|
 |
 |
|||||||||||||
|
|
|
[Back to index of December articles] A dove for the international Prince of Peace By Bishop John Bryson Chane The year was 1993, and as a diplomat of the International Olympic Academy, representing the United States Olympic Committee, I attended a 10-day conference of Olympic educators, athletes and coaches in Olympia, Greece. The setting couldn't have been more fitting or spectacular as the sprawling IOA campus was just a short walk from the ancient stadium where the first games were held, the ruins of the Temple of Zeus, the great gymnasium and the city state treasuries and theater. The U.S. Olympic Committee had asked me to present a paper entitled, "Moral Myopia and Olympic Sport," an intriguing topic given the intense commercialism of the modern games and the controversy that has swirled around the consumption of performance enhancing drugs by competitors and the participation of professional athletes. More than 40 countries were represented at this conference, including all of the countries of the Middle East and the emerging countries that were given life and identity following the collapse of the Soviet Union. In any such gathering of nations, there is always a measure of political intrigue, and with Israel present, the campus was heavily guarded by Uzi-toting security forces. One afternoon while I was having lunch in the cafeteria, a delegate from the Canadian Olympic Committee slipped a small, folded note under my plate and without any further conversation disappeared. After lunch, I sat in a quiet place, enjoying the warmth of the July sun on a spectacular afternoon in Ancient Olympia and opened the note. It was written in English and was from a member of the Iranian Olympic Delegation, requesting that I meet her at a designated location at 4 p.m. The delegate wrote that she was heavily "chaperoned" by Iranian security personnel, but if she could "lose them" she would meet me by the Pierre de Coubertin memorial, in a secluded part of the campus. Intrigued, I made plans for the encounter. At 4 p.m. sharp, Mena appeared. She was dressed in the traditional garb of a Muslim woman and I could tell by her gait that she was or had been an athlete. I eventually learned that she was the coach of the Iran Women's National Soccer Team and a professor of physical education at the University in Tehran. The meeting was straightforward. First she informed me that if her "chaperons" saw her talking to an American, she would be sent home to Tehran. Second, she wanted to talk to me about the possibility of arranging for her son to enter the United States. He was of age to serve in the Iranian Military. She desperately wanted him to get an American education and opportunities that only the U.S. could provide for his future. Life in her country, as she described it was painful, and the conservative religious leadership was making it even harder on those who had exposure to the larger world. I promised I would see what I could do. The last evening in Greece, my wife Karen and I were informed by the Canadians that Mena was going to try and slip beyond the watchful eye of her "chaperones" and meet us in Athens for a final evening of fellowship. A pre-arranged meeting place at a taverna near the Acropolis was established, and several members of other Olympic delegations were waiting with us in anticipation of her arrival. All of a sudden she appeared, not wearing her burka, and looking very much like any other tourist in Athens. It was her disguise that allowed her to escape the watchful eyes of her chaperones. We talked that evening about her son and tried to figure out next steps for his entry into the U.S., with the Canadians being happy to assist. What was astounding to me was the passion that Mena had for America. She spoke that night about the opportunities that it could provide, the success stories she had heard from other immigrants and the great promise of freedom from religious oppression that defined in her mind the best of America. She wanted her son to experience what she had never been able to experience in her own country, which was to be able to live into his full potential as a human being. She saw America and its history of immigration and leadership in the world as a country of freedom and compassion, as a place that could respect each person's identity and human dignity. Today, if I were to see Mena, I'm not sure what I would say to her about America. Oh, make no mistake about it, I love my country and thank God every day that I am an American, even with all of our great faults and flaws, our government corruption and the current cooption of civil religion by the contemporary political process. But what about the vigilantes that roam the borders between Mexico, Canada and the United States and the signs that say that Mexicans and others from Central and South America are not welcome here? What about the harassment of Latino "day workers" and their families by people who selfishly forget that everyone in this country was once an immigrant, legal or otherwise? What about the way we have racially profiled Muslims and anyone with dark skin who seems to look like they're from the Middle East? What about the way we currently treat the poor in our country - as if they were somehow at fault for their poverty? What about the way some people in other parts of the world see our country, rightly or wrongly as an arrogant and selfish nation? That final night in Athens we also talked about our common roots shared with the great Old Testament patriarch Abraham, and the connections between Christianity and Islam, and how so much of how we understand our relationship to God is defined by Jesus, Son of Mary, God incarnate, and Mohammed the great prophet. To Mena, the great gift of our two religions was the gift of peace to all humankind. As we ended our evening together and the Canadians arranged to smuggle Mena back to her hotel, we agreed to stay in touch and to try to work on getting her son entry into the U.S. Try as we did however, it was not possible, and for that my heart continues to break to this day. Days before Christmas a few years later, Karen and I received a mysterious package in the mail. It was from Iran. Inside was an exquisitely hand carved wooden dove, with wings outstretched as if on some graceful flight and it came with a simple note: "From Mena. Do not forget me. May this dove of peace celebrate the birth of your Prince of Peace. Place it on your Christmas tree as a reminder of what your Jesus was born, lived and died for and may you be blessed to work for that same peace every day of the year. A Holy Christmas from our family to yours. The carved dove has adorned our Christmas tree ever since then as a reminder that Christmas has a meaning far beyond the frenetic days of shopping that now begin before Thanksgiving, and the commercialism and political correctness that has denuded its core meaning for Christians. Christmas is a time to remember the call of the ancient herald who proclaimed "Behold the Prince of Peace." It is a time to recapture the God-given gift of freedom for all people and to work for it with all that we have. It is a time to remember that we must become a humbler, kinder and gentler nation. For the world is waiting for more hand-carved doves with outstretched wings that will take flight from the branches of our Christmas trees and into the world as signs that the one whose birth we celebrate at Christmas, the Prince of Peace, demands far more from us more than we have yet been able to deliver. [Back to index of December articles]
|
|
||||||||||
