In the Footsteps of St. Herman

Today, my throat is better, undoubtedly thanks to Willie’s Wonderful Willow Juice. Yesterday, my voice virtually vanished. Though, its absence didn’t deter a number of villagers who came by to visit or to seek guidance. I had called Fr. Stan in Pilot, too, hoping he recognized me before thinking he was getting a prank call. He understood and cautioned me not to hesitate to go to the clinic, were I not better. But I am. Again, thanks to this elixir, this potion, this cure.

We had a bit more rain, but finally it stopped before noon. I headed “midtown” towards the church and school and inspected the progress of the demolition crew. The old foundation is now exposed. Rough hewn logs, 12″ x 12″, trace the extremes of the original square nave. Two short logs and a long one outline the dimensions of the old altar, a rectangle the same width as the rest of the church. In its center sits the foundation cross.

The foundation cross was the first object placed in the ground when the church was erected here fifty years ago: “No other foundation can any man lay than that which is laid, Jesus Christ.” The church was built around and over it, with the altar table having stood directly above it until only last week. Fr. Gregory and I were tasked to move the altar table into the new church. As laity never touch one — even though this one had never been consecrated — demolition had virtually stopped until our arrival.

The cross is in remarkable condition and will not be removed. A small cover with another cross on its top will house the foundation cross, a silent witness to all who pass by of all the prayers prayed for and in this village for half a century. Lumber from the old church will be used to construct the mini-church.

In addition to the original foundation’s logs, the later extensions of milled lumber beams, both fore and aft, are visible, too. We talk about whether the narthex, now the only part still standing can be moved to the back of the property to serve as a much needed storage building. Hopefully, it can.

I took my laundry to Willie’s and ran a load there. I also found a spot behind the school building, in front of the outdoor freezer, where I can sit, watch what’s going on, and get three bars of Internet connectivity bleeding over from the school.

Having finished Call of the Wild, I am now far into White Fang. The periodic howls of Buck and White Fang’s not-so-distant cousins here provide a realistic, audible background for my reading. Buddy, the dog in the front yard — I’ve named him that — needed to be fed. I found that the bacon Andrew brought me the other day was a slab, with plenty of rind on it to cut off and give Buddy his lunch.

Before heading off for an evening of goose hunting, William stops by to check on me and deliver supper: baked beef ribs! Within an hour or so, another full meal appears from his brother’s family: King salmon! I can’t wait for my cholesterol to be checked by Dr. P. when I get home. I’ve hardly missed a day eating salmon, sometimes thrice daily, since Helsinki.

Between my food deliveries from Marshall’s version of Meals on Wheels, Meals on ATVs, three of the children came by. They are always asking for blessings in the street, just as Fr. Gregory had instructed. A few days ago, they asked if they could visit. In trooped Tatiana, Mary, and Aidan! They are in third, second, and first grades, cousins if I can make it out correctly.

Curious as little cats — or wolf pups, à la Jack London — they inspect the premises, remembering when Uncle Jason lived here before relocating to Kodiak for seminary. “I want to watch TV,” one called, headed for what I suspect was its former location.

“There’s no TV here, now.”

Not dissauded until she finds that there is no TV to watch here as she did with cousin Isabel, she emerges, only incredulous. “Don’t you guys watch TV?”

Well, yes, when I have one. And I’m so glad that I don’t! But she would not have understood my elation over this seeming privation.

Questioning and prowling continue until the Tostitos are spied: “You have chips!”

“Why, yes! Would you like some?” There is no objection.

“Make sure you share,” as I place down a bowl.

When they finish, which doesn’t take long, I ask if they would like lemonade. Again, affirmative. The girls think I made it too sweet and water theirs down a bit. Aidan, not daunted, to finishes his in only a few gulps. [Gee, I made it just like I make mine.]

“Well, time to go,” I suggest.

Not a whimper or a whine is emitted. They head for their boots and their coats.

“OK. May we come back?”

“Hey, Aidan, get your blessing!” One of the girls commands. They all line up for the formality before heading off into the long Alaska evening. From school’s last bell until dark lasts as long as the school day itself.

I’ll have to go to the store and make sure that I’ve got something for the next visit. And if word travels, I suspect that I’ll need to prepare for more than three.

Today is my eldest grandson’s name’s day. St. Aidan was a Celtic missionary to northern Britain in the 6th century. One of the little boys in the village is named Aidan, too. Many Years to all the Aidans!

Except for making sure that the dog tied near my house had more moose leg to chew on, I haven’t ventured forth. It is a bit warmer though, without noticeable drizzle. And I am regularly dosing myself with the willow bark potion William gave me yesterday. My voice is raspy, but I think that I’m not getting worse.

Villagers have stopped by to visit and check on me. Willie tells me that his brother John and he went goose hunting yesterday, but got to thinking about whether I had anything to eat. They tried to rouse me by cell phone from the hunt, but I am notorious for keeping a cell phone in the “OFF” position.

He had lunch in tow for me today. I showed him my larder, which I can hardly put any dent in: soup, bread, eggs, bacon, Spam. He had to tell me about the progress being made demolishing the old church that has stood off the right front side of the current church. The manufactured home given the parish will take its place there in due time.

I use the opportunity to tell him about my idea for using a portion of the house for a teen center and to apologize as a preemptive measure for possibly having caused any trouble in the village by suggesting this to the teens before approaching the elders and the parish council. He doesn’t seem worried. And he is excited to learn about the teens wanting to meet next Sunday again.

He also admits that John plays the fiddle. So, I will be ready for him for play for me.

There was a time when most people still made their own entertainment. It really wasn’t that long ago. People would play instruments or sing hymns, gathering young and old together. At times dances would break out. Of course, that didn’t happen during the hymn singing, at least not where I lived.

In my family, I had fiddle-players on one side and hymn-singers on the other. (And there were some relatives who did a little of both.) It was a time of bonding before radio, much less television, had dominance over people’s lives, their schedules and their rhythms. People connected and passed down their traditions this way to their children and their grandchildren.

Now, even in Marshall, the iPod, hand-held computer game, and personal cellphone have all made their intrusion. Modern life is so fragmented, at times, with houses only being used to provide overnight shelter and food at sporadic intervals for members of the same gene pool, rather than molding a new generation with common values from a shared history.

I first thought of this the other night in Pilot Station as I watched the Welcome Dances performed by so many of the village, while others held babies, and chatted, and watched.

How do we pass down our traditions, our family stories now? How do we bond our families together with so many of us living at distances from our birthplaces? When the annual peregrination is made at Thanksgiving or Christmas, the issue at hand is more likely timing dinner not to interfere with the football schedule than re-integrating with family, or re-telling the family’s own story, through custom and activity, once again.

For all the many privations an Outsider might first see — yes, Outsider is what we are all called — there is the flipside of being native-born here. Three and four generations might live within that many houses of one another. The land, the place, the house develops a sacral character, defining who one is, and how one is to be. There is an overwhelming advantage in that, it seems to me.

(Postcard image: Fr. John, right, meets at St. Michael’s Church in Marshall with the mission team from the Orthodox Christian Mission Center.)

It is Sunday in Marshall. There is a slight break in the cloudy, wet weather. Things are quiet. I must be the only one on the street as I make my way to the church today. I wonder if anyone else is awake. One after another, the people begin to arrive. The first is Paul, the chief of the community. He also assists me in the altar. He rings the bell and more come. It is like that. The church is relatively full by the dismissal. I get to meet more people at each service.

Last night after Vespers, Paul asked to speak to the people. He preached the most wonderful impromptu sermon, exhorting the people to respect the elders and to keep the faith. There was a quiet passion in his voice. He spoke softly, as everyone does here, and in Yup’ik. One of the assistant chiefs translated his remarks. I thanked him profusely. This morning, I told him that he had my blessing to address the people anytime, not that he had need of it. He is a quiet, gentle man.

Brunch this morning is at Subdeacon Nick Isaac’s home. He is one of the village elders and long time church leader. He and his wife Nastasia are a jolly couple. Reader John and William are two of their sons. He wheels me over to his house on the ATV with one of his grandsons on the front, a live hood ornament.

Nastasia tells me that she worries about my belly getting empty. I assure her that my belly has not been empty since I got to this village, or any of the other villages on the Yukon!

One of the littlest at brunch asks me where I’m from. It is a typical question in these parts since it’s obvious I’m not from around here. I tell him, “Pennsylvania.”

“That over by Pilot [Station]?” he wonders.

“A bit further than Pilot,” I assure him.

Another son, Fr. Thomas, serves on Kenai. All told, this village has produced three priests, all currently serving in the diocese. Another village son just left for seminary this month. I’m staying at his house, in fact.

Before leaving, son William brings me a liquid made from willow bark for my scratchy throat, the first of these ailments I’ve had since last spring. Of course, aspirin was discovered in the bark of willow trees. This is made from boiling the bark. This remedy is sworn by around here for all sorts of ailments. I’ll let you know how things work out.

At 2 p.m. (14:00), I met with the teens and young adults. They are ready to meet again next Sunday. “There’s nothing else to do,” they all agree. That is the sad picture for youth in the villages. The result is alcohol and drug related problems, combined with teen pregnancy.

What would you like to do as an activity? “A fiddle-dance!”

“We could charge money.” “We could give it to the church for new covers for the icon stands.”

What kind of music?

“Achy Breaky Heart!” OK. Old standards never fall out of favor. But I can remember when Achy Breaky was new. In fact, I can remember a time before Achy Breaky ever broke on the CW scene.

Come to find out, they claim that Reader John is a fiddle player and another man in the parish plays guitar. Well, yee-haw!

The parish has been given a doublewide modular home from one of the parish’s elders. It will be moved to church property to be rehabbed for a priest to live in. In the meantime, I want to sell the parish council and the elders on letting the kids use it for a teen center until then.

(By the way, when I use the word “elder”, I’m referring to the older members of the community. In traditional culture, the “elders” male or female are revered for the wisdom they have gained. Their role is to pass it down from one generation to another. )

This has been a busy Sunday. Before meeting with one couple about their upcoming wedding, I’m invited in to visit a Catholic family whose grandfather had been Orthodox.

The poultry coop in the village. They have the distinction of being the only chickens in Marshall.

Afterwards, I stop by to meet the owner of the rooster and hens. I discovered that the chicken-pen has rollers at the back of the coop. This allows him to move them to greener pastures very quickly. The pen is a tent of chicken wire with the coop over the axles. His chickens are safe from air-based and land-based critters this way. There are no snakes!

He invites me to have moose ribs for supper but I’m already headed to another house for supper. I do get to see the inside of the log cabin he lives in, one room with a wood stove for heat and a really high-tech computer and monitor.

On my way to eat, some one else I haven’t met before drives up: “Are you the Father?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Here’s your supper, spaghetti from Sophie.”

“OK. Tell her thanks!”

Yet another call my way comes from another cabin: “Are you the Catholic priest?”

“Nope. The Orthodox priest. What’s your name?”

We chat. He’s a senior. I ask for a weather report: clear most of the week. I can hardly wait.

I reached the Pandelis’s for dinner. Their oldest son went duck hunting yesterday and brought home four. He is taxidermy-ing one on the porch in a bucket, having already skinned it out. Really cool. He’s learning it all from a book.

Right now, I’m sitting in his father’s classroom where the Wi-Fi gives me five bars. What a luxury!

So, I will close. I have received word that my parish has shipped more than 30 New Testament Orthodox Study Bibles. I’ll report back in on their distribution when they arrive.

By your prayers.

This festal morning seemed bleak weather-wise, but not spiritually. The rainy drizzle continued from yesterday. When my alarm went off at 7 a.m., the street lights were still on, if barely. It’s hard to imagine the sky this gray and overcast in late August.

Celebrating the Great Feasts regularly is difficult in the villages because of the lack of clergy. But so much of Orthodox life historically is lived out in villages, with feast days punctuating the calendar. A total of seventeen feast days, not counting Sundays, were still given workers in the Pribiloffs after the Purchase. Even now in Greece, the EU is demanding a reduction in days off for holy days as a part of economic reform.

Marshall had that village liturgy feeling: I’ve felt it before. The bell rang: people came to church. No one drove a car. Perhaps one ATV was parked outside. Everyone else walked a block, two blocks, or maybe a little more. These same individuals work together, go to school together, play together and pray together, with one event simply folding into another.

Our liturgy was uplifting. More of it is done in Yup’ik than at Vespers.

There was a brunch at one of the parish council members’ homes. As usual, it was quite a spread. And, as it is turning out elsewhere, it becomes a pastoral visit. People are very candid about themselves and they seek guidance from the clergy. Hearts are opened, tears are sometimes shed, and burdens are many times lifted. So it was today.

The afternoon was down time. I tried to get into my reading: Jack London‘s Call of the Wild and White Fang. I figured it was good background material for a trip here. Somehow I had missed out on both while growing up. A gray, wet afternoon gave more excuse for napping than reading.

I awoke, finding my power off again. I don’t know why. So, with no coffee to jolt me awake for Vespers, I lolled around. Then I trudged up the slippery incline to church.

Again, it was a village at prayer. Virtually everyone from the morning attended, with others there as well. One set of responses was done alternately in English, Slavonic, Yup’ik, and Greek.

I’d heard 12 confessions last night with perhaps 18 more this evening. Here there is a practice of signing a confession register each time a person confesses. It is dated, along with the name of the priest hearing the confessions. (During the liturgy the next day, each person will be commemorated with prayers.)

I’d read of this old, Russian practice in literature somewhere, but I’d never been in a parish that still practices it. There is such continuity here with the guidance the missionaries gave them, almost 200 years ago.

Supper was back over at Reader John’s house: King Salmon soup! John had noticed my relish for Tabasco sauce at brunch, apologizing for its absence tonight by the offer of jalapenos instead. Who would’a thunk?

Before I knew it, it was 10 p.m. (22:00), but children were still outside playing. There was a large puddle opposite John’s house with at least six little boys floating little boats made of scrap lumber on it. They pulled them with strings through the muddy water, up a ramp and splashed them down on the other side.

“Who’s winning?” I call out.

“I am!”

“I am!”

“I am!”

John motors me home again, on the ATV: top speed is 7 mph (11 kph). He takes it slower when I’m his cargo. He avoids as many water holes as possible, and takes it even slower when he can’t.

Returning home, I find the power back on. I’m none the wiser.

I’ll make sure that I have a back-up alarm set to get me up tomorrow.

Blessings with the Feast!

(Postcard image: An aerial view of the community of Marshall, Alaska. Marshall School is in the foreground with the blue walls and red roof. Photo credit: © 2007 Alaska Division of Community and Regional Affairs.)

Today was a drippy day. It rained off and on. In addition, there was a scheduled four-hour power outage for the entire village, from 8 a.m. to 12 noon. This included the school, on its second day of the year. I always enjoyed when the power went out at home or at school as I grew up. It normally meant the interruption of a chore or assignment. That has worn off over the years a bit.

During the afternoon, another of the villagers dropped by to visit. Then, Reader John came to ask me to bless a birthday celebration. So before I knew it, I was on the side of his ATV, wheeling off to the party. The 14-year-old honoree and her guests ate first, this time. The older folk, including the priest, waited and chatted. Her mom did ask if I minded waiting. Not at all, to be sure.

As we talked, I was more than humbled when one of the female elders toddled over to me to press a gift of money into my hand. “I wanted to give him something for being with us,” she said. I kissed her hand.

Reader John’s parents are godparents to Becky, the young lady of the day. They were able to give me an update on A’pa Isaac, as Alexander is known to the younger members of the village. (Isaac is his surname.) It looks like he will be taken on to Anchorage before returning to the village. Others later confirmed that it was a stroke. His speech is still slurred but he does have some motor control. Your prayers are requested.

At 6 p.m. (18:00), it was time for Vespers and Confessions. Again, we had a nice crowd of all ages, especially considering that the service was only scheduled two days ago. But word travels here and schedules are not what we get used to in the “Lower-48“. Reader John has a clock at his house that expresses it best: all the numbers are in a jumble between the marks for “6″ and “9″; the rest of the face is blank except across its upper-right quarter. It says: “Whatever”.

I want one of these!

Keeping time as strictly as we keep it now is the result of the Industrial Revolution. Before then, the sun was the main arbiter of one’s activities. People did have watches and town squares, clocks. But things ran much more according to natural rhythms.

As a child, I can remember sunset always determining how long we could stay at my grandparents’ or other relatives’ or friends’ homes. My father would always say that we had to be home before dark. I would protest and ask why he couldn’t use the headlights on the way home. He would explain that we had “to tend to things” while there was still daylight. That meant doing the evening chores, feeding and watering the animals. They depended on us and we had to respect that relationship.

Sunlight would also determine when one rose in the morning. For one of my great grandfathers, sleeping after sunrise was considered a moral flaw. But no alarm clocks ever needed to be set for him, nor for my grandparents or parents. Natural rhythms and the responsibilities of the day prevailed.

Things have changed for many of us. I can’t remember sleeping in much at all until I went to college. And my dad still frowned on it when I would visit him in the later years of his life: 7 a.m. was as lenient as he ever got. I’ve digressed, but my experience here brings back so many good memories for me.

Fr. Michael Oleksa, the Chancellor of the Diocese, tells a humorous story about the advent of government schools among the Yup’ik people:

The teacher rang the bell in a village where at least the Yup’iks were still asleep. They looked outside, saw the teacher ringing the bell, but didn’t know what it meant. They went back to sleep. She went round to each dwelling and explained that she would ring the bell tomorrow and the children were to go to school!

So, she rang the bell the next day. The same thing happened. The people went back to sleep. Yes, they had agreed to send their children to school that day. But “day” had a different meaning to them rather than to her. There was still day when the villagers got up and they couldn’t see how they hadn’t kept their promise to the school marm once the children arrived.

Though Fr. Michael’s story is humorous, government schools have a frightful history in Alaska, not unlike the schools on Indian Reservations in the southwest. Villages like Marshall, actually an old mining settlement called Fortuna Ledge, came into being when the government decided to locate a school for native Alaskans in a given area. People were forced to relocate from native villages in order to send their children to school, or face jail. Their connections to place and their own history was, of course, disregarded and disrupted.

Residents of Marshall came from two different villages, and hence there are members of two tribes living in one town. Orthodox churches had existed for them where they previously lived. Here they held services in private homes for years until moving a church from another village for their own.

Once at school, there was no tolerance for a word of Yup’ik. Punishment was swift, usually by being hit. (Soap in the mouth was another means of education.) This was inevitable since the children arrived at school not speaking a word of English. They didn’t understand what “No Yup’ik” meant. The trauma for some was so severe that they dropped out of school when they could. For others, it provided a lasting emotional scar in other ways. Far from helping to assimilate the native Alaskan into “American” society, the government school era continued to marginalize Alaska’s people and belittle local culture.

This was actually no different than the treatment the natives received from the American missionary schools after the Purchase in 1867, except for the forced relocation of villagers with threat of imprisonment. Children were “merely” sent off to boarding schools where the same methods were used, again with no toleration for indigenous language.

In Marshall, the elders still speak Yup’ik but are not necessarily literate. The next generation has varying degrees of fluency. The children have virtually none.

St. Yakov, a Creole Russian-Aleut from Atka (in the Aleutians), came to this part of Alaska with an interpreter before he learned the language and adapted the Cyrillic (Russian) alphabet to Yup’ik. Then, he translated portions of the Scriptures (the Gospel of Matthew) and the services. The language was only adapted to the Latin alphabet around 1970.

When we pray here, some of the hymns and prayers are still in Yup’ik, ultimately the gift of St. Yakov to the Yup’ik people. (Some are still in Slavonic, too.) It is amazing to think of his gift of a written language to people on the Yukon and Kuskokwim rivers. Copies of portions of his bilingual Slavonic-Yup’ik Gospel and other works are on display at the Russian Bishop’s House in Sitka.

While I was writing, another of the men of the village dropped by to meet me and to visit for a good while. As he was leaving, he asked, “Church tomorrow, Father?”

Good News travels fast, it seems.

We left Russian Mission shortly before noon yesterday. St. Yakov himself had evangelized and established the church there. An old log church showing evidence of Russian craftsmanship in its joinery still stands on a hill visible from the river. Nature is gradually returning it back to the earth from whence it had once grown.

Fr. Peter and Matushka Rebecca had just made the trip upriver from the conference less than two days ago. Now, it was time for us to board the boat and head down river to Marshall, two-and-a-half hours away. It was colder than on Sunday and we were in an open skiff this time. I finally turned with my back to the wind to stay warmer. Along the way we saw what seemed to be a swarm of geese, plus a golden eagle and a young bull moose. The eagle swooped overhead. I saw why. Its nest was in the top of a tree near the shore. We were passing too close for comfort.

In Marshall, I disembarked for my sojourn here. Fr. Gerasim headed on back to Pilot Station before moving on to other places in the diocese. After Pilot Station, Fr. Peter and Matushka turned around and went back to Russian Mission, stopping off to collect grandchildren left in Marshall for the day when I had gotten off. I went back to hug and thank them once again for all that they did to accommodate me. All told, they spent at least seven hours on the river transporting others.

Reader John met me at the boat and got me settled in. Right now, I’m sharing a house with Fr. Gregory and Len from the Mission Team. Once they leave, I’ll be by myself. I soon went to John’s brother William’s house for chicken soup to warm me up.

Our mission team was already at work at the church, providing a teaching ministry to both children and adults in town. There were familiar faces, plus new names to learn.

One key means of communication in a village this small, besides word of mouth, is the VHF system: a CB in every house in town. No matter where I went, people already knew I was coming, no matter the method used to convey the message. “Oh, so you are the one who is coming to be with us.” “I’ve heard about you.” “Welcome to Marshall.” “Hi, Father.”

Fr. Philip, who had been in the hospital last Friday in Bethel, flew over to bring me some church supplies. I met him at the airport where I chided him gently about making the trip instead of being in Anchorage for more treatment on his ailment. He said was going to Anchorage “next week.” As they were about to close the plane door, he rebounded, telling the crew, “No, I’m going back with you.” Such is life in the Alaskan bush.

For supper, between sessions, we were hosted by Panayiotis and Jennifer. He is science and math teacher in the school here. While attending seminary in Brookline, MA, he overlapped with Fr. Hector and Presbytera Katerina.Both Fr. Hector and Presbytera were students at PSU, about ten years ago or so. Panayiotis is originally from Evia in Greece. Jennifer is from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They have four children.

One of the first questions I’m asked by church leadership is whether we could have a service together during the week, before the weekend. Absolutely! I promised them Vespers this evening and thanks to the usual means of communication, there must have been nearly forty for church, with another team presentation to follow. A number of the young men of the village, as well as the elders, plus mothers and children were present.

I am learning more about the sectarian situation here. The reason for my catechetical mission, in particular, is because a group came to the city government and offered to build a teen center to help with drug and alcohol issues. It sounded like a good idea at first, but perhaps it has been a Trojan horse.

The elders started having second thoughts when an element of division was introduced by some involved in the project. Children would be invited to pick berries or other activities. But this has served as a pretext for proselytism.

The Yukon has become a focus for sectarians who descend upon the villages with pronouncements of damnation upon all the villagers unless the villagers accept their litmus test for “being saved.” Of course, Roman Catholics and the Orthodox are not even considered “Christians” by these folks, who say they have come to bring the locals out of darkness.

The Orthodox in the area are totally flummoxed by this treatment and these attitudes. A 63-year old subdeacon in Russian Mission told me of his encounter with one of these individuals who mocked his faith. “Father, I’ve loved Christ all of my life. I told him what St. Peter (the Aleut) said: I cannot deny my faith.” Amen, subdeacon!

In another case, a youth invited on an outing stood up for his faith and was summarily told that he was not welcome to return. So, shunning is resorted to.

Division is spreading in families as a result, when individuals decide to leave their faith and embrace this new teaching. Several of the elder women wept at the Conference as they shared their stories of children abandoning Orthodoxy for this group. They blame themselves. The other women attempted to reassure them that it is their children’s free will at work. But this is ultimately very tragic.

One thing this group does not appreciate is the sacred interconnectedness of life and relationships in traditional culture. The potential for severing relationships between parents and children, godparents and godchildren, and even individuals from traditional life in the village is great. One’s very identity is bound up in family and tribal relations.

Of course, the funding for this work is not from local sources but from an international group that advertises itself as providing disaster relief. The Learjet is parked at the airstrip; the heavy equipment rolls through one end of town; the work crews are camped in temporary quarters, working in two-week shifts.

My brief stay is but a stopgap measure. But the people are genuinely glad to have both the mission team and me here. This is the only village on this part of the river that does not have a regular priest. The right appointment here of a permanent priest will bring a great blessing to the faithful here.

When we at Holy Trinity pray for those persecuted for the sake of the Gospel, please understand that this is not merely a nice thing to say on Sundays while we are at church. Keep praying for them and realize that when you do, you are praying for real people, for your Orthodox brothers and sisters on the Yukon. Yes, right here in America!

Blessings from the spiritual warfront.

Orthodox Faithful fill the church and prepare to receive communion in Pilot Station.

The conference liturgy filled the church at Pilot Station yesterday. Afterwards we went to the city’s public hall, which allows the benefits of a parish hall when needed. An Orthodox cross hangs on the wall at the request of the city fathers and Fr. Stephan, the rector, was asked to bless the building. Residents in Pilot Station who are not Orthodox are Roman Catholic. Their priest visits for one week at a time every two months.

Following another bountiful repast of reindeer, buffalo, and moose, it was time to start getting ready for our trip upriver to Russian Mission, a community originally missionized by Saint Yakov himself. The parish is dedicated to the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. Fr. Peter is the fifth priest after St. Yakov to serve here, and the third priest from the village.

Following the Divine Liturgy, the community gathers at the city hall for a potluck of reindeer, buffalo, and moose.

Fr. Peter served as the captain of our boat upriver from Pilot Station. His Matushka Rebecca, her friend Sophie, Father’s younger brother Daniel, Fr. Gerasim and I rounded out the passenger list.

The Yukon widens out to around a mile in this part, getting broader down stream closer to the ocean. It is muddy from all the glacial silt constantly draining from the distant mountains. Its headwaters are in Canada. Recent rains had swollen the river with much driftwood floating on the surface.

Alaskan driftwood is not merely the pretty ornamental type that sometimes gets crafted into table lamps or other decorative items back home. These are trees: logs, roots and all, making their way to land or sea. They provide firewood when brought ashore and dried out during the summer; timbers for houses; or, even totem poles, depending on where you are.

Navigating the river is a particular challenge because of the driftwood. The pilot has to be on constant watch to avoid hitting or being hit by one. Passengers help alert him to their approach.

Another obstacle on the river is the shifting of sand bars. While the river can be 100 feet, it can also shift to a few feet in a short distance. About 45 minutes into our journey, we struck one. Father reversed the engine, but we didn’t dislodge as we had hoped. The current didn’t help, either. We were going upriver and the river’s flow was keeping us on the bar. Father wanted to wait a while until the wind blew us loose.

I was seated furthermost aft in the boat. So, I was the first to realize water was coming in the boat as it sloshed about my feet. We would later find out that the drain plug had somehow come out. The first thought was that we had split a seam.

Anyway, I moved all the way forward — to help shift weight from the rear. Water kept rising. Fr. Gerasim moved next. OK. Then we moved the luggage forward, not because of weight but because of water. Daniel was back with his brother trying to determine the cause.

Fr. Gerasim bails water out of our craft.

But as water started making its way into the mid-section, we decided to start bailing. An igloo mini-cooler with the lid removed made an excellent bucket. We took turns, Fr. Gerasim, then me, then Matushka, lifting out as much water as we could. We were holding it at bay, at best. But without constant effort, any progress made was soon eclipsed by more water.

Father had already radioed for help. Two boats passed by on the other side of the river, rushing down stream. Maybe their radios were off. Maybe they didn’t look our way. Fr. Gerasim decided they wouldn’t make good godparent material.

This happened about 15 minutes out of Marshall, the site I ultimately am headed. One of the conference’s attendees, Reader John from Marshall, was ahead of us and was the first to respond, turning back.

Now, the good thing about having boat problems on a sand bar you can’t get off if that you are not going to sink. However, if you do drift into deeper water, you’ve got a problem. The mouth of a small river is nearby, emptying into the Yukon. That could definitely present us with a difficulty we didn’t need.

Daniel jumped into the waist deep water and started pulling us toward shore away from the small river’s mouth with the anchor rope. This kept us out of the flow until he was able to anchor the boat on land. Meanwhile our one-bucket brigade kept at it.

The missing plug had finally been diagnosed and was replaced. Now the bailing routine, coupled with the bilge pump, started making progress. About this time, too, Reader John had arrived and we were able to transfer the women and all the luggage into his boat to lighten our load enough to get us off the sand bar. By this time, a second responder had arrived who gently teased Father about using the south side of the river instead of the north.

Once free from the underwater snare, and clear of most of the water on board, we reloaded the suitcases and aimed up river. The ladies stayed with Reader John as our little flotilla headed to Marshall.

The modest interior of the church in Marshall where Fr. John will be serving.

We were in Marshall long enough to see the church and for me to be shown the house where I will be staying when I return. Children from the conference who beat us home greeted us as we walked through the village.

Then we loaded up again to head on to Russian Mission. By time, we should already have arrived. Matushka had phoned ahead to alert family. Thank goodness for long summer days in Alaska! We still had two and one-half hours of travel to go. (Marshall and Russian Mission are perhaps 30 land miles apart.)

Up ahead, we saw another boat, apparently dead in the water. We pulled close. “Are you in trouble?”

Fortunately, they were fine. They had gotten word about our troubles and offered to carry some of us on to Russian Mission. Matushka and Sophie decided to go ahead with them.

En route, Fr. Peter said: “I’m really a land-lubber. I’m not a very good boatsman.”

“Father,” I said, “you seem like a seasoned professional to me.”

“Keeping saying that, Fr John. It makes me feel easier.”

Father is far too modest. All but seven of his 62 years have been lived in Russian Mission except for three years in the military and four at seminary. He does know the river, pointing out hills and bends and rock formations along the shore, before heading through Seven-mile Sluice. He didn’t know if it really were seven miles long but he did know that it was a good place for bear if we could have seen them. By now it was twilight, but the sluice was narrower and calmer than the main channel of the river. It is also only about six feet deep this time of year.

From the sluice, we headed to the main river channel again, with Daniel and Fr. Gerasim on watch for more driftwood. St. Yakov had traversed these waters, in a three-man baidarka. The bends in the river were ones he had rounded. The shores along the way had given him places for camp at night. As with so much of my journey, it is hard to take it all in.

Finally, we see lights on the hillside and the flash of a beacon from the local landing strip. We can make out the form and light of the school — the brand-new facility set to open next week. Matushka and Sophie are waiting for us on shore. The grandchildren are calling, “A’pa!”

ATV headlights provide enough brilliance to direct us to the gravel beach. It’s 11:30 p.m. (23:30), our three and one-half hour trip having doubled to seven.

Daniel secures our line and we begin the work of transferring our luggage one more time. Father’s daughter-in-law has her pick-up backed toward the boat with the tailgate down. With help from family members, our cargo is quickly secured in the back. Father’s children and grandchildren seemed to be everywhere, all greeting us and asking for blessings, and kissing their beloved A’pa.

We jump in the truck and before we know it, we are up the hillside to Father’s home where we meet more family and find the table set for a midnight dinner: not a snack mind you, a dinner, with s almon, moose, smoked salmon strips, salads, akutaq, blueberry upside-down cake and carrot cake. Everyone eats heartily.

“We’ll make more akutaq for you tomorrow, Father,” they offer, “without berries.” I had explained my unfortunate berry allergy.

Around 1 a.m. I finally get to bed. Matushka was still up, though she had to be at work 8:00. She is school secretary and it’s the first day back for staff.

“Sleep well and rest,” she tells Fr. Gerasim and me.

Get out your maps! Find Anchorage and go virtually due west until you find the city of Bethel on the Kuskokwim River. That was my first stop, leaving Anchorage after ten days of a slower pace.

Fr. Michael Oleksa, a Pennsylvania native and chancellor of the Diocese of Alaska, met me at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport, along with Fr. Juvenaly and Fr. Gerasim. Fr. Juvenaly is on faculty at St. Herman’s Seminary in Kodiak and Fr. Gerasim is spending the summer in Alaska, while pursuing studies at St. Vladimir’s Seminary in New York. We were all headed to the Kuskokwim Deanery Conference.

The weather was lovely for the third straight day in Anchorage with bright blue skies and hardly any clouds. As the small plane leveled off after take-off, I looked out my window toward the Alaska Range I had visited on Monday and Tuesday. Wouldn’t you know it? The Great One, Denali, stood there in all its majesty. And I looked for as long as I could at the sight that had eluded us closer up earlier in the week.

Because of the large areas and the long distances between cities, towns and villages, the Alaskan churches periodically meet together for fellowship, worship, and study in their local deaneries. This year, the Kuskokwim Deanery Conference is being held in Pilot Station, but the planes go to Bethel directly from Anchorage, so that was our first stop.

Bethel takes its name from the biblical location. It was so named by the Moravian missionaries who were assigned this region of Alaska after the Purchase in 1867. The military governor of the area — Alaska was not granted territorial status until some 50+ years later — did not want different Protestant groups competing against each other as had happened in other mission fields in the 18th and 19th centuries. So, he divvied up Alaska among four groups — Moravians, Presbyterians, Methodists, and Baptists — and assigned the Kuskokwim region to the Moravians, which is Yu’pik in its native population. (St. Yakov Netsvetov had missionized the Yukon River area north and east of Bethel, but not in Bethel.)

One of the tasks of the Protestant missionaries was to convert the natives from paganism, which in the mind of the military governor included Orthodoxy. He saw it as completely incompatible with assimilation as a possession of the United States.

Anyway, that is how Bethel got its name: the Orthodox presence in Bethel would come later.

Bethel, with a population of around 8,000, is the largest city in this part of the state and serves as a hub for transportation. (Remember, Alaska does not have many roads, much less highways. You fly or boat to get to Bethel.) It also has a modern hospital facility. The hospital just happened to be the home away from home for two of the deanery clergy. So this was our first stop.

Upon entering the first priest’s room, we met two more priests already visiting their brother. One was the rector of the church in Bethel. The other lived only 40 minutes away, by river! We could have had a convention of some sort in the hospital.

It was truly amazing to see the people come up to Fr. Michael for a blessing as he walked through the hospital corridors. Not only had he served in Bethel years ago, but because Bethel is such a hub-city for everything, many of his acquaintances were here for medical care. Also, his Matushka Xenia is a native of Kwethluk, which is, again, not that far by river!

A beautiful new Orthodox church being built outside of Bethel, scheduled to be completed in September.

Later, we went to see the progress on the new church being built. Bethel’s church is scheduled for consecration at the end of September. Fr. Ilya, its pastor, and I already commiserated the fact that I would have already left the area by that time. It is going to be a truly beautiful new church on the edge of town, on what is one of the few high points — a small knoll — in this overall flat, treeless river delta. It reminded me much of the Rio Grande Valley, where we lived for almost 20 years before relocating to Pennsylvania, without palms, hibiscus, and citrus groves, but much, much greener.

Fr. Juvenaly caught up with the three of us here. He had had to take a separate flight from Anchorage. It was a rather long story.

Going back to the airport for our connection, we find that we can fly directly to Pilot Station instead of an intervening point. It means we won’t have to take a boat up the Yukon to get to the conference. Except, there are only three seats available. Now this is only an 11-seater Caravan, they called.

This time, Fr. Michael stays behind for the later flight and the three of us board. We strap ourselves in and listen to the recorded message. You can bet there is no beverage service on this baby. There is no flight attendant either. Come to think of it, there was no partition between the passengers and the pilot’s cabin. It was just a little plane, plus the pilot and the co-pilot, who may have been his girlfriend. I didn’t ask.

As we flew over the area, I could see why the Yu’pik people understood the world to be a sort of sponge, floating on the waters with the heavens above it. That’s exactly what most of the land between Bethel and Pilot Station looked like: a huge, green sponge. I kept thinking about what my part of Texas might be able to do with this much water. At least, we would like to have the chance to have some of it.

The last five minutes of the flight, I started seeing occasional little trees and then heavier vegetation and finally forests again. We landed safely on the gravel landing strip. Pilot Station has no terminals: luggage is unloaded quickly from the plane enabling the passengers to pick theirs out and jump on one the awaiting ATV’s or pickups.

Our first order of business would be to eat. We hadn’t eaten a meal since breakfast and it was now about 4:30 p.m. (16:30). We were brought to the homes of one of the parishioners — who happened to be in Bethel for a doctor’s appointment. Her daughter and other ladies were in action feeding conference participants: salmon, dried fish, smoked fish, moose, spaghetti, fried bread balls, and a variety of macaroni and other salads.

We met an OCMC missionary team that is traveling on the Yukon this week doing educational work in the various churches en route. Come to find out, they are from the parish whose former pastor was my preaching partner in Romania 18 years ago this month, in fact! Oh, this small Orthodox world and its 1.5 degrees of separation.

The exterior of Holy Transfiguration Church in Pilot Station, Alaska.

Then it was time for church: the hauntingly beautiful Akathist Hymn, Glory to God for All Things, which begins in part, “Glory to Thee who hast brought me into existence.” If I remember the context, it was written in one of the German death camps during WWII by an Orthodox priest who was interned there. That such beauty could be written in the midst of such horror held me throughout the service.

Following church, it was time to eat again! Fr. Michael had warned us that much of the time at the conference would be spent eating and praying, and eating and praying. Actually, it worked fine for me.

This meal was at another parishioner’s home and I noticed an interesting custom at work. Since there was not enough room for everyone to eat at the same time, the table was set and the guests were first served. This meant the clergy and the other male guests ate. However, the villagers present, plus the visiting ladies on the mission term waited their turn.

Fish soup, baked salmon with the roe still inside, dressing, moose, turkey, salads, yams, blue berry pie, raspberry pie: it seemed liked Thanksgiving or Christmas to me. I was told, No, then it is more!

It was the seventh birthday of the host’s young son, Patrick. So, after customary birthday singing: both Happy Birthday, and our Orthodox Many Years (in three languages). We set back down to eat birthday cake plus aluktaq (Eskimo ice cream). Sometimes made from blubber, I’m told, or even Crisco, plus berries, this was Yu’pik style: fresh fish for the cream part and fresh blueberries for the berry part. Now, I didn’t get the recipe but it didn’t taste fishy at all. I don’t know how they do, but maybe I’ll get to find out.

Dancers welcome delegates at Pilot Station, Alaska.

But the evening was not over. It was time to go to the village community center for traditional Eskimo dancing to welcome us. It was a village event. The men sat along one wall with large open drums, sort of like large tambourines without the rattles, plus a stick to hold it by. In the center of the room, the women would dance, doing hand motions with fans made hair from the beards of reindeer, and decorated with beadwork. Up to four others would sit at a mat in the center of the dancers using fans made from white owl feathers. What was interesting about this style of dancing was that most of the motion was from the hands, not the feet.

The men would sing and beat the drums. The women would dance. The men would keep singing and the women would keep dancing. Sometimes only a few would start the dance and sometimes it seemed like half the room was on its feet. The only on the “dance floor” where men participated would be around the mat.

One is never too young to learn!

What I noticed was a good percentage of the village was there, young and old, male and female. At times, even the youngest were on the mat with the feather fans learning dance motions with their hands by imitation, something that their elders had done themselves and now were passing down to their children and grandchildren.

This all-village dance and the presence of all age groups reminded me of dances in Harper, the small central Texas town where my mother grew up. All age groups would attend and all ages would be welcomed on the floor.

I found out tonight that in pre-Christian days, the elder would talk about this type of singing and drumming as “praying”. I can see why. As Art, one of the village elders, told me tonight: “They didn’t have to be told about the Creator. They already knew.”

I can also see how important this form of dance is to reinforce the identity of the dancers, passed down from one generation to another, as great-grandmothers and little babies joined in this tremendous welcome to us tonight.

Fr. Michael mentioned that in the Tlingit language, the words to the hymn O Come, Let Us Worship and Fall Down Before God, sung at virtually all Orthodox services is rendered: “O come, let us make dancing motions before God.” Hence, they saw in Orthodox worship something that they recognized from their own tradition, although in a Christian manner.

I need to get some rest. It’s been a long day. And tomorrow there is more church and food and…. well, you get the picture.

If you found Bethel on the map, Pilot Station is about 80-90 miles north by northwest.

And how does moose taste? Like sweet, tender venison. Sorry, Bullwinkle!

(Postcard image: A Cessna 208 Caravan flies over Alaska, from alaskawings.com)

C pradznikom! Greetings from Anchorage on the (Old Calendar) Feast of the Transfiguration!

Today we celebrated the Transfiguration of Our Lord and God and Saviour Jesus Christ in the presence of Peter, James and John on Mt. Tabor. His disciples were blinded by the brilliant light that shone forth from Christ as he was seen talking with Moses and Elijah. A Voice was heard from heaven: “This is My beloved Son.”

Of course, this revelation was difficult to comprehend. St. Peter thought it so good they had reached the mountaintop that they should set up little tents (tabernacles) and dwell there. Our Lord redirects Peter to Jerusalem where Christ will suffer and die to save mankind from sin and death.

This experience took place some six months or so before the Crucifixion. By this time, the apostles had already come to believe in Jesus as the Messiah. Now, they were called to take a further step in faith — to believe in Him as God. They were called to see Him not as a man, trapped by human circumstances, but as God-in-the-flesh who would trample down death.

God gradually revealed Himself to his people because the full revelation would have been too difficult to bear, as the temporary blindness of Peter, James, and John proved. As we continue to walk in faith, we too find ourselves coming more and more to a clearer understanding of who Jesus really is: Messiah, Lord, Saviour, and God. Though at times, we feel the need or the temptation to shield ourselves from the intensity of that knowledge.

This feast calls us to such ultimate comprehension so we can travel down the mountain peaks of our lives into the valleys, even the valley of the shadow of death. There we find Christ having already been there, of His own Will, so that we might pass through it, finding Him quick and ready to save us.

Let us remember a second thing as well. The mountaintop is never the Promised Land. The summit allows us to see it, but first we must cross the River Jordan in order to enter it. Mountaintop experiences and visions are not the ultimate destination or purpose for human existence. They are given to us to prepare us for what God knows lies ahead of us.

August 4/17

Notice the date? I can tell that living on the Old Calendar for almost three months is having its effect on me. I asked someone to verify the date on a form I was filling out at Denali: “It’s August 4, right?”

“Sir, it’s August 17.” Then in a great PR move, the young lady went on to say: “Isn’t it great, what being on vacation can do? Just make you forget about time altogether.”

Touché! That was so much better than saying something like, “Sir, does the home know you are out by yourself?” I really appreciated her tact.

Yesterday (August 3/16), Fr. Thomas, Fr. Peter and I took off on an overnight road trip to Denali, the Alaskan word for Mt. McKinley. Denali National Park is the third largest in the system, second only to two others, both in Alaska. It is about 220 miles (350 km) north of Anchorage.

En route, we knew things were going to get good as we took a side trip to Talkeetna, an authentic Alaskan town in the bush. Think of the TV show Northern Exposure. We walked into one shop where the good-natured shop owner greeted us with, “I can see the three of you have left the wives at home.” I don’t know what gave us away. We had already been compared to ZZ Top at the roadhouse where we had just eaten lunch.  I thought they were used to men with long beards in this part of the world.

We ambled around town then headed back to the main road. We hadn’t gone far until there was a moose sighting. He strolled from the right-of-way into the trees where we could see him but not get a good picture of him.

We did get caught in traffic before we made it to the park, as the DOT was out doing roadwork on one patch of road surface. It didn’t mean that traffic merged slowly from two lanes into one. It meant that traffic ground to a full stop since the main road only had two lanes to begin with: one going north and one going south. We waited awhile and probably lost an hour of travel time.

Once we did get to Denali, we went to the Visitor’s Center to plan our next day. Wouldn’t you know it? In the gift shop, the lady at the register asked if we were professional Santas. “No,” said Fr. Peter. “But I’m Moe, he’s Larry, and (Fr. John) is Curly.” Everyone laughed.

One of the grizzly bears, this one a sow (female), seen on the journey.

We made reservations for our bus trip into the park the next day. Access is strictly limited. But found we could drive 15 miles (24 km) on our own. Since we certainly had enough daylight, off we headed for the initial drive into this splendid wilderness. About 10 miles (16 km) in, we saw traffic stopped ahead and tourists walking around the road with cameras aimed. It was another moose sighting. This time, he afforded everyone ample opportunity to take multiple photos. As Fr. Thomas said: “This was worth the price of admission.”

Our bus tour left at 9 a.m. on Tuesday. So, after reaching the limit of our drive, we left to find lodging, dinner and a good night’s sleep.

We were told to be at the Wilderness Access Center at 8:45. We were there by 8:00, and near the front of the line when we boarded our bus and met Sheryl our bus driver. “Is the Santa Claus convention in town?” she laughed.

“You’ll find out at Christmas,” we promised.

Clouds obscure North America's tallest mountain, but many of the breathtaking mountains of the Alaska Range are still visible.

It was truly a marvelous day! God’s creation is so marvelously displayed before us with every turn in the gravel road. We would travel 66 miles into the park. It would be an eight-hour event, with one new wonder unfolding after another. We basically followed the twists and turns of a glaciated river valley up one mountainside after another, affording us magnificent vistas of mountains, valleys, streambeds and glaciers.

The Great One, Denali, eluded the view, obscured by intervening peaks and clouds. Finally Sheryl points out a patch of white, in the “V” between distant summits. Denali! It will be our only glimpse. Although our day started out comparatively sunny, in itself unusual for the area, by the time we reached our terminus at the Eielson Visitor Center, mile 66, rain set in and hopes for a clear sighting vanished.

A large Dall ram perched high on a cliff, dwarfed by majestic mountains in the background.

Yet, we were not daunted. We saw beautiful white Dall sheep high up rocky crags, caribou on ridges, a young wolf pup in dense underbrush by the roadside, and maybe a dozen bears roaming around, eating berries to fatten up for the winter. In one of the latter’s case, the sow came right up to the bus sniffing a path in front for her cubs. Before we made it back to home base, our moose from the previous evening obliged everyone with more photo opportunities at virtually the same spot from the night before.

With such animal delights abounding, we certainly did not feel cheated. Simply to behold the scenic beauty surrounding us was overwhelming. The sheer size of the lesser summits in the range dwarf our perspective, not to mention the massive majesty of the Great One. That America’s highest peak went unseen by us did not tarnish the magnificence of this experience for us.

Bless the LORD, O my soul!
O LORD my God, thou art very great,
Thou art clothed with honor and majesty.

Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment,
who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain…

Thou didst lay the foundations of the earth,
so that it should never be moved.

Thou didst cover it with the deep as with a garment;
the waters stood above the mountains.

At thy rebuke they fled;
at the voice of thy thunder they hastened away.

They went up over the mountains;
they went down into the valleys,
to the place which thou hast founded for them.

Thou didst set a boundary that they may not pass over,
that they may not return to cover the earth.

He sendeth the springs into the valleys;
they flow among the hills.

They give drink to every beast of the field…
The high hills are for the wild goats;
the cliffs are a refuge for the badgers.

He appointed the moon for seasons;
the sun know its going down.

Thou didst make darkness, and it is night,
in which all the beasts of the forest creep about.

The young lions roar after their prey,
and seek their food from God.

When the sun rises,
they gather together and lie down in their dens…

O LORD, how manifold are thy works!
In wisdom thou hast made them all.

– Psalm 103/104