The Christian Church split in 1054 creating the two primary branches of the faith from the same root.  The Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church since that time have been celebrating the same God in different fashions.  The split was over when to celebrate Easter and so it should be no surprise that this year the two branches of our faith celebrated the rising of our Lord and Savior one week apart.  If Saint Peters Square in Vatican City is the apex of Catholic opulence, then the Russian Orthodox Christian Church of St. Prince Alexander Nevsky Built from 1937 to 1939 in Bizerte Tunisia is the pinnacle of Orthodox simplicity.  The only service of the day, a 6PM Easter Mass, was attended by 21 people, not counting Father Dmitry.  Father Dmitry is a man of about 5’9″.  He is fit and sturdy with a full, nicely kept beard and a lovely baritone voice; amiable, friendly,commanding, and strong.  When I followed the procession to kiss first the golden cross he held and then his bearded cheeks, he said “Christ is risen,” in English, just for me.  To everyone else he had said “Khristos voskres.”

After the ceremony I had a chance to speak with Urie and Vladiey who are merchant sailors who crew a cargo ship out of Vladivostok; ferrying 30 tons of bulk cargo from South America to Bizerte.  They sail the Voyager for between 22 and 23 days and then have ten days in a city and then they get back on the ocean.  At any rate, I was in the best company with the finest people in God’s family today.

Tomorrow I am thinking of renting a car and driving to Utica.  Utica hosted battles fought by two of the greatest generals in all recorded history.  Both Hannibal and Julius Caesar fought there.  In both cases Rome won the day.  Those of you who know me can imagine my delight that the face of Hannibal is printed on the 5 Dinar note of Tunisia.  My plane from Palermo was also named for him.

I am looking forward to each day with more excitement and interest.  I am also looking forward to having a better handle on the language of the people I am trying to communicate with; even if that means learning French which is something I had always hoped to avoid in life.   Bonne nuit.

I am in Bezerte, which is a town of historical importance to the Christian Church, and of modern importance to Islam. The call to evening prayer was going out as my escort Bubakar and I were touring the harbor and its market place.  The first language here is French, but Arabic is a close second.  The third choice would probably be Italian which puts my language, English, in the category of usefulness somewhere between Spanish and German.  Were it not for the attentive nature of my hosts thus far, I would be precisely nowhere.  

Yesterday I took the bus from Palermo to Monreale and there I saw my favorite pieces of artwork thus far.  The Cattedrale di Monreale has a fountain out front, the center-piece of which depicts a young man wrestling and hog-tying a great leviathan sized fish.  I was captivated by this sculpture, and would have been satisfied had there been nothing else to see, but there is.  The Cathedral is not well appointed on the outside.  The rough-sculpted bronze statues out front almost convinced me to forego entering the place.  However, if you only have the chance to enter one house of worship in Italy, make it this house.  The ceilings peak somewhere between forty and fifty feet off the floor.  From about twelve feet upward, the entire place is covered in a fine mosaic with a gold-tile used for the negative spaces.  This approach to craft has set every depiction of both saints and biblical stories on fire before your eyes.  There must be over a billion pieces of tile and glass set into the walls of this church which dates from the 1100s.  I hesitated taking a first photograph inside for fear that I would not find a place to stop.  

I think I am finally getting my travelers legs under me.  I am becoming more accustomed to fast friendships which I know will most likely be temporary.  Last night I went to the restaurant owned by the man who helped me find my hostel in Palermo.  Silvio and I shared beer and each-other’s company for about five hours.  This morning Bruno and I talked about God and how there most likely isn’t one, he had a lot of insights about himself to share.  Thank you again for reading these posts.  I am encouraged by your love.  Good night.

The problem with leaving anything which requires daily maintenance for more than 24 hours is that you sometimes grow to dread the challenge of catching up.  For me this is one of those times.  It must be the way a historian would feel given only one volume of space to communicate four volumes’ worth of data.  Encyclopedia Britanica taking only one book to put letters A-D into a context which is fair both to the subjects contained and to the people using the book for information.  However, waiting one more day would only require that the letter E be added to the other four with no more space for the expounding on subjects like Edison, Egalitarian Idealism, English Muffins, or the Church at Ephesus.  So please, dear reader, forgive the brevity with which I treat my encounters with some of the world’s most treasured holy sites; contained within cities which have served both to shape and be shaped by our faith. 

Assisi is north of Rome by about two hours, depending on which train you take.  My train had me in town by about 10:30 AM, heading out of the station to learn more about the location of my hostel from the only reliable information source in all of Italy: the Café.  The Cafés of Italy can be thought of like “the Man,” is thought of and referred to in the United States.  Although these countless hubs of caffeine and carbohydrates are connected by no tangible thing, their respective owners having never formally met each-other, and their products all appearing as the result of local endeavors by various vendors from throughout the nation; the Café is a reliable source of many kinds of data.  From hearsay to history, forecasts to folklore, the Café, like “the Man,” controls more than a measurable amount of power and influence over people and events.  My point being that the women in the café near the Assisi train station knew precisely where I was staying and how to get their by foot or rubber-clad-metal rim. 

The historical town of Assisi is located entirely on a hill.  This town can be seen from the valley below, appearing large and expansive.  It wasn’t until I reached the town by foot that I was thankful for having visited Rome first.  Compared to the Eternal City, I found Assisi to be quite manageable and a lot of fun to walk.  There are four major points of interest in the city, the greatest of these being the Basilica of Saint Francis.  Walking in, I was in a rush to see what there was to see and to move on; I haven’t got a lot of time for dilly or dally, much less a combination of these.  However, while standing in line to go down-stairs to the area where the remains of St. Francis are housed in a tomb, I caught site of a religious service being performed just beyond the Basilica’s entry way.  I felt convicted to sit in.  A shiny-bald-headed African, in a goldenrod-yellow tunic with a white dove embroidered at the throat, presided over the congregation of about twelve.  His Italian was beyond reproach, which is to say that I don’t speak Italian and at no time knew for certain the particulars of what he was conveying to us.  I did sense that there was going to be some kind of a baby dedication though, because at times he would project through the motion of his head toward an infant in the audience. 

This was the first infant baptism I have ever witnessed.  The parents proud with another couple who must be dear to them stood before us with the priest.  Together, the four of them suspended the child in the air on his back, showing the utmost care.  Pouring holy water from a silver pitcher into a silver bowl with the child’s forehead between, the priest introduced the child into a new life as part of the Body of Christ.  It was beautiful to see the way the priest presented his new congregant to the audience, as though he had just sculpted him out of a medium too fragile for air or light to touch.  With such care a priest cares for his church.

I spent more time in Assisi than anticipated.  I wouldn’t have gone at all had it not been for the response of Dr. Pamela Scalise to my inquiry about places she would go if she were me.  Assisi was her idea, good idea it turns out.   Dr. Scalise is the professor I’ve griped about the most in my time at Fuller Seminary, the one I am most challenged by.  As a result I have grown to appreciate and respect her wisdom around and perspective on things.  It was in Assisi that I decided to head on to Palermo. 

If I could go one place on earth, aside from Mongolia, it would be Sicily.  If I could choose to be something other than the American mutt that I am, aside from Japanese, it would be Sicilian.  I can recall that as a youth I lamented the fact that I would never be able to be in La Cosa Nostra.  Palermo is the gateway of invasion to Italy, and thereby Europe.  It has always been this way.  In my estimation, there is more history on this island than is contained in all of the United States west of the Mississippi.  There are over 350 churches in Palermo alone.  My brief survey of half-a-dozen of them has convinced me that each of these treasures would be the prize of any city in the U.S.  Palermo is like a sponge soaked with gold flake, heavy and dripping with priceless treasure.  What can a man like me tell you about things like this?  You have to see it for yourself.  How can a dog explain the warmth of the sun to another dog?

I will be in Palermo for another full day.  I hope tomorrow to go to one of the surrounding mountains to get a better view of the Mediterranean and the city.  I think I’ll also get my swim trunks wet in the sea who’s flooding is cited in the Bible as having put the entire world under water for forty days.  Ciao. 

It is 12:42AM local time and I have just arrived in the hostel I will be staying at for the next two days.  I am writing only to apologize for not writing as often as I should, and to let whoever is reading this know that I am safe, smelly and very hungry.  Another installment from Palermo is already taking shape in my mind.  Until then: arrivaderci, ciao, buona notte.

Today is Easter Sunday.  Today I had the good fortune of celebrating our risen lord with people from every nation on earth.  From the facade of Saint Peter’s Basilica, Pope Benedict the XVI addressed a crowd which could not be contained withing the ellipse of Saint Peter’s Square.  Outside the square itself were thousands of people coming and going and trying to find a viewing position next to one of the Doric columns.  The Pope spoke to each of the nations on earth, and representatives of each nation cheered upon hearing the Pope’s address of their homeland.  For anyone wondering if this is a good time of year to be in Rome, I say yes.  The pilgrim is the standard around the city while Rome’s citizens act as patient, hospitable and helpful hosts to the world. 

I have run into the same missionary couple twice, once at the Colosseum yesterday and once this morning just outside the square.  He is German and she is from South Carolina.  They are very sweet.  It was nice to see a pair of familiar faces, even if I don’t know what the names attached to those faces are.  It was nice to talk theology a little bit with people who, like me, are doing there best to understand what God would have them do.  

I am ready to move on from here.  I don’t imagine that I’ve seen even a measurable amount of what Rome has to show someone.  I don’t believe I understand the people, the language, the history, or the culture, and I don’t expect to.  What I do expect is to come back someday knowing that the river runs south, and that the pizza here is excellent; that Rome was designed on a scale all her own with an eternal vision in mind.  I have walked the streets of the Caesars and seen the skies which inspired the Sistine Chapel; they really are that color of blue.  Rome is as fine a city as Norman Elder could have devised; a city of craft, care, precision and pride.  

Dear Reader,

Hello.  I am posting this evening from Rome, it is nearly midnight here.  Two midnights ago I was crossing from Macedonia to Albania on a bus.  Last night at midnight I was trying to sleep on a ferry boat from Durres to Bari.

This morning our ship arrived in Italy at around 7AM in the port of Bari.  I had expected to spend the day there, but an Albanian national who now lives in London, but is visiting Italy for medical treatment encouraged me to see Naples instead.  We boarded a mini-bus which he, his brother, his sister-in-law and their infant son, as well as three other men had chartered to take to Naples.  We changed into a Ford Windstar minivan shortly because the mini-bus wasn’t running properly.  I nodded in and out en route due to fatigue, but was fascinated by the picturesque nature of the Italian country-side.  There, on a hill, is a town which no one in the van knew the name of, which probably played a role of some magnitude in the Second Punic War.  There, up ahead, is a roofless stone structure which now houses a flock of black-birds, but once was an abbey.  Look there, windmills circle in the same sourced breeze which greeted the caravan of Ricardo dell Aquila as they toiled over the highland-like countryside.

In Caserta, my new friend Pisa and his brother Franco explained that they were heading on to the hospital, but that I was welcome to take the formerly abandoned mini-bus to the Caserta train station, which would get me to Naples.  I would have gone on to Naples with company, but Franco had explained that illegal drugs and gun-violence had made the city an unattractive tourist destination.

At the Caserta train station I bought a ticket to Rome, which is where I had hoped to end up in any event, in the hopes of viewing the Pope on Easter Sunday.  We will see if that pans out.  I should here relate that I almost choked up at a curious sight outside my hotel.  The letters SPQR are stamped into the manhole covers here, can you imagine?  I am in the city called Senatus Populus que Romanus.  This is the stamp which Miximus removes from his shoulder with a sharp stone in the film “Gladiator,” causing the beautiful Djimon Hounsou to ask “will this not anger your gods?”  Having those four letters stamped in the cast iron I was walking over gave me a sense of honor.  God has placed me now, in this moment, in the Eternal City.

I am honored to be here.  And if you are a friend of mine, I hope to honor you while I am here.  If you would please extend to a Muslim man or woman some courtesy this week.  They have helped me at every turn.  Please be kind to the foreigner you meet, because that foreigner is me.  Thank you.