Armenian Days
We worked with one physician and one eye surgeon and still saw 473 clinical patients (giving them around 760 prescriptions) and performed 110 eye surgeries (106 cataracts and 4 apterygial) on 109 patients in nine working days. It still happens; the sick are healed and the blind see. Jesus said it happened then because he was doing the Father's will. Obedience produces the same fruit now as then.
We attended church in the local Armenian Apostolic Orthodox Church. The fragrant smoke of incense enveloped us as we listened to Gregorian Chants from the forth century interspersed in the liturgy reciting the birth, death and resurrection of our Lord. It is amazing to recognize, in that ancient context, that everything we hold dear in our faith was handed down to us over the centuries by believers from this and the Roman Catholic Church; by the forth century the cannon was established, the divinity of Christ accepted, the Godhead recognized as Trinitarian, the sinfulness of man understood, hell feared, heaven hoped for, salvation made clear and the Good News proclaimed. I am thankful for those roots.
Nonetheless, Armenia is buried in the despair of post-Soviet life where nothing seems to work. On this our third visit to Kapan, it is clear that many in this small town just north of the Iranian border find hope in our return. We make it clear that we come in obedience to "Cristos" and both they and we revel in the sincere affection between us. They have come to understand us better. They take pity by not insisting so much on seeing our vodka shot glasses emptied during the non-stop toasting of mothers, children, world peace, women in general and ours in particular, men of valor, doctors of all kinds, those present perceived to be dignitaries and those just present. Jesus would have understood these feasts better than we did.
On the middle weekend we head south to a small town on the border. The Town Square is delightful with fountains of icy mountain water. In the church, a young man of intense blue eyes and dressed in black robes receives us. The priest is out and this deacon guides us through the art variously depicting our Lord's passion, the Disciples, Mary and the sorting out of the sheep and goats. We happily accept his offer to sing and he turns toward the altar and chants in a resonant voice much like the currently popular Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos (available at: amazon.com.). We visit the local school kids art exhibit; buy 3 kilos of honey and head for the border.
As we drive from town the high snowy mountains of Iran rise in the distance but are quickly blocked from view by the barren rocky hills along the river, which separates Armenians from much of what was historically their land. We pile out with cameras whirring and camcorders cranking as we record the barbed and electrified wire and the guard tower where one is speaking into his radio. Because we have not been warned off, we are surprised to note the arrival of troops with arms and Russian marking on their uniforms. They want our film. I point out that there is nothing to see but a river and barren hills and offer to examine the young sergeant's eyes that then twinkle with humor. They still want the film. As good MMIers will, everyone with cameras jump in the vans, rewind their film, load a new roll and shoot clandestinely around the curtains. The Chief of Police arrives and says this is a military situation and that he can do nothing. I ask if we are under arrest and he says no that we are involved with bureaucracy. I point out that bureaucracy is just like jail and he and the soldiers laugh in hearty agreement. Suddenly, an unidentified heavyset man with an aire of command about him interrupts, speaks sternly to the soldiers, shakes my hand and says we are free to leave. Our picnic by a mountain steam up the road a ways is delightful. All border incidents should be so painless.
In two and one half-hours we again cross the 11,500-foot pass (now devoid of the morning snows) and return to our patients clamoring for sight and health. Obedience is more profound than any of us know.
Yours,
Willie
