Yesterday afternoon, Rudi, Nurlan, Ed, and I were on top of the world. Our journey up into the mountains required three separate gondola rides. During the winter, Shymbulak Ski Resort would be packed with almost as many skiers as frozen water molecules, but yesterday, we had an uninterrupted and congestion-free trip up the ravine. Each portion of the cable car ascension took at least 10 minutes, and the longest leg was almost a half an hour in duration. Generally, I don't think I'd enjoy spending almost an hour trapped inside a glass case of incineration dangling precariously hundreds of feet above the ground, but neither I, nor anyone else seemed to mind. Like toads in hot water so enjoying being wet that they don't notice the temperature reaching a boiling point, we so enjoyed the view from our little microwave box, which seemed to improve with each foot farther up the cable, that we didn't even notice the heat. Furthermore, it's been so hot in Almaty and Bishkek over the past week that most of the time I wouldn't have been able to distinguish the outside temperature from the temperature inside a glass box anyway. So when we finally stepped out into the cool mountain air at the Talgar Pass gondola station over 10,000 feet up the mountain, the cold snap was a welcome improvement. I had brought a light coat with me, but I never felt the need for it while we were at the summit, even though Nurlan, Rudi, Ed, and most of the dozens of sightseers sharing the view had all bundled up.
The view was spectacular. From that elevation, the vast expanse of flat plains to the north became all the more mind-boggling, and the elegant mountain towers to the south became all the more impressive. There was some snow up at the summit but not much, although there were two peaks quite near to where we were that were still covered with snow another 400 or 500 feet up. Had I the time and some more appropriate shoes, I could easily have reached the nearest peak within 45 minutes. For the sake of the adventure, I was tempted to try, but for the sake of the view, there was no need. Still many more nearby peaks were many thousands of feet higher than we were. We were probably quite near the official border between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. Rudi mentioned that there was a hiking trail that led over the mountains to the large valley in the middle of Kyrgyzstan, two days hike on the other side. Somewhere along the trail, there was probably a single lonely guard shack marking the border, but up in the spectacular stratosphere and tumultuous terrain, we were in a region where borders don't matter. It's likely that many of the peaks I could see to the south were Kyrgyz peaks, but few could be certain. Aside from that guard shack, you wouldn't be able to tell where Kazakhstan ends and Kyrgyzstan begins. It's somewhat strange to think that mountain ranges are such things that commonly determine the borders between countries, yet when you are up in the midst of the peaks, it would be impossible to point out where those borders lie. Terrain defines borders, and yet it defies them.
A second tell-tale sign that we were on the fringes of true alpine adventure was the canine sentry keeping careful watch over the vast premises. An enormous St. Bernard rescue dog sat near the final gondola stop, chained to what looked like a crudely maintained outpost. I imagine the crudeness of its maintenance was due in equal parts to the fact that it's not rescue season and to the fact that it's in Kazakhstan. The dog (I'll call him Anton) wasn't about to stop doing his job, however, just because skiers weren't attempting slopes far beyond their ability. Anton sat at good-natured attention surveying his lofty domain. When a parasailer showed up and unfurled his parachute in preparation for a wind-aided leap down the ravine, the dog went nuts. He had been relatively quiet up until that point, but when he saw the brightly colored chute splayed out over the ground, his booming voice shook the still air over and over again. Clearly Anton was shouting to the parasailer, "Hey bro! Not a good idea. You're totally gonna die. Safety first! Why are you not listening to me? Someone stop this guy from making the biggest mistake of his life. Ugh–why is no one listening to me?" Except he would have been shouting in Kazakh. Perhaps that sounds funny to you because you don't typically think of animals as having any kind of nationality. It's funny to me because I tend to think of St. Bernards as always being Austrian or Swiss.
Being up in the clouds as we were incited some chatter from Rudi. (Many things incite chatter from Rudi, so this was no surprise.) "They say," he mused, "that there are three heavens. The first is the sky and the clouds. The second is the cosmos. And the third is the spiritual world." It was clear that we were close to heaven in many senses. We had indeed poked our heads into the clouds. It's interesting to me to note that the first two heavens have physical parameters, and some manner of ambiguous boundaries. When you travel high enough into physical space, you enter the first heaven, and those few who have been fortunate enough to keep ascending have witnessed the material region in which the first heaven fades into the second. It's appropriate to mention in relation to the exploration of the second heaven, that Kazakhstan is also home to Baikonur Cosmodrome, which is both the oldest and the largest currently operational space launch facility. The Soviets were the first to go snooping around in the second heaven, sending Sputnik in 1957 and Yuri Gagarin in 1961, not to mention a very confused dog sometime around then as well. But is there a similar physical transition from the second heaven into the third? Does God's heaven reside in some physical space beyond space? I think most of us would agree that there isn't such a transition, and the third heaven can't be reached in such a manner. Yet we still refer to it as 'above us'. If God is 'The Man Upstairs', then those must be some terrifyingly endless flights of stairs. I'd much rather take a cable car and think of God as 'The Man At The Final Gondola Station'. I generally don't tend to think of the spiritual realm as being physically above me, but it's a notion that has so transcended culture and religion that it can't really be discounted, even if it logically can't be reached with physical travel. Somehow, however, we were close to that third heavenly realm. This mountainous area simultaneously defies and defines the very principle of border lines, just as the third heaven is a realm without borders. As we stepped back aboard the gondola some time later, Anton was still bellowing at the parasailer, who had still not taken off, and I was still pondering the orientation of the three heavens. Ten minutes later, we were still aboard the gondola when the parasailer finally lifted off, and he had made his landing halfway down the ravine ten minutes before the gondola had let us off.
This morning, I discovered that the third heaven is actually quite accessible within physical reality, and it's much closer than we realize. It's Sunday, and we attended Nurlan's church–an ethnically Kazakh underground church in the heart of the city. That's where we found heaven. The fellowship of believers is as real an experience of the third heaven as a space flight would be an experience of the first two. And it seems that the spiritual world shines more strongly where believers are forced to fellowship underground. A couple of years ago, the Kazakh government narrowed the registration parameters for religious meetings of any kind. This church had formerly been registered when the only requirement was 10 members, but the prerequisites now mandate a congregation of at least 50, as well as several other requirements. This church easily has 50 members, but all religious meeting places were forced to re-register, and the culturally-Islamic government is not very friendly or accommodating to Christian churches. So as long as the church's official status is pending, they'll continue to meet below the radar, in constant danger of being exposed and shut down.
The service was somehow somber, yet passionate. Subdued, yet fervent. They were very joyful, but not without the memory of recent pain or the anticipation of imminent distress. It felt very much like attending a house church in the 1st century. Ed had prepared some remarks, but he was asked not to preach, because of his higher profile and another strict government regulation, so he simply shared a short greeting. Under the new law, anyone who preaches must also be registered as a resident pastor, or otherwise have a missionary visa (which are rather difficult to acquire). Were Ed to share too much, or enter into a discourse remotely similar to preaching, the church could be in danger. Similarly, last week in Bishkek, Rudi had to preach under the guise of being a visitor simply sharing greetings with the congregation, even though he did give far more of a sermon than Ed was advised or comfortable to give. I was also asked not to photograph during the service, which was agonizingly difficult. Normally, when asked not to photograph, I don't pay a whole lot of attention, because the only person whose safety would really be in firsthand jeopardy would be me. But in this case, my photographing could potentially put an entire church in jeopardy. So I only snapped a few scene-setting shots and put the camera away during the service, even though I saw compelling images everywhere. It always seems that whenever the camera is in the bag, I see great images everywhere I look, and then when I hold it up to my face, I find myself having to search for interesting material. Surrounded by images that would have way more impact and meaning than those taken out the side of a car, I was still able to be present with joy amidst my regret, because of the genuine worship that was clearly happening in this place. At one point, they sang a song in Russian to the tune of 'All in All'. It's a song I haven't heard for years, but I recognized the tune immediately and felt blessed to be able to sing along. To join in their experience of the third heaven. Once again, Rudi sang Kto Ya, and this time I actually did sing along with the chorus. After the service was over, they gladly allowed me to take some pictures.
The spiritual realm seems to shine most obviously when the physical realm is confining. Saints who have been imprisoned and released have sometimes longed for prison again because of the closeness to God they experienced while behind bars. In 2007, 23 South Korean missionaries in Afghanistan were kidnapped by the Taliban. For 42 days, they were forced to live in some of the worst conditions imaginable. Two were executed. Some time after their release, many of them expressed nostalgic feelings towards the time spent in prison. They felt so close to God while under extreme torment that they were left longing for that closeness again, even if it meant enduring physical hardship in order to experience it. The book of Acts is full of stories about early Christians who were imprisoned because of their zeal for spreading the gospel, and in many of those accounts, we find them praising God joyfully. The Apostle Paul's letters, likewise, feature frequent allusions to the spiritual fulfillment he received during times of physical deprivation (see, for instance, 2 Corinthians 11:23-28 or Philippians 1:12-14, and 18-20). And it makes a strange sort of sense. When a person has been stripped of physical freedom and health, the only comfort and power that remain have to come from someplace else. Faith, hope, and love exist in a place within the body, but also beyond the body, which is why they can never be taken away. And they come from an infinite Source, which is why they can be constantly replenished in the hearts of those who know where to look. So where is the third heaven? It's behind bars. It's underground. It exists within confined, restricted physical situations, and yet it cannot be contained. I've looked for it in many places, on many journeys. I was close on top of a mountain yesterday, but didn't truly find it there. I found it this morning in the midst of an underground church service in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Even though we were underground, we were still in the clouds.
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