For the same celebration unmarried young women of the village would bring water from a special well—never speaking while collecting and carrying the water. It was poured into smaller water jugs, into which each maiden put a rizikari—a personal item of value—a charm. And during the night they might dream of the man they would marry. In the morning each girl took a sip of the water, and after that, the first male name she heard was supposed to be the name of the man she would marry.
That was then. In the Old Days.
But now? Seeking a remnant of former times, I went on Saint John’s Eve to the village of Drapanias. An agricultural village in the flat coastal plain of Kissamos at the western end of Crete. I was the only foreign tourist. But a welcomed one: “Come, sit, eat, drink . . .”
The event had the ambiance of an affair sponsored by an American PTA or a Lion’s Club social committee. Just good-willed amateurs doing community service. Mostly local farmers and fishermen and housewives gathered in the village schoolyard. Ordinary people still honoring what had gone on forever on Midsummer’s Eve.
The main attraction was a montinades competition. Each person put something small and personal in a basket. Then poems were recited or composed in a traditional Cretan form—two fifteen-syllable lines that rhyme. About anything: life, village gossip, hopes, and dreams—even politics. But most often about love and desire.
“It’s Cretan rap,” I thought.
After each poem was recited, someone picked an item out of the basket, and its owner was considered the subject of that poem. If a handsome young man called out two lines confessing the power of his passion for his true love, and the item pulled out of the basket belonged to an eighty-year-old widow woman, the audience howled. And this can go on for hours—as it has gone on for centuries.
When the montinades event ran out of steam, a men’s chorus stood out in the road in the darkness and sang ancient shepherds’ songs in a haunting call-and-response style. The chorus was followed by children in costume performing Cretan line dances, backed by a three-piece band of lute, fiddle, and guitar. Finally, after consuming piles of food and jugs of wine, everybody wandered off home by the light of a full moon.
Though I looked carefully, I did not see any young women hauling water around as in the past. In fact, there was a notable shortage of maidens. I was told that most of them had been lured away by the young men to drink beer on the beach. No doubt still within the klidona tradition—“irrational actions and incoherent utterances experienced during oracular ceremonies of prophetic importance.”
50
Not Even Chickens
With all the recent seaside development, it is easy to forget that Crete and Cretans are fundamentally about the mountains—the steep places, the high and isolated villages that breed independent, self-sufficient people who have always been a rule unto themselves. They still are. The Mountain Cretans say they fear nothing and nobody, and would look at God, Himself, with hat on and eyes open. Thus they look upon strangers with interest, not suspicion.
One afternoon I parked my car and walked a narrow road that connects several small villages along a high mountain ridge. A voice called out from the porch of a whitewashed house:
“Ehla, ehlah, kahtheeseh!” (Come, come, sit!) An old man beckoned to me, pointing to the chair beside him.
I went. I sat. On a small table were almonds, raisins, olives, and a bottle of tsikoudia (tsee-koo-di-ah)—the Cretan equivalent of white-lightning or grappa—the proffered sign of hospitality and welcome to a Cretan home. He was expecting company—and anybody would do.
“Tho-kee-maseh” (“Drink this, eat this!”) he said, handing me a glass of tsikoudia and filling a small plate with almonds, raisins, and olives.
“Lee-pon. Germanos?” (“Well, then, are you German?”)
I was touched to know that the hospitality came first, even though I might be German—from a country that had brutalized Crete in WWII.
“Oshee, Americanos.” (“No, American.”)
“Americanos! Americanos!” He shouted into the house, and a younger man appeared. They spoke high-gear Greek with a Cretan accent. The look on my face tells them I cannot follow, so the younger man says in fine English, “My father is excited to meet you. He has never met an American. He hears that in America they have everything. He would like to ask you some questions.”
Fine. With his son translating, the examination began.
How old was I? How many children? How much money do I make? Very Cretan inquiries. Then a harder question that led to even tougher scrutiny: “How often do you dance and sing and recite poetry?”
“Not very often.”
The old man looked at me with narrowed eyes.
“How many sheep and goats do you have?”
“None.”
The old man looked puzzled.
“How many olive trees do you have and how much oil put away?”
“None.”
The old man frowned.
“How many vines do you have and how much wine put away?”
“None.”
The old man was nonplussed. He raised his eyebrows.
“Do you have any chickens?”
“No.”
The old man looked mildly outraged and fell into high-gear Greek again with his son. The son was apologetic. “Pardon me, but my father says that it is a lie that Americans have everything. You have no sheep, no goats, no trees, no oil, no vines, no wine, not even chickens. He asks, ‘What kind of life is that?’ He says, ‘No wonder you don’t sing or dance or recite poetry very often.’ He is dismayed.”
The old man peered at me with pity bordering on contempt.
Shaking his head in disgust, he mumbled in English, as he rose and limped out into his garden, dismissing me from his mind:
“Nothing. Not even chickens . . .”
51
Liturgical Laughter
“Do you know any good jokes?”
Usually a reasonable question at an all-male convivial social occasion.
However.
To ask that of a bishop of the Greek Orthodox Church at Sunday lunch at his own table is risky. His Eminence, the Dispotis of Chania, slowly turned his pale, white-bearded face to me, gave me his Blessed-Are-the-Meek look, smiled thinly, and went back to dissecting the small broiled pink fish on his fine china plate.
(Silence.)
No, I guess he doesn’t know any jokes. And that’s funny.
Here is a man sitting as host at a fine Sunday feed, dressed in a long black dress, with glitzy-gold jewelry around his neck, and on his head a stovepipe with a lid on it.
I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I would think you’d have to have a sense of humor to dress like that at lunch. But he doesn’t know any jokes. Yet he’s so close to a good laugh. All he needs is a red rubber nose on his schnoz and a mirror.
Make no mistake—I like and respect this man, and we are friends. And I know I’m being irreverent. Bear with me a little farther.
I remember seeing his fellow bishops in full-dress Byzantine liturgical finery walking in a solemn High Occasion parade in Athens. Gold accessories, great bulbous jeweled crowns, and sunglasses. They could have been majorettes for a Gay Pride marching band. “Mother Manolis and the Saloniki Queens.” Bing Bang Byzantine Bling!
Funny. At least to me, a foreigner, a heretic and heathen by official Orthodox standards.
And I know I’m way out on a limb here laughing at what is deadly serious business in a religious institution not my own. But that’s exactly the point I want to address: Deadly seriousness. The lack of laughter.
Another guest at the bishops’ luncheon, a visiting Roman Catholic parish priest from New Jersey, dressed incognito in jeans and T-shirt, asked me if I had a book in mind that I had not yet written. Yes. One on the humor of Jesus, “Jesus’ jokes,” I said.
“But there aren’t any Jesus Jokes in the Bible.”
“Right. That’s the problem. My book would be about the missing material.” And sin
ce Father William seemed open to the subject, I explained.
First of all my credentials. I am a seminary-trained, ordained Unitarian Universalist clergyman with forty-five years’ experience in religious circles. Second, I am a man, with sixty-eight years on the job. It is biblically sound to say that Jesus was also a man—no less. A whole human being. Like the rest of us. He ate, wept, got angry, and bled.
And surely, surely he laughed.
We know he went to a wedding and provided wine when the reception ran dry. And he must have had the common cold, gone to the toilet, itched, and ached, and got hungry. Like the rest of us. True, not all of that is mentioned in Scripture. But it could have been. It should have been.
Moreover, he was the son of a working class, blue-collar family, with no formal education. He hung out with a close group of guys—fishermen and carpenters and the common riffraff. He was Jewish. He told great stories—some of them must have been funny.
So how could we think Jesus did not laugh—did not see the humor in this life? Otherwise his humanity is incomplete. You can’t tell me that joy, delight, and the all-out belly laugh were not as much a part of him as they are of us.
Heresy? No. Absolutely not. Sound theology.
So, what happened to his funny stories? The human comedy?
The jokes got cut by the copy editors and censors along the way.
Monks and theologians and scholars and Inquisitors.
Those whose black dress shrouded their minds as well.
Religion became too serious to underwrite humor.
Here in Crete I am surrounded by Greek Orthodoxy. Greece is a theocratic state. Out of my great respect for the traditions, I often attend the liturgy in the local monastery and find it deeply moving. But it’s a solemn affair, more like a funeral than a celebration. There is no laughter whatsoever in it. Never.
This troubles me.
If I am ever in charge of the matter, there will be jokes in the Scripture and laughter in the sanctuary—for what else is laughter but sanctuary from the vicissitudes of life?
And the priests will wear workman’s overalls and carry hammers and nails and pliers and screwdrivers and wrenches—as emblems of those who are committed to constructing a viable society and building a better world. They will know how to use those tools, too.
And they will be expected to know the best jokes and laugh often.
“Good luck on your book,” said my bemused Catholic friend.
“If it sells, I’ll do the next one on the jokes the Buddha told.”
“I don’t think I’d publish the humor of Mohammed, though,” he said.
“Well, yes, that could set off the Great Joke Jihad.”
On the wall of my study in Crete and in Seattle there is a framed pencil drawing of a man—bearded, long-haired, with strong Semitic features and rough workman’s hands. He’s dressed in the ordinary clothes of his time—two thousand years ago. This is an image of Jesus. Not an icon—a man.
He’s not just smiling. His head is thrown back in a great laugh.
The drawing is not titled. But nobody ever asks me who it is.
They seem to know. They like what they see. They would love to be in on the joke.
52
Epictetus and Plumbing
“Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding
of one principle: Some things are within our control,
and some things are not.”
Epictetus speaking again. Stoic philosopher, from the first century AD.
My sewer system got plugged up and then began backing up. Damn!
This is Fulghum speaking from the twenty-first century AD.
I wonder if old Epictetus ever had to ream out a sewer?
How might he have applied his philosophy?
“Of course, there are times when for practical reasons you must go after one thing or shun another, but do so with grace, finesse, and flexibility.”
One does not call a plumber in Crete. A Cretan man is expected to resolve his own household problems.
“When something happens, the only thing in your power is your attitude toward it; you can either accept it or resent it.”
My bathroom systems are interconnected, with all effluent passing through a pipe that may be viewed down through a drain in one corner of the floor, which is there in case there should be some overflow from sink or tub or toilet. But what can go down through that drain can come up through that drain. Which means that if you take a shower, you can emerge to find all the bathwater running out the bathroom, down the stairs, and into the living room. Where there are guests, now moving to the front porch.
“Every difficulty in life presents us with an opportunity to turn inward and invoke our own submerged resources. Try not to merely react in the moment. Pull back from the situation. Take a wider view; compose yourself.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” say I, slopping through the stream with a towel around my waist. But the guests are out on the porch because the toilet at the other end of the house has also backed up and overflowed. It’s not just bathwater.
“Watch for how you can put certain aspects of an event to good use. Is there some less-than-obvious benefit in the event that a trained eye might discern?”
“Oh, well, then. This is going to be a nasty mess. Why don’t all of you go away for a while and the plumber and I will sort things out.” Alone at last.
“Once you have deliberated and determined that a course of action is wise, never discredit your judgment. Stand squarely behind your decision. Chances are there may be people who misunderstand your intentions and who may even condemn you. Take a stand. Don’t be cravenly noncommittal.”
“But we can help.”
“No. Go away.”
“Everything has two handles; one by which it may be carried, the other by which it can’t. Grasp the right handle, or you will become bitter.”
________
So, to work. Using all the towels, a broom, the mop and bucket, and bringing a hose into the house, the worst got washed away down the stairs and down the driveway and into the bushes. With the guests standing at a distance, shouting advice.
“Go away!” I shout. Way far away—like into the village.
“The life of wisdom is a life of reason. It is through clear thinking that we are able to properly direct our will.”
Now the obvious task is to unjam the plumbing. The usual tools: plunger, coat hanger, broom handle, garden hose. Nothing. So, a trip to the hardware store, waving confidently as I pass my guests parked at the village taverna, anxiously drinking wine and no doubt speaking ill of me.
“Never depend on the admiration of others.”
The Cretan version of Drano is something called “Mr. Muscle”—the only English words on the large orange bottle. The elaborate Greek instructions on the back are accompanied by illustrations. One shows that you pour the stuff down the drain. Another shows the drain instantly being scoured clean. And a final illustration suggests that if you get the stuff on your hands or feet, you will lose your fingers or toes.
“Nothing truly stops you. Nothing truly holds you back. For your own free will is always within your control.”
Nothing suggests how much Mr. Muscle is required. And if a little bit of goo is good, a whole lot of goo must be even better, right? There was room for the whole bottle. Quiet. And suddenly, from somewhere deep in the system came BANG! BANG! BANG! Smoke and a gurgling blue foam rose up from out of the floor and headed my way.
“We cannot choose our external circumstances, but can always choose how we respond to them.”
Run, jackass, run!
________
“The wise and good person is he who achieves tranquility by having formed the habit of asking on every occasion: What is the right thing to do now?”
So I slammed the bathroom door and walked out of the house and down to the taverna. Wine time.
“Those who pursue the higher life of wisdom, who seek to live by spiritual
principles, must be prepared to be laughed at and condemned by friends. Never live your life in reaction to these diminished souls. Be compassionate toward them, and at the same time hold to what you know is good.”
Wine with friends in a taverna is good.
“Generally speaking, we are all doing the best we can. Forgive yourself over and over again. Try to do better next time. When you know you’ve done the best you can under the circumstances, you can have a light heart.”
And I called my Cretan friend, Nikos, who came and did whatever needed doing, including making the smoking blue foaming goo go away. Tranquility reigned in the house when I returned.
“Practice having a grateful attitude and you will be happy. If you take a broad view of what befalls each person and appreciate the usefulness of things that happen, give thanks.”
Thanks be to Mr. Muscle, Nikos, and Epictetus.
53
In the Flow of the Mud and the Light
A Greek couple—dear friends of mine—made their first baby this year. “Come look,” they said. I looked. What could I say? Most babies look like Winston Churchill without his cigar. Even the best ones look like Winston Churchill after a face-lift. This one looks like the daughter of Barbie and Ken. Perfect. That’s what I told the parents. Men usually say, “Beautiful.” Women usually say, “Cute.” But I get very high points for saying, “Perfect.” And not mentioning Winston Churchill.
I wondered what the baby thought when it stared back at me? “My God. Another big weird-looking thing. Are they all this ugly?” No wonder babies scream and cry a lot.
I didn’t know this baby’s name. A Greek child does not have a formal name until it is baptized. And that event takes place somewhere between one and two years of age. A child is carried into the church, stripped naked, handed over to the priest—a stranger in a black dress— and lowered into a tepid bath. The child is usually terrified, goes red and rigid, screams, and often pees. Much to the amusement of the Greeks. It’s not as bad as it seems. It’s worse. I have been a witness. I tell you what I saw.
What On Earth Have I Done? Page 10
