leaving Ukraine

I really do love what I do. I love the mixed-up nature of my day, which often involves interacting with people on multiple continents (thanks to Skype). I love the conversations. Just this morning, I was sitting with the president of a seminary in western Siberia, talking about the American church. A western Ukrainian sitting next to us told something of his experience with a large church in North Carolina. Listening to the story of this church's ministry to bikers, my Siberian brother asked the question "so what stands behind that? Why is that church doing that? What is the philosophy behind that?" I like these kinds of questions, just as I appreciated a long lunch conversation that rambled over the question of what it means for a seminary to be sustainable. Is it truly sustainable when it has just enough to just barely squeak by, with little left for long term development? As I prepare to leave Ukraine in a few hours, I am so very thankful for the conversations I've had this week. Some of them have been treasured catching up with old friends. Others have been profound discussions of the future of theological education, the church, and broader society in this region of the world. I feel blessed and stretched.

Why do we do invest time and resources in these kinds of gatherings? I think for the same reasons that seminary presidents, deans, and other leaders themselves invest their time and resources in them. It is through these kinds of gatherings of people attempting to do similar things in diverse places that the fabric of a community of practice is formed. While every situation is in a way unique, drawing on and fed by the local context, there is also much that is similar among seminaries and higher education institutions overall. While the presentations and plenary discussions are certainly of value, I am convinced at the end of my time here that the most valuable times are the meaningful discussions over coffee and tea, over meals, late in the evening. That, I sense, is where real learning takes place, learning that will continue within the fabric of ever-more-trusting communities. Life and ministry are a web of relationships, of trust, of openness to one another and to learning. I think that a few stitches were sewn this week.

I travel in a few hours to London, where I will participate in yet another conference, this time with participants coming predominantly from western Europe.

What I don't like about my work is its itinerate nature. I say a lot of goodbyes. There is a little bit of me in a lot of places. Sometimes goodbyes are harder. This is especially true in this part of the world, where there is a bit bigger bit of my heart.Yet I am thankful for those feelings, since I know that they are themselves evidence of the "woven" nature of relationships, forged over time. May they endure. May they contribute to something much bigger.

Ukraine - random thoughts

There is something very special about the light in a Russian forest. Throughout northern Russia and Ukraine, there are stretches of woods and forest, some small pockets near urban areas, others stretching over thousands of kilometers. Somehow, the character of these forests is different than what I am used to in the American midwest, east or southeast. The trees here are mostly birch or white-barked pine. They tend to be tall and skinny. I've spent many an hour walking in such forests. I've long admired the landscape paintings of the nineteenth century Russian artist Ivan Shishkin, who so powerfully captures these places.

Here in Irpin, just west of Kyiv, we are surrounded by small woods. The conference center where we are gathered is itself heavily wooded.

I've always appreciated the way that light falls on these trees in a beautiful, golden way. I remember watching this out the window of buses near Nizhnii Novgorod, in wooded areas near Moscow, and many other places. There is something special, deep, and golden about that light, especially in the autumn. Today was my last day to enjoy that late afternoon wonder. The photo below was taken at the conference center. It hardly portrays 1%...

Cuba - some reflections

I wrote the following in Cuba in September. Lack of internet access prevented me from posting them there. Lack of time prevented me at home. So here I am, posting about Cuba travel in Ukraine.

Growing up in the Midwest in the 1980s, Cuba was pretty close to the top of the list of places that I never expected to visit. The land of Fidel Castro, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and such things just seemed a stretch too far, despite its relative proximity. This is actually my third attempt to visit the island, the first two being scuttled by logistical challenges.

So many things I’ve read about travel in Cuba stress the creeping-back-from-decrepitude beauty of the architecture of Habana Vieja (Old Havana) and the fascinating symbol of 1940s and 1950s US-made cars still in use. The architecture is amazing. While that which has been restored to its turn-of-the-last-century glory is a marvel to behold, those buildings that remain in their “state of nature” also have a certain elegance as they seem to tell the story of this place more fully. And the cars are there, although I suspect in decreasing numbers as zippy new ones begin to fill the streets. Seeing the rounded bodies of Chevys from the 1940s and the dramatic fins of cars from the 1950s are here and there. They remain a testament to the resourcefulness of the Cuban people. They also remind that there are a few places on earth that have not yet fully adopted the culture of disposability.

Cuba fascinates this student of the Soviet Union. With the exception of the palm trees and tropical flowers, some of Havana’s and Santiago’s wide avenues could be plucked directly from some southern Russian or Ukrainian city. Driving into the city, one sees many buildings that could easily be found on the outskirts of St. Petersburg or Kyiv. The Revolution Square, with its soaring tower, reminds me of the Victory Square in St. Petersburg. Clearly, the Soviet aesthetic had heavy influence on the newer parts of the city.

But entering the centro historico, Cuba is its own. Starting with a few blocks of tattered art deco buildings and building toward fabulous nineteenth century commercial buildings and homes, the historic center begins to take shape. What I originally took to be Habana Vieja was in fact many blocks short, despite the presence of stunning, if slightly decrepit, architecture. The capitolio nacional looms large over the city center, seemingly modeled at least in part on the US capitol building in Washington, yet with a romantic European flare that adds drama to the otherwise Grecian lines. Going further in, the heart of Old Havana begins to take shape, with beautifully restored buildings dating from many centuries converging on the port. The Plaza de San Francisco seems to be the center of it all, fronted on one side by the elegant nineteenth century buildings of the port house and by an ancient soaring church on the other.

*****

Heat.  It is not the kind of heat that you notice immediately. It is not the kind of heat we have in the US Midwest where it hits you in the face the second you step out of the air-conditioned space (perhaps I don’t notice it as much here since there is less air conditioning and it is not as dramatic or as cold as it usually is in the US). It is the kind of heat you do not even notice amidst the cool sea breezes and in the shade of buildings or trees. But then suddenly the sun finds you and you feel it well up inside of you. The sweat begins and does not cease until it has soaked your shirt. Although you do not have to go far to find a nice sea breeze, the heat somehow sticks with you even then, beating down upon your head. I can see why Cubans wear hats.

*****

There are two cities here, although there is not boundary visible between them. They live together symbiotically, distrusting one another yet fully dependent on one another, like a bitter old married couple. The first city is marked by hotels filled with tourists from Europe, Asia, Canada, and a surprising number from the United States. These hotels have all the markings of the globalized world, from the subtle lighting to the piped-in American, European, and Asian television stations and an abundance of food of every sort. This is the world of the convertible peso (CUC) which allows foreigners to pay prices that meet the global norm, providing the government with much needed hard currency. This city speaks, for the most part, English tinged with German, Chinese, and Japanese, tinged with the accent of progress and individual autonomy.

The second city dwells here too in symbiosis with the first. It is a world of tall carved wooden doors and grilled windows that reveal old ladies in house coats, shirtless old men, and curious children simultaneously watching television and the flow of life on the street outside. It seems that Cubans would find it difficult to live with the typical American floorplan that places the family’s main living space at the rear of the home. Rather their norm seems to be something akin to the front-porch culture that some older American neighborhoods retain, but with an even less defined line between the personal and the private life. This is a world that speaks a lispy Cuban Spanish, ranging from high literary forms of university professors to the dialects tinged with African tongues. This world lives on the national peso, accessible only to Cubans, that allows them to buy goods at a highly subsidized rate, far below global market costs. A family in Santiago, Cuba’s second city, can live a fairly comfortable life on US$100 per month. Yet it also limits their purchasing power to goods made available by the government. Such essential as salt, oil, coffee (yes, and essential in Cuba!) are often unavailable. In a conversation over lunch in Santiago, I asked if fried plantains were a daily part of the Cuban diet in the home. The answer surprised me. “No, we rarely ever have them.” This surprised me, since plantains seem to be an easy and cheap form of starch for stretching the diet. “We would prefer to, but we cannot obtain the oil necessary to fry them.” This second world is fueled and transported by the antique Fords and Chevy of the 1940s and 1950s that have been continually remade both inside and out. Cubans, it seems, are masterfully resourceful in recycling and retrofitting just about anything. This is not a skill of choice, but rather a skill of survival.

These two worlds meet, perhaps, in the thriving tourist trade. In the tiny restaurants that locals tell me are the only place in Cuba where you can get “real Cuban food,” since they have access through the government to ingredients that cannot be obtained elsewhere. Worlds meet in tiny galleries selling everything from tourist kitsch to high art. I spent 40 minutes today in a small gallery on a tiny street in Old Havana. The store sold lithographs made by a lady who ran the shop. I watched her work on one for a while and we talked a bit in broken Spanish about her work, Cuba, etc. I ended up buying one lithograph that she said showed the hidden nature of the city. I liked it. The Cubans, it seems to me, are an exceptionally gifted people in terms of aesthetics, with a keen sense both for the beautiful of the traditional and the possibilities of the avant-garde. Worlds meet in bicycle and motor taxis, in tiny cafes and coffee shops where locals and foreigners mingle.

Ukraine - remembering how little I know

I'm now more than half way through my time in Ukraine. The joint EAAA/OCI meeting that began yesterday continued today with sessions about financial sustainability and the religious context in Russia.

I'm really enjoying the informal time between sessions. In fact, during each meal and tea break, I found myself lingering over a good conversation as the session began. That is one of the nice things about having no official responsibilities for the conference. My friend and colleague, Taras Dyatlik, who serves as OCI's advisor in the region and a member of the staff of EAAA, has done an amazing job with the team of coordinating the conference. It's been great to hear of developing graduate programs in Christian leadership and management in St. Petersburg, of programs designed to provide ongoing professional development to regional leaders of the Russian Baptist church, innovative ways for seminaries to provide flexible training within churches, and new means of generating local income. I'm really blessed to be around such an amazingly creative group of people. It reminds me of how little I know!

A highlight of the trip has been spending some time with three leaders of a school in Central Asia. It's fascinating to hear their stories of leadership in a context that is very challenging due to very strict control of all religious activity, both Muslim and Christian, in their country. It has been kind of fun to have limited conversations with them in their own language, which I studied as part of my graduate work at Indiana University a few years ago. Unfortunately, I've lost much of my ability, but I think they've valued my pitiful attempts. Thankfully, we're able to converse in Russian most of the time. We have had some great conversation about their curriculum and their context and the interrelation between the two.

Tomorrow morning, I'll give my presentation on global trends in theological education. I've rewritten the presentation several times over the course of the last few days. Rather than just bringing a list of impressions, I've attempted to form it in terms of questions I would ask theological educators today. Basically, the base-level question is "does what you are doing really respond to local issues," or stated differently, "does it respond to the questions people in your churches are asking about their lives, their families, their communities, their societies?" I am hoping that it can stimulate some good thinking. As always, I'd rather be sitting in the back row listening to others...

I often find myself amazed by the sheer variety of what I do. It is really a priviledge to be able to learn on such a stage and from so many fascinating, talented people.

Ukraine

Ukraine has been a relatively frequent destination for me over the past fifteen years. Although I've not kept track of such things, I suspect that I've probably spent as much time here as in any foreign country, save Russia and perhaps South Africa and/or China. I've had the opportunity to visit many parts of the country, from the eastern regions that are culturally closer to southern Russia to the western, Ukrainian-speaking areas near L'viv. This trip takes me only to the capital, Kyiv, for a meeting of theological educators from across the former Soviet Union. Overseas Council is co-sponsoring this conference together with our partner, the Eurasian Accrediting Association. Approximately 150 people are expected at the conference from Ukraine, Russia, Belarus, Moldova, Uzbekistan, and Lithuania. I will be speaking on Wednesday about trends in theological education globally.

What do I hope for in this week together? In the 1990s, Protestant (and Orthodox and Catholic) theological schools proliferated in the former Soviet Union, all serving a kind of pent-up desire for training. At the time, there was a huge interest in the west to assist this part of the world. This led to many schools that were modeled strongly on North American seminaries with costly infrastructure and curricula that followed classic divisions. Most institutions drew the vast majority of their financial support from overseas. For a few years, this worked well. Yet around 2000, things began to change as the pool of students began to dry up and interest in this part of the world lessened in the west. Quite a few schools closed or were forced to change significantly. By the middle of the past decade, I don't believe that it is an overstatement to say that theological education in Eurasia was in crisis. Some may argue that it still is. Yet in many programs, I have seen the development of new, flexible programs, often in modular forms that allow people to receive training without commiting to multiple years of uprooted residence. More programs are providing non-traditional training to lay leaders. More schools are offering on-line training. Many schools have found creative ways to generate local income. Perhaps most importantly, I see here a younger generation of leaders who are committed to building on the strengths of generations before and finding ways to make theological education more responsive to the needs of a changing church. The program for the week and my own presentation on Wednesday all seek to probe these innovations, to think about what it looks like to lead in a time of remarkable change, and to raise questions of how to bring even greater sustainability to theological education in the region.

Change does not come easily. Although the entire world has changed remarkably since 1991, the depth and scope of change has been nearly overwhelming here. This period of change has been very difficult for many of the traditional Protestant denominations and their members. During the Soviet years and the immediate post-Soviet period, many of these groups found their identity in their traditions that had been painstakingly preserved through periods of persecution. To be Baptist or Pentecostal was not only a religious identity, but a way of life, a worldview. Social and theological realities together focused attention on the interior of the community, since any real ability for the church to influence broader society was severely limited. This, of course, has changed markedly. Yet the transition from that safe, sure world to today's multifaceted, ever-changing situation has not been easy. Many still long for that secure, traditional church world that was a blessing to many. Yet many, especially younger leaders of my generation, seem to realize increasingly the need for new models that express scriptural truths in ways that respond to and resonate with the culture and that allow the church to have a positive influence in broader society. Navigation of this reality remains a leadership challenge. Leading change is not a simple matter anywhere. Yet I suspect that is an especially great challenge here.

My presentation on Wednesday will not be a monologue. Rather, it is framed around several sets of questions and observations. What challenges do you as a leader know that your institution will face in the coming two years? What are the predominant questions of men, women, and young people in the church and broader society? Why exactly do our schools exist? What purpose do they seek to serve? And most importantly, is there alignment between our schools' ultimate purposes, what we actually do, and the questions being asked by those we serve? It would unquestionably be easier to simply give a lecture, to present my ideas and leave them on the table. Yet the educator in me knows that this is insufficient. The soils must be plowed open with provocative questions that engage leaders where they are. There must be adequate space for people to think about any question and make application in the context of their own situation. There must be engagement with reality, not just remote theory. It is my hope that my tiny part, together with the work of colleagues here in the region, can encourage those who are seeking to innovate, can calm fears that accompany change for all of us, and can be a small part of strengthening the leadership of the church in this part of the world. It is my hope that my small, insignificant part can contribute to this greater reality.