This photo is of the Cretan village of Kolymbari and the ancient monastery of Gonia. It’s a view of part of my sense of home and religion.
JOURNAL / ESSAYS / NEW STORIES – No. 6246
Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County
A rowdy March snowstorm raced through, announcing the coming of April.
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
The final test at the end of a year-long course in comparative religion asked this: “Out of what you have studied, take the best aspects and construct a new religion.”
Ha. No problem, right? I was young and smart and eager.
After a month of struggle, I turned in a final paper that simply said I could not do it. That would be like creating a new language from the best aspects of the 5,000 living languages spoken around the world.
Esperanto is an example.
Invented in 1887, to be a universal language.
But it has survived only as a linguistic peculiarity.
Language exists out of human experience and is an evolutionary river that is ever changing as it flows on.
The same is true for religion – never a rational construct.
I thought I had failed the test and would not get course credit.
Wrong.
The professor’s comment on my response stays with me still.
“The correct answer lies in the struggle. Keep an open mind.”
For reasons I cannot explain, I often wake up at 3:00 a.m. Wide awake. Sometimes I visit the bathroom, but more often I put on my robe, sit in my favorite chair in the darkness – and think. Akin to meditation, prayer, and reflection, I suppose. Not a problem, however – that deep night wakening is an opportunity to exercise an open mind.
It’s a precious time – I am alone with myself – the world outside is calm and quiet – there is nothing I must do or have or be. Occasionally I’m tempted to check my phone or computer. As if the incoming from the world outside is more relevant than what’s already inside me.
Big mistake.
If I drop the reins of the trained horse of my mind and ride into the infinite space of memory and experience, I often return to the final question in the study of comparative religions.
For example, this morning – April 1, 2025, sitting in the pale darkness while a spring snowstorm blanketed the landscape beyond the windows of my living room. For many years, I have been in Crete at this time of year, celebrating Easter in the village of Kolymbari. Now I am there again in images out of memory.
To be sure, I am not Greek or Cretan.
My spoken Greek only amuses the natives.
Not a member of the Greek Orthodox church, either.
And the ancient liturgical language of its services is beyond my comprehension. As is the theology.
Nevertheless, when I am there, I regularly attend services and observe the protocols of ecclesiastical celebrations.
Why?
I believe in the spirit of like-minded people who celebrate the great mysteries of existence. I want to be part of their community – to know when to stand and when to sit and when to be still and think. I want to belong to that spirit.
I once asked a bishop if I could become a member of the Greek Orthodox Church. He smiled, then laughed, gave me a big hug, and said: “In your own unique way, you already are.”
I understand that the need to struggle with one’s companions for the meaning of life underlies all the religions. I understand that respect for that quest gets decorated with human inventions around food, clothing, behavior, and identity. But that’s part of the marvelous mystery of humanity, not the essential nature of religious community.
As I write this, my mind is in the ancient monastery of Gonia in the fishing village of Kolymbari. I am at home there in that culture and religion. Part of the answer to my comparative religion class test is to be able to say, “Είμαι Κρητικός/Κρητικιά” I am Cretan.