I guess so—I’ll tell you about it in private after I get some coffee to help shake off my shakes!” A coffee/chocolate Nescafe later and she has regained some composure. Jackie is always jolly about things. This is no exception. But it could have been a real train wreck.
From the acropolis we can see a “lake” whose inlet from the sea is so narrow it’s not visible to us. Tradition has it that the ship on which Paul was sailing was being pursued by a vessel (pirates?) and managed to sail into this 20 acres “pond” until the other vessal was way downwind. That’s a new one to me. But—you never know….
Afternoon is free time. It’s but a five minute walk back to the bazaars, which are teeming with people. Jackie is looking for a rug for her living room. In one shop there is woman on a bench before loom, hand-weaving a carpet. It can take one or more years for her to complete one of the larger rugs. The show-woman presents several rugs that Jackie is interested in. A mere 500 euros for about 7x9. (Free shipping.) Gorgeous patters, colors. She takes a business card, needing to think about it. Kinda tough to return if it doesn’t go with the décor and the couch!
The day is topped of by a show of Greek dances by some of the crew. Great music. At the end a couple appear in wedding attire. They had been married on board by the captain a day ago. So she throws her bouquet here to eager wanabe.s. “Now for the wedding waltz,” the emcee says. “No! – play the _____!”
Well this couple was the best of show! Reminded me a flamingo dancing—you know the ones those pink birds do down in Florida. Same level as you see on TV dancing competitions.
All that was lacking on this St Paddy's Day was a Cranton blowing the conch shell. But then, this is Greece!
Bouganvillias are in bloom, rich in that luscious color. The Island of Rhodes today. A place where St. Paul stopped briefly as he hopped, skipped, and jumped from Corinth to Jerusalem on what would prove to be his last visit to his natal land.
Bus with guide takes us 20 miles south to Lindos. We hike up to another acropolis, where there is an overlay of ancient cultures. The Hellenic ruins peak through via an outdoor set of stairs, barely visited. This ouwl have led Paul up to the temple of Diana at the top. It is bein reconstructed now, incorporating some original elements still extant. Once again, the view of the azure sea is stunning. There is also a Byzantine church with a perhaps 40 foot section of the walls still reaching for the sky. And lastly there is a fort built by crusaders in the 13th century.
It’s quite a hike up here. So Marilyn opted for the donkey lift that takes you most of the way up. Jackie decided she would take the trip down for 5 euros.
Well, the donkeys are not too thrilled about their lot in life. I take video of Jackie mounting the small brown beast. Behind her are a couple of women who really need Jennie Craig, if you know what I mean. The last one suddenly finds herself rolling off onto the ground. The saddle was unequal to her, I guess, and did an earthward rotation. Helped to her feet, she seemed OK. But she got her money back and took the walking path. I saw her sitting to catch her breath later. “Are you OK?” “Yes—just a bruise or two.”
Meanwhile Jackie is heading down. But they guy holding the rope keeps looking back and the other Mrs. Lard, whose donkey is leaning against Jackie’s for support, nearly pushing them off the trail—which in places is near the cliff and there are no guard rails.
I got down to the village first and filmed Jackie getting off. “You OK?” “I guess so—I’ll tell you about it in private after I get some coffee to help shake off my shakes!” A coffee/chocolate Nescafe later and she has regained some composure. Jackie is always jolly about things. This is no exception. But it could have been a real train wreck.
From the acropolis we can see a “lake” whose inlet from the sea is so narrow it’s not visible to us. Tradition has it that the ship on which Paul was sailing was being pursued by a vessel (pirates?) and managed to sail into this 20 acres “pond” until the other vessal was way downwind. That’s a new one to me. But—you never know….
Afternoon is free time. It’s but a five minute walk back to the bazaars, which are teeming with people. Jackie is looking for a rug for her living room. In one shop there is woman on a bench before loom, hand-weaving a carpet. It can take one or more years for her to complete one of the larger rugs. The show-woman presents several rugs that Jackie is interested in. A mere 500 euros for about 7x9. (Free shipping.) Gorgeous patters, colors. She takes a business card, needing to think about it. Kinda tough to return if it doesn’t go with the décor and the couch!
The day is topped of by a show of Greek dances by some of the crew. Great music. At the end a couple appear in wedding attire. They had been married on board by the captain a day ago. So she throws her bouquet here to eager wanabe.s. “Now for the wedding waltz,” the emcee says. “No! – play the _____!”
Well this couple was the best of show! Reminded me a flamingo dancing—you know the ones those pink birds do down in Florida. Same level as you see on TV dancing competitions.
All that was lacking on this St Paddy's Day was a Cranton blowing the conch shell. But then, this is Greece!
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Cruisin'
Cruisin’ with the big fish. My first time on this much floating tonnage. 1000 passengers. Countless crew. They take your passport away! I feel a bit vulnerable with just my photocopy. Dale took care of our passports, while I put baggage through what passes in Greece for screening. He assures me they put the documents in the ship’s safe.
We get a credit-card sized room key, which they scan every time you disembark and return. That way they know who, if anyone, is missing. First drill is to get your cabin’s life vest, put it on, and proceed up, up, and away to deck 7 and stand where they tell you. When all are in place, you are released. That’s it.
Sailing southeast from Athens, we sit in the sun on the deck. Teen girls are in the small pool—but not for long. It’s breezy and cool.
So this is cruising! Four dining areas, from buffet to elegant sit-down. Great food. I cautiously pick at a bit of this and a tad of that in my usual dainty fashion. Dale finds the small exercise room. Not me. Up and down four to seven flights will keep me trim. Lifts are available but slow. Cozy little cabin on level 4—about 20 feet above the water line. As we get out into the mid-Aegean, rollers will splash on our side, sending spray almost this high. But the ship barely rolls.
Dale uses a suction cup to fasten his GPS to our window. Speed says 25 mph. A little line shows our path across the islands, just like airliner maps.
In a few hours we are docking at Mikenos (MEE-ken-os) This small island is covered with stuccoed houses that are whitewashed twice a year, with deep blue trim for windows and doors—a striking effect in the sun and those turquoise Aegean waters. How they supported themselves before tourists started flocking to the islands 25 years ago is something to ponder. Windmills dot the landscape, which is sparse, like the hills of west Texas. Their sails are furled today, even though there is a stiff breeze. Meandering up the narrow streets and alleys, shops and house intermingle, almost all abutting one another. A road the width of Broadway in Haverhill winds up the slopes. Traffic is light.
I had been talking with Linda on the cruise deck earlier. She has a farm near Lousiville with llamas that help guard sheep. She raises vegetables and herbs for the farmer’s market. Sadly, she married poorly and is now divorced after some 20 years, with sons now in their twenties.
She wanted to go to the top of the hill to a chapel. Dale was eager to get some coffee, so I offered to go with her. The small structure was surrounded by houses except near the top. We looked for a road or path to it but found none. So we yard-whacked up the slope over a wall here and a fence there. With some creative effort we made it. There was no indication that anyone ever goes there. No road. No footpath. I guess its just a monument someone built in gratitude for some deliverance for the village. By now ,the sun is setting into the sea—a giant red ball. We find our way down by the road and alleys. Good fun; good exercise.
It is sooo nice to cruise through all the shops, knowing you are not going to buy anything. Most are small hole-in-the-wall businesses with clothes and curios and water color paintings and sandals and such. The same for coffee shops and sandwich places. No big plazas in sight. It’s delightful.
Nice place to visit, but—no—you would not want to live here.
Back to the ship. Time to go on cruisin’.
We get a credit-card sized room key, which they scan every time you disembark and return. That way they know who, if anyone, is missing. First drill is to get your cabin’s life vest, put it on, and proceed up, up, and away to deck 7 and stand where they tell you. When all are in place, you are released. That’s it.
Sailing southeast from Athens, we sit in the sun on the deck. Teen girls are in the small pool—but not for long. It’s breezy and cool.
So this is cruising! Four dining areas, from buffet to elegant sit-down. Great food. I cautiously pick at a bit of this and a tad of that in my usual dainty fashion. Dale finds the small exercise room. Not me. Up and down four to seven flights will keep me trim. Lifts are available but slow. Cozy little cabin on level 4—about 20 feet above the water line. As we get out into the mid-Aegean, rollers will splash on our side, sending spray almost this high. But the ship barely rolls.
Dale uses a suction cup to fasten his GPS to our window. Speed says 25 mph. A little line shows our path across the islands, just like airliner maps.
In a few hours we are docking at Mikenos (MEE-ken-os) This small island is covered with stuccoed houses that are whitewashed twice a year, with deep blue trim for windows and doors—a striking effect in the sun and those turquoise Aegean waters. How they supported themselves before tourists started flocking to the islands 25 years ago is something to ponder. Windmills dot the landscape, which is sparse, like the hills of west Texas. Their sails are furled today, even though there is a stiff breeze. Meandering up the narrow streets and alleys, shops and house intermingle, almost all abutting one another. A road the width of Broadway in Haverhill winds up the slopes. Traffic is light.
I had been talking with Linda on the cruise deck earlier. She has a farm near Lousiville with llamas that help guard sheep. She raises vegetables and herbs for the farmer’s market. Sadly, she married poorly and is now divorced after some 20 years, with sons now in their twenties.
She wanted to go to the top of the hill to a chapel. Dale was eager to get some coffee, so I offered to go with her. The small structure was surrounded by houses except near the top. We looked for a road or path to it but found none. So we yard-whacked up the slope over a wall here and a fence there. With some creative effort we made it. There was no indication that anyone ever goes there. No road. No footpath. I guess its just a monument someone built in gratitude for some deliverance for the village. By now ,the sun is setting into the sea—a giant red ball. We find our way down by the road and alleys. Good fun; good exercise.
It is sooo nice to cruise through all the shops, knowing you are not going to buy anything. Most are small hole-in-the-wall businesses with clothes and curios and water color paintings and sandals and such. The same for coffee shops and sandwich places. No big plazas in sight. It’s delightful.
Nice place to visit, but—no—you would not want to live here.
Back to the ship. Time to go on cruisin’.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Marvelous Marble
These Greeks were—and are—obsessed with marble. All the floors are marble. In bathrooms everything but the ceilings are marble. Stairs are marble. Everything here seems “marbelous” in our eyes.
Marble is wondrous material for building and sculpting, no doubt about that. And there is plenty of it in the mountains of Greece.
Now see if you can believe what George told us when someone asked how the ancients transported massive blocks of marble so many miles.
“The raw marble was quarried out in huge cylinders with some thing like rims on the ends. The skid roads were built with a groove (like a gutter) on each side. So when the cylinders were placed onto the road they would transport themselves by gravity from the mountains to the plain where Athens is located.”
OK. I’ll buy that. We think hese guys were primitive. But that's not at all the case. They were great engineers!
And it is a gleaming white marble here. So the sun glinted off the monuments with a dazzling brilliance that must have been overwhelmingly impressive. Plus the statues were painted, often with gold trim.
Yesterday we noticed another element that comes to Athens from mountains far away. Water. Sluiceways and aqueducts, some open and some closed run for over 100 miles from mountain lakes, coursing up and down the hills by gravity pressure, making this city’s water drinkable. And a lot of water is needed for the four millions living here in Greater Athens. It reminds me of waterways around Phoenix, AZ.
Now, the big attraction in Athens is the Acropolis—the highest point in the city, much as the City of Zion (Temple Mount) was to ancient Jerusalem. The gods always get the best spot.
And the mesa upon which the Temple of Athena is built is much larger than I would have expected from the photos we’ve all seen of this temple—more than 10 acres, I estimate. To one side is the first temple—a modest one built in the 8th century BC. But in the 5th century this grand temple was built, during the lifetime of Socrates. The chief engineer was genius enough to know that that the base needed to be slightly bowed in order to look straight to the eye, And he made the columns thicker in the middle than at top and bottom so that they would not appear to be leaning outward. All in marble.
There are cranes and scaffolds there now and the buzz of many workers as reconstruction goes on, using recovered stones where possible and new ones as necessary. The original temple was destroyed by the Persians in revenge for their defeat in the naval battle oif Salamis. (The general was told by the oracle that Athens could be saved by wooden walls, which he interpreted as ships. He built three oar-deck triremes that were much faster and cold change direction quicker than Persain sailing vessels. They also had a protruding bronze battering ram just below the surface enabling them to ram the enemy ships and sink them by the hundreds!) It would be left for Alexander to get the final word in as he swept through Persia and all the way to India, before turning back to Egypt, thus conquering the world as it was then known to the Greeks.
To the south of the temple area is an amphitheatre where the great dramatists Aristophanes, Euripedes and Aeschylus put on the blockbusters of the day. George opines that drama of that scale and quality was not seen in Europe again until Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre productions.
The north is the agora—sort of an outdoor shopping mall, not far from the court where Socrates was tried before a jury of 501 peers. This was not in a building but on what amounts to a public commons. Athens was a pure democracy—all the enfranchised citizens (adult male freemen) debated and voted on all the laws. Juries were chosen by a lottery where citizens had a certain color ball. Randomly certain rows of balls were chosen and those determined which citizens were on jury duty for that trial.
But our focus is on Mars Hill, an insignificant rocky knob less than an acre in size, above the noisy agora and below the Acropolis. Here philosophers and other idle rich got away from the noise of the market and did “nothing other than listen to new ideas.” Here Paul gave his famous address with this opening: “I noticed how religious you are when I saw an altar to the unknown god.” He told them who this unknown (to them) God was—this novel religion— much to their delight - until he mentioned the resurrection. A few believed, some wanted to hear more the next day, while most rejected it as nonsense. Thus Paul wrote that the Greeks seek wisdom while rejecting the wisdom of God as foolishness, even though in truth it is the power of God to salvation.
The rocks on Mars Hill are worn so smooth it was treacherous for those of us who ignored instructions to use the modern walkway. Our most senior man had to be assisted over the top to a place where we could safely stand for George’s expostulation. The wind was strong, with gusts up to 20 mph, against which the bright sun was no match.
After a bus ride of nearly two hours we crossed the isthmus to the Peloponnesus where Sparta once held sway. There is a canal 25 feet deep and 80 wide, dug a century ago to replace a portage of four miles over which horses once dragged small ships.
At Corinth we held another communion service at which Dale gave a moving message. Corinth is very much ruins, with only a few small “shops” still standing in the agora. The temple remains are few and have not been rebuilt. We saw where Paul would have gone to the synagogue and then to the magistrate. He spent a fruitful 18 months there doing awning business with Priscilla and Aquila. (Tents were made of skins by the soldiers themselves, so Paul's trade would have been in canvass-type goods for civilian use. A museum shows many of the artifacts. Again—more marvelous marble.
As we headed back, George gave us the surprise bonus which was not on the tour itinerary—Kenchrea (Cenchrea). This small port city is where Paul would have embarked to go to Ephesus in 41 AD. A church was built on the site of the wharves in the 5th century. But an earthquake toppled it some time later and it was never rebuilt.
The splendid works in marble, still showing signs of glory after more than 2000 years, all either in ruins or in mute testimony to a religion and way of life that has no pulse today. Marble, yes, but no longer marvelous. For the things that are unseen are alone eternal.
And this God that Paul preached about so long ago is present everywhere, in heaven and earth. As Dale said, your self cannot be found anywhere in your bodily tissues, yet you are present in every part nonetheless. So God cannot be found in any part of the universe yet is present in every part. We do not have to go to any lengths by means of religious ritual to find him, for he is present everywhere always. All we need to do is open our hearts to him and he will enter in an instant, just as air enters the lungs when we stop holding our breath. This is more wonderful than anything captured in marble.
“How wonderful, how marvelous and my song shall ever be.
How wonderful, how marvelous is my Savior’s love to me.” -- Fanny Crosby, 19th century hymnwriter
Marble is wondrous material for building and sculpting, no doubt about that. And there is plenty of it in the mountains of Greece.
Now see if you can believe what George told us when someone asked how the ancients transported massive blocks of marble so many miles.
“The raw marble was quarried out in huge cylinders with some thing like rims on the ends. The skid roads were built with a groove (like a gutter) on each side. So when the cylinders were placed onto the road they would transport themselves by gravity from the mountains to the plain where Athens is located.”
OK. I’ll buy that. We think hese guys were primitive. But that's not at all the case. They were great engineers!
And it is a gleaming white marble here. So the sun glinted off the monuments with a dazzling brilliance that must have been overwhelmingly impressive. Plus the statues were painted, often with gold trim.
Yesterday we noticed another element that comes to Athens from mountains far away. Water. Sluiceways and aqueducts, some open and some closed run for over 100 miles from mountain lakes, coursing up and down the hills by gravity pressure, making this city’s water drinkable. And a lot of water is needed for the four millions living here in Greater Athens. It reminds me of waterways around Phoenix, AZ.
Now, the big attraction in Athens is the Acropolis—the highest point in the city, much as the City of Zion (Temple Mount) was to ancient Jerusalem. The gods always get the best spot.
And the mesa upon which the Temple of Athena is built is much larger than I would have expected from the photos we’ve all seen of this temple—more than 10 acres, I estimate. To one side is the first temple—a modest one built in the 8th century BC. But in the 5th century this grand temple was built, during the lifetime of Socrates. The chief engineer was genius enough to know that that the base needed to be slightly bowed in order to look straight to the eye, And he made the columns thicker in the middle than at top and bottom so that they would not appear to be leaning outward. All in marble.
There are cranes and scaffolds there now and the buzz of many workers as reconstruction goes on, using recovered stones where possible and new ones as necessary. The original temple was destroyed by the Persians in revenge for their defeat in the naval battle oif Salamis. (The general was told by the oracle that Athens could be saved by wooden walls, which he interpreted as ships. He built three oar-deck triremes that were much faster and cold change direction quicker than Persain sailing vessels. They also had a protruding bronze battering ram just below the surface enabling them to ram the enemy ships and sink them by the hundreds!) It would be left for Alexander to get the final word in as he swept through Persia and all the way to India, before turning back to Egypt, thus conquering the world as it was then known to the Greeks.
To the south of the temple area is an amphitheatre where the great dramatists Aristophanes, Euripedes and Aeschylus put on the blockbusters of the day. George opines that drama of that scale and quality was not seen in Europe again until Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre productions.
The north is the agora—sort of an outdoor shopping mall, not far from the court where Socrates was tried before a jury of 501 peers. This was not in a building but on what amounts to a public commons. Athens was a pure democracy—all the enfranchised citizens (adult male freemen) debated and voted on all the laws. Juries were chosen by a lottery where citizens had a certain color ball. Randomly certain rows of balls were chosen and those determined which citizens were on jury duty for that trial.
But our focus is on Mars Hill, an insignificant rocky knob less than an acre in size, above the noisy agora and below the Acropolis. Here philosophers and other idle rich got away from the noise of the market and did “nothing other than listen to new ideas.” Here Paul gave his famous address with this opening: “I noticed how religious you are when I saw an altar to the unknown god.” He told them who this unknown (to them) God was—this novel religion— much to their delight - until he mentioned the resurrection. A few believed, some wanted to hear more the next day, while most rejected it as nonsense. Thus Paul wrote that the Greeks seek wisdom while rejecting the wisdom of God as foolishness, even though in truth it is the power of God to salvation.
The rocks on Mars Hill are worn so smooth it was treacherous for those of us who ignored instructions to use the modern walkway. Our most senior man had to be assisted over the top to a place where we could safely stand for George’s expostulation. The wind was strong, with gusts up to 20 mph, against which the bright sun was no match.
After a bus ride of nearly two hours we crossed the isthmus to the Peloponnesus where Sparta once held sway. There is a canal 25 feet deep and 80 wide, dug a century ago to replace a portage of four miles over which horses once dragged small ships.
At Corinth we held another communion service at which Dale gave a moving message. Corinth is very much ruins, with only a few small “shops” still standing in the agora. The temple remains are few and have not been rebuilt. We saw where Paul would have gone to the synagogue and then to the magistrate. He spent a fruitful 18 months there doing awning business with Priscilla and Aquila. (Tents were made of skins by the soldiers themselves, so Paul's trade would have been in canvass-type goods for civilian use. A museum shows many of the artifacts. Again—more marvelous marble.
As we headed back, George gave us the surprise bonus which was not on the tour itinerary—Kenchrea (Cenchrea). This small port city is where Paul would have embarked to go to Ephesus in 41 AD. A church was built on the site of the wharves in the 5th century. But an earthquake toppled it some time later and it was never rebuilt.
The splendid works in marble, still showing signs of glory after more than 2000 years, all either in ruins or in mute testimony to a religion and way of life that has no pulse today. Marble, yes, but no longer marvelous. For the things that are unseen are alone eternal.
And this God that Paul preached about so long ago is present everywhere, in heaven and earth. As Dale said, your self cannot be found anywhere in your bodily tissues, yet you are present in every part nonetheless. So God cannot be found in any part of the universe yet is present in every part. We do not have to go to any lengths by means of religious ritual to find him, for he is present everywhere always. All we need to do is open our hearts to him and he will enter in an instant, just as air enters the lungs when we stop holding our breath. This is more wonderful than anything captured in marble.
“How wonderful, how marvelous and my song shall ever be.
How wonderful, how marvelous is my Savior’s love to me.” -- Fanny Crosby, 19th century hymnwriter
The Oracles of God
Tuesday, March 13, 2007 breaks clear and sunny, lighting the mountains surrounding Karbala. Our coffee stop is nearly two hours down the road—a sparkling expansive hall with window walls on three sides. Pastries and lattes, even salads beckon us. But what I hear calling me is the ice cream counter. After nearly a week of fasting, I treat myself to a cup of delicious vanilla and one of caramel cream. If I were to apply for the ancient position of "oracle priest" this would be the inspiration of choice for me.
We are soon heading for the most famous of all the oracles of god: Delphee. But first our coach must climb a long series of switchbacks to traverse the ridge of mountains of Pindar. Rising far and high are many snow-laden peaks and cols to our north and west. Mountain villages are supported by the mining of bauxite, which, as you know, provides us with aluminium. There are summer cottages here, too, for many come from neighboring Bulgaria (a hundred miles north) as well a Romania and other European countries.
George explains that in Greece there are four levels of property purchase. 1. the house where you will raise your family and carry on your occupation or profession. 2. A summer cottage on the seashore. 3. A winter cabin for skiing. 4. Purchasing a house for your children when they marry. Since the first house is given you by your parents, you are free from that burden. Then when you are established in life and making good money you can more easily handle 2, 3, and 4. So your kids get a nice house - from you!
Delphi fascinates. Here’s what George told us.
A shepherd, grazing sheep high on the steep slopes here noticed that the animals acted strange every time they went by a certain place. (Psychoactive, I think we would call it now.) Soon people began to come to consult priests as a cult began. This was before the 7th century BC.
There’s no business like show business, they say. And religion here soon found that this was a sacred place. You see, Zeus released two eagles at the creation of the Earth. They flew from opposite directions. Their paths crossed here at Delphi—ergo, the center of the world—its navel (omphalos). A holy place where the gods could speak to men and reveal the future soon found international attention.
Emissaries would come from as far away as distant Greek city states and even Persia and Egypt, hoping to find out whether it would be propitious to go to war, for example. Over time new elements were added. A temple of Apollo was erected with a large statue of the god inside the temple. Only priests were admitted there, so there are no descriptions of that sculpture. Outside, an altar was built where seekers brought their animals for sacrifice. There was such heavy traffic that devotees waited several months before their turn came, except for one city-state (Iona?) that donated a building and went to the head of the line each time.
The priests would come to the altar before the temple and sacrifice the animal, often a bull, and then cut it up and roast it over a fire. If the smoke went up in a straight column it meant the prayer was granted.
Soon city states began to build treasuries to hold the money people from their city donated. This served as a bench mark for the currency, like a gold standard. The one for Athens has been reconstructed. It is about 20 by 15 feet, all marble. Some of the Ionian columns for the temple are still standing over 2000 years later.
The entrance where the worshippers began their ascent to the temple was lined with statues of heroes from the wars. Thebes beat Athens, so they got a dozen statues, then Athens beat another city and got their dozen and so on. There were scores erected along the first 50 paces of the entrance.
The female oracle would chew on leaves and sit over the smoke of the fire until she began to speak in strange tongues. Only the priests could listen and figure out what the message was. The poatrons waited fomr several nobnths for their answer. Meanwhile the Delphic priests had "reporters" out in the far countries gathering inetelligence to help craft their crafty prophecies and waited for thie spies to return with the data they needed. The final message was often ambiguous: the Greeks the Persians will defeat. Or, the king who crosses the Hyla River will destroy a great nation. It the latter case the king crossed only to find it was his great nation that was destroyed.
This oracle was so powerful that no one dared to attack the sacred site. That’s why states built their treasuries there. It was a neutral zone.
Every two years athletes from all Greece would come here to compete. There are ruins of the gymnasium, as well as a large stadium. By the way, the Greek word “gymna” means “naked.” Think of that when you go the gymnasium, (It also explains why deciduous trees are gymnosperms, if I recall.) These contests were held only every two years because it is a great distance from the various states. The Olympic games were every four years because Mount Olympus (Zeus' home is even more remote.
What is incredible is that in 1878 an archeologist came looking for the Delphic Temple. Coming to this remote site, he noticed that the foundation stones of some of the few houses here had inscriptions on them—in full view—that contained the word “Dephi” on every one, as they were records of the various prophecies given to various states. None of the locals paid any attention to these inscriptions! Soon the villagers were moved to other locations and excavations began, recovering these treasures that go back 27 centuries.
Of course the site had been abandoned after Emperor Theodosius, Christian, closed the place down in the late fourth century. In some locations basilicas were built on pagan sites. But this one was simply abandoned and fell to ruin.
We also toured a museum on the grounds where many of the statues are elegantly presented.
With all this excitement, time slipped by. We went for lunch at 3 p.m. I sat out in the sun and peeled two boiled eggs I pocketed at breakfast. We had our Bible study by Pastor Robin Jenkins before heading off on the two hour journey to Athens.
All societies try to find a way to peek into the future. But to the Jews were given the oracles of God and to no other. And mercifully, that God keeps the details to Himself.
It was well after dark when we pulled in to the hotel. The Acropolis was lit up about a mile away. But that story will have to wait until tomorrow.
We are soon heading for the most famous of all the oracles of god: Delphee. But first our coach must climb a long series of switchbacks to traverse the ridge of mountains of Pindar. Rising far and high are many snow-laden peaks and cols to our north and west. Mountain villages are supported by the mining of bauxite, which, as you know, provides us with aluminium. There are summer cottages here, too, for many come from neighboring Bulgaria (a hundred miles north) as well a Romania and other European countries.
George explains that in Greece there are four levels of property purchase. 1. the house where you will raise your family and carry on your occupation or profession. 2. A summer cottage on the seashore. 3. A winter cabin for skiing. 4. Purchasing a house for your children when they marry. Since the first house is given you by your parents, you are free from that burden. Then when you are established in life and making good money you can more easily handle 2, 3, and 4. So your kids get a nice house - from you!
Delphi fascinates. Here’s what George told us.
A shepherd, grazing sheep high on the steep slopes here noticed that the animals acted strange every time they went by a certain place. (Psychoactive, I think we would call it now.) Soon people began to come to consult priests as a cult began. This was before the 7th century BC.
There’s no business like show business, they say. And religion here soon found that this was a sacred place. You see, Zeus released two eagles at the creation of the Earth. They flew from opposite directions. Their paths crossed here at Delphi—ergo, the center of the world—its navel (omphalos). A holy place where the gods could speak to men and reveal the future soon found international attention.
Emissaries would come from as far away as distant Greek city states and even Persia and Egypt, hoping to find out whether it would be propitious to go to war, for example. Over time new elements were added. A temple of Apollo was erected with a large statue of the god inside the temple. Only priests were admitted there, so there are no descriptions of that sculpture. Outside, an altar was built where seekers brought their animals for sacrifice. There was such heavy traffic that devotees waited several months before their turn came, except for one city-state (Iona?) that donated a building and went to the head of the line each time.
The priests would come to the altar before the temple and sacrifice the animal, often a bull, and then cut it up and roast it over a fire. If the smoke went up in a straight column it meant the prayer was granted.
Soon city states began to build treasuries to hold the money people from their city donated. This served as a bench mark for the currency, like a gold standard. The one for Athens has been reconstructed. It is about 20 by 15 feet, all marble. Some of the Ionian columns for the temple are still standing over 2000 years later.
The entrance where the worshippers began their ascent to the temple was lined with statues of heroes from the wars. Thebes beat Athens, so they got a dozen statues, then Athens beat another city and got their dozen and so on. There were scores erected along the first 50 paces of the entrance.
The female oracle would chew on leaves and sit over the smoke of the fire until she began to speak in strange tongues. Only the priests could listen and figure out what the message was. The poatrons waited fomr several nobnths for their answer. Meanwhile the Delphic priests had "reporters" out in the far countries gathering inetelligence to help craft their crafty prophecies and waited for thie spies to return with the data they needed. The final message was often ambiguous: the Greeks the Persians will defeat. Or, the king who crosses the Hyla River will destroy a great nation. It the latter case the king crossed only to find it was his great nation that was destroyed.
This oracle was so powerful that no one dared to attack the sacred site. That’s why states built their treasuries there. It was a neutral zone.
Every two years athletes from all Greece would come here to compete. There are ruins of the gymnasium, as well as a large stadium. By the way, the Greek word “gymna” means “naked.” Think of that when you go the gymnasium, (It also explains why deciduous trees are gymnosperms, if I recall.) These contests were held only every two years because it is a great distance from the various states. The Olympic games were every four years because Mount Olympus (Zeus' home is even more remote.
What is incredible is that in 1878 an archeologist came looking for the Delphic Temple. Coming to this remote site, he noticed that the foundation stones of some of the few houses here had inscriptions on them—in full view—that contained the word “Dephi” on every one, as they were records of the various prophecies given to various states. None of the locals paid any attention to these inscriptions! Soon the villagers were moved to other locations and excavations began, recovering these treasures that go back 27 centuries.
Of course the site had been abandoned after Emperor Theodosius, Christian, closed the place down in the late fourth century. In some locations basilicas were built on pagan sites. But this one was simply abandoned and fell to ruin.
We also toured a museum on the grounds where many of the statues are elegantly presented.
With all this excitement, time slipped by. We went for lunch at 3 p.m. I sat out in the sun and peeled two boiled eggs I pocketed at breakfast. We had our Bible study by Pastor Robin Jenkins before heading off on the two hour journey to Athens.
All societies try to find a way to peek into the future. But to the Jews were given the oracles of God and to no other. And mercifully, that God keeps the details to Himself.
It was well after dark when we pulled in to the hotel. The Acropolis was lit up about a mile away. But that story will have to wait until tomorrow.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Wake up! We'll Miss the Bus!
“Quick, wake up—we’ve overslept and we’re going to be late!”
Dale and I scramble out bed to shave and shower. I had expected to be at the dining room first thing before all the good chow gets gobbled up. Now we are 30 minutes late!
Not to worry. What a buffet! Breads galore. Meat and cheese. Eggs, omelets, sausage, hot tomatoes, waffles, croissants, jams and jellies. Yogurt, fruits of all kinds, granola, coffee cakes, juices, milk, coffee, tea and on and on. Several of us stuff a boiled egg in our pocket for lunch.
It’s drizzling as we make our way to the bus. But two hours later we enjoy some weak sunshine and 48 to 50 degree temperatures.
But that’s not needed. We have lunch at the seaport of ancient Neapolis where Paul’s entourage docked and he stepped foot for the first time in Europe—about 47 A.D. Now it’s Kavala (renamed by the occupying Turks 500 years ago as a place where you changed horses (our word cavalry comes from that root) with 80,000 inhabitants. The “tarverna” has fresh sea food, plus all other Greek goodies. Mmmm.
The houses cling to steep hillsides, topped by a medieval fort with the Greek flag straight out in the wind. In the harbor we are sheltered as we watch fishing boats head out to the Aegean Sea.
It is Sabbato here—Sunday. All the stores in Greece still close for Sunday—one benign influence of the powerful Greek Orthodox Church. But restaurants and hotels are busy.
For our worship observance, the pastor of the large group we are with (St. Francis in the Field Episcopal, near Louisville) conducts a Eucharistic service by the babbling small river where St. Paul baptized the first European—a businesswoman named Lydia. It is unspoiled, a few dozen yards from a small church in a field next to a derelict Roman cemetery. There are five rows of stone benches on the bank, since baptisms are done here today.
We go through a beautiful liturgy of prayers, the Nicene Creed, Scripture readings from the Letter to the Philippians, book-ended by two praise songs—Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God and one I know but the title escapes me. (Should have eaten more fish—I ordered fish soup at lunch, thinking I was getting the smaller—and cheaper bowl, but only the more expensive one had actual fish in it!)
Pastor Robin gave a few well-chosen words, followed by the bread and wine. We filed over a tiny arched bridge to the tiny island in the middle of the brook to receive the sacrament and back on a second arched a few yards upstream.
At the small church, I lit a candle, which one then props into the sand in the marble stand and proceeded to the center. It’s small, with a baptismal font in the center under an exquisite dome showing the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. Our guide, George, explains how infants are baptized here. The priest spreads olive oil over the baby’s body, he immerses it in the water, having first cut a snip of hair from its head, representing the break with the sins of our ancestors. Then he and the godfather walk around the font showing the child to all the family and friends, rejoicing in a new life given to God. George is also a cantor and sings a sample of the liturgy enhanced by the acoustics of this marble sanctuary.
Philippi’s Romans ruins run across wild lands where sheep and goats now graze. We stand on the “stage” of the modest sized Amphitheatre—always built on a convenient hillside so the stone benches rise naturally. There are pillars and pediments lying about. Many are numbered and set on wood racks ready to be used again. They are restoring the area, using original and new marble blocks. They are linked together the same way as in Roman times—matching opposite slots are filled with molten lead, thus preventing shifting due to frost and earthquakes, to which the region is prone. (There was a 6.6 quake here in 1978.)
Nearby is the ruin of a Byzantine church, with part of the steps to the altar, an area of marble flooring, and a couple of columns standing vigil. The actual jail in which Paul and Silas sang hymns while awaiting their appearance before the magistrate has been dug out partially. It was small—fifteen by twenty feet. Hardly what the artists present us in those Sunday school lessons we studied as kids.
To get to the agora we have to cross a busy road, fortunately equipped with a pedestrian light. Going down a flight of steps, we find ourselves on the Egnatian Way, built for Roman armies 50 years before the birth of Jesus. Unused now, it goes for miles and is not only recognizable but also in good shape. The stones are still flat enough to take horse and chariot. We did not see any during the brief time we were there. There are acres and acres of foundations and even many columns—one for the prefects quarters and another large triad left from the ruined church which was raised on the site of the Roman court building where Paul would have answered questions about the riot he was blamed for.
I muse how Roman times were not that many generations ago. I have known people born at the time of our Civil War. Ten more links like that and we are in the ancient world.
Being here helps to vivify the way people like ourselves did their work, raised their families and carried on the affairs of state. In that setting somehow the Gospel was brought by an unlikely person of Jewish birth—Saul of Tarsus, now Paul—the “little one,” who walked his way along these roads, looking for synagogues so he could share the Good News first with his countrymen. But here there were not to be found the 12 men needed for a synagogue. So he met some women on the banks of a small river just outside the city’s northeast wall, probably doing their laundry along the banks. This was the edge of town where people on the edge of society gossiped about the latest news from Rome.
And Lydia opened her heart and asked for baptism into this strange new faith. Because of her we who come from European stock have come to follow in the Way of Jesus.
That wake up call is still sounding in the world today, not only in Europe and the Americas, but in Asia and Africa, where countless Lydias open their hearts to the same message St. Paul brought to these hills nearly two millennia ago.
Dale and I scramble out bed to shave and shower. I had expected to be at the dining room first thing before all the good chow gets gobbled up. Now we are 30 minutes late!
Not to worry. What a buffet! Breads galore. Meat and cheese. Eggs, omelets, sausage, hot tomatoes, waffles, croissants, jams and jellies. Yogurt, fruits of all kinds, granola, coffee cakes, juices, milk, coffee, tea and on and on. Several of us stuff a boiled egg in our pocket for lunch.
It’s drizzling as we make our way to the bus. But two hours later we enjoy some weak sunshine and 48 to 50 degree temperatures.
But that’s not needed. We have lunch at the seaport of ancient Neapolis where Paul’s entourage docked and he stepped foot for the first time in Europe—about 47 A.D. Now it’s Kavala (renamed by the occupying Turks 500 years ago as a place where you changed horses (our word cavalry comes from that root) with 80,000 inhabitants. The “tarverna” has fresh sea food, plus all other Greek goodies. Mmmm.
The houses cling to steep hillsides, topped by a medieval fort with the Greek flag straight out in the wind. In the harbor we are sheltered as we watch fishing boats head out to the Aegean Sea.
It is Sabbato here—Sunday. All the stores in Greece still close for Sunday—one benign influence of the powerful Greek Orthodox Church. But restaurants and hotels are busy.
For our worship observance, the pastor of the large group we are with (St. Francis in the Field Episcopal, near Louisville) conducts a Eucharistic service by the babbling small river where St. Paul baptized the first European—a businesswoman named Lydia. It is unspoiled, a few dozen yards from a small church in a field next to a derelict Roman cemetery. There are five rows of stone benches on the bank, since baptisms are done here today.
We go through a beautiful liturgy of prayers, the Nicene Creed, Scripture readings from the Letter to the Philippians, book-ended by two praise songs—Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God and one I know but the title escapes me. (Should have eaten more fish—I ordered fish soup at lunch, thinking I was getting the smaller—and cheaper bowl, but only the more expensive one had actual fish in it!)
Pastor Robin gave a few well-chosen words, followed by the bread and wine. We filed over a tiny arched bridge to the tiny island in the middle of the brook to receive the sacrament and back on a second arched a few yards upstream.
At the small church, I lit a candle, which one then props into the sand in the marble stand and proceeded to the center. It’s small, with a baptismal font in the center under an exquisite dome showing the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. Our guide, George, explains how infants are baptized here. The priest spreads olive oil over the baby’s body, he immerses it in the water, having first cut a snip of hair from its head, representing the break with the sins of our ancestors. Then he and the godfather walk around the font showing the child to all the family and friends, rejoicing in a new life given to God. George is also a cantor and sings a sample of the liturgy enhanced by the acoustics of this marble sanctuary.
Philippi’s Romans ruins run across wild lands where sheep and goats now graze. We stand on the “stage” of the modest sized Amphitheatre—always built on a convenient hillside so the stone benches rise naturally. There are pillars and pediments lying about. Many are numbered and set on wood racks ready to be used again. They are restoring the area, using original and new marble blocks. They are linked together the same way as in Roman times—matching opposite slots are filled with molten lead, thus preventing shifting due to frost and earthquakes, to which the region is prone. (There was a 6.6 quake here in 1978.)
Nearby is the ruin of a Byzantine church, with part of the steps to the altar, an area of marble flooring, and a couple of columns standing vigil. The actual jail in which Paul and Silas sang hymns while awaiting their appearance before the magistrate has been dug out partially. It was small—fifteen by twenty feet. Hardly what the artists present us in those Sunday school lessons we studied as kids.
To get to the agora we have to cross a busy road, fortunately equipped with a pedestrian light. Going down a flight of steps, we find ourselves on the Egnatian Way, built for Roman armies 50 years before the birth of Jesus. Unused now, it goes for miles and is not only recognizable but also in good shape. The stones are still flat enough to take horse and chariot. We did not see any during the brief time we were there. There are acres and acres of foundations and even many columns—one for the prefects quarters and another large triad left from the ruined church which was raised on the site of the Roman court building where Paul would have answered questions about the riot he was blamed for.
I muse how Roman times were not that many generations ago. I have known people born at the time of our Civil War. Ten more links like that and we are in the ancient world.
Being here helps to vivify the way people like ourselves did their work, raised their families and carried on the affairs of state. In that setting somehow the Gospel was brought by an unlikely person of Jewish birth—Saul of Tarsus, now Paul—the “little one,” who walked his way along these roads, looking for synagogues so he could share the Good News first with his countrymen. But here there were not to be found the 12 men needed for a synagogue. So he met some women on the banks of a small river just outside the city’s northeast wall, probably doing their laundry along the banks. This was the edge of town where people on the edge of society gossiped about the latest news from Rome.
And Lydia opened her heart and asked for baptism into this strange new faith. Because of her we who come from European stock have come to follow in the Way of Jesus.
That wake up call is still sounding in the world today, not only in Europe and the Americas, but in Asia and Africa, where countless Lydias open their hearts to the same message St. Paul brought to these hills nearly two millennia ago.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
A Smile Is a Beautiful Thing
When will this cold spell end? Very seldom did the mercury rise above freezing over the last six weeks in Haverhill. Does some power know we are in trouble from global warming and is helping us out with an extended season of arctic blasts?
Ellie and I ventured out for our daily walk at 7 a.m. since I would be otherwise letting my blood pool in lower extremities (I have two such) over 11 hours of flying. Not good for the heart.
Temp: 2 below zero. Brisk!
By 9 o’clock I have packed the luggage, assigned Dale Brown to the single way-back seat, and ushered the three women to the middle seat— Marilyn Allison, Jackie Chechowitz and Priscilla Hubley. Pastor Dale prays for safe travel. Turn up the car heat and Peter Ottes heads us east into the morning sun to deliver us to Logan.
The Conair/Delta shuttle is automated now, in the old Eastern Airlines concourse. Dale taps the touch screen a few times and – voila –all our names appear like magic. We are recognized!
Now think—this is a shuttle. Highly competitive no frills transport. When they open the gate, we go down on escalators to the tarmac, walk through a canopied tunnel, and then mount the steps to the plane. I haven’t done this in THIS country since 1955. It’s so Third World. And the plane is four abreast with 13 rows and tiny overhead lockers. I take my window seat. Dale slides in beside me.
In a minute a lovely young black woman informs Dale. “I have seat 7B—you are in my place.” “O no, replies the good parson,” showing his boarding pass. The flight attendant comes down to sort it out. She puzzles a while. It is 7B. (Light bulb*) “Mam, you are booked for the flight to Orlando!” She apologizes to Dale and squeezes upstream to walk the tarmac in another direction.
41 minutes in the air and we are JFK. Time for something eat by the time we fetch our luggage (first on last off for luggage, you know) and walk to Terminal 1.
Did you know McD’s has a chicken wrap sandwich now? We saved on our junk food limit enough to top off the meal with McD’s ice cream cones! It’s the last decent ice cream we are likely to see for awhile.
At JFK another screening drill. Marilyn for the second time is taken out for close inspection. That hip replacement of last summer makes the scan shriek. The rest of us have no problem, but a guy in the line with his arm in a sling makes the HUGE error of lipping off at the screener, who brooks no effrontery. He blows up big time. Soon a bunch of officers are in his face. “You will answer the questions or you will proceed no further!” Next they sit him down give him the third degree and finally allow him, properly chastened, to pass through.
On the boarding tunnel I quip, “So why are any of us going to Greece this time of year?” The couple next to me: “We’re going on the ‘footsteps of St. Paul tour.’” So here a few introductions start as we fly with 20 Episcopalians from “Lou-ah-vul” who are pilgrimaging with “Pastor Robin and his wife.”
THEN – the stewardess (oops, scratch that!) flight attendant who couldn’t smile. She was efficient. She knew her job. She never spilled on anyone. She was blonde (and some besides her hair-dresser DO know). But she just could not smile. Serving our aisle drinks several times, along with two meals, plus checking seat belts—lots of contact here. But not even one measly smile. We all know these girls (oops again!) ladies train long and hard. We know they are chosen for people skills. So what’s up with this one? Maybe its one those bad days?
I’ve been training myself lately not to judge people. So maybe she is in pain. Maybe the brass just gave her a notice. Maybe a loved one just died. I do not know—that’s for sure. So I’m letting it GO! It hasn’t diminished my experience at all. Why not think the best, offer a prayer for her, and cut her some slack as we used to say? She wasn’t at the door when we deplaned. So I smile at the other crew and mumble my gratitude We had a smooth flight and silky landing. I have nothing to complain about. So I don’t.
Then why am I writing about her? (I’ll rationalize to make myself feel better.) A smile is a beautiful thing. Whenever you can spare one, spare it. A smile can save a relationship; it can save a situation. It can save the day. It can even, sometimes, save a life. I need to keep smiling.
You know what it’s like to doze a dozen times on a long night flight? Dawn breaks over the Alps. I seen them before and it’s still awesome.
Athens by 8 .a.m. As we come through passport checkpoint Dale sees his name held up by a guy in black. Ari welcomes us and leads us to the next terminal for our flight to Thessaloniki.
Our hour-long hop north to Thessaloniki presents me with view of Mt Olympus, home of Zeus and his coterie of gods and goddesses, swelling up, snow-capped, above the clouds.
Soon our guide, George, escorts us to a bronze coach, German made, that looks like we are the first to be in it. New car smell. Windows with not a smudge or speck. Gleaming. We sit a good eight feet above the road.
Christoph, our driver, pulls this beauty through streets about the width of those in Boston’s North End. The rig turns almost in its own radius and obviously he knows where the “fenders” are. We all clap after a couple of his moves. This guy is good! I’d like to have a drive-off competition between him and Bill Hopkins, also a coach driver par excellence.
The afternoon stops.
1. A museum with great artifacts about the history of Macedonia—the homeland of Aristotle and his famous pupil, Alexander the Grape.
2. A monastery built in the 6th century over a holy site purported to be where Jason’s home was. See Acts for the story of how Jason got caught in a riot for housing Paul’s entourage. “Those who are troubling the whole world have come here, too!”
3. An orthodox church (also 6th century), the second oldest church in Greece, where George’s father is a priest. George sang a few bars from the liturgy to demonstrate the acoustics. What a voice; what a sound, surrounded by ancient mosaics of the ascension of Christ amid the apostles, plus the usual sumptuous gilded icons.
Our hotel is also brand new – a five star for sure, with free internet in every room. An hour to freshen up before an elegant dinner awaits us at 7:30.
So now it’s time for lights out and a REAL bed to sleep in.
I bid goodnight to you.
And remember, a smile is a beautiful thing—whenever you can spare one.
Ellie and I ventured out for our daily walk at 7 a.m. since I would be otherwise letting my blood pool in lower extremities (I have two such) over 11 hours of flying. Not good for the heart.
Temp: 2 below zero. Brisk!
By 9 o’clock I have packed the luggage, assigned Dale Brown to the single way-back seat, and ushered the three women to the middle seat— Marilyn Allison, Jackie Chechowitz and Priscilla Hubley. Pastor Dale prays for safe travel. Turn up the car heat and Peter Ottes heads us east into the morning sun to deliver us to Logan.
The Conair/Delta shuttle is automated now, in the old Eastern Airlines concourse. Dale taps the touch screen a few times and – voila –all our names appear like magic. We are recognized!
Now think—this is a shuttle. Highly competitive no frills transport. When they open the gate, we go down on escalators to the tarmac, walk through a canopied tunnel, and then mount the steps to the plane. I haven’t done this in THIS country since 1955. It’s so Third World. And the plane is four abreast with 13 rows and tiny overhead lockers. I take my window seat. Dale slides in beside me.
In a minute a lovely young black woman informs Dale. “I have seat 7B—you are in my place.” “O no, replies the good parson,” showing his boarding pass. The flight attendant comes down to sort it out. She puzzles a while. It is 7B. (Light bulb*) “Mam, you are booked for the flight to Orlando!” She apologizes to Dale and squeezes upstream to walk the tarmac in another direction.
41 minutes in the air and we are JFK. Time for something eat by the time we fetch our luggage (first on last off for luggage, you know) and walk to Terminal 1.
Did you know McD’s has a chicken wrap sandwich now? We saved on our junk food limit enough to top off the meal with McD’s ice cream cones! It’s the last decent ice cream we are likely to see for awhile.
At JFK another screening drill. Marilyn for the second time is taken out for close inspection. That hip replacement of last summer makes the scan shriek. The rest of us have no problem, but a guy in the line with his arm in a sling makes the HUGE error of lipping off at the screener, who brooks no effrontery. He blows up big time. Soon a bunch of officers are in his face. “You will answer the questions or you will proceed no further!” Next they sit him down give him the third degree and finally allow him, properly chastened, to pass through.
On the boarding tunnel I quip, “So why are any of us going to Greece this time of year?” The couple next to me: “We’re going on the ‘footsteps of St. Paul tour.’” So here a few introductions start as we fly with 20 Episcopalians from “Lou-ah-vul” who are pilgrimaging with “Pastor Robin and his wife.”
THEN – the stewardess (oops, scratch that!) flight attendant who couldn’t smile. She was efficient. She knew her job. She never spilled on anyone. She was blonde (and some besides her hair-dresser DO know). But she just could not smile. Serving our aisle drinks several times, along with two meals, plus checking seat belts—lots of contact here. But not even one measly smile. We all know these girls (oops again!) ladies train long and hard. We know they are chosen for people skills. So what’s up with this one? Maybe its one those bad days?
I’ve been training myself lately not to judge people. So maybe she is in pain. Maybe the brass just gave her a notice. Maybe a loved one just died. I do not know—that’s for sure. So I’m letting it GO! It hasn’t diminished my experience at all. Why not think the best, offer a prayer for her, and cut her some slack as we used to say? She wasn’t at the door when we deplaned. So I smile at the other crew and mumble my gratitude We had a smooth flight and silky landing. I have nothing to complain about. So I don’t.
Then why am I writing about her? (I’ll rationalize to make myself feel better.) A smile is a beautiful thing. Whenever you can spare one, spare it. A smile can save a relationship; it can save a situation. It can save the day. It can even, sometimes, save a life. I need to keep smiling.
You know what it’s like to doze a dozen times on a long night flight? Dawn breaks over the Alps. I seen them before and it’s still awesome.
Athens by 8 .a.m. As we come through passport checkpoint Dale sees his name held up by a guy in black. Ari welcomes us and leads us to the next terminal for our flight to Thessaloniki.
Our hour-long hop north to Thessaloniki presents me with view of Mt Olympus, home of Zeus and his coterie of gods and goddesses, swelling up, snow-capped, above the clouds.
Soon our guide, George, escorts us to a bronze coach, German made, that looks like we are the first to be in it. New car smell. Windows with not a smudge or speck. Gleaming. We sit a good eight feet above the road.
Christoph, our driver, pulls this beauty through streets about the width of those in Boston’s North End. The rig turns almost in its own radius and obviously he knows where the “fenders” are. We all clap after a couple of his moves. This guy is good! I’d like to have a drive-off competition between him and Bill Hopkins, also a coach driver par excellence.
The afternoon stops.
1. A museum with great artifacts about the history of Macedonia—the homeland of Aristotle and his famous pupil, Alexander the Grape.
2. A monastery built in the 6th century over a holy site purported to be where Jason’s home was. See Acts for the story of how Jason got caught in a riot for housing Paul’s entourage. “Those who are troubling the whole world have come here, too!”
3. An orthodox church (also 6th century), the second oldest church in Greece, where George’s father is a priest. George sang a few bars from the liturgy to demonstrate the acoustics. What a voice; what a sound, surrounded by ancient mosaics of the ascension of Christ amid the apostles, plus the usual sumptuous gilded icons.
Our hotel is also brand new – a five star for sure, with free internet in every room. An hour to freshen up before an elegant dinner awaits us at 7:30.
So now it’s time for lights out and a REAL bed to sleep in.
I bid goodnight to you.
And remember, a smile is a beautiful thing—whenever you can spare one.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
On a jet plane
“When that April with her sweet breath
The desiccating winds of March
Has pierced to the root,
Then go the Faithful on pilgrimages.”
Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer
Descendants of the Mayflower Pilgrims by birth or by creed, five of us faithful trust our bags and our lives to the coach drivers of the sky. And more especially to God, master of all in the air, on land, and sea.
We pledge our lives and sacred honor (having already exhausted our treasure) to represent God and country abroad. This is not easy.
I am reminded of an American missionary couple, on research leave in England, decided to dress in black and be sure to leave baseball cap and Patriots paraphernalia in the closet as they went out to dine at a local pub in Leeds. In England to be known as an American is to invite unwanted political arguments about Bush and Iraq. And they just wanted a bit of peace away from the kids for few hours. Who comes in the door but a guy in shorts, baseball cap, and loud shirt. “I wonder where he’s from? Let’s just hope he doesn’t come in our direction!”
So we will behave ourselves as much five no-longer-young people can—with one who really never got much beyond the teens, saying, “growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional!”
Friends have offered their o-so-helpful tips. How to say “hello” and “how are you” in Greek. And how to reply: “Kala!” That’s the only one my brain brings to my screen a day later. (Pathetic!) And that one is the same as for Ancient Greek I learned in college and seminary, meaning, “Good!” (Or “Well!” if you are a stickler for grammar which most people ain’t these days.)
“Try Greek yogurt – it’s so much better than ours.” “Don’t forget the olives, either.” “ Feta cheese”—the list goes on. Hey—I just eat food, I don’t think about it too much. If it tastes good, that’s all I need. Plus volume, of course. Hey—I’m a guy. What can I say?
I think I’ll like rooming with Dale, cuz he eats like a bird so I’ll likely get some extras here and there. But I/m even cheaper than I am voracious. I plan to gorge morning and night and skip lunch. Sound like a plan?
So my bags are packed, I’m ready to go—on a jet plane. It was my kids' era, but there might have been a song along those lines-during the hippie days, was it?
Thanks for all the good wishes and promised prayers.
Catch ya’ later!
The desiccating winds of March
Has pierced to the root,
Then go the Faithful on pilgrimages.”
Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer
Descendants of the Mayflower Pilgrims by birth or by creed, five of us faithful trust our bags and our lives to the coach drivers of the sky. And more especially to God, master of all in the air, on land, and sea.
We pledge our lives and sacred honor (having already exhausted our treasure) to represent God and country abroad. This is not easy.
I am reminded of an American missionary couple, on research leave in England, decided to dress in black and be sure to leave baseball cap and Patriots paraphernalia in the closet as they went out to dine at a local pub in Leeds. In England to be known as an American is to invite unwanted political arguments about Bush and Iraq. And they just wanted a bit of peace away from the kids for few hours. Who comes in the door but a guy in shorts, baseball cap, and loud shirt. “I wonder where he’s from? Let’s just hope he doesn’t come in our direction!”
So we will behave ourselves as much five no-longer-young people can—with one who really never got much beyond the teens, saying, “growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional!”
Friends have offered their o-so-helpful tips. How to say “hello” and “how are you” in Greek. And how to reply: “Kala!” That’s the only one my brain brings to my screen a day later. (Pathetic!) And that one is the same as for Ancient Greek I learned in college and seminary, meaning, “Good!” (Or “Well!” if you are a stickler for grammar which most people ain’t these days.)
“Try Greek yogurt – it’s so much better than ours.” “Don’t forget the olives, either.” “ Feta cheese”—the list goes on. Hey—I just eat food, I don’t think about it too much. If it tastes good, that’s all I need. Plus volume, of course. Hey—I’m a guy. What can I say?
I think I’ll like rooming with Dale, cuz he eats like a bird so I’ll likely get some extras here and there. But I/m even cheaper than I am voracious. I plan to gorge morning and night and skip lunch. Sound like a plan?
So my bags are packed, I’m ready to go—on a jet plane. It was my kids' era, but there might have been a song along those lines-during the hippie days, was it?
Thanks for all the good wishes and promised prayers.
Catch ya’ later!
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