Leviticus 19:33
Acts 28:1-6
I Corinthians 14:11
Hebrews 13:2
Shipwrecked on the Island of Malta;
A Meditation on Donkeys, Solar Farms and Human Kindness
The Aegean Sea is a magnificent body of water. In warmer weather the sun light shimmers off of an azure blue surface and stuns you with its beauty. But in winter, the winds can howl and the seas churn. Shops and hotels and restaurants on the Greek islands often close for four months in wintertime. Ferry boats are unpredictable. Air flights can be cancelled. Winter lays the Greek Isles to rest.
It was wintertime, somewhere near the middle of the first century A.D., when a ship bearing St. Paul set sail, amidst the Greek Isles, for Rome. Paul was to be tried for treason, having preached the gospel of Jesus Christ in the city of Jerusalem, to those who considered that doctrine to be treasonous. He was sentenced to die. But as a citizen of Rome, he was entitled to trial in the Roman courts. So, together with over 250 other prisoners of the state, he was placed into the hold of a sailing ship which embarked from the Eastern Mediterranean to set sail across the Aegean Sea toward Italy, toward Rome, just at the time of the year when the journey would likely be most dangerous.
We are told that St. Paul tried to persuade the authorities to delay the sailing. Knowing that winter is treacherous on the Aegean, he begged for a few months more in prison.
Paul probably knew a great deal more than his captors realized. He had traversed the Aegean to spread the gospel in Corinth, in Colossus, and in Rome. It’s quite possible he’d heard the tales of the great poet, Homer, who told of the journey of Odysseus as he made his way home from the battle in Troy. The Odyssey is perhaps the central classic of ancient literature. And, by the way, if you are able to visit Greece at some point, I recommend you tuck a copy of The Odyssey into your bags. Read about the rosy fingered dawn, and the blustery winds, and the logs lashed into rafts that were torn to shreds by fierce storms. I think you’ll find some striking commonality between Odysseus and our New Testament hero, St. Paul.
As St. Paul’s ship crossed the sea, there came upon them a violent storm. The crafty seamen dragged bands of rope under their keel, trying valiantly to hold the ship together. They drew the ship up into the wind, only to realize that the strong gusts were battering them to shreds. They let the sails out to run before the wind- and they were carried onto a shoal where the ship broke into pieces.
St. Paul, and his fellow prisoners, and whatever of the crew survived, swam, and trudged along the sand bar, onto the island we know today as Malta. As they drew near to land, they wondered whether the island’s inhabitants would be friendly. There was even speculation that perhaps cannibals resided there.
But seeing the beleaguered strangers approaching, the islanders had built a bonfire to welcome them. The waterlogged men must have been cold and hungry. But they soon realized that they were being welcomed and shown what St. Paul came to call “uncommon kindness.”
The story of St. Paul and his shipwreck is a good story to contemplate before any journey you might be about to take. The world is a complicated place. Turn on the nightly news and the world can seem to be a dark and potentially unfriendly place. Maybe not cannibalistic – but dangerous.
And when we travel we’re not really sure how the journey will unfold. And this is particularly true now, it seems to me, when boarding passes appear on your cell phone, and all your reservations exist somewhere up in cyber space as opposed to in your briefcase.
Over the course of the weeks my granddaughter and I travelled in Greece – and we returned only about a week ago- we sought a theme for our travels. If Odysseus’s theme was fidelity, and St. Paul’s theme was faith – then it seemed fitting for us to develop a theme as well. And our theme became – “trusting the world.” We set out to investigate whether or not the world – or at least the part that was unexplored, virgin territory to us – still held vestiges of what St. Paul called “uncommon kindness.”
I was fearful that a young person who pays attention to the state of world affairs – one who reads newspapers, and observes the machinations of the leaders and politicians who speak with the loudest voices in the cacophony of world affairs – might have anticipated the very worst as she began to traverse the world. There could, after all, be cannibals in the great beyond.
I am pleased to report that we found uncommon kindness. St. Paul referred to the people of Malta with the Hebrew world “barbarous” – from which we derive the word barbarian. But the word by derivation simply means someone whose language cannot be understood. Do you know the phrase “It’s all Greek to me?” Let me just say, it’s an apt expression. Speaking Greek, deciphering written Greek, is nigh unto impossible for the amateur traveler. But everywhere we went people very patiently tried to help us unravel whatever mystery plagued us.
We saw young strangers give their seat on the bus to an elder. I have to tell you I was, however, mildly surprised when one young man offered me his seat. We met waiters who took the time to let us know we were welcome to sit at their tables as long as we wanted – go ahead- play card games, savor the evening air- watch the tourists pass by – as if they were inviting us to be a part of their family for a few hours. We stayed with owners of a cave dwelling who welcomed us to their family breakfast, and guided us in our choice of explorations for the day.
There are times when I watch the evening news and find myself wishing I could hide in my bedroom for whatever remains of my earthly days. But going out into the world, and trusting the world, and rubbing shoulders with strangers with whom I do not share any semblance of common language, makes me want to proclaim: “Fear not – people are kind and friendly. There are no cannibals here.”
Our political leaders may confound us, political speech can lead us closer to the brink of conflict, and bureaucratic policies can wreck havoc; but on the ground, where everyday people rub shoulders with one another, there is a bounty of uncommon kindness.
Travelling through the countryside, I found it heartening to see the extent to which Greece has embraced renewable energy. Crossing the low lying plains of the Peloponnese peninsula we saw miles and miles of fields farmed with corn and peppers, with olive trees and all kinds of luscious-looking greens. But scattered across the land, in abundant measure, were large tracts of solar-panels; laid out just as if sun-sponsored energy was a profitable crop – which of course it is. And on the ridge of the mountains which rose above us, there were lines and lines of giant wind turbines generating electricity as their blades turned in the stiff breezes.
I found myself giving thanks for the uncommon kindness Greece is showing for God’s creation; a creation straining under the burdens of energy generated by fossil-fuels. St. Paul would hardly call the Greeks “barbarous” now. They are soaring ahead into the kind of world order that shows consideration and respect, indeed kindness, toward all the nations that call this great blue planet “home.”
I worry a great deal about the rolling back of regulations that protect the environment of our own beloved country. But I am deeply grateful that other countries are putting their “collective shoulders to the wheel” and working together to try to solve the environmental degradation that threatens us all.
Uncommon kindness is a mandate in our Christian faith. The mandate comes down to us from the Jewish Torah in the words of Leviticus: ”When an alien resides with you in your land, you must not oppress him. He is to be treated as a native born among you. Love him as yourself. (After all, you yourselves were once) aliens in Egypt.” The mandate comes from the words of Jesus: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” It comes from the words of St. Paul in his letter to the Hebrews: “Do not neglect to show hospitality; by doing this some have entertained angels unawares.” Kindness is really not optional if we take the teachings of the gospels seriously.
The words of those scriptures inspired this congregation to open the doors of our hearts and rooms to people needing sanctuary. They were the basis of the privilege that has been ours in welcoming the family of Mariano Cardosa last December, and now the family of Malik, Zahida and Rohnya who have now resided with us for 133 days. 133 days is a long, tragically long and sad confinement. But throughout those 133 days, we have deepened our sense of what it means to entertain angels unawares. We have shared a tender reciprocity of uncommon kindness.
There is a small island near the coast of mainland Greece called Hydra. On this little island, steeped in history, there are no cars for transport – only donkeys, mules and horses. At the top of Hydra’s second tallest mountain stands an historic old monastery called the “Monastery of the Prophet Elias.” And from that monastery one can see the great Aegean Sea stretching out across miles. One can imagine St. Paul and his shipwreck; or Odysessus and his treacherous trials plying the waters far below.
In order to reach the monastery a traveler can either climb the rugged steps and steep paths on foot— 1,640 feet up, to be exact. Or one can enlist the help of a donkey and his driver. We chose the assistance of a horse and donkey on the journey up – intending to rely on our own stamina in making the descent.
The night before our intended journey we met a young man by the name of George who stood beside the other donkey owners, on the wharf in the center of town. And his steeds looked reliable. So in our broken English- and in his broken English – we agreed to meet early the next morning before the heat was too strong, intending to reach the monastery by mid-morning.
Somewhat to my surprise, George was indeed waiting outside our little accommodation – even earlier than we had agreed. He said he had been up very late the night before, attending the birthday party of a friend. He did not look especially well-rested.
But as the donkeys made their way up the steep, steep ascent, George walked patiently, slowly, carefully alongside us. He greeted every island resident we passed with a “good morning greeting.” “Kalimera,” in Greek. He walked for nearly two hours to get us safely, slowly and carefully to our destination.
By what tender thread of human kindness did he measure us, I wondered. He never asked to see proof that we could pay him for his services. No “money-up-front’ if you will. He never asked to stop and rest himself along the journey. Why did he treat us with such generous grace? We, who were passing through his little world only ever so briefly? Why, I wondered, did he trust us?
Reaching the monastery, he found the resident priest, showed us where we could enter the chapel and rest, and where we could find water. We did pay him, of course, and then he departed with his signature humility and grace. And we didn’t get to see him again. But I think of him often. By what tender and merciful thread of mercy – of trust – did he measure us?
There was an uncommon kindness in his presence.
Perhaps some far distant ancestor of his helped build the fire that welcomed St. Paul to the island of Malta. Perhaps some distant ancestor of his told one generation after another to trust the stranger- to welcome the stranger – to offer uncommon kindness and hospitality to whomever came upon their shores.
I’d like to think that is true. I’d like to think that George is simply carrying on a long tradition of uncommon kindness. And I’d like to imagine that you and I will carry that tradition forward whenever we venture forth to explore the world. Amen.
Carleen R. Gerber
The First Congregational Church of Old Lyme
