Love... From Russia of Course!

I arrived on Tuesday in St. Petersburg Russia for a 3 day stint before going on to Zambia. I'm here because God told me to come. Long story. The bottom line is, I don't know why I'm here, but here I am.

I was immediately struck by how helpless I felt. I could barely sound out the Cyrillic letters on the signs, much less make sense of the incredibly complex tongue-twisting words they form. My feeble attempts at communicating my 3 well-rehearsed Russian phrases met with mostly blank stares. I was saved by free WiFi in the airport, which I used to get directions to my hostel... after a quick stop at Starbucks (yes, it’s EXACTLY the same as in America).

In the crowded bus we wooshed past huge stone buildings and stark apartment high-rises with that forbidding look of cold Russian pragmatism. I saw giant statues of military heroes and forgotten soviet factories with trees growing from the roofs. The place would have been downright eerie if not for the bustle of blue-eyed sharp-featured people.

I arrived at the Red House Hostel near the city centered. Hostels are always a unique cultural microcosm wherever I go. A haven for students and backpackers, they are like overgrown dorms with coed bunkrooms and brightly painted common spaces full of people lounging, cooking, drinking, and speaking a variety of languages. This one happens to be blissfully quiet with comfortable beds and hot showers. The people are friendly and I’ve met a number of folks on long global treks from France, Brazil, Australia, and Siberia.

Part of this adventure was a specific church I felt led to pray at. The Kazan Cathedral is a replica of St. Peter’s Bascillica in Rome. Ironically, it was built as a monument to Russian military dominance over the west! I walked the 2km to the church and milled around for a couple hours just watching and listening and wondering why I was here. I stood in on an interesting prayer service complete with chanting, incense, and pilgrims kissing the walls. Though I watched and listened and waited, nothing happened. But I wasn’t feeling very Holy Spirit-y. So after a while, I went home, crawled into bed at 10:30pm (the sun hadn’t even gone down yet!) and slept a solid 12 hours.

Kazan Cathedral

Inside Kazan, pilgrims line up to kiss the icon, "Our Lady of Kazan"

This morning I stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee. I offered some to the Brazilian brothers sitting next to me and suddenly we were friends! Julio and Marcelo invited me to rent bikes with them and tour the city. Well why not. We cruised along the river, through a fort, and stopped to tour an old Soviet prison. I’d like to say it was amazing. It was just okay. Historic architecture isn’t really my thing.

Out biking with new Brazilian friends.

After the bike ride, I went back to the Kazan Cathedral to pray some more. I was stopped only once by a guy trying to convince me (in Russian) to visit his strip club (the flyers he was handing out left little doubt that it wasn’t a coffee shop he was running). But after a firm “nyet” or two I was back on track. The church was closed, so I sat on a park bench outside and didn’t actually pray much because I was so exhausted. I dozed off a couple times, tried to journal but couldn’t keep my eyes open. Two people sat down on the bench next to me and stayed for 30 minutes each, both just looking at the fountain in the middle of the square. Should I have talked to them? Did God send them and I missed out because I was too scared to strike up a conversation? I didn’t think so at the time, but then again, the voice of the Holy Spirit felt impossible to hear today. Finally, a gregarious Khazak girl sat down with her girlfriend and tried really hard to be my friend but her English consisted of about a dozen words. It was 11pm, the sun had finally set, so my new friend gave me a death-grip handshake and I headed for home.

The fountain outside Kazan Cathedral

On the way home, I stopped by the famous “Cathedral of the Spilled Blood” (It’s much prettier than it sounds) and listened to a phenomenal string quartet play Beethoven and Puccini. Then I gave my last 50 rubles to a big Russian man who thanked profusely me with a bone-crushing handshake (is that a thing here?).

On the canal leading up to The Cathedral of the Spilled Blood

But I know I didn’t come here for handshakes and Puccini. I certainly didn’t come here to tour another European city. Then why am I here? I still don’t know.

It’s 6AM now. I’ve been tossing and turning since 3. It’s hot and though I’ve thrown off all my covers, I’m still glistening with sweat. There are mosquitoes buzzing nearby and my 9 roommates are rustling. Every thought in my mind is anxious. What DID I come here for? What if God doesn’t show up? What if I’m still feeling this way when I go to the airport on Friday? Will this experience be redemptive or just prove to me once and for all that I’m a hack at listening to the Holy Spirit? Oh yeah, I just remembered I’ve been asked to preach at a church on Sunday. When will I prepare my sermon? And what could I possibly preach about in a state like this?

I’m out of bed now, in the kitchen with a fan blowing on me. This is normal, I tell myself. This is jetlag. My thoughts are always darkest in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t take any of it too seriously. But in that vulnerable space we find ourselves in the middle of the night, I’m finally willing to face it: I’m way out on a limb here, I’m lonely, I’m 5,002 miles from home, and I just don’t get it. I know the story is far from over. And I have to trust that God knows how to communicate in ways I’ll understand, even when my receptors feel fried.

Maybe the discomfort is the point... ya know, to shake things up or something. Or maybe I was just supposed to be obedient. Or maybe I’m just no good at this stuff. Or maybe I’ll get thrown into that old Russian prison or lightning bolts will fall from heaven. I don’t have prefabricated answers. Because if I had prefabbed answers, that would make this a prefabbed story and I don’t think I could live with that.

I’m not willing to live a prefabricated faith. I’m just not. And maybe that’s really why I came to Russia in the first place. Being brutally honest here, this is my game of chicken with God. Is all this Holy Spirit stuff real? Or is it plastic like so many Christian movies? 4 years ago in an African village, I dared it to be real. And God seemed to say, “alright. Game on.” And at the end of the day, I don’t mind if the answers are mysterious, even bizarre at times. But they need to be real.

It’s 6:31AM and the sun is shining. Silly Russia. I need to sleep now.