The Rowdy Mysticism of Coptic Cairo

The smoking, clanging, turbulent liturgy of the Copts on Palm Sunday in Cairo was frankly overwhelming.  Will they really have anything left for Easter?  Not only was every church I went into crammed full, but each had a line to get in extending well outside the church. Incense – shot through with sunlight - was so thick one would think the iconostasis was on fire. Accompanying cymbals lent meandering chants percussive force.  Video cameras recording what was going on at the altar table were displayed to the congregation on dozens of screens, a phenomenon of not-to-be-underestimated significance for liturgical renewal.  “The church itself is (insofar as it is the church) a fabric of endlessly various ramifications and effoliations of Christ’s beauty, unfolding between two parousiai,” wrote David Bentley Hart, and much of that unfolding is happening in Christian Egypt.  Even in a heart-sinkingly filthy rural town outside Cairo, just as one is about to despair of the poverty, one looks up and sees a new Coptic dome presiding, a beachhead in beauty’s war on squalor.

There was security at the entrances to the churches of Cairo, as I suppose there needs to be.  But even if, God forbid, some deluded individuals were to attack these Christians (as some have lately in Nigeria), total despair would be misplaced. The energy in this liturgy cannot be so easily extinguished. Indeed, any other kind of explosion would be dim in comparison to the clamor of this praise. Terrorists summon fear from their claim that the power they wield is ultimate, which it is not.  The deathless one so boisterously exalted in the Coptic liturgy – He is the one with power over life and death.  Do we really believe that?  If the energy of their worship is any indication, the Copts certainly  do. 

And yet, the divisions within Christianity are plain in Egypt, which like Germany or England, has this “national church” under its thumb. Coptic Christianity, as I suggested below, is turned in upon itself, due to its somewhat self-imposed historic isolation under Islam.   American evangelicals sometimes turn to Orthodoxy in assumption that it remains unbroken, especially contrasted to the four churches on the four corners of the typical American town.   But in Cairo one can find a Coptic church on one corner, and a beleaguered Melkite (Greek Orthodox) church in communion with Constantinople on the other.  I approached one such Greek church, and it was in such awful condition that when I tried to open the door (gently mind you), the doorknob came off! 

Christian divisions are lamentable no matter where they are found.  If an Orthodox Christian were to explain to me that the division between Coptic and Greek Orthodoxy is in fact quite permeable, then could I not say the same thing about the divisions between Methodists and Baptists, or Lutherans and Presbyterians?  Yes, since 2001, Coptic and Greek Orthodox Christians have recognized each other’s baptisms, but the aforementioned Protestant divisions have been doing the same for some time as well.  Perhaps Sarah Wilson is right.  Ecumenism should be future-focused.  We should be looking for the common faith as it appears across boundaries, and praying for a unity to come (not for a return to a unity that has long passed us by).  In this, mirabile dictu, the Coptic Pope Shenouda has been leading the way.

Islam and Christian Unity

Most of the pet theories that I had as an undergraduate or in my early twenties have died quiet, merciful deaths, resting in well deserved oblivion (alongside most of the output of my short-lived songwriting career).  How I'm glad the blog medium, back then, was in such primitive form that I could not avail myself of it, as I would have certainly attempted to find for my ill-formed fancies more of an audience than they deserved. Yet last night, staring down at Alexandria from a plane en route to Cairo, was just enough to cause one of those early theories of mine to unexpectedly surface, and I thought I'd record it before the tide of good sense and intellectual sobriety can submerge it once again. I find it hard to believe that no one else has thought of it - the notion I'm about to relate must be out there somewhere in some form in church history.

It regards the Copts, i.e. Egyptian Monophysite Christians.  They were first Protestants, and that's no compliment.  There should never have been a Coptic Church separate from the one Church, yet there was. The diaphysitism of the Council of Chalcedon was the supposed reason for the divide, but - I wouldn't be the first to suggest - just as significant was the fact that the same Council of 451 posited the more recently founded Constantinople, not Alexandria, as second in authority to Rome. Alexandria, that center of learning and culture which gave us the Septuagint, Philo, Clement, Origen the Great (as I like to call him), Antony and Athanasius, was forced to play second fiddle to an upstart. Upon news of the Council's urban rankings, Alexandrian riots were so forceful that the Great Catechetical School itself was destroyed.  A rift ensued.  Emperor Justinian could do nothing to heal it, and a separate branch of "Coptic" Christianity, luxuriating in its own formidable heritage (one soon to be turned in upon itself) was born. That's not the theory, by the way - all that is just the factual preface. My dubious theory is that upon the calcification of this (first?) yet to be fully mended breach within Christendom, God's hand of discipline on his faithless church appeared on the horizon in the form of Islam.  In short:  Copts break off, Christians are given over a century to make ammends, and (failing that) Muslims break in.

It is often remarked how, on the eve of the 16th century Ottoman conquest, the Byzantines preferred the Sultan's turban to the Pope's miter. We forget, however, that long before that the Copts sent the same message to the Byzantines, preferring Arab rule to Constantinople's. They got their wish, and Coptic Orthodoxy sustained enormous pressure to conform to Islam, while being, at the same time, cut off from the resources of the main currents of Christendom.  Not surprisingly, by the ninth century the Arabic language had replaced Coptic even among Christians, and Islam - demographically speaking - finally surpassed Coptic Christianity, making Egypt the predominantly Muslim land that it is today. Yes, Coptic Orthodoxy survived, and survives to this day, thank goodness. (God is, after all, merciful.)  And ecumenical progress on the monophysite issue in recent history is, of course, only to be applauded. But as R.R. Reno has remarked, "Let’s not kid ourselves... Repentance cauterizes; it does not erase."  Schism is sin, and if one believes, as I do, that Christianity stewards the truth (notice my absence of quotation marks) about the divinity of Jesus, then we have paid very dearly for this early schism.

Like I said, it's an outlandish theory that theoretically manhandles the two largest religions in the world, casually attempts to plumb Providence, and has been spurred lately only by a bout of "travel high" (which I'm convinced is a form of insanity). But it's not entirely original either. I seem to recall Isaiah and Jeremiah speaking of the Babylonians and Assyrians in such a "disciplinary" fashion, not to mention the book of Revelation warning about lamps being removed from lampstands (in what is now Islamic Asia Minor no less). But enough. Go back, strange theory, to those shapeless notional recesses from whence you came. But if your brief appearance goads someone else to stop uplifting their glorious "[insert Christian sub-division here] heritage," and to long for the incorporation of such distinctions within the larger body of Christendom instead, then you've done your job.

The Urban West: Bad, Better, Best

"Resistance to urbanism goes back to the very beginnings of American identity," argues Wilfred McClay. And yet, Lewis Mumford's realization that the city is in fact the "the form and symbol of an integrated social relationship" has crept its way into North American life as well, most slowly perhaps to the tireless horizons of the West, which have not been naturally conducive to urbanist principle. Having grown in my urban enthusiasms from reading Plumb Lines and conversing with its Princeton area contributors, I took the opportunity on a recent trip out West to do some investigative reporting on the state of urbanism. It didn't start well. I will not soon forget flying into "America's friendliest airport" (Phoenix), and seeing just how big this "city" - or megalopolis - actually is. If there is a discernible center somewhere in the Phoenix area, it was not visible from the sky.

BAD: Tucson was an even sorrier sight. In the town center I noticed some fresh vegetable and bread stands along with local jewelry merchants attempting to create a public market, but there were up against a town plan that merchants could do little to counter. Some local Goth kids tried to build around themselves a scene, but the architecture worked against them. One horrifically inhospitable modern building (a bit of which is seen here) effectively ripped the urban fabric, destroying 50 % of the view towards the one notable piece of architecture, the Pima County Courthouse.  What may have once been a town square had been literally stabbed to death.  There were several notable attempts at downtown revitalization, but all in all I felt little hope. A challenged business environment seemed best expressed by a decaying Wig-O-Rama. I mentioned to one jewelry maker that her town seemed to be up against a challenge. Here response was a sarcastic, "D'ya think?"

BETTER: Driving back to Phoenix, I expected something similar. I braced myself for a strip mall meal at best, but after driving for a bit I spotted a pedestrian complex through some highrises. There was a convenient parking lot nearby (the top of the image to the left), and I dispensed with my vehicle for a time. What I found was a rather successful two story urban promenade with restaurants on the bottom and offices on top, as well as a grove of trees and an impressive fountain complex with an inordinate amount of birds. Police patrolled on horseback, and there were attractive stores, a movie theatre, and - not to be taken for granted - people. Best of all, the Catholic Basilica and a park were in sight, so one could conceivably spend an entirely car-less Sunday in downtown Phoenix. Granted, the Sheraton does not exactly qualify as mixed-use, habitable urbanism, but at least it's a start.  There was something of Victor Gruen's original hope for the American mall reflected here, and due to the cathedral, maybe even something of the medieval town square.

BEST: Then came Vancouver, which I've already discussed. Oh, the neighborhoods. The onetime loading docks of Yaletown are now a raised promenade of restaurants and shops. The nearly suburban feel of Commercial Drive is nevertheless well served by public transport and is as urban on the main drag as the downtown core. Best of all, the onetime no-man's land of Granville Island, tucked under an overpass, is a bustling market packed with craft stores and eateries. Healthy neighborhoods can, to an extent, be judged by the guitar factor: Can the street life of a given neighborhood sustain a street musician? Granville Island passes so successfully that there were several guitar-players and a violinist in the Granville Island grocery store - nay - market, with delicious food, and a variety of attractive postmodern apartments (no doubt expensive ones) nearby. One local boasted to me that one can bike a loop around the entire city without encountering a car. And while the city is effectively planned, Stanley Park, in contrast to Central Park, is intentionally unplanned and downright jungly.

Good urbanism, however, is not just a Canadian thing. Americans have reason to be proud as well. Vancouver and Seattle, like Venice and Genoa before them, seemed to spur one another on to more effective urban realizations. On layover in Seattle, I visited the new Olympic Sculpture Garden. Like Granville Island, this was once no-man's land but is now an attractive public playground overlooking Elliott Bay. There were some very successful outdoor sculptures, like Louise Bourgeois' odd benches. However, it was a disappointment that the same sculptures one sees in, say, Princeton (Richard Serra) or Chicago (Alexander Calder), now decorate Seattle as well. More local artists - if such a thing is even possible anymore - would have been preferred. If contemporary art prides itself in originality, why do all sculpture parks have to look the same?

Starbucks Addendum:
The last moment of my urbanist tour in Seattle was a revelation. As I tried to argue back in 2004, Seattle has a way of imparting economic sense. There I visited one of the oldest continually operating urban farm markets in the U.S., Pike Place, up and running since 1907. It is no secret that this famous market gave us the first Starbucks. How silly of me to forget that this supposedly heartless multinational corporation, whose original building remains unchanged, began as a best-case urbanist scenario: A coffee-stop in a walkable, thriving urban produce and fish market. Furthermore, by pushing their original logo (which I've exegeted before) and the Pike Place blend, Starbucks seemed intent on reminding the world of this encouraging reality. Accordingly, perhaps Starbucks is less as an attack on good urbanist principles as it is a chief propagator of such ideals. Of course, the same critique could be made of that statement as I made of sculpture gardens - why should urbanism always look the same? Yet, I've noticed much more variety to Starbucks storefronts than to Serra and Calder designs.

Visitors should keep in mind Emerson's dictum (the citation of which I owe to R.R. Reno) that "Travel is a fool's paradise." I have no illusion that mine was a complete engagement of these various urban scenarios. There is a strip club right around the corner from Pike Place, a major drug problem in Vancouver, and perhaps some excellent urbanism in Tucson that I may have missed. Still, my brief trip imparted an important reminder: Yes, the vast expanse of North America has much (retrofittable) sprawl to answer for, but it also boasts some of the finest contemporary urban solutions as well. To return to Mumford, if the city is "the place where the diffused rays of many separate beams of life fall into focus," then we have our share of homegrown North American resources with which to combat the blur.

Faith and Flags

In the last week, I've seen a British flag placed on the high altar at Westminster Abbey, and a host of Greek flags packed into a major Cypriot church for a liturgy. The context for the first was a celebratory vespers for some of the last surviving veterans of the Normandy invasion. The context for the second was a remembrance of Greek resistance to Nazi rule ("Oxi" day).

Aside from challenging the assertion that Christendom is over (cue the weeps and gnashes), these twin instances have something to teach American theologians and popular Christian writers who deplore the stars and stripes being placed in, or anywhere near, Christian churches. While such thinkers may sound savvy, they in fact betray a notable lack of theological and political imagination. The flag-near-altar move can be understood less as a religious endorsement of anything a country might do, and more as gratitude for the blessings a country has enjoyed, and as a plea for mercy - an entreaty to make the given country more virtuous by bringing its chief symbol into a holy place. In other words, the flag isn't there to give, but to receive.

Similarly, how unnecessary it is to protest one's child having to say the "pledge allegiance to the flag." Why not instead interpret the mandatory hand-on-heart as a cap on legitimate affections? The gesture can be understood as a reminder to keep proper patriotism in perspective, and to never let the heart get too attached to an inevitably imperfect homeland. Semiotic subtlety can go a long way.

Christ Dead in London

As I strolled through London thanks to a felix culpa of a missed flight connection, I saw a truck that had a grizzly close-up photograph of a bleeding, crucified Christ who looked out intently, accompanied by the words, "Look what he did for you! Don't go to hell!" It's just the kind of thing that the sophisticated Londoner would balk at - except that it isn't. The Sacred Made Real at the National Gallery made the truck - and even the inevitably two dimensional canvass of Mel Gibson - look somewhat tame. Though they couldn't have planned it, this exhibit turns out to be a sort of complement to the Vatican initiative to welcome Anglicans. It's as in-your-face Spanish Catholic as an exhibit can get, but rather than recoiling, onetime Cromwellian London - from the reviews I read - seems to love it.

It was difficult not to. If art shows got Oscars, this show would get one for lighting. Walking through the exhibit is like inhabiting a chiaroscuro dreamscape. These images hover on the edge of kitsch, nevertheless, they somehow avoid the charge, at certain points only barely. If, as Oscar Wilde remarked, sentimentality is having an emotion without paying for it, then these sculptures and paintings - despite potentially saccharine themes like Bernard of Clairvaux's erotic visions - definitely extract a fee.

In a brilliantly defiant essay to introduce an exhibition on crucifixes, Leon Wieseltier once remarked in admiration, as only an unbeliever can, "What would art have been without religious nonsense?" I imagine he, and many unbelieving viewers, might be brought to a similar place by this exhibit. But, Martin Gayford at the Telegraph issues an important reminder:

Christ Carrying the Cross (1619) by Montañés is still carried through the streets during Holy Week on the shoulders of 30 men.... the realism was not intended as an artistic sensation, but as an aid to the religious imagination.

In a meditation on Irving Kristol's passing in this month's First Things, Jody Bottum wrestles with the charge that Kristol saw religion as merely useful.

[Kristol] had an utter conviction of the social utility of Judeo-Christian religion, but the rebuttal of social utility arguments is easy: The good social effects of religion are not gained when people practice religion for the sake of its good social effects; those effects come, instead, only when people practice religion for the sake of itself.

Replace the word "social" in that paragraph with "artistic," and one has a gentle retort to those who, with alleged magnanimity, applaud the aesthetic utility of Christian faith.

Oh, Canada

That being both an "Oh" of both reverence and exasperation, the latter which I am permitted because I married a Canadian. The occasion for dual sentiment was a magnificent exhibition at the Vancouver Art Gallery. Had you asked me what the best landscape painting show I could imagine might be, and had I thought about it hard enough, I would have said a contextualized juxtaposition of America's Hudson River School with Canada's Group of Seven. And it is just this that Vancouver has amply provided in Expanding Horizons: Painting and Landscape Photography of American and Canadian Landscape 1860-1918. The exhibit was organized chronologically, beginning with an early innocence, followed by domination over nature, and then a return to that original innocence, which is where North America's best kept artistic secret, the Group of Seven, came in.

The Americans Georgia O'Keefe, Thomas Eakins, Winslow Homer, and John Singer Sargent all made dignified appearances in the show. But as an American, I can flat out admit that when one factors in Tom Thompson et alia, Canada far outpaces American landscape painting, and that's alright. Art is not a zero-sum game, and the paintings are there for the entire continent to discover and enjoy.

But then Canada had to get political, or rather, aggressively apolitical. To be fair, I should have expected this. At the impressive Anthropological Museum, a best case scenario of modern architecture, my co-traveler (and mega-blogger) Bill and I were struck with the oddness of the museum's commentary on Bill Reid's marvelous sculpture - carved from a solid block of Cedar - which is placed over previous defensive fortifications, fortifications which the exhibit referred to as "dubious," as if there was an inherent problem with Canadians trying to defend themselves during the Second World War. Such self-negating commentary was amplified at the landscape show.

While the American/Canadian juxtaposition was fascinating in and of itself, the curators decided to take the opportunity to unfurl that unofficial Canadian motto: "Not America." America, we learned, exploited their environment, and Canada (it was implied) wouldn't dare rearrange a distant Yukon stone. America, we learned, believed in Manifest Destiny, God and all that, as expressed, for example, in Moran's much-less-cheesy-in-the-original Mountain of the Holy Cross. Canada, the exhibit implied, had no such metaphysical ambitions, a move which requires ignoring, for example, the profoundly religious, admittedly theosophic, influence on the artists such as Lawren Harris.

If Canadians want to believe this about their history then so be it. They are at liberty to be wrong. Problem is, the City of Vancouver is not yet fully on board. Just as the visitor is about to leave the city through the main rail station, one sees this sculpture by Couer de Lion MacCarthy, commissioned by the Canadian Pacific Railway. It was built to commemorate the workers who gave their lives in World War I, men "called by King and Country," only to "pass out of sight of men by the path of duty and self-sacrifice that others might live in freedom," freedoms which Vancouverites, I can assure you, take full advantage.

Railroads realizing continental British ambitions, and then commissioning art about soldiers giving up their lives for Canadian sovereignty and liberty? It all sounds so less than dubious; so stridently Amer.... I can't bring myself to say it (lest an embarrassed Olympic Welcoming Committee tear the beautiful thing down). Can such ideals be abused? Of course they can, and have been. But to tell only the abusive side of the story is as revisionist as a history book subtitled "My country right or wrong." This is why public sculpture, such as America's own Augustus Saint Gaudens, is so important. It offsets the tyranny of the living, and permits the dead to get a word in edgewise.

But what about the aboriginal perspective? Don't get me started. Even First Nations artist Bill Reid is too much of a believer for the present generation. In the contemporary, supplemental installations at the Bill Reid Gallery, Reid's tour de force at the Anthropological Museum is mocked with a Campbell's soup can and chainsaw spinoff which are clever, but only clever. Reid's sculpture, on the other hand, was ambitious, serene, reflective of the finer First Nation ideals, and exponentially more difficult to create.

The Group of Seven were painting for Canada, not against America. Say what you will about the ideals - Royal or aboriginal - of previous generations. At least they gave us beautiful art. Conversely, my generation has given itself to one of the most seductive, ambitious ideals imaginable: The mistaken belief there are no ideals. Consequently, the art we have to offer is, far too often, parasitic at best.

update: Incidentally, to take this perspective further, the scholarship of Canadian historian George Rawlyk (not to mention Mark Noll) has done much to correct the Canadian tendency to edit out its own religious history.

Dispatch from Hiptopia

Greetings from Hiptopia, otherwise known as Vancouver, with a dramatic natural setting, walkable urbanism notable enough to have inspired a neologism, some best case scenario postmodern architecture, and a music scene both vigorous and hospitable enough to approximate transcendence (or at least the show I saw did). There's a reason this city is a creative class, not to mention a drug-addicted underclass, Mecca.

My guidebook glibly suggests that people don't attend church here, but if non-white people qualify as people, then my experience stopping in at three separate packed Catholic services suggests otherwise. Still, the guidebook has a point. Hipsters, many with babies now in tow, come to cosmopolitan Vancouver to, more often than not, leave the Christianity of their provincial hometowns behind. It must, therefore, be disconcerting for them to pick up a copy of the ubiquitous Georgia Straight and read the article on Nick Cave's new novel, The Death of Bunny Runmo. The book depicts a sex-addict growing conscious of his own damnation, lost in what Cave calls an "epic flight away from love." The article provides some unexpected insights into Cave's somewhat Marcionite and Arian, but nevertheless illuminating, exegesis:

"[The] element of the absurd is crucial to Bunny Munro's balancing act, given that the story has roots not only in the darkest chapters of Cave's life but also in weighty literary sources that have long inspired him. One of these is the Gospel of St. Mark, the oldest and briefest of the Bible's four accounts of the life of Jesus. As Cave noted in a foreword he wrote for a 1998 edition of the gospel, he first encountered the text following years of obsession with the Old Testament and its 'maniacal, punitive God'. The central figure in Mark, he explained in the essay, 'had a ringing intensity about him that I could not resist... The essential humanness of Mark's Christ provides us with a blueprint for our own lives so that we have something we can aspire to rather than revere, that can lift us free of the mundanity of our existences rather than affirming the notion that we are lowly and unworthy.' And as Cave says in conversation, he's been gripped ever since by Mark's story-by what he calls 'the energy of it'.

'If you compare it to the other gospels, there's an urgency about it that I really like,' he says. 'And I like that in other novels. I like that in crime literature and in certain poets. It's a kind of rapid-fire delivery. You know, the gospel of Mark reads like James Ellroy, to me. Everything's happening super-fast...'

[The Gospel of Mark] is in the foundations of Bunny Munro, Cave says. Mark's gospel 'rockets through the story in order to get to its absolute preoccupation, which is with the death of the protagonist,' he points out. 'And it's episodic in a similar way to my novel. From the title of my book and the first line of my book, you are preparing for the death of the central character. So structurally it's actually quite similar...'"

As I barely made it through The Proposition, I'm not sure this book is for me. Still, Cave at his best functions as a sort of apostle to hipsters - perhaps now even as an answer to those who complain that there are no contemporary Flannery O'Connors.

around the world around the worrrld

Globalization 101
Originally uploaded by millinerd

At the request of some who wondered what I was up to this summer, and don't feel like flipping through thousands of photographs (literally: I've passed the 10,000 mark on flickr) here's a tally of summer travels, linked to the best pics. My purpose? Collecting dissertation data, which I was in fact able to do in abundance. First, however, was a stop off at the strange sights of the Thessaloniki Biennale, which may merit a future write up. Then two weeks was at the Mount Menoikeion seminar. I think my best shots were here and here (don't forget to click "all sizes" and see the big versions). It rained a lot in northern Greece this summer. A lot. Towards the end of our seminar we had a glorious trip to Mount Athos by boat. I tried some stuff on the camera and communicated, I hope, the mystical green haze. I felt this one was sort of Sinaish. A Byzantine hand appeared in one shot, as did a lady in red just in time to punctuate a photo, and in one pic a dolphin merged with a seagull, and the peak said hello just as we ferried away.

Then the research flurry began.

Day 1 (July 2) Voreia to see the Kalliergis frescoes.
Day 2 (July 3) Meteora. Meteora was Roger Moore's last kill. Thanks in part to the film For Your Eyes Only, the place is quite overrun. And lest an evangelical convert to Orthodoxy think they've escaped Thomas Kinkade, think again. But the hospitality displayed in the convents, I should admit, won me over in the end.
Day 3 (July 4) Meteora to Thermopylae (not that impressive) to Delphi for dinner.
Day 4 (July 5) Delphi to Olympia (written about here) to Kardamyli, where I tried not to speculate about vacationing mafiosi.
Day 5 (July 6) Kardamyli. T'was my birthday so I slowed down a bit and wrote this.
Day 6 (July 7) Mani, the hotbed of Greek independence which I didn't even begin to uncover; Mistra, the Romantic end of Byzantium which did not disappoint; and Monemvasia, where I stayed on the rock in a hotel that was once the home of one famous image, and now boasted international cable with over 1700 channels. Odd. The dinner setting was, to say the least, a pleasant one. The barbounia (red mullets) even more so. It has taken me too long to discover that dining is the consummation of travel.
Day 7 (July 8) Monemvasia to Nafplion, where I foolishly neglected to bring my camera for magnificent a sunset stroll.
Day 8 (July 9) Mega-day: Nafplion fortress (quite a view), Epidavrios (the acoustics are indeed baffling), four Byzantine churches, Mycenae, Acro-Corinth (where the view enables Greece to make visual sense), Corinth beautiful Corinth, then a quick look at the long-closed Daphni monastery on the way to Athens. I'm tired just remembering the day.
Day 9 (July 10) Overnight in Athens. Checked out the impressive new Acropolis Museum, one giant "Give 'em back!" A prediction: The Elgin marbles will end up there eventually.

After this I met Denise in England where we stayed with my sister-in-law Susie in the wonderful Peak district, specifically Buxton. Susie's performance was superb, and among other things we saw were Chatsworth (set of The Duchess) with its marvelous interior and shocking marbles, Haddon Hall (set of the Princess Bride) with its gardens and recovered frescoes. Among many other pubs and churches, my favorite of all was perfect Cheadle, which Pugin called "my consolation in all my afflictions." It's all in the detailing. But the more down-to-earth Methodists, remember, have a place in Cheadle too.

This odd travel combo culminated in a quick trip through Massachusetts (I'm in trouble for not getting in touch with MA area friends, but a conference ensured little free time). I tried to express the fittingness of this Boston culmination here. Icons, strangely, have their place in New England as well, specifically at the packed and passionately docented Museum of Russian Icons in Clinton, MA. But don't even get me started on Ralph Adams Cram's tomb and private chapel - that's another post.

millinerd guide to guides

Tour guides are the pastorate of the art historical profession. An art historian unable to lead a compelling tour is missing something essential, as is a theologian incapable of preaching a compelling sermon. Likewise, guiding tours (and pastoring churches) is a generally undervalued pursuit - albeit one arguably more important than formal art history (or professional theology). But undervalued or not, a tour, and sermon, is where the rubber of one's academic knowledge hits the road of public concern.

Being a good tour guide is like being a good waiter. The best waiters know how to strategically recede, foregrounding the customer's encounter with food and their chosen company - but at the same time, good waiters know when to assert themselves to enhance the dining experience. In the same way, the best tour guides assert themselves when necessary to stimulate an inattentive or perplexed audience, but the best tour guides never assert themselves too much.

The skill of delicately leeching off an ongoing tour at a given monument or museum can seriously enhance one's trip. On my recent sojourn through fair Italia, the Temple University professor I heard from at the Borghese Gallery in Rome ("the queen of private collections") was deeply informative, and I seemed to be the only one among his class that was listening. Likewise a University College London Professor's tour of Tinotoretto's Scuola San Rocco was one of the finest art history lectures I have witnessed. But, one of course does not need be a professional art historian to lead a tour. What is necessary is a jealously passionate love for one's subject and an ability to impart that enthusiasm, grounded by an accurate mastery of the historical details. The best tour guide I have ever had (at the Wurzburg residence) was probably not a professional art historian. The second best, at the Scavi tour under St. Peter's, was. The degree is secondary. Both these guides took risks to engage their audiences, and both succeeded.

At a recent Gothic conference at Princeton, Columbia's Stephen Murray (check his websites) departed from the standard academic routine, and attempted to construct a theory about how monuments need interpreters, else those monuments remain mute. He added that this new model could include spiritual meaning, which should not just be the domain of Abbot Suger. It was a refreshing break from what I'll call the "Panofsky Piñata" paradigm in which academic conference presenters take turns swinging away at an earlier generation of art historians, complete with blindfolds but without the candy. Murray's was a wonderfully complex presentation that sought to fit the new wine of active monument interpretation (i.e. tour guides) into the old wineskin of traditional art history. It might have been enough to cause some conference participants to put down their sticks.

millinerd guide to guidebooks

Guidebooks are the Biblical commentaries of the art historical field. One may read an art history textbook with attention, but never with the slavish devotion to every jot and tittle given a guidebook as one seeks that certain church or this specific statue within it. No Art Bulletin article, however well crafted, has known the sheer filial dependence placed in a guidebook by a traveler lost in an unknown city. George Steiner once wrote,

The mass of books and critical essays, of scholarly articles, of acta and dissertations produced each day in Europe and the United States, has the blind weight of a tidal wave.

And that was two decades ago. The tidal wave has only swelled, and the saddest thing about the tsunami is how little of it will be read. Not so with guidebooks. They enjoy a wide and diverse audience that specialized academic art history publications will never know. Guidebooks are those disproportionately influential, underappreciated common vessels of art historical truth.

This doesn't of course mean they're necessarily good. I have been burned by guidebooks before, be it through just plain inaccuracy, or through an annoying secular bias that assumes its readers to be pleasure-seeking drifters with no more than passing interest in religion or history. Other guidebooks have been good but not ideal. For example, I did nearly every walking tour in John Freely's classic Strolling through Istanbul, but ultimately feel its dense prose and limited, low quality maps and pictures was too much of a drawback.

Sometimes, as with Macedonia/F.Y.R.O.M. or Serbia/Kosovo, one doesn't have much of a choice (for those countries, Bradt is about it). Italy, however, is guide-book rich, leaving one the option of choosing the best case guidebook scenario: Rick Steves for practicalities, and the Blue Guide for art history. If any country to which you travel offers that combination, take it. I've made the mistake of having Rick and not Blue, and Blue and not Rick, and have paid the price. Both are necessary, and both excel in their respective categories in ways only possible because of the dynastic team enterprises that both Rick Steves and Blue Guides have become.


First comes Rick, to whom I owe a serious debt. He taught me how to travel. You don't outgrow Rick's enthusiasm, you grow into it. If you see a confused traveler on a street corner in Orvieto muttering out loud, "What say you Rick?" and reaching into his manpurse, that would be me. It's become habit, and I'm not ashamed. Consider some Rickisms:

"Travel teaches the beauty of human fulfillment. I believe God created each of us to be fulfilled."

"Affording travel is a matter of priorities. (Make do with the old car.)"

"Extroverts have more fun... Be fanatically positive and militantly optimistic.... If something's not to your liking, change your liking."

True, Rick may initially seem a tad too perky on screen, but what he's doing is embodying his own advice - and when you hit Europe you both realize how much that upbeat attitude is necessary, and long that your travel companions shared it. Who but Rick Steve's can successfully orient you to the cultural goings on in Padua University, and dare you to go up to students and ask them their take on Italian politics? True, I believe Rick goes too far by spurring middle age adults to smoke up in Amsterdam, but in an interesting case of generational rebellion, at least his son knows better.

Sure, I have my disagreements. To his bogus "skip Thessaloniki" counsel, I would retort with his advice given elsewhere: "If you don't enjoy a place, maybe you don't know enough about it." Rick sees his mission as overcoming American ethnocentrism, and he does it well. In the process, I believe he goes over the top in praising the big government of demographic freefall Europe. He also, I believe, underappreciates the (fast vanishing) American distinctives, but Rick is still honest enough to admit that Europe is "not a place I'd want to run my small business."

When it comes to European practicalities, Rick has just the right tone, and his yearly book updates (a rarity in the industry) ensure his details don't get stale. To put it bluntly, I was in Rome over the notoriously busy Holy Week, saw all of the most popular monuments, and while I passed many long lines, the only time I waited in one was to get on the plane. Why? Slavish devotion to Rick Steves.

In addition, Rick provides the videos, radio shows, forums, and best of all, free audio tours. Yes, these can be cheesy, but one must admit Rick is funny - at times in a laugh-out-loud kind of way. (Listen at 9:25 on the San Marco audio tour.) Fortunately, in these audio guides one of his colleagues has been summoned to counter his voice which produces a nice effect. That said, my female art historical colleagues will likely be infuriated that Rick is the one with the big insights, and she is the one who says things like "Did someone say shopping?"

At times, Rick's (or his co-author Gene Openshaw's) gift for boiling history down to the essentials is extremely effective. For example, here's medieval Italy made easy. There were "supporters of the popes (called Guelphs, centered in urban areas) and those of the emperors (Ghibellines, popular with the rural nobility)." But this same gift for simplicity is what renders Rick inadequate. One can only hear the Middle Ages dismissed as "centuries of superstition and ignorance" so many times before it really starts to grate. His Florence audio walking tour is enough to make a Byzantinist leap into the Arno.

Usually, the Lutheran Rick is free from prejudice. For example, he effectively defends the possible legitimacy of the relics in Venice's San Marco treasury to a skeptical American audience, and at the same time encourages skepticism when it's due - a tension masterfully handled. When in Rome, Rick encourages all travelers to become temporary Catholics. Still, Rick needs do a better job of taking his own advice. In the Colosseum audio guide, he begs your empathy for for the political rationale behind the killing binges, and then summons his listeners to compunction only at Constantine's arch. Likewise, Rick's wrap-up of the message in Michelangelo's Sistine Last Judgment is a belly flop:

Christ is returning, some will go to hell and some to heaven, and some will be saved by the power of the rosary.

But I suppose this is no surprise. Protestantism, the church of grace and liberty, often runs out of both grace and liberty in Rome.

There are also some plain errors. For example, Rick's Pantheon audioguide (2:27) says that Agrippa built it, but despite what it says on the pediment, Hadrian did (giving the honor to Arippa). And contrary to Rick's guidebook (468), the famous Madonna del voto in the Siena cathedral was not by Duccio. Petty as it may be to point out those tiny errors, it points to a general incompleteness that the wise traveler will seek to supplement.


Enter the Blue Guide. Rick has been going for decades, and keeps getting better. Blue has been going for a century (and if you count their predecessor, even more) and hence has been getting better for much longer. Not only does Blue provide you with incisive, accurate, in depth art historical information of the actual monuments, it also provides you with the best historic commentary, imparting a genuine sense of the arc of western civilization. For example, in Venice you get Venice and John Ruskin's punchiest quips. In Rome, you get the Colosseum, and Charles Dicken's take upon the monument as well, and Gibbon's, Balzac's, Byron's, etc.

The short historical essays in Blue are masterful distillations of huge swaths of information which, when read on site, can be revelations. It's not that one reads the Blue Guide and thinks, "That's interesting, I look forward to reading a more in depth art historical treatment later on." No, in many cases the Blue Guide is that more in depth art historical treatment, with the added dimension of to-the-point clarity which so much art historical literature can lack. Consider sentences like this from Blue Guide Venice:

Venice has no Dante or Leonardo or Alberti or Machiavelli; but it produced painters whose universal influence has been incomparable, because of one fundamental lesson they imbibed from the endless modulations of their native light.

Furthermore, Blue boldly takes on cherished misconceptions. Rather than whining about spolia, Blue refers to the "famous 'plundering' of the ancient buildings in the Forum, which in fact probably saved these historical works from destruction in later centuries." Rather than stroking one's self-congratulatory American pluralism, The Blue Guide is free thinking enough to poke fun at free thinkers:

Giordino Bruno's death at the hands of the Inquisition made him a hero to anti-clerical 19th-century liberals, but his rambling philosophical and theological writings are unlikely to have appealed to them in detail, for he was by no means a proto-liberal.

And whereas Rick uses the Sistine Chapel to take a pot-shot at the rosary, the Blue Guide culminates a brilliant essay with the haunting observation that Michelangelo's self placement shows that "He obdurately believed he was condemned to perdition." Such gutsy, controversial calls are Blue Guide staples. The seriousness of tone matches the seriousness of the works being examined.

Not that Blue Guides are perfect. Blue too is subject to the Renaissance bias, suggesting in the Venice book that Bellini's Transfiguration is "probably the first altarpiece of the Transfiguration to have been painted, as the religious festival celebrating the even twas only introduced in 1457." It'd be nice to at least mention the Orthodox tradition in this context, especially in a guidebook to a city so indebted to Byzantium. But the Vasari spell is a very difficult one to break.

While the strengths of the Blue Guide may seem capable of replacing Rick, I still consider both essential. Although the Blue Guides recommend hotels, contains walks and restaurant options (suggestions which I admit I haven't fully investigated), it feels as odd to consult Blue Guide for those purposes as it feels to consult Rick for in depth art or architectural history. Rick expertly plumbs Europe's shifting present, Blue beautifully showcases its infinite past. For those familiar with Biblical studies, Rick is the sometimes preachy New Interpreter's Commentary, Blue the heavyweight Anchor, and one needs both. The perfect trip should combine the attitude of Rick Steves with the authority of the Blue Guide - both of which pay for themselves several times over in a single trip.

Italenary

It is one thing to plan an itinerary, another to pull it off. Below is a real time layout of how my research trip actually went with brief commentary, provided for both my own reference, and to help you plan your trip, which (if you haven't already) you must take. Sorry, no excuses. I saw lots of people in wheelchairs. Save the money. Make the sacrifice. Take the kids. Life is short.

You'll pardon the self-portraits. Person pics are generally more interesting for others to look at, and they help me remember I was actually there. Nestled back as I now am in the settled Jersey plains, I'm finding that hard to believe.


March 31st - Arrival in Venice 'bout 1pm. That day, icon museum, S. Giorgio dei Greci, S. Giorgio Maggiore, S. Zaccaria (Bernini in situ, which even a photograph of is enough to qualify as Met-sanctioned contemporary art). Stay at the cheap Locanda Silva ('bout 50 euros a night with shared bathroom).

April 1 - Accademia and Peggy Guggenheim art museums (contrast indescribable). Frari Church, S. Polo (Franciscan/Dominican art duel), then leeched off an incredible tour of Tintoretto's "Sistine Chapel", the Scuola San Rocco. (Ahh, Scuolas - private, effective, non-government funded charitable foundations. Remember those?) Then a visit to the Mesopanditissa icon at S. Salute. Marian icons is the focus of my dissertation, and hence my trip.

April 2 - Secret Itinerary tour of the Doge's Palace (worth it). Get into San Marco's just before they turned the dome lights out (planning makes perfect). Correr Museum (okay, I rushed it), and then the boat to Torcello in the pouring rain, which was a risk, but it cleared up as I got to Torcello. Bellini at Harry's Bar of Hemingway fame (worth it).

April 3 - Turns out this was an unfeasible day which I painfully pulled off, but not without acute exhaustion. 9am pick up car, drive to Padua. Barely make the 11:45 ticket to Giotto's Arena Chapel due to navigation and parking. See Padua University and St. Antony's tomb, then off to Ravenna. Arrival in Ravenna such that I have to sprint between mosaics, and while missing out on S. Apollinare in Classe, I saw the rest. Then the grueling drive over the mountains to Florence at night. After more parking nightmares (due to late arrival), check into a not so great hotel at 2am.

April 4 - 7am move car to cheaper lot, then rush to the Bargello, which careful preparation enables one to experience quickly but intensely. Then to Santa Maria Novella and San Marco (both were essential). Make the 12pm Accademia by the skin of my chin (due to having to find a place to print out the reservation details which I didn't realize I needed). Michelangelo's David was there, but the icons are upstairs. Then 2pm Uffizi which I rode out until closing. I wept for those without reservations. Then a meaty dinner overlooking the Ponte Vecchio, only to then witness a vegetarian demonstration perhaps spurred by my meal. Surprisingly, this was an almost perfectly planned day and did not feel rushed.


April 5 (Palm Sunday) - Move the car, Duomo liturgy, Brancacci Chapel, Santa Croce, Medici Chapels, San Lorenzo, (I missed the Medicci-Riccardi Palace), and Piazza Michelangelo at sunset. Moral of the story: No Medicci, no Michelangelo. Patronage matters. These additional sites meant I ended up spending five additional hours in Florence, which forced Arezzo and Assisi out of my plans, but more time in Florence was worth it. That night quick drive to Siena, where I enjoyed perhaps the best pizza dinner I've ever had. Stay at the wonderful Alma Domus (con vista por favore), the best hotel of my visit (nun-run).

April 6 - First thing in Siena is the Pinacoteca, then the City Tower, then the Civic Museum (Lorenzetti's allegory), then the Duomo Museum (Duccio's Maesta), then the Duomo. The Santa Maria della Scala Museum is an impressive feet of museumcraft, but is very, very big. Say goodbye to Saint Catherine's skull at S. Domenico (not realizing I would soon see her body in Rome), then drive to Orvieto, that city on a hill which was, simply put, a revelation. As a priest friend explained, Orvieto is ground zero for the real presence. The few hours I spent there were arresting, and sufficient. Then drive to Rome, where I drop off the car at the airport, take the train into the city, and wander trying to find the Yellow hostel where I earn the reputation as "the married guy."



April 7 - Rome is different. Any attempt at "doing" the city with the same ridiculous pace I set for myself previously would inevitably fail, so I didn't even try. I took the morning to try to recover from exhaustion and process some photos. Then it was onto Santa Maria Maggiore, S. Alfonoso to meet with a priest about my dissertation icon, S. John Lateran, S. Croce in Gerusalemme (which had a nice exhibit of Russian icons).

April 8 - Getting to the Borghese is difficult, but I made my 9am reservation. It was a visually satisfying experience. Then I check the Opus Dei headquarters near by. Then the Scavi tour of the Vatican and then St. Peter's Basilica itself. The Scavi tour was a keeper. Before 1940, saying that St. Peter's was built over the tomb of St. Peter was a essentially a matter of faith. Since 1940, those who so believe have convincing archaeological evidence in their favor.

April 9 (Maundy Thursday) - Giotto exhibit (temporary), then the Vatican museum from 12 - 5pm (seriously, it took that long). The museum's essential message: Michelangelo (Sistine Chapel) is to classicism (Greek sculpture) what Aquinas (Summa Theologica) is to the best of pagan philosophy (Aristotle). Catholicism, the great amoeba, absorbs again.

I barely caught the Pope at a St. John Lateran service, and then did the fountain walk (Spanish steps, Trevi fountain, etc.). I witnessed throngs of youth wandering the streets of Rome, some going to party, some going in droves from church to church to venerate the Blessed Sacrament. Choose this day, right? I went with the revering droves.



April 10 (Good Friday) - Colosseum that morning, then S. Clemente, S. Cosma e Damiano, then Good Friday service in the Pantheon. The gods may be gone, but the one that matters is holding out. Then S. Luigi (Carravagio), S. Maria sopra Minerva. The Pope's carrying the cross at the Colosseum was not the best choice - I got a better view at Yankee stadium, but it was neat to watch him through the Arch of Constantine.



April 11 - S. Passede, S. Pudentziana, S. Francesco (where with persistence, I actually got to see Rome's earliest icon of Mary), the Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum, Capitoline Museum (where, captive as I am to cultural Christianity, I was sucked up by the statue of Constantine), Fra Angelico exhibit (who I'm convinced is the artist who understands heaven best), then to Trastevere where I enjoyed the neighborhood and caught the beginning of the Easter Vigil at S. Maria in Trastevere, but sadly, was too burnt out to see it through.

April 12 - Off to the Vatican for Easter. Bernini's concave pavement made it actually a very visible service. Then, fool that I am, I walked to the tomb of Saint Paul at S. Paulo Fuori le Mura. But seeing pilgrims used to walk there from France, it seemed fair. Visiting tombs and churches does in fact, I learned, impart spiritual benefits, perhaps explaining the plenary indulgence incentive inscribed on so many of them. Then train to the airport, night at the Amsterdam Yotel (perhaps the most efficient use of space I've ever encountered), where I was sadly unable to finish Twilight because it was no longer on the movie selection.

And so it went. I wouldn't be the first to try to explain that while this was a pleasurably momentous journey, it was no vacation.

Briefcasing through Europe

Because I chose my undergraduate major wisely, I'll be spending Easter in Italy for dissertation research. Don't hate me. Better yet, join me. My round trip open jaw ticket (into Venice and out of Rome) was, taxes and fees included, $415.

Gone are the carefree days of backpacking in Europe as captured by Michener's The Drifters. The system is now such that I'm not sure how a contemporary carefree wanderer could see much of anything. The pattern is an Athonite one: In the sixties, hippies crashed Mount Athos and took advantage of monastic hospitality, an abuse which lead to the diamoniterion process which requires (thanks to Takis' cigarette breaks) nearly a dozen calls to Greece. Italy's reservation process is similar, meaning my trip now resembles a tight daily regimen in (what's left of) corporate America. The briefcase, not the backpack, seems the appropriate accessory.

First, consider the extensive preparation required. Beyond the Renaissance art texts, there is the essential travel book cocktail: One part Blue Guide (art historical), one part Pilgrim's Guide (devotional) mixed into a generous serving of the trusty Rick Steves (practical). John Ruskin's Stones of Venice can be used as well, granted it's concealed in a hip flask.

Then consider the trip itself: Two and a half days in Venice are jam packed - the more disciplined my sight seeing, the better the chance of a trip through the lagoon to the Byzantine mosaics of Torcello. Then, after picking up a car I've made a reservation to the minute at Padua's Arena Chapel, after which I'll pull into Ravenna just before the sights close. Here's the next day in Florence:

8:15am - Bargello Museum
9am - See Masaccio's Trinity at Santa Maria Novella
10am - San Marco Museum
12pm - Accademia
2pm - Uffizi
?pm - Get kicked out of the Ufizzi

Considering advance reservations are required for many of those, the casual traveler is at significant disadvantage. The next day in Florence takes me to the Duomo and the Brancacci Chapel (more reservations). Then it's off to Siena before the sights close, and the next day I hope to pull the threefer - Arezzo, Orvieto and Assisi. Impossible? We'll find out. I'm moving fast because I'm eager to get to Holy Week in Rome (where several more reservations have been necessary). While I'm quite proud of my prep-work, I could have done better. Had I been on the ball months ago, I would possibly have made it to the Scavi, which is now only a remote possibility.

This kind of detailed scheduling demands that a briefcase (or tasteful manpurse - it can be done) replace the backpack, and sleek eurojacket outerwear replace the casual fleece, but I'm okay with that. As anyone familiar with the Italian chapters of the Sartorialist will know, upping one's garment game when in Italy is not exactly a bad idea.

Expect a few interspersed Italian blog bursts over the next two weeks.

Nameless Lands

Whatever one might say about studying Byzantine art, it takes you places. Following Cyprus (pics), and after a research seminar at an Orthodox Monastery near Serres which went beautifully, it was off to see the frescoed churches of Kastoria (pics). After this Denise and I met in Thessaloniki. We then journeyed back to the monastery so that she could finally meet the nuns. Everyone should know nuns.

We then headed north to places that cannot be named. One might call our first stop Macedonia (pics), but when one has Greek friends (Greeks prefer to keep the name Macedonia for themselves), it's best to say FYROM, the "Former Yugolslov Republic of Macedonia." The Macedonians retort that "Greece" should be FOPOG, the "Former Ottomon Protectorate of Greece." It's a complex issue, and I don't mean to make light of it (even if one of the Macedonian political parties is actually called VMRO-DPMNE "Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization-Democratic Party of National Unity"). To avoid any such controversial acronyms, I'll stick to cities.

First we went to Skopje. As the slow and inefficient train pulled in, we witnessed an unusual sight that encapsulated our visit to the country. The enormous lit cross at the top of a mountain that overlooked the city was overlapped by a red crescent moon. I'm not being poetic; that's really what we saw. And lo, for the next several days we witnessed churches competing for visual prominence with mosques. Albanians, once largely Catholic, converted to Islam under Ottoman rule, and are a substantial Macedonian minority. The famous frescoes at the Church of St. Panteleimon at Nerezi (near Skopje) was the reason for our visit, and even there a brand new mosque now competes for prominence. And with a once-functioning monastery now serving as a tourist-destination and snack bar, I wouldn't be surprised which religious group gains the upper hand. Fortunately, Albanian Islam (comparable to the Turkish kind), is tolerant, so co-existence is currently the rule. Money, however (especially the 50 and 1000), sends a clear message as to what this country is all about.

After Skopje it was on to Ohrid, called the "gem of the Macedonian crown" for its beauty . It is also affectionately known as the Slavic Jerusalem. Here Cyril and Methodius first came to translate the Gospel into the Slavic alphabet that they invented, and here their greatest disciple, St. Clement, carried on the work. Having lost a baby by that name recently, Denise and I thought it fitting to visit the various churches and relics of Clement in this largely undiscovered (by Americans) lakeside town. Ohrid displays astonishing testimony to the vitality of Byzantine art beyond Byzantium. The Slavs had just enough distance from Constantinople to keep a (by this point in the trip) Byzantine-saturated art historian fascinated.

An Anti-Iraq
After this we journeyed north into to the city of Pristina in another country where even the name is a point of contention. Kosovo to most, but if you're a Serb, Kosovo-Metohija (Metoh means "church land.") Kosovo is currently the youngest country in the world, having declared independence this February. America has vigorously backed the new nation, with the 1776 analogy in mind. Serbia, backed by Russia, would no doubt prefer we had used our 1865 analogy instead. "Tourists are unheard of," trumpeted our guidebook, though we didn't feel at all out of place. While "Pretending to Be Canadian When Traveling Abroad" is among the stuff white people like (#105 in the book), in Kosovo there's no need. If anything, Denise (a Canadian) might have pretended to be American. Where else in the world does one see this?

I'm not going to indulge in my generation's tendency to claim to be an expert on complex international situations after only a brief visit. If anything, brief visits can distort one's perspective. What I can say is that things appear to have cooled off considerably from the recent conflict. For a defense of the Serbian side of the issue that is severely critical of U.S. policy, there's Andrew Cusack with extended debate in the comments. For a different perspective, there's Michael J. Totten who shows that Kosovo is no Wahhabist enclave. The pictures and text in this post of his are also illuminating.

I certainly hope my country is taking advantage of its respected status in Kosovo to push for religious freedom, and there are signals that this may be happening, even reports that Ibrahim Rugova, Kosovo's former president, converted to Catholicism towards his life's end. While the prominent Serbian Orthodox church in the center of town is not doing well, it turned out to be no problem at all for us to visit Gracanica (details here), which was the reason we came.

The youthfulness of Pristina was refreshing (as were the showers). The palpable desire for peace and stability is what leads me to call Kosovo an "anti-Iraq." Still, it is not controversial, only accurate, to point out that to be a Byzantine art historian in Kosovo means your textbooks, sadly, must include this.

Cyprus wrap-up

I'm in Greece now for some more research at Mount Menoikeion. I constructed a website (with much assistance) over the semester to convey what it is we're up to. Please feel free to check it out. Below is my Cyprus summary in the form of a credit card commercial:

Listening to extensive reflection on Orthodox/Catholic relations on the flight over to prepare for an intelligent, conciliatory western encounter with Orthodoxy? Free (thanks to Nathaniel).

Arriving at Larnaca at 3am due to an extreme delay, renting a car and traveling straight into the mountains to the church of Panagia tou Araka (my dissertation focus) just in time to get there, after a treacherous mountain pass, for the Pentecost Monday liturgy? A good bit of euros (car rental is not cheap, but bargaining seemed to work).

Getting to see the famous icon at Kykko monastery, and realizing that devotion to the Virgin is far from a distraction - but may in fact be an essential supplement - to a rightly ordered Christian faith? 6 euros for a reminder icon at the gift shop.

Seeing how the Late Antique Dionysios mosaics at Paphos are brilliantly appropriated by the roughly contemporary Christian mosaics at St. Paul's church which proclaim Christ as the "true vine;" and then enjoying a sip of that wine at an Anglican eucharist in that same church? A decent sum of euros (hotel).

Seeing how not only Dionysius, but the Aphrodite cult at Palea Paphos is also appropriated (and thoroughly cleansed) by the Church of the Virgin on the same site, built with some help from the ruins of Aphrodite's defunct temple? 3 euro (entrance fee).

Seeing the famous twelfth century frescoes in the cave church of Neophytos and grasping the parallels of his life to the life of that first monk St. Antony? 2 euros (entrance fee).

Getting to see the tomb of Lazarus at Larnaca? Too many euros (again, those hotels).

Fresh orange juice from the once feudal groves outside the Lusignan castle of Kolossi? 1 euro.

A bag of oranges from the same place? 1 euro.

Realizing, thanks to an innovative modern icon exhibit held within the Venetian gates of Nicosia, that Greek Christianity (far more visually sophisticated than the American kind) has many things to teach Manhattan about contemporary art? Free.

Going back into the Troödhos mountains to see a few more of the stunning painted churches peppered throughout? Too many euros (gas!).

Walking through the Nicosia border, the world's "last divided capital," without incident? Free.

Seeing the stolen, but finally salvaged Kanakariá Virgin mosaics from northern Cyprus at the Byzantine museum in southern Nicosia? 3 euros (museum fee).

Seeing Mt. Athos from a plane and realizing it has long trumped Mount Olympus? A reasonable sum of euros (plane ticket).

Being outside of the U.S. for an extended time during a Presidential campaign season? Priceless.

Cyprus

Greetings from some internet cafe in Cyprus. It would perhaps sound too much like a Mark Steyn article if I suggested that everyone should journey to the Turkish side of Nicosia, where one can see a soaring Gothic cathedral that is now a mosque, if only to condition themselves for their next trip to England... so I won't say it. Instead I'll ask two questions intended to make everyone in the room uncomfortable.

1. In this sweet age of pluralism, is a mosque in the shell of a Gothic church a multicultural cocktail to be savored, or an imperialistic seizure to be mourned (i.e., under which academic fashion should such structures be filed, multi-culty or colonial)?

2. Why does that same cathedral-now-mosque bear such an uncanny resemblance to the Reformed churches of Amsterdam?

At any rate, this place is well worth a visit, most especially if you're into painted churches. Pumping gas in the homeland was perfect conditioning for the exchange rate.

More, much more, to come.

Athens

Athens is like a massive cereal bowl with a tea-candle in it. The surrounding mountains comprise the rim, and the candle is the Acropolis. Fortunately I got there a day before the archaeological service went on the standard procedure of strike, allowing me to climb the candle just before it went out.

Carl Jung refused to go to Rome for his entire life claiming that the impact of the collective unconscious there would be too much for him. A bit less dramatically, his predecessor Freud is reported to have said when he finally visited the Acropolis, "So all this really does exist, just as we learnt at school!" I've never been to Rome (too much for me), but can testify that Athens did have such an impressive impact; for me it was the sheer size. The questions of paganism were so plainly big. The answer, given on Mars Hill (now a make-out spot), was comparatively humble, yet it caught on. The Parthenon that overshadowed Paul's preaching, withing a few hundred years, had become a church. Likewise today, the Catholics, Anglicans and Evangelicals all, against my expectations, displayed an astonishing vitality in Athens. So much for my stereotype of merely Orthodox Greece. It's good that the entire Body of Christ is represented, warts and all, for our mutual inadequacies tend to draw us together.

As anyone who has dutifully inspected my shelfari shelf and read Shiner's The Invention of Art will understand, the person seeking to find something akin to contemporary "drama" or "art" in Athens will be disappointed. As I've discussed before, the theater of Dionysius is not the town entertainment venue, but a religious platform, as revealed by the prominent seats for Dionysian priests. Likewise, as any good classicist would explain, the sculptures aren't mere sculptures, but incarnate gods. Perhaps the reason why the "drama" and "art" of this period remains so compelling is because they were so much more than mere drama or art.

After the compulsory museum visits (Benaki, Benaki Islamic, Byzantine, National Archaeological), I had a chance for a day trip, and the traveler without a car, which is not recommended, must choose between Delphi and Hosios Loukas. The oracle will have to wait, but the latter did not disappoint. On the extensive bus-ride I had a chance to read Chesterton's reflections on paganism, which certainly trumps anything I've said, and were a fitting end to a trip. Chesterton understands paganism enough to condemn its Carthaginian darkness but affirm its Athenian wonder. He admits the sense he relates "is very subtle and almost indescribable," but it's worth an attempt to follow along.

"He who has most sympathy with myths will most fully realise that they are not and never were a religion, in the sense that Christianity or even Islam is a religion. They satisfy some of the needs satisfied by a religion; notably the need for doing certain things at certain dates; the need of the twin ideas of festivity and formality. But though they provide a man with a calendar they do not provide him with a creed.

[The] deep truth of the danger of insolence, or being too big for our boots, runs through all the great Greek tragedies and makes them great. But it runs side by side with an almost cryptic agnosticism about the real nature of the gods to be propitiated.... Certainly the pagan does not disbelieve like an atheist, any more than he believes like a Christian. He feels the presence of powers about which he guesses and invents. St. Paul said that the Greeks had one altar to an unknown god. But in truth all their gods were unknown gods. And the real break in history did come when St. Paul declared to them whom they had ignorantly worshiped.

The substance of all such paganism may be summarised thus. It is an attempt to reach the divine reality through the imagination alone;... in reality the rivers of mythology and philosophy run parallel and do not mingle till they meet in the sea of Christendom. Simple secularists still talk as if the church had introduced a sort of schism between reason and religion. The truth is that the Church is actually the first thing that ever tried to combine reason and religion.

In a word, mythology is a search; it is something that combines a recurrent desire with a recurrent doubt.... We may truly call these foreshadowings; so long as we remember that foreshadowings are shadows.

We [Christians] know the meaning of all the myths. We know the last secret revealed to the perfect initiate. And it is not the voice of a priest or a prophet saying 'These things are.' It is the voice of a dreamer and an idealist crying, 'Why cannot these things be?'"

My doubt will have a difficult time recovering from my having read this chapter while in the pagan heartland. Perhaps it may never fully recover. Whatever book you may be in the process of reading right now, it would probably be worth it to read The Everlasting Man instead.

Serbia

The communist graffiti is barely visible in the receeding darkness, while the early Christian motif is publically displayed, to the interest of younger Serbs like my friend Nebojsa. This picture, though took on a crappy disposable, seemed to sum up my week in Serbia. I put a little more effort into this.

Upon arrival we met up with a visiting scholar who took us to a "liturgical music group" at the Belgrade Academy. Not sure what to expect, we entered a beautiful Beaux Arts style building and found ourselves in an office crowded with families and lined with antique books. At the center was a joyful man at a piano, glad for more visitors. The group sang piece after piece of liturgical hymns from eastern and western Christianity. I'm not sure why, but all of a sudden one man recited a significant portion of Matthew 16, from memory, in Latin. If this is what the Belgrade intelligentsia are up to, then one more farewell to Yugoslavia. We left as more people joined in, and had dinner in a neighborhood which resembled Montmartre in Paris, only cheaper.

Communism and Clinton have done a number on Belgrade, and Serbia in general. Bombed out buildings and war memorials to civilians killed by the NATO campaign are common, civilians who hated Milosevic as much as the rest of the world did, probably more. The economy is struggling, but seems however to have made a positive turn. The people are friendly, the food was phenomenal. My Serbian friends who study Byzantine art and architecture aren't doing so because they had it drilled it into them when they were young, but for the opposite reason. Communist education left the subject completely neglected and now they're fascinated by a heritage long ignored. Conversely, at the monastery of Zica , we witnessed an orthodox priest struggling to convey his liturgical lesson to about fifty unruly schoolchildren. Things have changed. Medieval Serbia is a beautifully puzzling blend of East and West. One could spent a month there and still not visit all the countryside monasteries. The hospitality of monks and nuns follows what I've come to accept as the rule - you're either ignored, or treated with an almost absurd hospitality.

Nis, my host Nebojsa's (and the Emperor Constantine I's) hometown, has been through a lot. There one finds a testimony to Ottoman oppression (the skull tower), its own concentration camp from the Nazi days, and a massive Communist resistance memorial which seemed to suggest to Serbians that the only reason there aren't concentration camps anymore is thanks to Tito. Somehow the churches made it through all this (not without their own share of resistance), and in Belgrade they were even showing off a bit. The massive church of St. Sava is even bigger than Hagia Sophia.

The inside of St. Sava's is still being built. Cement grinders and cranes, workers and construction noises abound. But the people can't seem to wait, which made for a perfect parable of the Kingdom of God. A few well-placed icons and candles amidst the chaos suggested a future completion. Worshipers adored Christ despite the distractions, in anticipation of the day when their worship will be complete. I hope I'm not being too cryptic, but has it ever been otherwise?

The Turkish Tree

I need to get out of Turkey. The warning sign: I'm beginning to enjoy Nescafe. Nevertheless, I'm slowly warming up to the place even after getting flim-flammed. The mosaics of Chora were the equivalent to a month worth of beautiful sermons. I had some time with the relics of Gregory and Chrysostom at the Patriarchate (stolen in 1204 and recently returned) all to myself. For every Muslim who got mad at me for not taking my shoes off in the proper way or charged me to enter a free mosque, I seemed to meet a God-fearing person who is welcoming and genuinely kind. One carpet salesman I spoke to today, who looked liked he stepped straight out of the Sabado Gigante set, was slick, pushy and clearly only after cash (surprise). Another was deeply informed, kind, and spoke of the reckoning he expects on Judgment Day for the prices he charges. And I don't think that was just carpet talk.

It all gives one reason to consider Muslim-Christian relations again, but this time with the sound of the evening's call to prayer in the background. Today at the tomb of Sultan Mehmet II (who conquered Constantinople), I was given an Engish tract by an earnest young Muslim who chanted while I was in the tomb. After most significant victories in the Ottoman empire soldiers would visit this tomb, and I wonder if he was praying for a similar global turn of events. I read the tract, but haven't yet converted. It said Allah is merciful. Follow that river to it's source and you'll find just how merciful - to the tune of his having become a crucified God.

I've heard Christians refer to Allah as, and I quote, "an idol at best and a demon at worst." I can't say I agree. As I hear the calls to prayer in this city, I wouldn't exactly prefer raw secularization. I would however, prefer more Christianity. It is sad to see how many churches I couldn't get into and how many Byzantine monuments are utterly neglected (or have disappeared!) in comparison to a place like Thessaloniki. Yet in the meantime, I'll take the God-fearing Muslim to the people who scammed me anyday.

A good verse for Muslim-Christian relations is the this one. Muslims certainly do see, but not as clearly as those who know Christ. They would say, and do say the same of me (but I happen to be right). I realize that saying that in the wrong circles here could get me martyred. Good thing my Turkish is limited to "Tea, Sugar and Dream" (the way to prounce "thank you"). Still, can a Muslim be more faithful with their limited revelation than a Christian can be with a fuller revelation? Of course. Remember the Last Battle (see the second #5)?

Christ is God. My Muslim friends (yes, I do have some) are wrong about this. They say I'm wrong about this. Across that fault line genuine love and friendship is perfectly possible, perhaps moreso than across a secular gulf. The real insult is to pretend no fault line exists. So yes, I love the people of the tree - enough to show them the man they're misperceiving.

A delightful Princeton professor gave a lecture on Johannine material at our seminar in Greece last week in which he suggested that the development of Christ as God took place nearly one hundred years after Christ died. Now, even if this were true, it doesn't mean that Christ's divinity would be automatically suspect. But the thing is, it's not true. When I reminded the professor privately that some of the earliest fragments of the New Testament we have, the hymns in Phillipians and Colossians, both contain some of the hightest Christology in the New Testament - what was his reaction? Refusal to admit the evidence? No, polite and civil concession, because a calm consideration of such evidence shows it's not imaginary. John developed something that was long already there. The Jesus movement may have been wrong, but there is no disputing that it proclaimed Jesus God from a very early time - certainly well before the written evidence. "Who can forgive sins but God alone?" they once asked (in our earliest Gospel no less). What might Mark have been getting at by putting the words, "My son, your sins are forgiven" into the mouth of Christ?

Eternal salvation of humanity at large is an impenetrable matter, the shoals of shipwreck for many a young vessel of faith. But has the straw man of certainty really been granted? Best focus on one's own salvation, while still (a very important "still") spreading the message around. As Augustine said, there are many wolves within and many sheep without. But whatever concessions and surprises occur on Judgement Day, the God who makes such concessions (of which we have no guarantee), will be none other than the one who became one particular first century Palestinian Jew, full of grace and truth.