Owing to its remote, mountain setting, the Lousios Gorge near the center of the Peloponnese region of Greece, was a stronghold for the revolutionaries during the 19th century Greek War of Independence. The deep canyons and undisturbed isolation proved a suitable habitat for hiding, hunting and hatching ways to throw off the shackles of the Ottoman Empire. But, the wooded flanks of the Lousios have a longer legacy of much more ancient history hidden within them; Medieval monasteries and churches clinging to steep cliffs abound in the area which was even earlier named “Arcadia,” after Arcas, whom legend insists, was fathered by Zeus with Callisto.
For us and our contemporary story, however, the steeped-in-mythology-and-history Lousios provided a delicious backdrop against which we recently celebrated Janice’s birthday. We impulsively hopped through a window of opportunity to take-in this distinctive setting, a scant 3 hours drive from Athens. Passing by the Corinth Canal and Ancient Corinth of biblical fame, we chose an impromptu, overnight get-a-way. For a few, precious hours, we welcomed the simpler, mountain, village life and reflected on the meaning and mystery of life’s swiftly passing years. Although this is no travel digest, I wish you could have shared the tiny towns of stone structures, the rising and falling, beautifully bucolic landscape with goatherds, the still-evident marks of 13th century Frankish influence and the cobbled lanes, worn smooth by the steps of countless ordinary people through the centuries.
On the way home, back to our “real world” of ministry among Albanian immigrants in bustling Athens, we stopped at an ancient bridge over the Alfelos River, below the village of Karitaina. Although there is a modern viaduct, high above the river, built of concrete, asphalt and steel struts, we followed the unmarked trail, literally through the bushes, to locate the much older and long-since abandoned bridge, just above the fast-moving stream. I wanted to see it, up-close, because I had heard that, within the supports of the bridge, dating from 1439, there stands an old chapel. A picture of this old bridge appeared on the 5,000 drachma Greek note.
Although two of the original six arches of the bridge no longer survive, within one of them, near the center, indeed, there is a small worship space. Leaning back in the shade, with insects buzzing about my head and the cool water bubbling and passing swiftly beneath my feet, I reflected, for a moment, on what might cause a culture to construct a sanctuary within the superstructure of a bridge. And then, I remembered my Albanian friends, back in the city. It hit me that, at present, the precious, few Albanian believers in Athens do not have a church of their own or a place where they can worship God in their native language.
“O, God,” I prayed, “May we find a way to offer sanctuary for these pilgrims, even as their feet are wet and dirty with the crossing so many dangerous barriers and threatening boundaries. Teach us how to provide both healthy transit through transition and effective sanctuary for spiritual reflection along their immigrant journey!”