December 27 (2011):
(The first day of my travels.)
This and the next two pictures are of a church in the middle of Tbilisi. If I was judging correctly, by the map I had, this church is also a convent. The structure is very Georgian on the outside, but when I walked in, I truly thought it was a Catholic church. I've never been in an Orthodox church that Western--there was a choir rehearsing in very Western style with an organ, no iconostasis, very Western iconography (what little there was), et cetera. If it is Othodox (it's possible that it's a Catholic church, and they just adopted Georgian building structure, etc., to be more inviting to the local population), then luckily it's the only one even remotely like this I've seen in Georgia. [I now know that it's a Gregorian (i.e., Armenian Christian) Church; that's why I couldn't classify it--I'd never seen one before!]
This is an overlooking view of the little park by the glass bridge (this is on the West bank of the river).
And from the same location, Sioni Cathedral (and another church almost directly behind it, as you can see).
From the park viewed above, of St. King Vakhtang's Church and another on a hill (I believe the latter is the monastery I stayed at this night, but I'm not sure. Assuming it is, as you can see, it looks quite close to Tbilisi proper, but it's actually a fair walk away in reality.).
On the left, a fortress with a still-functioning church. On the right, the statue of "Mother Georgia."
This was as I was going up toward the monastery where I would end up spending this night. That church is the one in the fortress pictured in the previous picture.
Tbilisi proper, from the same spot.
Zooming in on Sameba, which so prominently sticks out.
December 29:
This is at the second monastery I stayed at; the superior, with the kitten (they had a lot of cats), and some postulates and guests (and me).
A slightly different arrangement of people. Unfortunately, neither of these pictures captured all the people at the monastery, as they were taken in the night, before I was going to leave for Tbilisi, and the next morning (theoretically) go to Betania (I say theoretically because it ended up taking a few more days, which I spent in Tbilisi, before things worked out for me to head off to Betania).
December 30:
A close-up picture of Sameba by night. It's left open (not the church itself, but the grounds) for people to walk through by night, though guards patrol to make sure nobody is trying to do anything untowards.
Freedom Square as decked out for the upcoming festal season.
January 2 (2012):
The church at Betania.
Showing the grounds to the side of the main church a little.
Before showing the next few pictures, I need to explain a little, I think, namely for the non-Orthodox. Probably to the uninitiated, they woill look very morbid, if not almost occultish. Thus, I will briefly explain the purpose behind these images.
First of all, death in Orthodoxy is not something to be feared--indeed, we have already died, with Christ, through our baptism into His death. Rather, we fear, rightly, only the judgement which comes after our deaths--not because God is a condemning God, looking to throw us into the fires of hell, but because then our own consciences will be revealed unto us, and show whether in our hearts we truly loved God or not. For our judgement is not like His judgement, and we can deceive ourselves all our lives, while He reveals all things. And if it be shown that, even with our many sins, we have truly tried to love Him as we ought, we will receive our desire of abiding in Him; but if it be shown that, regardless of outer appearances or inward self-deceptions, we have not truly loved Him or wanted to abide with Him, He will not disregard or disrespect our free will, but will give us that which we were striving toward--fuller separation from Him, and thus true death for the soul. It's up to us.
As such, it's beneficial for us to remember the short and fleeting nature of this life and find no way to deceive ourselves, but constantly remind ourselves of our own mortality, that we not be too taken to the comforts of this life and fearful of its chastisements, thus becoming wholly selfish and God-hating. Furthermore, as the saints are truly alive in Christ, we, the Church militant (still in the struggles against evil, in this life on earth), and they, the Church triumphant (who have ended their lives in faith, love, and hope, and are given rest from the temptations of the evil one) are one. This is why we surround ourselves with icons of the latter in our Churches as we gather together as the former, and this is why we keep their relics (i.e., their bodies) in our Churches as holy things. For those of whom it is not known if they are saints or not, it still behooves us to see their graves around us, as a reminder to us of our mortality, that they are still present and we can see them again in the general resurrectiorection (if both they and us be counted among the saved), and also that we should pray that they be so counted (for our fate, we believe, is not fully sealed until the Second Coming of Christ, in Glory, and we taste only yet at death a foretaste of what is to come for us; and thus those in the foretaste of torments still have some time for repentance, and can benefit and be given respite by our prayers, just as those still on this earth can benefit from our prayers and be given greater opportunity for repentance).
So we bury our dead in graves (cremation, for the Orthodox, is forbidden as the pagan custom it is (it's only in very modern times that any religions purporting to be Christian have allowed cremation)--not because God can't raise up from ashes in His second coming, but because it is a symbolic denial of our bodily resurrection). Furthermore, in monasteries, there is the custom of exhuming the bodies of the monks after some time, and (assuming they are not shown to be incorrupt, a sign God grants to us confirming the holiness of a great many of His saints) placing the bones of them all together as a testament to the holy history of the place, showing the great number of people who sacrificed their lives in the slow martyrdom of monasticism. And this also gives us a chance to venerate their bones and ask for their prayers and intercessions before God by those among them with boldness in his sight (though we cannot assume simply from their monastic life that they are all saints, by any means).
I would here like to quote a little from the daily blog of Abbot Tryphon of All-Merciful Saviour Monastery (Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia; located on Vashon Island, WA, USA--you can read more of his blog at http://morningoffering.blogspot.com/) about the role of cemetaries for us:
One of my earliest memories was going to a family plot in Spokane, WA with my maternal
grandmother. She would lay flowers on the graves of her loved ones, family members who
were long dead before I was even born. Even though many had been gone from this life for a
few generations, to my grandmother they were still alive. She would sit on a tombstone,
flowers in hand, and tell me about her sisters, her parents, and other family members. Her
shared memories were made all the more real seeing the names of these loved ones
chiseled in stone. The ritual of visiting graves was common back in those days, with
families keeping alive the memories, while showing their love and respect for their dead
relatives by tending to the graves, and leaving flowers. It was even quite common, especially
in Western Europe, for friends and families to take picnics to graveyards.
There is also the role cemeteries can play in our own spiritual lives, for they are clear
reminders of our own mortality. I have already picked the plot where my own remains will be
placed on the grounds of our monastery. Seeing where one will eventually be laid to rest is a
good way to remember one's own eventual death, reminding ourselves of our own mortality,
and to use our remaining days wisely.
[...] Having a plot to visit continues that connection and allows me a chance to show my love
for [my reposed loved ones] by placing flowers on their graves as I [am] offering prayers for
their souls. It saddens me that so many people have deprived themselves of such moments
[For the full text of this blog entry, see the Friday, December 23, 2011 entry of the afore-
linked-to blog, which is entitled "Cremation."]
And when I originally read this blog entry of his, I thought to myself "I would love to take picnics to cemetaries"--as odd as that may sound to the modern stigma around them. At graves, things are always a bit clearer and a bit more real, and whenever I find myself at a cemetary, I can say personally that I feel a great peace at this, in knowing these people have finished the fight, and praying that God grant them rest and peace. It reminds me of my coming mortality, recalling to mind the words of the apostle that the sufferings of this time are not worthy to be compared with the glory of the time to come; both in terms of the greatness of that glory and in terms of its infinteness as compared with the short-lived nature of our lives here. And thus it spurs me on to endure whatever hardships may come, passing as they are by nature of being in this life, and to prepare myself better for the judgement seat to come, whether at my death, or at the words "Behold, the Bridegroom cometh" at the Great Second Coming. If I find myself within a monastery, looking on the bones of reposed monks (as was the case when I took the next five pictures), and especially if I can venerate these same bones (unfortunately not the case here), all the much more is this true. If these bones or any graveyard I'm in is in an Orthodox church or monastery's grounds, I all the more am comforted by the holiness of the place in which they rest, and by the knowledge that, should they have come short, they have almost certainly been commemorated in this church's commemorations at the Liturgy--and truly this commemoration, we see in the lives of the saints, has more power even than their intercessions for us, even with their boldness before Christ.
And so, all that being said, the following five pictures were taken underneath the church at Betania, and are of the bones of their monks:
With flash, that you may better see.
The gate protecting this holy and peaceful place in the monastery.
These are the graves of two saints (who passed away not more than a couple generations ago) who were monks at the monastery and who helped to greatly renew the spiritual life here.
In old Georgian letters, on the closest tomb it says "Christ is Risen;" on the latter, "Indeed He is Risen."
Saint George (Giorgi)
Saint John (Ioane)
There was a postulate with me as I was taking some of these pictures, and he offered to take some pictuers of me; here they are.
January 7:
This is Ch'ik'aani's church, St. Thomas Church (ts'minda toma ek'lesia), and its grounds (cemetary). While we were waiting for a minute in front of Mama Davit's house for him to finish getting ready to start our "Alilo," I realized that I hadn't ever taken a picture of the church yet.
January 10:
A random picture of Ch'ik'aani. Doesn't look much like winter, does it?
January 11:
I walked out of the house this morning to find my mother making bread. Here's batch one of two for the day (of this type of bread; we made a lot of bread this day).
The giant whachamacallit is the oven for cooking the bread; the thing leaning on it is for holding and forming the dough before putting it in (right now there's a cloth over some dough to help it rise a little as we get the oven hot for another round of bread). Also, my host mother (not a great picture of her, though).
Looking into the oven-thingie (I forget the name in Georgian). The flash is on, so you can't see the glowing coals. It's quite warm.
Some branches, again to get it hot for the second batch of bread.
It doesn't take long to do so.
And once it's down to embers, we roll the dough (see the back of the metal thingie) into a longer form and flatten the ends to make it easier to stick it to the oven's inside (see the top inside of the oven, where she just put one). To help them stick, salt water is splached on the hot inside of the oven thing and on the dough about to be put in.
Putting another one in.
The metal on the embers is to help keep ash from rising up and to beter distribute the heat (I assume).
And I tried on one of them.
A small batch of bread.
From another side. I bet you can tell which one I did.
Not exactly what you'd call beautiful, mine.
Scraping them off the walls and taking them out.
A comparison: normal Georgian bread (and this is the most common variety, though there are many) on the right, my misshapen mess on the left (still tasted good though).
Again, bet you can guess which one's mine.
And a couple better pictures of my elusive host mother (and me).
And my host sister and me.
January 12:
Updated pictures of my room, after new additions. This is my cabinet.
The bottles on the right (champagne in front-right, and black (in Western terminology, red) wine in back-right) and the box of chocolates on the left were a gift from the president (i.e., to all the volunteers in Georgia) in this festive season (Though I really wish the card they came with had said "Christ is Born" or "Merry Christmas" instead of "Season's Greetings," what can one expect nowadays? Of course, I wasn't expecting any gifts whatsoever, so I can certainly be grateful at that.).
My prayer corner.
I put up the few paper icons I have here. From left to right, bottom row: the Theotokos "Iberia" or "Iveron," which I got at the corresponding monastery near Tbilisi (the second one I went to on my travels); St. Ioanne/John Tornik'e, which I got from the heiromonk in whose cell I spent a few hours my first night on my travels, before the midnight liturgy; the Holy Apostle Andrew, which I got from Fr. Andrew, a monk at St. Michael's Monastery in NM, Canones, and which ended up coming with me here; and Great-Martyr Giorgi/George, given to me by my host sister. (Since the taking of this picture it's been updated with a Georgian-style icon of Archangel Michael I got at Church.)
January 13:
I was doing some work at school today, and thought you might be interested to see what one of my classrooms looks like (they're pretty much all the same in the school).
January 14:
Making khin'ali. Yum!
(It's spiced ground pork placed raw into dough and then boiled, for those who may not know what khink'ali is.)
A khink'ali my host mother made, ready to be boiled.
My host sister, folding a khink'ali.
And me giving it a go.
And the completed khink'ali (they're not cooked in this pan, but boiled; this was just a convenient container). Usually you sprinkle some black pepper, or possibly some of the other spices used in the meat on the inside, on the outside as well, before eating them. Then you just pick them up with your hands, bite in, and suck while you do so, so as not to waste the juices (which are really good), as it's bad form if you spill. I should note that (if there are any left) on the second day, you fry them to eat them. They're really, really good both ways.
So anyway, that's all the pictures I've taken since my last photoentry. I hope you enjoyed them!
In Christ,
Teopile/Theophilos Porter
