The day started early. Too early. While one would not feel the same way in June (when by that time of morning one can already drive without headlights), in the fall and winter one's body protests against a 5:45 a.m. departure time; it's as if one's limbs know that all of nature will be arising only many hours later, and they encourage you to do the same. But there was no choice. I had to preside at the service in Novgorod at 11, and
the evening before my LADA began to give forewarning of what was to come - as I drove back to the seminary after picking up the new Anglican chaplain from the airport, my 5 year-old copy of a 1960's FIAT was starting to die at every intersection. It was this that caused Natasha and I to decide that she and the kids would stay home and that I would try to take the bus.But the bus was not interested in taking me. Or, if it were not strictly the bus's fault, one can at least blame those who organize her travel. I left home at so early an hour after having failed on the previous evening to learn if there tickets were available for the early morning bus. As I arrived at the station, I was disappointed by the dark that engulfed the building. The front door was open, but everything else was closed. St. Petersburg is a city of five million, and it has only one major bus terminal. But even at that terminal, there is not one ticket counter open at 6:15 in the morning. And so, not knowing if I could find a place on the first bus but being certain that I would have to miss the service if there not, I decided to risk it, and took off in the car. As I was leaving the city, my dear “semyerka” tried again to warn me - she would not start after I stopped for a fuel-up and a purchase of windshield wiper fluid (a frequent combination at this time of year, when the temperature is just below freezing and slush covers every inch of the road.) But after giving the car a push and popping the clutch (reminding me the GEO of Berkeley seminary days, which demanded that I parked her on a hill in order get up enough speed as I gave another push-start) the car started up again, and I was off. I made it all three hours to Novgorod without incident - even the infamous traffic police (GAI) didn't stop me. It wasn’t simply my good driving or good luck, though. There was a clear reason I wasn’t stopped this time – the “gai-shniki” were too busy. Too busy stopping nearly every vehicle going in the other direction, i.e., to St. Petersburg. A protest march was scheduled for the day, and the authorities didn’t want any incidents. Any at all. So in the first hour outside of St. Petersburg, I met 3 convoys of riot police from out of town, coming into the city to support "good order." But more of that later.Returning to Novgorod, as I drove in to the city and started hitting traffic lights, the car again began to warn me that all was not well. It appeared for a while that I would need to leave the vehicle on one side of the Volkhov, while taking the city bus to the church on the other side. But after letting the car and myself cool down after two failed push-stars, in half and hour’s time the car sprung to life again, even if temporarily. And while the car was dying now even on speed bumps, I did make it to the church in plenty of time.
Lydia was there to greet (and fee) me. Every trip to Novgorod is a reminder of Russian hospitality, which Lydia incarnates. She and her husband, the pastor, Igor, live upstairs in the former office building which is St. Nikolai Lutheran Church in Novgorod. Igor had asked to take the service this Sunday, as he could not get away during the week (having recently taken on a second job, since the pastor’s pay is far from a living wage) and his father was recovering from a difficult surgery after having been diagnosed with cancer just a week before.
The Sunday was a special one in the life of the congregation. The primary reason for this was the yearly remembrance of the Saints Deceased. Local Lutheran theology has not caught up to practice and piety in regards to the importance that this day carries for people in congregations – the prayer list was just as long as the sermon (which witnesses both to the length of prayer and the shortness of the sermon). Just as important was fellowship with elderly members of the congregation, many of whom are now too weak to make it to church regularly.
The trip to church is particularly difficult for those from outlying villages. Two of these, Ekaterina Genrickovna and her niece, Galina, asked for a ride home after church. First, of course, I needed to spend a little time with members of the congregation; we conversed over coffee and more treats from Lydia while some of the new members (members of the youth group) practiced their Christmas pageant downstairs. I warned Ekaterina and Galina that the car was not in great working order, but they said that they weren’t in a hurry. Ekaterina had learned patience in her nearly years. As a German-Russian living in Stalin’s Russia, she was deported to Kazakhstan with her mother and brother. There she was immediately put to work – apparently the authorities decided there was no need for a shepherd to learn to read. Her life continued along that difficult path for decade upon decade; it is only now, as an elderly woman, that she is begging to come to inner peace.
For that reason, she could both express concern at the car’s lurching and laugh as we found ourselves making very slow progress toward her home. In the end she and Galina did take the bus, because it was clear that without taking the car in for service, we weren’t going to be leaving town…
At about the same time, the situation in St. Petersburg was developing in an interesting way. The “Dissenters' March” was on the way. This time the authorities decided that it was not in their best interests to forbid the event entirely – they had done that in the spring, and the pictures of OMON beating a photojournalist with his billy wasn’t great for PR. This time the police simply decided to let the dissenters (a very mixed crowd of representatives of all the groups
(from pro-western politicians to socialist/nationalist groups) that resist contemporary developments in Putin’s Russia)) meet for a rally without letting them march. But the dissenters claimed that to march was their constitutional right…and a collision was unavoidable.
Later a representative from the European Union commented on the arrest of Gary Kasparov a day earlier at a similar rally in Moscow - "A former world chess champion does not pose a security threat to Russia."Back in Novgorod, I was able to push the car to a service station. When I let the mechanic know that it appears that I need to have the spark plugs changed, he looked at me with disdain at said, “where have all the real men gone?" As frequently happens in Russia, I felt about 2 inches high; consolation came only later when the mechanic (even with his better-than-my wrench) had to find an even bigger wrench in order to loosen the plugs. The mechanics found a few more problems as well, but for the two hours they worked on the car, the work wasn’t too expensive - 3 times less, in fact, than in the "northern capital."
But then again, perhaps it was worth what I paid.It was nearly 6 pm, and I was feeling that I was nearly home. I was enjoying listening to a radio program on "Ekho Moskvi" about early 20th century Russian philosopher Ivan Ilyin. For an hour the commentators were discussing his relevance for current Russian politicians. I was enjoying being in the country again. I asked myself “Can you find radio programs about philosophers in America? Even on NPR?
But then the adventures began again. I started losing power. The car died once, but then started again. The LADA began to backfire; even popping the clutch in 2nd gear wasn’t working any more. The machine came to a halt.
It seemed that it was just another bump in the road. The car had started again in Novgorod, hadn’t it? That means I’d simply wait, and in no time I’d be back with my family. But waiting wasn’t helping. Not after 20 minutes, not after 40. After and hour and a half, I had moved all of 200 yards. It was clearly time to enact another plan. “Should I flag down a car?” I asked myself. While that would be a typical response here, I couldn’t help but remembering an incident from the year before. It, too, involved a roadside breakdown and flagging down a car… but that’s a story for another time. For now, suffice it to say that stopping another driver on the unlit road at night was not an option.
And so, what remained? To call friends, but not many of them have a car. One was in the subway, and wouldn’t be back to his car for at least an hour. The second call was to the Seminary; they were able to send help. I was glad I had a scarf, though, because Alexander, the Seminary’s driver, wouldn’t be arriving for at least an hour and a half.
I fell off into that half-sleep that is the only possible way of sleeping when it’s too cold, until I heard a horn honking – Alexander had arrived. I had already hooked up th
e tow rope to the LADA, and we threw a blanket on the ground in order to hook up to the Sobol, after briefly trying to start the car once again. Alexander kindly said nothing about my lack of mechanical prowess, but simply told me to watch for slack in the rope, and we were off.
The next 90 minutes were a flash-back to the hardest days of harvest when I was a kid – the days when I had to drive the combine. Thankfully, they were few, since long after returning home from the field my mind would be racing with images of trying to keep everything under control. Being towed need not have been so bad – if only the tow row were not two times shorter than it should be, if only the battery hadn’t died, leaving me without windshield wipers even as the Sobol’s rear wheels were constantly kicking up slush from the recently rained-upon roads…
And then, suddenly, we were home. Natasha and the kids were waiting for me, along with a cup of instant coffee. The day ended late, too late. On one level, I was totally exhausted. But on another, I was filled with the sensation of how blessed I was – the people with whom I came into contact this showed me how the world over is filled with grace.
the evening before my LADA began to give forewarning of what was to come - as I drove back to the seminary after picking up the new Anglican chaplain from the airport, my 5 year-old copy of a 1960's FIAT was starting to die at every intersection. It was this that caused Natasha and I to decide that she and the kids would stay home and that I would try to take the bus.But the bus was not interested in taking me. Or, if it were not strictly the bus's fault, one can at least blame those who organize her travel. I left home at so early an hour after having failed on the previous evening to learn if there tickets were available for the early morning bus. As I arrived at the station, I was disappointed by the dark that engulfed the building. The front door was open, but everything else was closed. St. Petersburg is a city of five million, and it has only one major bus terminal. But even at that terminal, there is not one ticket counter open at 6:15 in the morning. And so, not knowing if I could find a place on the first bus but being certain that I would have to miss the service if there not, I decided to risk it, and took off in the car. As I was leaving the city, my dear “semyerka” tried again to warn me - she would not start after I stopped for a fuel-up and a purchase of windshield wiper fluid (a frequent combination at this time of year, when the temperature is just below freezing and slush covers every inch of the road.) But after giving the car a push and popping the clutch (reminding me the GEO of Berkeley seminary days, which demanded that I parked her on a hill in order get up enough speed as I gave another push-start) the car started up again, and I was off. I made it all three hours to Novgorod without incident - even the infamous traffic police (GAI) didn't stop me. It wasn’t simply my good driving or good luck, though. There was a clear reason I wasn’t stopped this time – the “gai-shniki” were too busy. Too busy stopping nearly every vehicle going in the other direction, i.e., to St. Petersburg. A protest march was scheduled for the day, and the authorities didn’t want any incidents. Any at all. So in the first hour outside of St. Petersburg, I met 3 convoys of riot police from out of town, coming into the city to support "good order." But more of that later.Returning to Novgorod, as I drove in to the city and started hitting traffic lights, the car again began to warn me that all was not well. It appeared for a while that I would need to leave the vehicle on one side of the Volkhov, while taking the city bus to the church on the other side. But after letting the car and myself cool down after two failed push-stars, in half and hour’s time the car sprung to life again, even if temporarily. And while the car was dying now even on speed bumps, I did make it to the church in plenty of time.Lydia was there to greet (and fee) me. Every trip to Novgorod is a reminder of Russian hospitality, which Lydia incarnates. She and her husband, the pastor, Igor, live upstairs in the former office building which is St. Nikolai Lutheran Church in Novgorod. Igor had asked to take the service this Sunday, as he could not get away during the week (having recently taken on a second job, since the pastor’s pay is far from a living wage) and his father was recovering from a difficult surgery after having been diagnosed with cancer just a week before.
The Sunday was a special one in the life of the congregation. The primary reason for this was the yearly remembrance of the Saints Deceased. Local Lutheran theology has not caught up to practice and piety in regards to the importance that this day carries for people in congregations – the prayer list was just as long as the sermon (which witnesses both to the length of prayer and the shortness of the sermon). Just as important was fellowship with elderly members of the congregation, many of whom are now too weak to make it to church regularly.The trip to church is particularly difficult for those from outlying villages. Two of these, Ekaterina Genrickovna and her niece, Galina, asked for a ride home after church. First, of course, I needed to spend a little time with members of the congregation; we conversed over coffee and more treats from Lydia while some of the new members (members of the youth group) practiced their Christmas pageant downstairs. I warned Ekaterina and Galina that the car was not in great working order, but they said that they weren’t in a hurry. Ekaterina had learned patience in her nearly years. As a German-Russian living in Stalin’s Russia, she was deported to Kazakhstan with her mother and brother. There she was immediately put to work – apparently the authorities decided there was no need for a shepherd to learn to read. Her life continued along that difficult path for decade upon decade; it is only now, as an elderly woman, that she is begging to come to inner peace.
For that reason, she could both express concern at the car’s lurching and laugh as we found ourselves making very slow progress toward her home. In the end she and Galina did take the bus, because it was clear that without taking the car in for service, we weren’t going to be leaving town…
At about the same time, the situation in St. Petersburg was developing in an interesting way. The “Dissenters' March” was on the way. This time the authorities decided that it was not in their best interests to forbid the event entirely – they had done that in the spring, and the pictures of OMON beating a photojournalist with his billy wasn’t great for PR. This time the police simply decided to let the dissenters (a very mixed crowd of representatives of all the groups
(from pro-western politicians to socialist/nationalist groups) that resist contemporary developments in Putin’s Russia)) meet for a rally without letting them march. But the dissenters claimed that to march was their constitutional right…and a collision was unavoidable.Later a representative from the European Union commented on the arrest of Gary Kasparov a day earlier at a similar rally in Moscow - "A former world chess champion does not pose a security threat to Russia."Back in Novgorod, I was able to push the car to a service station. When I let the mechanic know that it appears that I need to have the spark plugs changed, he looked at me with disdain at said, “where have all the real men gone?" As frequently happens in Russia, I felt about 2 inches high; consolation came only later when the mechanic (even with his better-than-my wrench) had to find an even bigger wrench in order to loosen the plugs. The mechanics found a few more problems as well, but for the two hours they worked on the car, the work wasn’t too expensive - 3 times less, in fact, than in the "northern capital."
But then again, perhaps it was worth what I paid.It was nearly 6 pm, and I was feeling that I was nearly home. I was enjoying listening to a radio program on "Ekho Moskvi" about early 20th century Russian philosopher Ivan Ilyin. For an hour the commentators were discussing his relevance for current Russian politicians. I was enjoying being in the country again. I asked myself “Can you find radio programs about philosophers in America? Even on NPR?
But then the adventures began again. I started losing power. The car died once, but then started again. The LADA began to backfire; even popping the clutch in 2nd gear wasn’t working any more. The machine came to a halt.
It seemed that it was just another bump in the road. The car had started again in Novgorod, hadn’t it? That means I’d simply wait, and in no time I’d be back with my family. But waiting wasn’t helping. Not after 20 minutes, not after 40. After and hour and a half, I had moved all of 200 yards. It was clearly time to enact another plan. “Should I flag down a car?” I asked myself. While that would be a typical response here, I couldn’t help but remembering an incident from the year before. It, too, involved a roadside breakdown and flagging down a car… but that’s a story for another time. For now, suffice it to say that stopping another driver on the unlit road at night was not an option.
And so, what remained? To call friends, but not many of them have a car. One was in the subway, and wouldn’t be back to his car for at least an hour. The second call was to the Seminary; they were able to send help. I was glad I had a scarf, though, because Alexander, the Seminary’s driver, wouldn’t be arriving for at least an hour and a half.
I fell off into that half-sleep that is the only possible way of sleeping when it’s too cold, until I heard a horn honking – Alexander had arrived. I had already hooked up th
e tow rope to the LADA, and we threw a blanket on the ground in order to hook up to the Sobol, after briefly trying to start the car once again. Alexander kindly said nothing about my lack of mechanical prowess, but simply told me to watch for slack in the rope, and we were off.The next 90 minutes were a flash-back to the hardest days of harvest when I was a kid – the days when I had to drive the combine. Thankfully, they were few, since long after returning home from the field my mind would be racing with images of trying to keep everything under control. Being towed need not have been so bad – if only the tow row were not two times shorter than it should be, if only the battery hadn’t died, leaving me without windshield wipers even as the Sobol’s rear wheels were constantly kicking up slush from the recently rained-upon roads…
And then, suddenly, we were home. Natasha and the kids were waiting for me, along with a cup of instant coffee. The day ended late, too late. On one level, I was totally exhausted. But on another, I was filled with the sensation of how blessed I was – the people with whom I came into contact this showed me how the world over is filled with grace.
