Sabbath Services at the Jerusalem Center

This morning I attended religious services at the Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies. It was a perfect day, warm and clear. I had the chance to see the amazing grounds around the Jerusalem Center for the first time in daylight. The collection of authentic olive presses was most amazing, and the view of the Old City was nothing short of spectacular. On the plaza overlooking the Old city there are a series of four bronze historical relief maps showing the Old City at 600 B.C., at just before 70 A.D., in about 600 A.D. and then in about 1500 A.D.

The services began at 10:00 a.m. The program consisted of a Russian woman speaking, translated into English by a graduate student who is living here with his family. Max then spoke, followed by a member of the branch presidency. I was privileged to administer the sacrament, using large flat, round loaves.

Chance Reunion of German Missionaries

More than thirty years ago I lived in Germany for two years as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My first assignment in Germany was in a little branch of the Church in Duisburg-Hamborn, a heavily populated area at the confluence of the Rhine and Ruhr Rivers.

This afternoon I had a mission reunion of sorts, as I was invited to have dinner with Judge Steven Swift and his lovely wife Lorraine in the vicinity of the Lukyanivska Metro station. Judge Swift currently lives in Ukraine and has also lectured this year for the Leavitt Institute. Also at dinner was a longtime friend of Judge Swift, Wilfried M. Voge. We soon discovered in our dinner conversation that the three of us--Judge Swift, Wilfried Voge and myself--all served missions in the Germany Duesseldorf Mission as young men (although Steve and Wilfried preceded me there by more than a decade). I further discovered in the course of our conversation, that Wilfried actually founded the Hamborn Branch, where I first served. We had a long pleasant conversation about Germany and, of course, Ukraine. Wilfried's wife Meka is a native Ukrainian and they have deep ties to this nation--Wilfried having served as the President of the Kyiv Ukraine Mission of the church from 1996 through 1999.

After dinner Wilfried and I walked together from the Lukyanivska district all the way to St. Michaels. It was a pleasant and unexpected reunion.

Cold and Warmth on a Snowy Sunday

It was bitterly cold as I walked through the quiet streets of Kyiv this snowy Sunday morning. There was a light dusting of snow on cobblestones and roofs, and even the birds seemed to be hunkering down for one of the last winter storms of the year. I walked past St. Michael's, St. Sophia's, Taras Shevchenko University and the park on my way to church services this morning.

I attended the fast day services at the Pecherskyi Ward of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which meets at Shota Rustaveli 16 with a small flock of Ukrainian members. The meeting was warm and inviting and I felt joyful in being among so many friendly strangers, singing and listening to the speakers. Fast day meetings include time for individual worshippers to express themselves, and during the meeting I suddenly felt the inexplicable desire to bear testimony in Russian, which I did to the delight of myself and many new friends I met this morning in the meeting. It was an incomparable experience. One of my new friends told me afterward that those in attendance could understand every word I said.

I returned to my apartment by Metro, using the old familiar Lva Tolstovo entrance for this first time this trip.

Journey Home: New York to Salt Lake City

The final leg of my journey took me on a nighttime Delta flight to Salt Lake City from JFK airport. I found myself sitting next to Elder Shtrbachka, a young man from Novisad, Serbia who is one of the first full-time LDS missionaries from that Balkan country. He will serve for the next two years in the Utah Salt Lake City North Mission. A member of the LDS Church for only nineteen months, I was impressed with his intelligence, good humor and courage.

After eating dinner on the plane, I was able to sleep for about four hours before landing in Salt Lake City just before midnight. Thus ends my journey of more than ten thousand miles.

My New Judicial Bulava

Before coming to Ukraine I had in mind bringing home some antique, or replica of something old, which I could display in my judicial chambers in the courthouse. Hence, a few days ago I visited a Russian antique vendor in a tiny underground shop near the Lva Tolstovo Metro station to try to buy an old statue. Today while browsing in the Andresyky Spusk I found just the thing--a replica of an ancient bulava ("булава" in both Russian and Ukrainian). A bulava is a ceremonial mace or baton carried by an officer of the highest military rank, and hence is a symbol of power and authority. It's historical use extends to all of the Slavic nations, but especially in Ukraine. Hence, when Ukrainian President Viktor Yuschchenko was being sworn into office he held a bulava in his right hand. My new bulava is about twenty inches long, and feels very substantial as I heft it in my hand. It has a richly carved handle, two large Ukrainian coats of arms on two sides of a block, and Kyivian crest on the other two, and a massive, bulbous head with at least nineteen spikes. It is a formidable looking thing. (I now remember that our young friend who had served an LDS mission in Donetsk told us that he brought a bulava home from Ukraine as well.) I intend to hang it up in my judicial chambers as a wonderful memento of my Ukrainian journey. (Note: It could also double as a backup defensive weapon--four or five years ago I was with a group of judges being trained by a security expert, who told us that if all else fails, we could strike an attacker from the bench with our gavels, right between the eyes.)

The Shifting Boundaries

I have always been fascinated by the boundaries of things, the margins, where vast changes in society are the most evident. It is at the boundaries where real change occurs, where the first harbingers of future societal shifts are first evident, and where the lingering remnants of the past hold on tenaciously. In my first forty-eight hours in Ukraine I have already seen the moving frontiers of change. Some examples:

Political Boundaries: In the Taras Schevshenko Park I saw an old man in full Soviet army regalia, walking through the swarms of pigeons, his hands thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat, deeply absorbed in thought. Elsewhere I have seen other trappings and memories of the recent grip of the Soviet Union on this land. This is a city with the deep imprint of the Communist past still etched on its face. Most of the buildings (including the one where I now live) are of Soviet vintage, although there appears to be a massive construction boom underway. And I suppose the nostalgia and longing for a simpler time may run deep in many hearts. In every newstand where I have browsed the Ukrainian and Russian-speaking press is filled with stories about the recent elections, and the continuing growing pains of this young democracy. I suppose that the teaching which I will present in the coming weeks is a part of those growing pains. The Constitution of Ukraine provides for the right to a trial by a jury of one's peers in a criminal case, and yet there has not been a single jury trial in Ukraine since independence.

Economic Boundaries: The chasm between rich and poor is stunning. It is seen on the streets every day, with women in chic and expensive clothing, stooping in their high heels to drop a few coins onto the knapsack of an itinerant street performer. Yesterday I took a picture of an old Soviet-era car parked on a downtown street, then as I turned I saw that the car was parked directly in front of the display window for a new Porshce 911. My driver on Friday boasted (or lamented) that 90% of the wealth of the nation is controlled by less than 5% of the people, who were smart enough, or unscrupulous enough, to seize control of it after the fall of Communism, and that the vast majority of the population live in very modest circumstances.

Language Boundaries: It is a source of endless fascination how this City apparently operates with two parallel languages--Russian and Ukrainian. I understand that the eastern, heavily populated region of Ukraine is predominantly Russian speaking, that the west half, and the rural areas are predominantly Ukrainian speaking. Here it is a very confusing mixture. It is especially bewildering for someone like me, with a moderate understanding of Russian, because the printed or spoken word all around me may be from moment to moment, Russian, Ukrainian or some bizarre mixture of the two. For example, today I attended Church in the little Mormon Ward in downtown Kyiv. The Church sign in the lobby was in Ukrainain, the church hymns in the Sacrament Meeting were sung in Ukrainian by the entire congregation, the speakers from the pulpit were about half Ukrainian and half Russian speaking, and in a scripture class which I attended, the teacher, who had books for class members would ask, "Do you want Russian or Ukrainian?" I can imagine that even greater changes in language may be in store in future generations, especially should Ukraine continue its definite trajectory away from the Russian influence and toward the European.

Religious Boundaries: There appears to me to be a deep piety and spirituality about most of the Ukrainians I have met. You could almost feel this tangibly as I walked the streets of the City from Friday night to Sunday morning. The City is very vibrant and alive, and yet on Sunday there is a marked change in the posture, attitude and even conversation of the people which I attribute to a deep religiosity in the hearts of most of the people. I have not yet had a chance to make my pilgrimages to the great Orthodox sites in the City, but I did attend, as I have said, the small religious services of the tiny Mormon congregation here. There I was the only Westerner present except for some young missionaries from Europe or North America). The Mormon congregation is lead by a Bishop, who is native Ukrainian and who joined his new religion within the past ten years. This is true of the entire congregation, and I was amazed to see not only young families, but many single men and women in their early twenties, many teenagers, and most surprisingly, a good number of older men and women of perhaps sixty, seventy or eighty years of age.

Holed Up in the Snowstorm

There was a light snowfall here overnight. I got up this morning and attended Church from 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., and emerged on the street to find myself in a real blizzard. I returned home immediately, and have been holed up here ever since. I have spoken two or three times by telephone this weekend to Olga. She had traveled out of the City yesterday to tend to the property at her Dacha, but was prevented from working too long because of yesterday's heavy rains. She also reports to me that this afternoon her large apartment building in the City experienced a blackout. She seemed very concerned to find out if I am okay, if I have food and if I have heat. Tomorrow will be an interesting adventure as I travel in this weather to my first teaching assignment at the Академії адвокатури України (Academy of Advocates).

Losing--and Finding--My Key

This afternoon I had one of the most frightening--and then enlightening--experiences of my life. After taking a two hour nap and then doing some writing, I decided to walk up to the Litera bookstore, and then to try to find the site of the little Mormon meetinghouse on Rustevelli, where I hoped to attend on Sunday with a Russian speaking congregation. I left the apartment at about 4:30. It was already dark outside and raining heavily. This time I took an umbrella from the apartment and did quite well in the rain. On the way to the bookstore I stopped at a boot shop where they advertised for currency exchanges. I exchanged another hundred dollars into griven, getting 505.10 in the exchange. I then went to the bookstore and browsed for an hour or so, but did not buy anything. When I left the bookstore, it was raining harder than ever, with rivers of water running down the sidewalk, the sidewalks full of people, and the vehicle traffic very heavy. I walked down past the Mormon meetinghouse location, although I had forgotten the exact directions and address, but just walked in the general area. I then presently found myself lost again, this time in the rain and in the dark. One of the frustrating things about navigating the city is the lack of clearly marked street signs. The best approximation I have found is to read the signs above doorways, which often have the street name, although this is not always foolproof, because the names have changed over the years. I have seen three different names, for example, of the street on which my apartment sits. But in any event, I wandered in a circle, always turning left and never crossing a street, and presently found my way back home, this time winding up on the side of the street where the McDonalds sits. Being hungry and deciding against trying to find another restaurant in the dark and rain, I walked up to the express window, kind of a pedestrian version of the drive-through, and ordered my dinner to take home with me.

Here is the remarkable part of my story. I entered the apartment building, walked up the four flights of stairs to my door--and couldn't find my house key. I had put it in my front right pocket, next to my little velcro wallet in which I put my Ukrainian currency. It just wasn't there. I put down my umbrella, took off my coat and searched every pocket I have about four times--my coat pockets, all four of my pants pockets, including the little coin pocket on the right, my velcro wallet, and my hidden passport and money pouch. My key just wasn't there. It was then that the gravity of my situation presented itself. I realized that I had not taken the cell phone with me which has all of the numbers programmed into it, including Olga's number. It occurred to me that while Olga has a spare key to the apartment, I had no idea how to contact her and I didn't know where she lived. Also, I remembered that she was out of town today at her country Dacha. The only phone number I had was on a business card which the driver, Yuri, had left me, but I had no idea where he was or whether he could even help me get a key. I also realized that all of the phone booths I had seen took not coins but calling cards, and I had no idea how to buy one, let alone who to call if I could, and how to communicate the intricacy of my situation with Russian or Ukrainian speaking strangers.

It suddenly dawned on me that I was in deep trouble. I don't know how religious the readers of this entry are, or what shape their innermost beliefs may take, but for me, in this circumstance, I said a private and sincere prayer for help in finding my key. I then decided that as crazy as it seemed, I would go back outside and try to retrace my steps--over sidewalks streaming in rain water--to the currency exchange booth in the boot shop, to all four floors of Litera, the bookstore, past the Mormon Church, through the neighborhood where I had become lost, and finally to McDonald's and its express window. I collected my coat and umbrella, walked down the four flights of stairs and onto the bottom level to go out into the rain to search.

As I rounded the corridor corner and was about to step outside of the iron door and into the street I heard a little metalic clink. I looked down as my key fell and bounced on the floor at my feet. I have no idea where it had been. Perhaps lodged in my scarf, in my glove, in the folds of my coat. Perhaps I kicked it as I rounded the corner. Or perhaps it was just placed there for me in answer to my prayer. In any event I was profoundly grateful, and moved almost to tears.

This experience affected me on various levels. The reader will forgive me if I draw an analogy between my little experience and what I am trying to accomplish here in Ukraine. The Ukrainian people are in many ways now a people wandering in the dark, out in the world, trying to find the entrance to a future of freedom and stability in the face of host of dangers. And without the key to that freedom, they are in a frighteningly lost state. One key for them, of course, which swings the door wide open to a free society, is the jury trial. To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson:

I consider trial by jury as the only key ever yet imagined by man,

by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution.

My hope is that I and others can help the Ukrainian people to find and possess that key forever.

Getting Up To Speed in Russian

In 1978, at age 21, I enrolled as the equivalent of a first quarter freshman at the University of Utah after spending two years as a volunteer missionary for the Mormon Church in Germany. The first class I registered for was Russian 101. The desire to learn Russian was first kindled in Germany when I met many Russian refugees from the former Soviet Union. I studied Russian for two years, attaining an average reading ability and a mediocre conversational capacity. In 1980 I was making preparations to spend a semester at Moscow State University when I met my present wife, fell in love and became engaged. That was the end of my formal Russian studies. I ultimately earned a bachelors degree in History and then a law degree. And I let my Russian languish.

I briefly took up the study of Russian again in about 1990 when my family and I sponsored a number of Russian immigrants to the United States.

Since accepting the invitation to teach in Ukraine this November, I have recommenced my study of Russian in earnest. My chief tools have been Rosetta Stone's Russian learning tool and the wonderful help of a Russian tutor, Tatyana, who has come to our house once a week since August to help me get back up to speed. Tatyana grew up in Dniepropetrovsk, and is fluent in both Russian and Ukrainian (and probably other languages she is too modest to mention). She is married now, and living in Salt Lake City, working and attending school. Her English is better than mine, I think. I have made better conversational progress with Tatyana's help than I did in two years of University Russian. I have also listened regularly to the Voice of America in Russian. She has also helped me to improve my grammer, my pronunciation (especially of that most simple word, это--Tatyana pointed out that I was inexplicably pronouncing a rolling "R" when saying the word) as well as Russian jokes and proverbs.


Also, I had a pleasant visit one evening with the suitor of one of our daughter's friends, who recently served a mission in the Ukraine Donetsk Mission of the LDS Church. He taught me such important information as, how to shop in the massive marketplace, or Рынок. He also taught me several little proverbs, such as "У матросов, нет вопросов." (Among the sailors, no questions).