Adoramus Te, Christe

One of my best friends lost his wife this past weekend. Her whole life she had a disease of the immune system, and she wasn't expected to live past childhood. She made it well into her thirties. Because of this disease, she wasn't able to bear children; after almost ten years of marriage, they decided to adopt a young orphan girl from Russia named Sasha. They had brought Sasha home only a few short months ago. Then Jenny took sick last week and passed away in the hospital on Saturday morning.

Like everyone else, Allison and I were/are heartbroken. I'm hoping to fly out in another week or two just to spend a few days with Matt. My grief is nothing compared to his, of course, but still I hurt for my friend and his young daughter for whom I'm certain that life is about to become very, very difficult. As I've been thinking and praying the past couple days, the ancient Catholic hymn has been flowing through my soul:


Adoramus te, Christe, et benedicimus tibi
Quia per sanctam crucem tuam redemisti mundum.

We adore You, O Christ, and we bless You
Because by Your holy cross You have redeemed the world.

[http://www.feastofsaints.com/adoramuste.htm]


The lyric is from an antiphon for Good Friday. The music is full of sorrow, with only a single triumphant moment. May light perpetual shine on you, Jenny. We say good-bye, believing in faith that when Jesus comes again there will be no more goodbyes.

The Nature and Dignity of Love (and Reason)

Last fall, I discovered a relatively unknown Cistercian monk of the 12th century (a friend and contemporary of Bernard of Clairvaux) named William of St. Thierry. He quickly became one of my absolute favorite theologians, and I wrote a major research paper on him for my Medieval Spirituality class at GCTS. Here is an excerpt from his work, On the Nature and Dignity of Love, in which he explains how he sees love and reason working together to lift us into deeper relationship with God. As far as I know, this is an idea completely original to William.

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"The sight for seeing God, the natural light of the soul therefore, created by the Author of nature, is charity. There are, however, two eyes in this sight, always throbbing by a sort of natural intensity to look toward the light that is God: love and reason. when one attempts to look without the others, it does not get far. When together they help one another, they can do much, that is, when they become the single eye of which the bridegroom in the Canticle says: 'You have wounded my heart, O my friend, with one of your eyes.'
In this they labor much, each in its own way, because one of them - reason - cannot see God except in what he is not, but love cannot bring itself to rest except in what he is. What is it that reason can apprehend or discover in its every attempt, about which it is bold to say: Is this my God? Reason is only able to discover what he is to the extent it discovers what he is not. Reason has its own set paths and straight ways by which it progresses. Love, however, advances more by its shortcomings and apprehends more by its ignorance. Reason, therefore, seems to advance through what God is not toward what God is. Love, putting aside what God is not, rejoices to loose itself in what he is. From him, love has come forth and it naturally aspires to its own beginning. Reason has the greater sobriety, love the greater happiness.
Nevertheless, as I have said, when they help one another - when reason teaches love and love enlightens reason, and reason merges into the affectus of love and love lets itself be confined within the limits of reason - then they can do great things. But what is it they can do? Just as anyone who progresses in this cannot progress and learn this except through his own experience, so also it could not be communicated to an inexperienced person. As it is said in the Book of Wisdom: 'In his joy the stranger shall not meddle.'"

A Day in Cairo, Part V

It was right around two-thirty when Emad and I parted ways, he to his home, and me back toward the Citadel. The main gate would just be re-opening after midday prayer. My water supply was restocked, which was good because I was really starting to feel the heat. I hadn't put any sunscreen on my arms, and I was now starting to wonder if that was a huge mistake. I was wearing a wide-brim hat and jeans, so only my arms had been open to the sun all day. But now my exposed skin was hot to the touch and quite red in color. I was mystified because my arms don't typically sunburn very badly and only at the beginning of the summer; of course, it was now almost the end of July. But Egypt is much closer to the equator (and hence the sun) than America, and the sun's heat much more intense.

I was starting to get tired as well, not just because of the heat, but because I had been carrying my very heavy backpack all day long. I figured I had probably walked a few miles already, plus I hadn't gotten any quality sleep in over two days. I climbed the hill up to the Citadel the second time and began walking the direction Emad had earlier indicated was toward the main gate. I had no earthly idea how large the Citadel actually was. I estimate it was another mile to reach the gate. I was so hot and so tired. I stopped to rest along the way, sitting down in a shady spot under a tree.

I was sitting by a busy street alongside a small neighborhood nestled beneath the bulwarks of the Citadel. As I was resting, several children came by, saying little but making it very clear that they wanted things. Surprisingly, the first boy asked for a pen instead of money. I didn't give him one. This is an all-too-familiar scenario to anyone who has traveled in the developing world, but this time something happened that I didn't expect. A man walked by, saw him pestering me, and in a chiding manner told him to leave me alone. What a remarkable gesture of cultural self-respect, I thought.

A few minutes later, two girls approached me, probably nine or ten years old. I was taken aback by their forwardness, as they simply walked up and, with any word of greeting, simply held out their hands with an impatient look on their faces. Clearly, they were accustomed to being given things by rich-looking white foreigners. I offered a greeting only. They were unmoved.

"Pen," said the more outspoken of the two.

"I do not have," I said. Well, that wasn't technically true, I did have some in my backpack, but I didn't want to fish them out. [For those who are untraveled, there are many reasons why succumbing to these kind of requests is a bad idea. For one, it enables behavior in children like what I've just described, but as I intimated earlier, it also undermines their own sense of cultural self-respect.]

The same girl spoke again. "Money." It was almost a demand.

I repeated myself, "I do not have."

This was a flat out lie, and she knew it. She gave me this look of scornful incredulity that really cut me to the quick. I couldn't believe myself. I've been in this very same scenario in my life many, many times. It's not like I don't know what to do. There are literally dozens of ways to handle this kind of situation with cultural sensitivity without resorting to actual lying. I was ashamed. Realizing they weren't going to get anything from me, the two girls ran off. But as they did, the second girl took a swing at the bottle of water I was holding. She didn't knock it out of my hands, but she was trying to. "I deserved that," I thought to myself.

Moments like these are one reason why I love cross-cultural experiences so much. When we are uncomfortable, we tend to do things we don't normally do. We are less pretentious, more honest, and behave in ways that more closely portray what's really going on inside us. In this case, I was shocked by these children who seemed to have no shame and just felt too tired and self-important to actually deal with them. So I dismissed them out-of-hand by escaping from the truth, and I got caught. With one swift motion of a hand, a young Egyptian girl had preached a sermon more piercing than any I had heard in church that whole year.

After this episode, I stood up and continued walking. By the time I reached the main gate to the Citadel, I was utterly exhausted and starting to get light-headed from the heat, the physical exertion, and the lack of sleep. Besides, it was three o'clock already, and I only had one hour left before I had to return to the airport. The Citadel has stood for 800 years, I figured it would wait a few more until I can return again. So I drank the rest of my water and flagged down a taxi.


Two hours later, after changing clothes in a tiny restroom stall at the end of the airport terminal, I sat down to wait for my flight and opened my laptop computer. It had been quite a day, the cultural highlight of the entire summer, and I wanted to capture as much of it as I could while the memories -- the people, the conversations -- were still fresh. As I sat, typing furiously, I noticed a curious thing. My arms were NOT sunburned! I couldn't believe it. They had simply felt like it earlier in the day because that's how hot my skin was from the direct sunlight. Then it dawned on me -- this was why Egyptians had been telling me all day long that most tourists come in January!

What a day! I hope to have many more like it, both in this life and in the life to come.

I'm sure I will.

A Day in Cairo, Part IV

Here a mosque, there a mosque, everywhere a mosque-mosque … that’s what it was like for the next forty-five minutes. Al-Muayyad mosque, Saleh Talaea mosque, Ishaqi mosque, Al-Maridani masque – oh, what’s this? the Razaz Palace ... cool! – Al-Aqsunqur mosque, Khaier Bek mosque, the famous "Blue Mosque" – whoa, another palace! – then up the hill to the stone wall. I had finally reached the Citadel. I knew the majestic Muhammed ‘Ali mosque was towering above me on the other side, because I had seen the spires from the road. But from the street, all I could see was wall – fortified battlements stacked 30 feet on top on each other. Impressive. I wonder what it must have seemed like when it was built 800 years ago. I walked out to the main square of the intersection, and everywhere I turned, I saw more really old stuff. The day was now in full heat, and I was starting to get hungry. I stopped in the shade to rest, drink water that was now warm from being in my steel canteen, and snapped several photos. I set off again around the south side of the Citadel to find the gate.

I was walking up the ramp to what I thought was an entrance when an Egyptian man stopped me. He introduced himself as Emad.

“You can’t go in this way anymore, the gate has been sealed. You have to go around to the other side to get in. However, it is closed for prayer now and won’t reopen until 2:30.”

“That’s fine,” I said, “I am actually looking a place to eat.”

His face brightened. “I know a place that is clean and has good food. You must eat at a place that is clean so you don’t get an upset stomach. Follow me.”

Back we walked in the direction from which I had just come, then we turned off into the annals of the neighborhood. We stopped in a restaurant that was very clean, just as he said, and the restauranteur brought out a salad with tomatoes of leafy green, rice, and kafta (a dish of meat served on a bed of chopped parsley). At first I thought it was lamb, but no.

“It’s camel,” the cook said.

My impromptu tour guide announced that he was going to sit at another table and let me eat in peace, but I insisted that he stay and talk to me. I apologized that I wasn’t able to pay for his meal, but he assured me he had already eaten lunch and didn’t want anything.

Emad, married with two daughters, had been a policeman in a former life, but financial hardship had forced him to change careers. He went to school to study law and had recently passed his exams to become a criminal lawyer. From the best I could tell, he was working as a sort of intern. He said he wouldn’t be able to start actually practicing law until the following year. Over lunch, I pumped him for information on navigating the taxi system in Cairo. I was concerned that perhaps I had paid too much on my earlier ride, but he reassured me that the price I had paid was fair. However, the rules were different returning to the airport than departing from the airport. With great amusement, I listened as he gave me instructions on how to get back to the airport. One does not often get such candid cultural advice from a near-stranger.

“You will go out to the Bab Zuwaila [the South Gate] and call a taxi. Tell him you want to go to the airport, and ask him how much. He will say, ‘Eighty pounds.’ You will say, ‘Fifty.’ He will say, ‘Seventy.” You will say, ‘Fifty.’ He will say, ‘Fifty.’ Then you will go.” He nodded his head to emphasize the final point. I smiled in recognition and thanked him profusely.

After eating, I would have returned to tour the Citadel, but Emad insisted on showing me the mosque in his neighborhood. It was the Al-Maridani mosque, built in the 14th century, one of the buildings I had passed earlier and stopped to photograph. He wanted to take me to meet the imam and climb the minaret, which he claimed offered the finest view of the entire city of Cairo. He said that the money donated to the mosque for such a tour would go to helping orphan children in the neighborhood. I'm sure he was telling the truth about this, given what I had already seen while walking through. It was a very short walk from the restaurant, no more than five minutes.

We arrived at the mosque and went into the "office" to meet the imam, who was exceedingly kind. We exchanged pleasantries, and I explained that I did have very many Egyptian pounds left and that I needed them to get back to the airport. He gladly exchanged my American dollars, and I made two deposits in the donation box, one for the mosque tour and one to climb the minaret. Emad proved an excellent tour guide, although he spoke rather quickly and it was difficult to catch everything he said. The mosque was extremely simple and very old, yet beautiful. The only ornamental color of any consequence was in some stained glass up in the dome, which was still original according to Emad. The glass was arranged in some kind of geometrical pattern and an Arabic inscription, both of which I can't recall. Not stunning, but elegant ... in a nostalgic sort of way. Looking up, I really felt like I had been transported back in time hundreds of years.

The stairs of the minaret at Al-Maridani rank among the most memorable spiral staircases I have ever climbed in my life (right up there with the Statue of Liberty and the Bunker Hill Monument in Boston). These were old and uneven steps, having survived centuries of use. I couldn't help myself; I felt childishly giddy as I followed Emad around those stairs to the top of the minaret, fifty feet or so above the street. Emad hadn't lied about the view. It wasn't the highest perch in the city, but the location was well clear of any tall buildings or other spires. I could see the entire city laid out beneath my feet, from the Citadel all the way to the Tower of Cairo along the Nile River. I took a few photos, but none of them captured the moment with ample justice. I looked around for ten minutes or so, so my eyes could soak up as much as possible. I felt a strange combination of thrill and sadness as we climbed back down.

This was the end of Emad's tour, and I paid him well for it. I reflected on what breath-taking experiences would have been missed had I traveled with an agency or simply visited the traditional tourist destinations. Instead, it had turned out that the Egyptians themselves had shown me their own city, offering me the best of their hospitality and charm, and nothing disappointed.

A Day in Cairo, Part III

It was 10:30am when I finally went back up that alley I had walked down three hours earlier, and I pulled the map out of my pocket for the first time. It took me about 30 minutes of observing and few blocks of walking before I was finally able to pinpoint my location. As is typical of a major Muslim city, there were mosques and minarets everywhere. Except here in Islamic Cairo, every single mosque I saw looked as old as the Tower of London. I later learned that most were not quite that old, but many date back 500 years or more. I found a building that looked particularly interesting, asked the police outside if there was a fee (who promptly waved me in), and went inside. At this point I didn’t yet realize it was a mosque, so I received a “hissing at” (African way of getting someone’s attention) and was reminded to remove my shoes.

It turns out I had stumbled into the mosque named Al-Azhar, the oldest Sunni (thank you, Sam, for correcting me) mosque in the Islamic world and home of the first Qu’ranic university. It was built in 970. I was circumnavigating the white marble courtyard when an Egyptian man in western dress invited me to come inside to the qibla. I stepped through a wooden door and into a stone world of 1000 years ago. The floors had modern carpets, but everything else looked more or less original. He showed me the tomb where the king and his wife were buried. I think he said this was the king who had built the mosque and raised one of the minarets. I say "I think" because I only understood every third sentence, he spoke in such a thick Arab accent. [However, I caught that his name was Osman, and he was a teacher at the university.] Still, the tour was wonderful. I paid a small fee to a Muslim man for making change of my large Egyptian pound note, made a donation to the mosque, declared “No, I didn’t want to go to the top of the minaret for another twenty pounds,” and tipped the man who kept my shoes. I laced up my travel boots, consulted the map, and set off to find the Citadel.

I hadn’t walked but across the street and past the next building when another Egyptian man stopped me and invited me to come to his shop right down the way. After all, the other shops across the thoroughfare (in the Khan al-Khalili) were so, so expensive, and his craftsmanship was very good.

“I am going to the Citadel,” I said. “I don’t have much time.”

“Yes,” he replied, “you can come to my shop and then keep going to the Citadel, it’s right on the way. You can just look, no need to buy.”

“OK,” I agreed, albeit a bit reluctantly.

We wove back through the labyrinth of narrow city streets, with men whizzing by us carrying various kinds of food and drinks on trays to one shop or another. It was lunchtime. He turned me into his shop that contained some of the finest wood and stone-work I had ever seen – mostly chess sets and jewelry boxes, carved in wood and bone and mother-of-pearl. Every piece contained intricately detailed inlay work in every sort of geometrical design you could imagine, all perfectly symmetrical. I probably stood there for 30 minutes, looking at piece after piece, each one more resplendent than the next. I was truly saddened to tell him that I was not able to buy any of them. He walked me back through the maze of shops, took a turn, then stopped in the middle of the street and pointed up.

“See those two towers?” he asked. "When you get to them, you will be at the south gate (called Bab Zuwaila in Arabic). Go out the gate, turn left, and walk straight all the way to the Citadel. Don’t turn right or left, just straight. Thirty-five, maybe forty minute walk.”

“Shukraan,” I thanked him, and shook his hand farewell. “Ma’a salaamah.” Off I went again.

A Day in Cairo, Part II

I emerged from the taxi at about 7:30am in front of the Khan al-Khalili market in Islamic Cairo.

The markets were not yet open, and wouldn’t until around 10am. I didn’t want to take out my map and look at it right away (and be swarmed right off the bat with folks offering to help me find this and that and the other thing), so I kept the map in my pocket and just walked around a bit, to get my bearings. I was right outside a very old-looking mosque (turns out was built in the year 1154), so I walked around the minaret on the left side and down the alley. I had walked about 100 yards when I was stopped by a young Egyptian man, mid-twenties maybe (learned later he was 26), who welcomed me to Egypt and asked where I was from.

“The US,” I said.

“Ah, the US,” he replied, “my brother lives in the US, in Illinois, Chicago, where Obama comes from!”

We laughed and introduced ourselves, and I stepped into Ahmed’s shop to have a look around. Next came one of the most delightful cultural experiences of my life. He was selling all sorts of Egyptian knick-knacks, everything you would expect, from busts of Pharaohs to stone-carved pyramids to small wooden camels. And of course, every single item came in black basalt, polished copper, sterling silver, glittering gold, and the gratuitious plastic composite painted to look like wood. We started talking as I had looked around his tiny shop, I don’t even remember what about. I was genuinely interested in the items he was selling – the craftsmanship of every item in the store was absolutely astounding. After about 20 minutes, he insisted that I take something to drink. He must have sensed the concern on my face, because he promptly dismissed any notion that I was under obligation to buy anything.

“You are my friend. It’s OK, even if you don’t buy anything. This is Egyptian hospitality. Would you like a Coke?”

“No,” I said, “but I really love coffee.”

“No problem, I bring you coffee.”

He disappeared down the street (leaving his friend with me in the shop) and returned a few minutes later. A few minutes after that, a older man, obviously a restaurant owner, appeared with a brown plastic serving tray on which sat a tall glass of water and an espresso mug resting atop a small saucer. The bronze coffee boiler was in his hand, and I watched him pour my coffee right in front of me (Arabic coffee is boiled over a fire in a small bronze pitcher with a wood handle and then poured into the cup, grounds and all. The dregs settle to the bottom, and you stop drinking when you get to them). Ahmed drained the glass of water in three seconds flat, leaving me to sip my coffee as I continued to browse all his fascinating artifacts from modern Egyptian market culture.

About half an hour later, I had finally decided on two small stone carvings and asked if Ahmed would set them aside for me. I intimated that I wanted to look around some more and come back later in the afternoon to negotiate the price and purchase them. I explained that if I didn’t find what I was looking for during the day, I may come back and buy more than what I picked out. He said that he himself was only going to be around for a few more hours, then he was going home to sleep (he had been up all night manning his shop).

"OK," I said, "let’s negotiate the price now."

By the time all the negotiating was done, I had purchased four carvings instead of two! But I had gotten a good price and, best of all, paid with American dollars instead of using up my Egyptian pounds. He wrapped my purchases in newspaper and put them in a plastic bag. Then he pulled up a chair in the alley opposite his shop and invited me to sit and drink some tea.

“Mint?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Once again, Ahmed disappeared down the street and came back with a clear glass of piping hot tea containing a few leaves of fresh mint. He sat down on a stool next to me, and we continued talking while I drank tea. Somehow we got on the topic of popular music, and as it happened we knew some of the same artists (many thanks to Allison for introducing me to some of the pop music from the Middle East). He played songs on his phone for me, and we laughed and laughed. After a while he told me that his other shop would be opening in another 30 minutes, his jewelry shop back in the market itself. So I continued to sit and talk with Ahmed, meeting some of his friends who also owned shops on the alley, drinking iced licorice tea from street vendors as they walked by (all of which Ahmed paid for), enjoying the coolness of the shade and reasonable quiet of the morning foot traffic. Of course, the man who came to open his other shop was about 15 minutes late (everything in Africa runs on relationship, not time), but as soon as he came and was ready I ventured into the market with Ahmed to see his jewelry. He had some amazing stuff, both in gold and silver, but I didn’t need any. I looked for about ten minutes, said farewell, and went on my way.

I couldn't believe I had spent almost the entire morning shopping and visiting with Ahmed, drinking tea and coffee, meeting several people and still having barely any recollection of what we actually talked about for all that time. It just wasn’t important. But we had talked and enjoyed each other's company, and I had a really wonderful time.

A Day in Cairo, Part I

(July 26, 2010)

Our travel plans got hi-jacked this summer while in Kampala, Uganda. Allison’s boss called to inform us that her project in Nigeria (our original destination) got held up for one reason or another and to ask if we could go to Zimbabwe instead. No problem! I had never been to Zim before, and we had a lovely two weeks in Harare, including an adventurous weekend jaunt over to Victoria Falls. However, we had already booked my ticket back to the US from Abuja, Nigeria, and we couldn’t change it. So in order to get back to the States without having to buy a whole new ticket, somehow I had to get from Harare, Zimbabwe to Abuja, Nigeria. Enter EgyptAir. They had the cheapest fare across Africa, from Johannesburg to Abuja via Cairo. Being that these are cross-continental flights, they run them through the night. Translated: a 16 hour layover in Cairo, Egypt over daylight hours. Score.

This was the first opportunity I’d ever had to travel the way I’ve always wanted; to explore a entirely new city by myself without knowing the language, without a tour guide, without a plan or schedule, just some money in my pocket and see where my feet take me. [Note to self: July is NOT the time to do this in Cairo, Egypt, especially after having slept only a few hours the previous two nights, one of those being on a plane. But I wasn’t going to let 36 C and some fatigue stand between me and old-town Cairo.] The plane landed at Cairo International Airport early in the morning, and I excitedly, and sleepily, disembarked. I filled out my immigration card, laid down fifteen US dollars on the visa counter, and – stamp! – I was in Cairo, Egypt.

I had done a little homework about the city and decided NOT to see all the major sites in one day. Thus, I had already ruled out the pyramids and the antiquities museum, but instead planned to visit the old part of the city called Islamic Cairo. Before leaving the airport I made two stops: the ATM to withdraw 300 Egyptian pounds (about $55); then the convenience store to pick up a pocket map of Islamic Cairo and a bottle of water. I hadn’t even finished counting my change when a middle-aged man approached me, asking if I wanted a taxi. Of course I did, so off we went.

I wish I could have tape-recorded the conversation that ensued. I had had precious little experience with Middle Eastern culture, thankfully, or I probably would have been a complete wreck. It took the entire 20-minute ride to negotiate the price of the taxi. We sat side by side in the front of the car, with him speaking very loudly, almost shouting but not quite. I knew to expect this; else I probably would have paid what he wanted right off for fear of offending him. [I used to really hate haggling prices, but I’ve since learned not to be afraid of it. Now I kind of get a rush off it, actually. It’s like an extemporaneous, comprehensive exam of all the social skills you’ve ever learned in your life shrunk down to one conversation that typically lasts no more than 5 minutes, if that.] This particular negotiation felt a bit like a handling a conversational time-bomb. He couldn’t believe that I was in Cairo for one day only and did NOT want to go to the pyramids, the museum, or the downtown district. He was positively incredulous.

"You are in Cairo for one day only, and you do not want to see the pyramids or the museum? This is crazy talk! Nowhere else in the world can you see the pyramids, only Cairo, and you will not see them. You are crazy man!" I must confess that, even though I was prepared for this experience, I was still quite unnerved.

He wanted to take me to all those places, of course, and for only 300 pounds. He couldn't believe I would resist such a good price. I lost count on how many times I politely (yet firmly) refused, but it must have been close to a dozen. At long last he understood (finally!) that “yes, I only want to go to Islamic Cairo” and then be picked up later in the afternoon, if possible. He dropped me off in front of the Khan al-Khalili, the main market just outside Islamic Cairo. I paid him 90 pounds, which was more than I wanted to pay but felt right based on how the negotiation had proceeded.

My day in Cairo was barely 30 minutes old, and it had already been an adventure.

Agassiz

[Big Agassiz Rock, on the North Shore of Massachusetts]

Summer 2010

I love the rock. I don't really know why -- just because, I guess -- maybe that's a good enough reason. I like climbing rocks; on them, over them, around them. It makes me feel like a kid again, playing on the ultimate playground. One foot after another, rock after rock, until at last, I reach the mammoth boulder with the ocean far, far in the distance.

The rock is not safe, because it is hard. Yet for precisely this reason it is secure. One tremor of the finger, or one lapse in concentration, and the foot is dashed against a stone. Pain upon pain! But I cannot turn away, for I am in a weary land and need a shelter in the time of storm. I crawl under, lay my face on the shady coolness, and hide in the cleft until the Glory has passed by. First the lighting and the thunder, then the wind and the rain, then silent, peaceful sleep.

In my dream, the rock comes alive! then grows larger and larger as I worm my way down the ravine I see in front of me. From the valley floor I see it rising, expanding, filling up the hole in the earth. The rock is pushing me now, hard against the crags, squeezing me so that I cannot breathe. I am enveloped in stone! I take one final gasp of air, and then, in a start, I awake.

So I cling to the rock once again and drink my fill, body splayed against its rugged face. Toes aching, fingers splitting, legs scraping, muscles burning, mind churning, I search for the next place, then the next, on which to stand. And the rock does not give way; for it is heavier that I, with greater mass and density. Never mind the blood or fatigue, they are only temporary. For now, resting firmly on the rock, I will keep the memory of this vista forever.

The rock is hard, but it is trustworthy.

Cathedral

[St. Patrick's Cathedral, in NYC]

July 28, 2010

Two hours in New York City. That's all the time I had.

I'd been traveling for three days already, trying to get home from half a world away. I had slept on a sofa the night before, one that belonged to some good friends of ours who live in Queens. It had been a random meeting scheduled on account of an overnight layover at JFK, and we had had a fantastic time catching up on life and theology over Thai food delivery and white wine. My flight back to Boston was scheduled to leave at three in the afternoon. Subtract an hour to ride the E Line from the Port Authority to Jamaica Station, twenty minutes for the AirTrain to the terminal, another hour to get through airport security, and that left me with two hours to kill. So I slung the camera over my shoulder, stuffed ten dollars in my pocket, grabbed my already-too-full backpack and set out to catch the bus. I was on pilgrimage to midtown Manhattan.

I had visited St. Patrick's Cathedral once before, almost twenty years earlier, while on a State-side mission trip with the youth group. I grew up a Baptist and had never seen a real, bonafide cathedral before. That day in New York City, when I was fifteen, had been one of the most memorable experiences of my life - climbing the Statue of Liberty, eating thick-crust pizza in Little Italy, touring the UN building, riding the wonder of modern transportation called the subway, and finally, toward the end of the afternoon, seeing the stunning beauty of St. Patrick's. We had also gone to FAO Schwartz (the world's largest toy store!), but had arrived fifteen minutes past closing time. Except for that part, it had been a very full and wonderful day. But of everything I had experienced, St. Patrick's stayed with me, although I didn't understand why.

Now an adult in my thirties, I was going back. I had decided to spend my two hours in the Big Apple photographing the church and stealing a few quiet moments of prayer. Fifteen minutes on the Q32, fifteen more on the F Line express to Rockefeller Center, a few blocks walk down 50th St. ... and there it was again, the Gothic grandeur of St. Patrick's Cathedral. It looked old, older than I remembered. The masonry was starting to crack and crumble along the base. Years before I had looked up at the two spires and marveled at how tall they were, but now I was struck by how large everything else appeared in comparison. It seemed an apt symbol of modern American culture - an aged and decrepit Christianity overtaken by the skyscrapers of commerce and ambition. I wondered if there had once been a time when the talk of New York was the twin towers of St. Patrick's.

The building had matured, but was no less beautiful for it. I walked around the entire structure, looking up and snapping pictures as I discovered interesting angles and perspectives. Eventually I made my way back around to the front, so I took off my hat and went inside. The sanctuary was even more awe-inspiring the second time. As I walked up the center aisle, my eyes drank in the dozens of flickering candles, the cloudy glow filtering through the stained glass, the medieval magnificence of the altar and the immensity of the tabernacle. I wearily plopped myself down in one of the pews toward the front, quietly set all my things beside me on the dark walnut, and reveled in the moment. After a while I pulled out my journal and scribbled a prayer, but mostly, for the next forty-five minutes or so, I just sat.

The LORD was in His holy temple, and I kept silence before Him.