Санкт-Петербург Dispatch #2
This evening I turned off Nevsky Pr. toward the Church of Our Savior of Spilled Blood, and I understood this line, for the first time:
"You're in Russia, and more than a million works of art are being whisked out to the woods. When the Nazis find the whole place dark, they'll think God's left the museum for good."
It's late evening as I type this, and the sun is beating down like mid-afternoon. This place is anything but dark - the sun doesn't vanish at night, it just lays low. Art has returned to these streets. It may be tempting to think that God's left this city, but under bluegreen onion domes and puncturing eyes of painted saints, one cannot help but be convinced that providence still reaches this far into Europe.
((If I needed any more convincing, enough was given by the gold-shrouded priest administering some holy fluid to a sick young girl amid icons and incense at Kazansky Cathedral this evening.))
The Nazis that Gord sings of were wrong to think God leaves anywhere.
Though sometimes he is hidden, and it takes digging through cracks, crevices or walks down long prospekts to find him.
This evening I turned off Nevsky Pr. toward the Church of Our Savior of Spilled Blood, and I understood this line, for the first time:
"You're in Russia, and more than a million works of art are being whisked out to the woods. When the Nazis find the whole place dark, they'll think God's left the museum for good."
It's late evening as I type this, and the sun is beating down like mid-afternoon. This place is anything but dark - the sun doesn't vanish at night, it just lays low. Art has returned to these streets. It may be tempting to think that God's left this city, but under bluegreen onion domes and puncturing eyes of painted saints, one cannot help but be convinced that providence still reaches this far into Europe.
((If I needed any more convincing, enough was given by the gold-shrouded priest administering some holy fluid to a sick young girl amid icons and incense at Kazansky Cathedral this evening.))
The Nazis that Gord sings of were wrong to think God leaves anywhere.
Though sometimes he is hidden, and it takes digging through cracks, crevices or walks down long prospekts to find him.
Sounds a touch different then here (tries to be more understated)
Posted by
Anonymous |
3:42 PM
Brian,
I have a few moments to catch up on the blogs. Your posts make me smile because I know you are in a place where God is present - in the country, on your team, in you.
Me? All I've got is grizzly bears and bison crap on my path to work. But I guess God hasn't forsaken Yellowstone either.
All the best! Praying for you - oh yeah, and Sam.
Posted by
Reverend Irreverent |
2:15 PM
Funny you should mention it. When I walked into the Louvre a few days ago the same words sprung immediately to mind. I've always thought those lines refer to the Parisien effort during WWII to disperse the museum's treasures to French cellars, basements, and various other hiding places in order to save them from the Nazis. The significance, then, would be the perseverance of hope and beauty under adverse conditions. I've never been able to reconcile the Russia reference with my Louvre reading, however. We'll have to hash this out further when you get home.
Posted by
Anonymous |
11:33 PM