It's Sunday. Traveling abroad always seems like entering another plane of existence devoid of time. Of course I'm aware of the passage of time, but I'm rarely aware of the hour, and almost never aware of the day. My lack of awareness of time-keeping, in a sense, sends me back in time to an era before clocks and calendars. To an era when we lived in caves and did the same thing every day because the big yellow thing rose in the sky and we needed food so we grabbed our spears and ran off to capture some sort of wild prehistoric caribou and pick some sort of wild prehistoric berries. Hotel Dostuk, in it's monolithic form, is very much like a giant rock formation, and my dwelling, therefore, very much like a cave. I was tempted to find a spear and hunt for my breakfast in lieu of facing the food in the Arizona room once more, but I had not the time. Even when I'm not keeping track of the time, I still have little of it. I grabbed my camera rather than a spear, and rushed to head downstairs to meet my ride, which had four tires and a steering wheel rather than four hooves and a mane. If we hadn't gone to church, I wouldn't have known that it's Sunday.
Church this morning was a Russian Baptist church, which really just means it was a bunch of Russian people gathering together to worship and fellowship. Generally speaking, I get the sense that denominations have little bearing on the church worldwide. It's only in the USA (or perhaps the cultural West) that Methodists, Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians, and Quakers try so hard to establish such clear denominational boundaries. Perhaps the Russians do notice a significant difference, but church here just seemed to me like church in Kenya, Mexico, or Hungary; a bunch of people who love Jesus coming together one day a week in order to love Jesus better. One distinguishing factor was that this was predominantly an ethnically Russian church. There were a few Kyrgyz people in attendance, but most of the congregation was clearly Russian. Since the Kyrgyz people are culturally Muslim, there are far fewer Kyrgyz churches, even though their Muslim faith is very nominal.
Another factor unifying this church in Kyrgyzstan with other church experiences I've had in other parts of the world was the presence of children. Whether by intentional choice or–more likely–by lack of funding and volunteers, churches elsewhere in the world rarely have children's programs. So if mom and dad want to come to church, the kids come too. Perhaps these people see bringing the kids to church as an unfortunate necessity, or even a chore, but it seems to me that the kids see it as an outing. It's like a day in the park. Of course it can be boring after a while if not much seems to be going on, and of course every child causes a disturbance at some point during the service, but at least it's something different that isn't like every other day. Not being a parent with any real experience, it seems to me that Americans pander to their children a lot more than necessary. It seems that American kids are often poorly behaved because they've been given so much, and allowed to direct the activities instead of being told to come along and attend life like the adults do. Of course it's good for kids to know that they're loved, and I would never speak ill of the importance of biblical teaching at a child's level, but sometimes 'love' results in spoiled children, and sometimes too much kids' church results in kids who don't understand church (yes, yes, I also realize that children's church is as much for the parents' sake as it is for the kids). So the kids were present, and there was a delightful commotion of wonder and fidgeting. After a service like this, church without kids present seems a bit stale. I remember the few times we've had the kids stay through the whole service at my home church, and I find the buzz refreshing, even though many probably find it distracting. In today's service, it was understood, and because it was understood, it was not a distraction. The kids aren't catered to, and they don't have their own special kids' church. They sit in church like everyone else. Once in a while, a child will cause too much of a fuss, at which point he or she will be taken outside by mom or grandma for a different kind of kids' church; the one-on-one kind that no child wants to experience.
And church is not short. It seems that I'm not the only one in other parts of the world who isn't very concerned with what time it is. In a far less time-conscious society, church starts when everyone's there, and ends when the pastor has spoken and all the songs have been sung. Again, this is similar to experiences I've had during other travels. We sang several hymns in that infamous Russian style characterized by the minor key, the methodical cadence, and the long and lyrical phrases. Russian hymns would probably sound too somber to most American ears accustomed to upbeat, life-is-always-wonderful-with-Jesus, celebratory worship choruses, but I find these hymns to be beautiful in a sweeping and majestic sort of way. Just like Russia (or Kyrgyzstan). Between hymns, one old babushka read some poetry, one young German student shared a short message, several assorted choir members presented songs, and one lively Rudi Wiens conferred grace and truth to all.
Rudi is a radio personality, even off-air. There's almost always a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face. He loves to share crazy stories and often pokes good-natured fun at friends and companions with a wink and a smile. You might think, upon meeting him, that he's just being an entertainer, but I can say genuinely after several consecutive days with him, that it's all genuine. And it's all infused with the sincere love of Christ. First Rudi played the guitar and sang a couple of songs. One song he played, called 'Kto Ya' (meaning 'Who Am I?'), was a song I was familiar with. Last October during our annual church missions conference, we had an international worship night which I helped to plan and lead, and Rudi shared this song with us and was gracious enough to allow me to sing and play piano along with him, completely butchering the whole thing. It was long enough ago, and I was already slow enough as it was, and it was in a foreign enough language (and by 'foreign enough', I mean 'completely foreign') that I didn't remember it well, but I really wanted to sing along. Afterwards, Rudi presented a message. He was a bit uncertain beforehand as to whether they'd receive it well, because he's such a jocular fellow in stark contrast to their typical solemn church experience; not only were they Baptists, but they were Russian Baptists. Nevertheless, he had everyone laughing within moments, and it was clear as Anni was beside me translating some of his message, that he was laying down some serious truth from God's Word as well.
After church, the time-devoid day in the park continued. We took Sunday afternoon off. If I was already oblivious to time as a traveler in a foreign culture less concerned with schedule, then the concept of 'free time' really transported me to a new state of being. Back in my hotel room, I took a nap for who knows how long, and then decided to do some exploring. Across the street from Hotel Dostuk, there is an abandoned, gutted, former casino building. Talk about a day in the park. It was an absolute playground for me. (No, not in the sense that I was swinging on every piece of rusty metal like monkey bars.) I love mysterious places and evidence of past civilization, and one of the exciting things for me about visiting the former USSR is knowing that the communist expansion and rapid recoil left behind cities worth of mysterious ruins of recent history. I suppose I would liken myself to some sort of urban Indiana Jones, but without the wealth of localized archaeological expertise. In fact, to go waltzing in there without knowing what unsavory creatures might await would indicate that I'm without any intelligence whatsoever. But waltz in, I did. And I played like a kid at Disneyland, journeying down dark hallways and meandering through ancient ballrooms while dodging fallen scaffolding and feeling the broken glass crunch under my feet. Several hundred pictures later, I got a call from Rudi, wondering if I was ready for our evening activities.
I rushed across the street and met Rudi and Anni, and we headed out for two more church experiences. First, we stopped in at a gathering for international Christians living in Bishkek. They're an unofficial group made up of Australians, Brazilians, Canadians, and many more who are residing in Kyrgyzstan for various lengths of time doing ministry work. When we arrived, they were in the middle of concluding their service with prayer, and then planned to break into small groups for further study. We waited around for a few minutes to see if there'd be an opportunity to visit. It seemed that there wouldn't be, so we headed for our other evening fellowship destination; a youth group from a local church that meets in a large park for some more outreach-oriented congregating. When we arrived, we found about 20-30 high school to college-aged students playing tag. There seemed to be a more even mixture of Russians to ethnic Kyrgyz among this number, and we enjoyed watching for a while. Rudi caught up with the leader of the group, a son of a pastor connected to the FEBC ministry in Bishkek, and discovered that today was more of an outreach-minded meet-and-greet than an actual worship gathering. I meandered through the heavily wooded park (Bishkek is already a city covered in trees, but this park was a veritable forest) and happened upon a homeless couple sleeping under the pine canopy. The old homeless fellow spotted me and teetered over to pose for the camera, even donning a shaggy blonde wig at one point. Then, he apparently decided that I would be an excellent candidate for his expert instruction, and began beckoning me to follow him around pointing off in different directions, jabbering on in Kyrgyz. Even though I clearly don't speak an ounce of Kyrgyz, I could tell that this was a special dialect of the language known as drunken Kyrgyz. I think he was attempting to coach me on subject matter for photography. I indulged him for a moment or two, snapping shots of whatever it was he was pointing at in whatever direction he was pointing; pictures which I reviewed and immediately deleted, because they were almost totally uninteresting. Finally he guided me back to the youth group, and instructed me to take pictures of them. I figured I had laughed and smiled enough for him and didn't need any more shots in the park, so I took his final piece of advice and rejoined the group, now finished with tag and playing dodgeball. It seems that playing games in the park looks the same anywhere, regardless of culture or country. Finally it started to rain. It was that refreshing kind of rain with which every good day in the park ought to conclude. Rudi and Anni and I caught a taxi back towards Dostuk, and stopped for some Chinese food. Considering that we're in a country that shares a border with China and were being served by a genuine Chinese staff, I'm going to consider it truly authentic Chinese food. We had beef with noodles and sweet and sour chicken, and everything was absolutely delicious. It was a trip aboard the real Panda Express. Just the sort of meal for finishing a rainy Sunday in the park.
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