It has been almost 7 months to the day since I left Brandon in the midst of a record snowstorm and flew from Winnipeg to the heart of central Europe, where I have been based until a few weeks ago.  I promise that I will not subject you to an account of “What I did on my summer vacation,” but the Dean has persuaded me that saying a few words about the past months might be not a waste of your time.

Let me begin by saying that without exception, in the six countries I visited, I was treated everywhere with kindness and generosity, even by those whose own lives were hemmed in by many difficulties.   Each day we see in the news the foolish and indeed wicked things that some people are doing in the world.  It is easy to see this as the inevitable norm. But there are Good Samaritans everywhere, and the crisis of Covid and the shadow of war have not hardened their hearts. There are many stories that demonstrate this: here is one.

While in Beirut I slipped and fell in the hotel bathroom during one of the frequent blackouts that hit the city.  This is in itself no big deal, but when I returned to my home base in the Czech Republic I was in increasing discomfort and finally had to go to the hospital in an ambulance with lights flashing and siren wailing.  When I got out, I was flat on my back, lying in my apartment, friends and family thousands of miles away.  Two women from the university where I was working, one a secretary, and the other a junior faculty member, came to see me.  They brought food and medicine, cooked me a meal, and kept me company. As I lay there, I could see the words of Matthew 25:36 in front of my eyes:  “I was sick and you came to visit me.”

These women would not accept repayment for the things they brought.  I call them my “Czech Angels.”  A third, different sort of “Angel” is the Chair of the university department that hosted me.  Tall as a grenadier, with a persuasive tone of voice, he made it clear to staff when I was once more in a hospital emergency room, that the “Professor from Canada” required attention, and then kept me amused in the waiting area until my turn came.

So much for angels.  But along with angels, there are also those who bring war.  It is necessary to speak about two wars, one of years past and one going on now.  

In Beirut a terrible war was fought over thirty years ago, but there are still signs and consequences of it everywhere.  Stoplights do not work, infrastructure is still seriously damaged, and the people struggle from day to day.  This much I expected when I went there.  What I did not expect was the connection of this shattered modern cityscape to the world of the Gospels.  

If you ever get to go to Jerusalem, you will see unforgettable things, whether it’s the shadowy Via Dolorosa or the inspiring Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  But what you will not see is the beleaguered, occupied city in which Jesus walked and taught.  Jerusalem today is a major tourist destination, a place that, while in a danger zone, is most likely to be preserved because of the many financial and political interests that need it to be preserved.  Beirut has no such protectors.  It is a city that has known violence and destruction, much of which is still shockingly visible, and whose inhabitants worry about further violence and destruction. In this way modern Beirut’s inhabitants resemble the people whom Jesus encountered in Jerusalem. They worried about their families, about further danger to their city, and they were not wrong to have this worry, for as we know, four decades after Jesus’ ministry, Jerusalem was completely destroyed by the Romans.  I had not expected to make this connection, but it now seems to me that in order to understand better the Jerusalem of Jesus’ time, I had to go to the Beirut of today. 

In Beirut I also had a curious experience which, upon reflection, seems a metaphor for much bigger things.  I had gone to Beirut to look at an old manuscript preserved in a library there. The librarians, like everyone else in that city, were more than helpful, and when my business there was done, I decided for some reason to walk back to my hotel. I’d gone along for some time when I found myself ascending a road with huge coils of concertina wire on each side; at the top was a small doorway in the middle of what looked like a high steel wall, with armed guards.  

I thought, Paul, this was a poor choice of route!   Going forward seemed like risking detention or worse.  But turning back and walking down the hill seemed like an even better way to attract the guards’ attention.  So, after a flutter of real fear,  I kept going, a solitary, bespectacled man, a foreigner, briefcase in hand.  I walked right through the gate and got back to my hotel.  It probably doesn’t sound like much in the telling, but it was a reminder of the words of Matthew 7:7 – “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

There is also a war going on in Europe right now, the biggest war on that continent in almost 80 years.  Let me tell you what I have learned about this war. We in the English-speaking world tend to hear one version of things.  The Ukrainians defending their homeland have demonstrated valour, resolve and resourcefulness for which they deserve always to be remembered.  But we in North America can easily forget that the struggle in Ukraine is not merely between Ukraine and Russia, one of which must “win.”  Rather than only asking whether Ukraine or Russia is “winning,” we should also be asking if Vladimir Putin is winning, which is quite a different question.  Throughout history there have been dictators who sent their soldiers into other peoples’ countries to kill—and to die– and have brought their own countries to the brink of destruction.  But the leaders themselves often do not suffer—they may even prosper.   It is more than possible that Russia will in some ways “lose” this war, but that Mr. Putin will still be the real winner, having established an even tighter grip over his people and having amassed even greater riches, while elevating his prestige among those who admire bullies and tyrants.  This must never be forgotten.

Now comes the hardest part of the things I want to tell you about.  Each of us strives to be Christian, and each of us is a fallible human being.   Among our brethren in the Orthodox Christian world is a great turmoil and controversy because the Patriarch of Moscow, Kirill, has endorsed and praised this war, not the least because he sees it as a way of keeping recognition and acceptance of gay and transgender people out of his home country, Russia.  I cannot say if his motivation is primarily an innate hatred of those who are different from him, or whether he is cowed or co-opted by the regime in Russia—or if all these things play a role in his public pronouncements.         

I also acknowledge that it is very easy to criticize the actions of Vladimir Putin while in the middle of Manitoba, thousands of miles from the Kremlin, but nonetheless, Kirill’s actions—which have been rejected and denounced by many Orthodox clergy—remind us of the grave dangers of rendering unto Caesar far more than is his due.  

The risk of perverting the real message of the Gospel is not a particularly Russian problem. It is found everywhere.  Patriotism or paranoia may lead us to reject mercy, love and acceptance.  The lure of being close to those in power can be very seductive.  Again, the seventh chapter of Matthew sets forth the truth: “…strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” 

Perhaps this may seem too hard, but sometimes if we know the direction we should go, and just keep going, we can pass along the narrow way, and through the straight gate.  And perhaps in this journey upward, there is just a bit of resemblance to this path and gate to the door at the top of the fortified hill in Beirut that one simply has to be brave – or foolish– enough to keep walking straight through. 

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The metaphor of the pelican of course references the Christ, but is also for all of us. It poses a question: how much will we sacrifice for love? In the past weeks I have been inspired and humbled by people I have met who are sacrificing in great and small ways to serve others. The Franciscans, who are connected with this church, have welcomed me– as “the Anglican,” as the smiling brother greeted me when I arrived. And I keep meeting people who in a far deeper way are working to alleviate the suffering and difficulties of the now more than seven million refugees fleeing from the war in Ukraine. Others are striving to improve communication between ethnic and religious groups that historically have been enemies or strangers. These are not empty headed do gooders; they know that they face risks and dangers. Many governments (and religious institutions) do not want reconciliation and understanding to grow between old enemies. They do not want fear to decrease, nor do they want people to embrace sharing, let alone sacrifice. The message of the generous, loving pelican is a transgressive threat to their own plans, which are to divide, frighten, and subdue. It has always been so with those who would be tyrants.

​Istanbul is an old city: for a millennium it was a Christian city, the largest Christian city in the world. Today it is one of the great cities of the Muslim world. I don’t know exactly where St. Paul crossed from Asia Minor on his way to Macedonia, after having that dream of a man imploring him to “come over and help us,” but it may well have been right here. Istanbul is a place of passage, a city mostly modern with vivid pockets of antiquity, half in Europe and half in Asia; its most famous mosque, Santa Sophia, itself a former Christian church and its very name “Istanbul” a borrowing from the Christian Greeks who once held sway here.

​In a few days, after I give a lecture at a centre here run by Christians studying cultures of the Middle East, I travel on to Vienna, where Christian and Muslim armies battled in the seventeenth century. But first I am going to go back to that chapel and meditate on that dot of red in the midst of the snowy white of the pelican and her brood. Something small, yet ultimately, larger than we can even conceive.

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Like so many people I’ve met in the past two months, she was more than gracious about it. We began to talk. She said that she hoped that the person at the ticket counter might speak English, and we both agreed that it would be best not to try to talk Russian at this point! 

She was from Lviv, a city in northwestern Ukraine that recently has come under attack. What is more, she was heading back there, because, as she said, her “heart was there.” I told her I hoped God would protect her, and a look came over her face that is hard to describe: strong yet full of emotion pulling at her. 

Poland is not on the front lines as I write this, but it is very much in the middle of this crisis. In Poznań, the city where I was staying for a few days, there are 40,000 refugees from Ukraine. In Warsaw, not far off, there are 400,000. More are probably coming. I met a professor from Lublin, another Polish city in the east, who has taken a fatherless family into her home, and a gentleman who has given his apartment over to refugees and moved back in with his parents. Another person, whom I did not meet at the conference, couldn’t come because she has contracted Covid– from the refugee family she is hosting. The war and the ripples of danger and disruption advancing from it are affecting millions who have never even been to Ukraine. 

And millions of words have been written about this crime, but I hope you will forgive me if I write a few more. First, when one man (or woman) or a people decide unilaterally what makes up “their land” or even “their part of the world,” and decide that those who disagree can simply be eliminated, we have crossed over into a place where rising levels of cruelty– on either side fighting—are inevitable. We’ve been here before. Beware of any political figure using grievance and grudges to push an agenda that might seem reasonable at first but gets more and more extreme. 

Secondly, none of our societies are entirely immune from this danger. We have more choices in Canada from which to get our picture of the world, but all of us probably know someone who has retreated into an online echo chamber of strange theories and conspiracies– or worse. Our online age has increased this danger. 

Finally, this is a time when the Good News of the New Testament has much to teach us. The refusal to judge, the essential importance of mercy and charity, the key strength of patience (which I have seen in so many of my Polish colleagues as of late) and the refusal to worry whether someone is “Jew or Greek.” And last but not least, as we vote for leaders and for our countries’ policies, the need to be as wise as serpents but as innocent as doves! 

There will be challenging times ahead, but as Dr. King said, the arc of history bends towards justice. May it be so. 

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The metaphor of the pelican of course references the Christ, but is also for all of us. It poses a question: how much will we sacrifice for love? In the past weeks I have been inspired and humbled by people I have met who are sacrificing in great and small ways to serve others. The Franciscans, who are connected with this church, have welcomed me– as “the Anglican,” as the smiling brother greeted me when I arrived. And I keep meeting people who in a far deeper way are working to alleviate the suffering and difficulties of the now more than seven million refugees fleeing from the war in Ukraine. Others are striving to improve communication between ethnic and religious groups that historically have been enemies or strangers. These are not empty headed do gooders; they know that they face risks and dangers. Many governments (and religious institutions) do not want reconciliation and understanding to grow between old enemies. They do not want fear to decrease, nor do they want people to embrace sharing, let alone sacrifice. The message of the generous, loving pelican is a transgressive threat to their own plans, which are to divide, frighten, and subdue. It has always been so with those who would be tyrants. 

Istanbul is an old city: for a millennium it was a Christian city, the largest Christian city in the world. Today it is one of the great cities of the Muslim world. I don’t know exactly where St. Paul crossed from Asia Minor on his way to Macedonia, after having that dream of a man imploring him to “come over and help us,” but it may well have been right here. Istanbul is a place of passage, a city mostly modern with vivid pockets of antiquity, half in Europe and half in Asia; its most famous mosque, Santa Sophia, itself a former Christian church and its very name “Istanbul” a borrowing from the Christian Greeks who once held sway here. 

In a few days, after I give a lecture at a centre here run by Christians studying cultures of the Middle East, I travel on to Vienna, where Christian and Muslim armies battled in the seventeenth century. But first I am going to go back to that chapel and meditate on that dot of red in the midst of the snowy white of the pelican and her brood. Something small, yet ultimately, larger than we can even conceive. 

The post A Postcard from Istanbul appeared first on The Mustard Seed.

By the time this message is in print, things will have continued to change, too, so I won’t try to give an up-to-the-minute report on what is happening. But I will try to say something about how this crisis is affecting people in Europe. The invasion of Ukraine needs to be seen in historical context. Within living memory Europe suffered through the worst war in the history of humankind. Many of the institutions that emerged from the ruins of war– including the European Union, which is supporting my own work here- were born with the hope that such violence would never come again to the continent. 

This story is complicated by the fact that the Soviet Union was one of the liberators of the peoples conquered by the Third Reich, but quickly earned the reputation of a cruel oppressor of the very peoples it had liberated. The Russian invasion of Ukraine summons up memories of Nazi aggression but also of Soviet tyranny. The Russian leader, Vladimir Putin, has criticized some of actions of the Bolshevik Revolution, but many feel that he is doing exactly what Soviet leaders did. 

So, on the one hand, while there is widespread revulsion and anger against the Russian invasion, there is also fear and mistrust as to how Europe should respond. An Italian colleague, a well travelled man with a long career of Christian, humanitarian service, told me that he was frightened by the strong language used by his and other governments in response to Russia’s actions. He is horrified by the crimes committed against Ukrainians but worried about the return of a much larger war that his parents’ generation lived through. He is not a follower of dodgy internet influencers nor a conspiracy-minded person. But he does not trust the holders of power– politicians, technocrats, bankers– in his country to do the right thing. Many have noted and written about the erosion of trust during the Covid pandemic; now in a moment of terrible violence, there is even more mistrust, a mistrust that is not balanced by a clear sense of what to do instead. 

I write these words as Lent begins, and it seems to me that there is a connection between the loss of trust in one another, lack of faith in God, and lack of hope in the world as a place where good is possible. In these times, it is also easy to think and feel without discernment. Feeling horror and even hatred for the violence that the Russian leader has unleashed on innocent people is normal and appropriate. What is much harder (at least for me), is to restrict those feelings to the persons directly responsible, and to feel compassion, for example, for Russian conscripts who have little or no understanding why they are fighting a people they have always been told were their “brothers.” Ukrainians are dying, and young Russians are dying, too. So this Lent instead of focusing on “giving up” cookies, or swearing, I am trying to resist the strong temptation to take pleasure in any of the deaths connected with this invasion, while at the same time remaining focused on the immorality, dare I say wickedness, of the invasion itself. 

So send what support you can, march, sign petitions, reach out and discover other ways that you can support the beleaguered people of Ukraine. Pray for all who are involved, even the perpetrators, since is what Our Lord would do. And pray for peace, in Ukraine and throughout the world.

Editor’s Note: If you wish to donate towards humanitarian efforts in Ukraine, the Primate’s World Relief and Development Fund is collecting donations. You can visit their website at http://www.pwrdf.org or call them at 1-866-308-7973. 

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