Epilogue and Retrospective

I have settled back into my home and routine for the better part of a week now. This last post will close out this blog by allowing me to look back and summarize the meaning of the trip, not just its activities.

First, I would like to thank God for the wonderful wife He has blessed me with. I could spend many, many pages extolling her good points, but will spare you all the details. Let me just say that when she first heard of the idea of losing her husband to Siberia for a couple weeks, she was most enthused. Not in the way you think. She was enthused for me; she had genuine joy that I would experience something wonderful and meaningful, even if she would not share it. In fact, it would mean extra work for her, or at least fewer hands to share the work. But she actively encouraged me to make the trip; she knows I would not have gone through even the application stage if she was at all hesitant. My debt to her grows every year, and I thank God again and again for gracing me with a wife whose outer beauty is eclipsed only by her inner loveliness.

In a similar way, I would extend thanks to the elders of my church for approving and funding the trip. And, though they joked about making the ticket one-way, both I and the people of Siberia are grateful they sprung for the round-trip fare.


As I reflect on the trip, I find the experience very humbling. It was humbling on a very basic level, since one is forced to live so consistently on the kindness of others when one goes to a foreign land with a strange language (see the post on “what I hate about mission trips”). But it was humbling on a more profound level as well. It takes no fluency in Russian to see faces light up when the soul they belong to grasps a new level of God’s holiness and goodness. God’s spirit worked in special ways. I don’t say this proudly; far from it. I say it with wonder that He would use someone like me to be a channel of His blessing, a tool of his healing.

This is the God we serve: able to speak through Balaam’s donkey or just some jackass like me. Or you. And He has reminded me afresh that we don’t have to travel to Siberia to be used by God. The world is right outside the door.

About Russians

I’ve been in Siberia two weeks now, so that makes me an expert on all things Russia. Today, gentle reader, I will focus my luminous profundity like a laser on just one aspect of Russia: the Russian soul.

Okay, I got nothing….

I think it was Churchill who described Russia as something like, “An enigma, wrapped in a riddle, clothed in a mystery”. That was a pretty good line. But of course it overstates the case. In many ways, Russians seem to want and value the same things that we in America do. And certainly their diet and habits are less strange to an American than would be true in New Deli or Zanzibar (and I am very happy to have worked Zanzibar into this post). But one thing I did tend to notice about Russian people, and it seems more fundamental than food or custom.

Russians are simply deeper, and sadder, than Americans.

Now, of course that is a generalization. But this is what I mean. I noticed very little frivolity or playfulness among the Russians (with a few exceptions who were Christians). No-one on the street smiles. No-one makes small talk. You can walk down a narrow path and the Russian going the other way will walk past you within two inches and never acknowledge your existence by word or smile. EVERY TIME. This is not to say Russians are rude. I never got mean looks or harsh gestures. And a Russian will be quite friendly after they get to know you. It’s just that they have no patience for useless chatter or frivolous gestures.

But I will also say this. In talking with Russians, there is also a depth and substance in the conversation that is so often lacking in the states. Russians think. They reflect on the meaning of events, not just the events themselves. I am not surprised this country has produced the world's greatest novelists, as well as the greatest chess players.

It would take a larger intellect than mine (and yes, there are some; about four, I think), to discern the reason for this difference. But I can’t help but think that it has to do with how much Russia has suffered. We in America simply have no national tragedy like Russia has had repeatedly. The oppression of the Czars gave way to the oppression of the communists. The curse of collectivism led to decades of food shortage and political violence. Even the years after communism have not been kind; the nineties had all the pains of any new birth. And if you really want to make a Russian mad, imply that America’s sacrifice in World War II somehow compares to Russia’s. Some 20 million Russians lost their lives in that war. The country was invaded and sacked. In many ways, the country is just now recovering from the ravages of the first half of the twentieth century.

So I don’t blame the Russian soul for being more serious and subdued than its American counter-part. And I pray that prosperity and stability increase in this land. And I also pray that they will not drown out the greatness of wonder of what is distinctively Russian.

About the Calvinist, part 2

The Calvinist and I travelling 30,000 feet somewhere over Greenland (which, by the way, should win the prize for the country which most egregiously violates truth-in-advertising ethics by its very name). My mind begins to wander, as it often does around the Calvinist. I begin thinking I should write a post or two in the plane, so that you, gentle reader, will not be denied one jewel from my treasure chest of wisdom. Yeah, I’m that bored…. First, I should write a line or two about my seat-mate. As you may have discerned, the Calvinist and I are in some ways quite different. I am on the tall side; he describes himself as “diminutive”. I like the window seat; he prefers the aisle. I am a Christian; he is a Presbyterian.

But I will give the man his due: in addition to being a “big God-er”, he is undoubtedly the most consistently cheerful man I have ever met. Perhaps the two things are related. But I have been with him every day now for two weeks, and I have yet to hear him utter a harsh word or display a critical spirit. He has displayed not once ounce of anger or even annoyance. He didn’t even complain about the airline food. He not only enjoys my ribbing him, he seems to relish it.

He also makes a very good traveler, because he puts up with everything and loves to try new things. Offer him some monkey brain casserole, and he will say, “Where’s my fork?” Tell him you’re going to bungee jump off a local bridge, and he will go fetch his sport coat (he never leaves home without it). Work up a plan to graffiti some onion domes, and he would be right there with you, spraying TULIP in florescent green. He would even find something nice to say about the jail cell.

All in all, almost an ideal person to travel to Siberia with. Now if we could just do something about those puns….

Many partings

The alarm blared early this morning, waking me from another dream about Valerie Bertinelli (just kidding, honey). I was not enthused about the day, for it meant saying goodbye to Jeff and Amy. Also, it meant enduring two rounds of Russian bureaucracy for the joy of 15 hours inside flying tin cans.

As we left the Cultural Center last night, we said goodbye to many new friends. I gave Igor my small English Bible, and left gifts for my translators. For Jeff and Amy, a leather-bound copy of Chekhov seemed appropriate.

At the airport in Tyumen, we discovered I lacked a registration paper proving I had spent two weeks there. Yes, foreigners must register with the government. Old habits die hard. Anyway, Jeff suggested this might be a problem in Moscow, and we had a “concerned moment”. We then remembered the internet kiosk in the Moscow airport, to which Jeff could email a scan of the form. Problem solved.

We gained two time zones from Tyumen to Moscow. The flight was fine, except that they served dinner food at 8:30 in the morning. From what I’ve learned, the idea of special foods for breakfast is quite foreign to Russians. In any case, my breakfast salmon was excellent.

As I write this, the Calvinist and I are waiting in the Moscow airport. I’ve just pulled him away from performing another embarrassing karaoke number at the bar. The man just loves Madonna. Who knew?

I am now psyching myself up for ten hours with my 6’4’’, 180 pound frame crammed inside an airline seat. Okay, I might have fudged the numbers a little. I’m only 6’3’’. I am reminding myself how many Saturdays I wished I had this much extra time.

So far it’s not working.

testing, testing...

As I write this, my students are taking their final exam. Though it will only affect a few of them career-wise, they seem to take it quite seriously; maybe too seriously.

They want to do well, and several of them quizzed me quite closely the last few days on the content of the exam. I am glad to see their desire to learn; I have more ambivalence about their desire to do well on the test. I want to tell them, “It’s the learning that is the important part. Your score on the exam will affect your life very little. Relax.” But I cannot. I don’t want to play the hypocrite.

You see, I too seem to be more concerned about the visible success of my life and ministry, rather than focusing on just learning the things God wants to teach me.

I saw a cartoon once where a man stepped to the microphone before a speech, and spoke into it, “testing, testing”. A fellow in the audience muttered, “that seems to be the metaphor for my life”.

But really, I don’t think so. The metaphor for life is learning. Learning to live a life of love in the fullest sense. Learning to become the person God created us to be. And the outward signs that you “got it” pale to the glory of truly “getting it”.

Will there be a test? Yes, but not in this world’s terms. And I have a feeling God would like to speak my own words back to me some times: “It’s the learning that is the important part…relax”.

And now, a word about our hosts...

I realized today that I have said very little about our hosts, Jeff and Amy.

First, I must give them full props for putting up with us for two weeks. The old saying is that fish and houseguests start to smell after three days, but my nose must be more sensitive, because it usually only takes only one day before I tire of guests. Jeff and Amy, however, either genuinely enjoy having houseguests, or they are very good at faking it. I’m okay with it either way. Because the Calvinist and I have received nothing but smiles, kind words, and good food. At no time have we gotten “negative vibes” as I used to say back when I was cool (and yes, gentle readers, there was indeed such a time; it lasted about twenty seconds). They even put up with the Calvinist’s snoring. I, of course, have never snored a day in my life, and if Keith Walls wants to say otherwise he can get his own blog.

Jeff left a six figure job to take his new bride to Russia, just because he thought God wanted him to. Crazy, I know. He made the irrational decision that the God who created him and redeemed him actually has a claim on his life. What do they teach kids these days?

They have both worked hard to learn Russian, and are both fluent, which is pretty impressive since after two weeks here I can count my Russian words on one hand. They put up with a schedule that would burn me out in a month. I respect and admire them, and thank them publicly for their patience and kindness.

Fish eggs. Its what's for dinner.

So tonight Amy, the Calvinist and myself were invited to dinner at Igor’s apartment (Jeff had to work). I was not enthused. In the first place, I felt I had done a poor job of teaching, and that, combined with fatigue, left me in a sour mood that I tried to hide. In the words of the great Greta Garbo, “I vant to be alone”.

In the second place, Igor had a reputation for serving, how shall we say this, “weird” food. Amy said the last time she was there, head cheese topped the menu. To me, this ranks even worse than mayonnaise, which I was sure would also be cooked in somewhere.

For the most part, I was pleasantly surprised. The main dish can best be described as a Russian meat ravioli, served with some sort of pepper chutney. It was actually quite good. The soup before the meal consisted of a bowl full of cold sausage, onions and parsley, into which he poured a good helping of something like non-alcoholic beer. This tasted (slightly) better than it sounds.

My only real scare was the caviar he kept insisting we eat. There it was, piled high on crackers, with a healthy dop of mayo serving as the crème in these oreos. This, of course, was not the black beluga caviar, but rather the roe of salmon.

Now, I know salmon eggs are considered a delicacy in many places, not just Russia. But I’ve also been around enough to know that when someone has to tell you that what you are about to eat is considered a delicacy, you are going to throw up in your mouth.

Plus, I had done my fair share of fishing in my 38 trips around the sun, and could not look at the salmon eggs without thinking of how many times I had strung them on a rusty hook, hoping to snag a lake trout. Perhaps it is just me, gentle readers, but I have a hard time being enthused about any “delicacy” that can be bought in the bait and tackle section of Walmart.

And no, I have never tried them, and yes, I am okay with that gap in my culinary repertoire. I sure wasn’t going to try them tonight (sour mood flaring up in digestive rebellion), no matter how much Igor wanted me to.

Fortunately, Igor left the table time and again to tend to something in the kitchen, and each time I passed the roe to the Calvinist. Being a cultured man and a high-brow, he almost feels it is his duty to like caviar. In any case he lit into them like a trout. I was proud. And relieved. He and Amy polished off enough for the three of us to be polite guests (in this case my politeness being exercised by proxy). I thanked Igor for all the good food. Everyone was happy.

I should mention one last note: The ravioli was Plan B. Igor was originally planning on a different main dish: crepes infused with...(wait for it)….caviar. God is good!

Thankful things

Things I’m thankful for today:

• I get to see my wife and kids soon
• The Calvinist does not have a blog, so I can write whatever I want about him
• Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows

A mixed crowd and some mixed feelings

The grace of God shows up in the strangest ways. When I came here, I knew no-one in the whole country (besides my hosts), and now I feel very close to my students and the people I work beside. I do not have to psyche myself up for teaching; I love these people in a way I would not have thought possible, and am thrilled to study the scriptures together. Let me introduce just a few of them.

Ileac possesses more passion for the truth than almost anyone I know. He seems about to explode. He was saved about six years ago out of a hard-drinking lifestyle, and now, still in his twenties, I would not be surprised to see him become an evangelist, pastor or Bible teacher. He certainly knows more than I did at that age.

Igor is not a Christian, but comes everyday to catch some native English. He is a physicist between jobs (I’m not sure how that works). Igor says he likes the Christians very much, but is not ready to become one himself.

Valentine is a university student who also comes just for the English. He’s getting a lot more.

Sveta is a doctor of around 45, and has very deep Bible knowledge.

Luda is a young woman of perhaps 30, who is a mother of six. She seems a very vibrant Christian.

Kitya looks 20, but she is the mother of a five year old. I’m not sure if she is a believer.

Valentina is one of my favorites. This woman is perhaps 70, yet takes a two hour bus trip each way for the bible classes. From what I understand, she has the entire book of Psalms memorized. Valentina’s face is as wrinkled as a crumpled-up paper bag, but it is beautiful to me. Her smile could light up a stadium.

This tableau shows what a mixed crowd we have. Some will quote Bible passages relevant to our study from the top of their heads, leaving me wishing I had thought of that one. Others could not find the book of Matthew if you held a pistol to their head. Budding theologians and confirmed atheists. But God has given me a great affection for them all.

I have only two more classes. This is the first mission trip where I felt such a wonderful melding of my gifts, the needs of the students, and my love for them. I miss my family and church greatly, but still it will be hard to part.

The Calvinist and Cabooses

So Amy, the Calvinist, and yours truly were sitting at lunch a few days ago, and the talk came round to women’s fashion in Russia, particularly the skin-tight jeans. The Calvinist wanted to communicate how much they revealed about a woman’s legs and butt. But, being a bit of a high-brow Presbyterian, he did not want to say the word, “butt”. So he instead he substituted the word, “caboose”. Amy and I, of course, cracked up at this, and teased him the rest of the day.

At the dacha that night, the three of us were in a room talking with Masha, a university student who is a good friend of Amy. Here is her picture with the Calvinist. I think she enjoys him in a great, great, great, grandfatherly sort of way.
Anyway, we were teasing the Calvinist about looking at women’s cabooses, and Masha, despite having excellent English, of course did not know the word. We explained it was the last car of the train, and the Calvinist, eager to facilitate intercultural relations, added that a woman’s caboose was, “the south end of a cow facing north”. Masha looked a little confused about what to do with this new piece of knowledge.

I, for one, was simply gratified that Princeton Seminary still imparts to its graduates a proper appreciation of bovine anatomy.

He giveth more grace!

So yesterday (Monday) was the first day I actually overslept my alarm. After a week of teaching (and then preaching yesterday), I was feeling pretty drained. So I scarfed down some yogurt, and we ran out the door. After hoofing it to the Cultural Center, I settled down in my little nook, waiting for Divine inspiration to enlighten my teaching plans.

Well, it did not come. Sleep came, but no inspiration. I fought off the sleepies all morning, and anticipated an afternoon of the students doing the same.

And as I sat, weary and undone, I dreaded going before those students, those who had given up their day to sit and listen to me. I felt like the leader of a bankrupt soup kitchen who looks out the window, and sees the hungry crowd lined up in front of the building. It is not a pleasant thought to realize you’ve traversed ten times zones, only to appear empty-handed before those you have come to minister to. But God retrieved a hymn (entitled, He Giveth More Grace) from my memory banks and put it in my heart:

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

So instead of berating myself for feeling dry and empty, I simply began praying. And when class began, instead of me praying for the group, I asked them to pray for me. I won’t say I saw heaven open and the Spirit descending like a dove. But I will say it was by far the deepest and best discussion time we have had yet.

This “grace” thing; it’s not bad.

Preaching at the Presbyterians

So I got to preach this morning. There were a few barriers. First, of course, is the language. But also, the church is Presbyterian, and I am closer to the Baptist tradition. Not that I have anything against Presbyterians. Some of my best friends are Presbyterians, and I pray for their salvation daily.

The church starts at noon. Yes, noon. Apparently some people like to sleep in. After several songs, the crowd of twenty thousand rise up and, stomping their feet, chant in joyful unison, “DANIEL!! DANIEL!! DANIEL!! I rise to the bank of microphones, and the stadium erupts in thunderous applause. I make sure all the tv cameras are ready, reach over and thank David Crowder for the music, then begin.

Okay, maybe that last paragraph was a bit of exaggeration. But we really did start at noon.

The Church in Siberia

I thought I should write about the religious scene in Tyumen for a post or two; this means, of course, that I am reliant on second-hand knowledge (except for the pics). Here goes.

Of course, the Russian Orthodox Church dominates the religious landscape, both literally and figuratively. Golden onion domes rise up between the apartment complexes and office buildings in every part of the city, and something like 70-80% of Russians are somewhat associated with the Church, though only a small percentage actually step inside a church building in a decade, (unless for a marriage or some special occasion). Here are some pictures:

I won’t pretend to have enough knowledge of Russian Orthodox theology to give any sort of intelligent critique (check out the Wikipedia article on "orthodox church" to get details). But I will say that it is quite different than ANY protestant church. Instead of being based around worship services, with the preaching of the Word, it is based around icons, which mediate God’s grace to those who venerate them. So the faithful come into the building at any time of the day, buy candles, and genuflect or bow before the icons. Services are held at different times, and focus on ritual.

How different Protestant services must feel to these people! Plain buildings, complete lack of icons, music that is sung rather than chanted, and some preacher talking in front for a half hour: this must seem so alien. No wonder that protestant denominations that have existed in the west for hundreds of years are looked at as cults here.

No wonder, either, why the protestant church is so small. In a city of a million people, perhaps a few thousand are protestant. There are a couple Baptist churches, some charismatics, a few Methodist congregations, and one lone Presbyterian Church, located at the Cultural Center. I’m sure there are others I don’t know of, but I’m told the Protestant ministerial association has around a dozen members, and represent small and struggling congregations.

Most people in the city are simply atheists or agnostics, and express very little spiritual interest. Apparently there was something like a stirring of interest in spiritual things about ten or twenty years ago, after the oppression of Communism was broken. But now, as incomes increase, and better houses and apartments are built, and western goods flow in, materialism has become the new god. Construction cranes compete with onion domes for the skyline, and the din of the crowded department store drowns out the still, small voice. Spring has not yet arrived in Siberia.

About puns

So I let the Calvinist read my post about him yesterday. Such is his good nature that he only laughed at my cracks about his age and Sponge Bob pajamas. About that last point: no, he does not actually wear Sponge Bob pajamas, but he perhaps the only man I know under 60 who does wear a full set of formal striped pajamas to bed. But I was not surprised by this. After all, this is a man who uses a shaving brush and mug, owns a creme brulee torch, and drives a BMW 7 series. The man is one of the last hold-outs of the type of elegence once described as "continental" (Keith, look it up).

But anyway, the only real howl of protest I got from the man was when I described his puns as, "horrible". His face looked ashen, and tears welled up in his beady Calvinistic eyes. But I cannot disown my remark.

To be fair, I am not a fan of puns. In fact, I despise them. To me, there are two kinds of people in the world: those that make and enjoy puns, and.......sane people. Now, I relialize that a pun does take a type of mental quickness and verbal acuity. But just because one CAN do something does not mean one SHOULD do something (insert your favorite Tim Robertson anecdote here).

In fact, in my 38 trips around the sun, I have found only one person who's puns I actually enjoy. But, gentle readers, I am loth to publish his name (but am quite happy I have worked both "acuity" and "loth" into the same post). Complimenting someone on his puns is like telling a poacher what a good shot he is. Still, I did quite slander the blighter in an earlier post (and just called him a blighter to boot) so I suppose I should make amends. So here goes. The only person I have met who can consistenly pun in such a way as to bring laughter and not groans is....(long dramatic pause)....Chris Huff. There. I said it. My apologies to the Calvinist and to the world.

How to dress like a Russian

If you are a woman:

If you are a Russian woman, the first rule is quite simple: You must always be made up. I have yet to see a Russian woman without make-up, very nice hair, and pretty clothing. I get the impression that a Russian woman would probably get dressed up to take the trash out.

If you are a Russian woman under 40, two additional things will be true of you. You will be very thin, and everyone will know this since your clothes are skin-tight. I have seen women who looked like they were poured into their jeans (and forgot to say, “when”). Actually I take that back. I have not noticed this at all, since I do not look at other women like that. Ever. The Calvinist told me about it.

Also, you will probably wear 15 inch high heels, even though you must walk to work, with the point of the stiletto coming to a point about the size of, say, a needle.

All this to say that most Russian women are head-turners. Again, this is second hand knowledge from the Calvinist.

If you are a man:
Wear whatever you want.