I’m at the tail end of having spent 13 of the last 20 hours at roughly 35,000 feet above the earth, being on the third leg of my three-legged flight to Greece. Lord willing, I will arrive on Holy Mount Athos tomorrow, Wednesday. For now, a few thoughts from high above stable ground.
Cells What would life be like if we had to always live with the amount of space we’re allotted on an airplane? Simplified and efficient, if we didn’t go crazy. It’s astonishing how much is accomplished, and how smoothly things proceed given how cramped the conditions are.
I recall Fr. Roman talking about life in solitary confinement—a small room with no amenities becomes the invitation to go inside, to explore the inner universe. I remember visiting Fr. Roman in his hospital room when he had pneumonia. When I entered he asked, “How do you like my cell?” He could make a prison cell or a hospital room his prayer closet—because he had established the practice of entering his heart and shutting the door. Of prison he said if you didn’t go inside, you’d go crazy—and many did. In the hospital he said he was so weak he could only say the Jesus prayer (not having the strength to follow his normal prayer rule). External constraints not only don’t limit, but can even foster, the inner life. The kingdom of God is within you.
Of course, I have every imaginable amenity on these luxurious flights. Nevertheless, I have the sense that if I don’t go inside, I’ll go crazy. So, strangely, I enjoy the simplified confines of limited space, forcing—or rather inviting—me to go inside. Who would have thought that you can find a cell at seat 44c on Turkish Airlines flight#18.
Sardines What would life be like if we had to always live in such close proximity to others as we do on an airplane? It’s one thing to have very limited space; it’s quite another, to share that limited space with 450 others. It reminds me of being in services in Greece and Romania when it seems that the church is packed like sardines—and no one seems to care, or even notice.
Americans seem to need their “space.” At least, I attribute my tendency to want “my” space (e.g., that armrest separating us is the boundary—don’t cross it, even unknowingly in your sleep) to being an American, but maybe this more an excuse than an explanation. Whatever the source of my instinctual reactions, I recognize they are far from universal, and—if I’m honest with myself—not justifiably preferable.
Suppose, Jesus had my reactions when the crowds pressed around him so much that he couldn’t distinguish who touched him with the desire for healing? Or what are we to make of the images of the kingdom like wheat growing in a field? Can we imagine one stalk of wheat saying to another, “you’re a little too close for comfort”? Stalks of wheat, and many other crops, seem to flourish in close quarters. And how about images of the church? We are one loaf. The particles of a loaf of bread enjoy close proximity. We are one body. Suppose the hand said to the foot, or the ear to the eye, “you’re a little too close for comfort; move over.”
I suspect many of us think—I speak for myself, but I invite you into my foolishness—that in the kingdom everyone’s negative characteristics will be healed so it will be easy to be in close quarters. There will be no body odor, no snoring, no one who is socially awkward, who doesn’t look like me, who makes me feel uncomfortable. That is, in the kingdom there will be no need to love the unloveable because everyone there will have been made loveable.
Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe the kingdom of God will be for those that have so learned to love the unloveable that close quarters with the unloveable will simply manifest and magnify the love of God all the more. Maybe the kingdom of God is where we so love God and one another that we don’t even seem to notice or care that we’re packed together like sardines.
1:22 until Prayer I like maps. While everyone around me is enjoying movies and video games on the screen on the seatback in front of them, my preference is for flight tracking, which seems to have advanced a lot since I last flew. For example, it now connects to a video cam on the nose of the aircraft. So I saw, via the video cam, the sun rising over Scotland, and the vast and beautiful rural lands of the Netherlands, Germany and so forth.
Another feature on the flight tracking/map functionality is the frequent reminder of how long it is until the next appointed time for prayer (eg, 1:22 until Prayer), and this is accompanied by a map indicating how to orient oneself so as to face Mecca when the time comes. As much as one can tell by outward appearances, there are a lot of Muslims on the flight—many families with beautiful (and well behaved) children. I’m confident that some, maybe many, were praying at the appointed times, and doing do without drawing attention to themselves.
Christians, too, have always had appointed times to pray: “Seven times a day will I praise you” becomes the seven appointed services of the daily office. This practice, of course, fuels compliance with our Lord’s and St Paul’s in injunctions to pray at all times, without ceasing—so as to remain attached to the vine apart from which we can do nothing. And the traditional practice is for Christians not to face this or that city, but rather to face East—both because we long to return to our origins in paradise (which was in the east), and because we watchfully anticipate our Lord’s coming again like lightning comes from the east to the west.
So I’m grateful to Turkish Airlines for reminding me to pray, and even when and how to pray. St Paul in his letter to the Hebrews says to encourage one another daily, as long as it is called today. We need encouragement in our Christian life, especially to be regular in prayer.
No problem Going through security in Istanbul was rather strict. Everything out of the pockets, belt off, shoes off, and the list went on. As the security woman, with firm calmness, kept finding things I had overlooked, I instinctively started removing my pectoral cross. To my utter shock, she put her hand up, raised her voice, and said with a thick accent and a delightful sternness, “No; no; no problem. Leave it on.” It was clear that she saying not simply that I was permitted to keep it on, but that I should—as if it would be inapprorpriate for me to remove it. It was a very touching moment for me. An act of compassionate kindness. May God reward her thoughtfulness!
