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 The copper plate
Today, I'm going to think about that which is true
By Mark Dankof
June 18, 2002
The Iranian
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right,
whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent
or praiseworthy -- think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received
or heard from me, or seen in me -- put it into practice. And the God of peace will
be with you.
-- St. Paul in his letter to the Philippians, chapter 4: 8-9
Biblical anthropology assures us that the condition of sin is one which is pervasive
in all of humanity (Romans 5: 12f). There are assuredly many manifestations of sin
in this cosmos and in our individual lives, but two which especially come to mind
in the midst of the aftermath of the events of September 11, 2001 are first, the
egregious tendency to focus upon that which is ignoble, evil, impure, hateful, and
even clinically demonic.
The second manifestation is related to the first -- that as the focus of our thoughts
becomes despairingly dark, those things that are tangible evidence of Christ's love
in our midst are simultaneously ignored or missed altogether.
My nights are often filled as of late with sleeplessness and concern over the future.
One night after leaving work at midnight, I treated myself to a mile's walk with
my long-haired Dachshund, operating under the assumption that this night trek in
the colder air of Philadelphia's pervasive autumn would create an aura conducive
to fitful rest.
 The assumption proved erroneous. After the walk came
almost three hours in bed, fully awake, alternating the obligatory tossing and turning
with prolonged stares at the characterless ceiling of my basement apartment.
In this condition, my mind repristinated the images seen the previous day in the
national and international media, snapshots of death, suffering, mass murder, economic
dislocation, crumbling infrastructure, and promises of future atrocities yet to come
against innocents both here in America and abroad. I could not turn it off.
About 3: 15 a.m. I decided to watch a foreign film purchased recently at Barnes and
Noble, a 1998 Iranian film with English subtitles, entitled "Children
of Heaven". It is simply a marvelous film, the story of a poor Iranian working
class family, with special focus on a young boy, Ali, and his sister, Zahir, and
what transpires after the former accidentally loses his sister's shoes subsequent
to a trip to the cobbler on her behalf.
I will elaborate no further on the plot, in case you wish to see it, but will
emphasize that at the end of two hours, my mind was no longer occupied with thoughts
of terror, suffering, and national disaster.
I was, finally, attuned to St. Paul's admonition in Philippians 4, thinking about
that which is "true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy."
For this I thanked God and two Iranian children, neither of whom I have ever met.
I was still unable to sleep. The reason this time was the incessant mental image
of a copper plate ensconced in the storage locker of my apartment. I had procured
it a over a quarter of a century ago as a young man in Iran, from an Iranian Jewish
entrepreneur who ran a copper and brass shop on Saltanatabad Avenue in north Tehran.
The scenes from "Children
of Heaven" continued to remind me of my self-imposed promises to polish
and clean the plate for display in my study, as a reminder of better times in my
life and in the world at large. I decided spontaneously, at 5:30 a.m., to retrieve
the plate and to resurrect its condition.
I felt dyspeptic when the plate retrieval proved to be a brutal reminder of my own
failure to provide adequate care for something special that was connected to a past
life in a place I'd not be likely to ever see again. The dilapidated, oxidized condition
of the plate seemed to be irreversible, the past beauty of the copper past redemption
and resurrection. What it had been, and what I had allowed it to become, pierced
me.
I knew that the sole responsibility for discarding its beauty, and the memories
attached to it, was mine. The Law of Paul and Luther had convicted me once more of
the sin of irresponsibility, ungratefulness, the failure to love and to care. Duly
pronounced guilty under the Law, I decided to begin the potentially fruitless attempt
at a new beginning -- with two bottles of Brasso, a pile of cleaning rags, and as
much physical application and mental concentration as could be mustered in a desperate
attempt to recover the beauty of my plate. And the memories attached to its past--and
to mine.
Over time and with excruciating effort, I managed to restore enough of the luster
of the plate to restore a reflective image of myself. Being sufficiently encouraged,
my polishing efforts were redoubled. As I worked incessantly, in the context of an
ongoing encounter with my own visual image reflected in the improving bronze hue
of the engraved Persian copper, my mind began to travel in a linear reversal, to
an idyllic summer 27 years ago.
I was suddenly 19 years old again, visiting my American parents in Iran. It was
a time before the storm of revolution and hostage-taking, a time to learn about an
ancient and Biblical land, and to spend weekends in quiet time with God.
The first night vision pertained to a place called Lar Valley. At night, one sees
not individual constellations, but entire galaxies with the naked eye. It is entirely
still, except for the constant flow of the river which runs through it. I do not
know if the 14th century Persian poet had this hauntingly beautiful, surreal place
in mind when he wrote:
Lie down beside the flowing stream
And see life passing by and know
That of the world's transient nature
This one sign is enough for us.
The second night vision, as I polished the plate, returned me to old Armenia, now
Azerbaijan Iran. I was again a pilgrim to the Armenian Festival of St. Thaddeus and
to the Church of St. Stephanos. A man I had not known, and would never see again,
encountered me on a narrow pathway through the mountains as I walked alone toward
a higher plateau for a better view of the encampment and the festival below.
He evidenced no understanding of my greeting and address in American English,
but smiled, raised his right hand in greeting, and then used the same right hand
to retrieve something from his pocket. He offered it to me and clasped my right hand
with both of his own. I felt a metal object pressed into my right palm. Later that
night at the camp, I would be told that the man had given me a "Cross of the
Persian Christians."
The third night vision brought me to Pasargadae and to the tomb of Cyrus the Great,
who inaugurated the era of the Achaemenid kings of ancient Persia, the zenith of
the glory of Persia past. In this vision of the night I am standing on the Dasht-e
Morghab, the plain of Pasargadae. The tomb stands alone in the midst of a starkly
barren plain; the steps up to it are about five feet wide with the tomb chamber itself
rising from six distinctive tiers.
There is a single, narrow doorway on the northwest side. In my hands are the Old
Testament book of Ezra where I am now heard reading the opening verses of this text,
against the backdrop of the sounds of a moderate, steady desert wind and the accompanying
displacement of particles of dust and dirt moving across the landscape, some of which
strike the tomb edifice and me as I stand before it. My voice echoes the text which
says:
In the first year of Cyrus king of Persia, in order to fulfill the word of the
Lord spoken by Jeremiah, the Lord moved the heart of Cyrus king of Persia to make
a proclamation throughout his realm and to put it in writing:
"This is what Cyrus king of Persia says: ėThe Lord, the God of heaven, has given
me all the kingdoms of the earth and he has appointed me to build a temple for him
at Jerusalem in Judah. Anyone of his people among you--may his God be with him, and
let him go up to Jerusalem in Judah and build the temple of the Lord, the God of
Israel, the God who is in Jerusalem. And the people of any place where survivors
may now be living are to provide him with silver and gold, with goods and livestock,
and with freewill offerings for the temple of God in Jerusalem."
This scene quickly fades from view. I am now transported to the fourth and final
night vision of twenty seven years ago in the mysterious, linear reversal of time.
I am once again in the Conversational English language school in downtown Tehran.
My job is an easy one--to repeat sentences and phrases in American English for two
hours. The students range in age from about thirteen to thirty. Many of the names
and the faces in this classroom are now flooding back.
Out of all of these, I see the young woman who always sits in the front row, directly
in front of my podium and chalkboard. She wears the chador to the class each evening,
and does not remove it once inside the room. Her face, however, is unveiled and fully
visible. Her eyes are vast, all encompassing, and all knowing. Her smile is radiant.
I now remember her intelligence, which seems to border on a penetrating omniscience.
 But the most striking facet is this -- that the outward
appearance of pristine beauty and purity is also internally real. This is the mystery
and the attraction. The outside and the inside of the "cup and dish" are
both clean (Matthew 23: 25-26). This I shall remember always.
The night vision continues. The principal of the school, Mr. [name withheld by author]
, has consented to something controversial. The last hour of the last class for the
week will be a time when the students may ask me questions in English about myself,
my family, my history, and my belief system. He confesses that he is nervous about
this exercise, just as he recognizes its value and its inevitability in the context
of the Western classroom. After all, his students are striving to get a university
education in America or Britain.
Using the classroom this way is a new, vital, but potentially dangerous thing.
He trusts me to handle political and theological questions with the greatest of care.
I now recognize that this man does, in fact, trust me. His future as principal is
now in my hands. The hour is a delightful one and Mr. [ ] knows at the conclusion
that all has gone well. His students conclude their week in great joy. Mr. [ ] concludes
his week in both joy and palpable relief. Our mutual trust is reaffirmed.
In the final sequence of this fourth night vision, I am arriving at the classroom
early. It is the first session since the students' elicitation of my biography under
Mr. [ ] watchful supervision. There is a plain, but unmarked box on the podium, accompanied
by a plain envelope with the uncertain printing of my full name on the front.
My instinct tells me to place them in a hidden compartment underneath the podium
surface, where I will retrieve them and take them home at the conclusion of the evening
class. More students have now arrived. The rote recitations and guided memorizations
begin. The young woman in the chador is in her usual location. The source of the
box and the envelope now dawns on me.
The fourth night vision concludes with a reading. I am alone in my bedroom in my
parents' apartment in north Tehran. There is a letter inside the envelope, which
is now unfolded and read. It says:
July 10, 1974
Dear Mr. Mark Dankhof [sic]:
I am glad that you come to us as teacher. I am glad that the IIAF [Imperial Iranian
Air Force] sends you here for this summer. Mr. [ ] says you will come back each summer
now and teach here. He likes you. My friends like you. I like you. I pray you will
not tell Mr. [ ] about my writing.
I am glad Mr. [ ] lets me ask you about your God. It is a hard understanding about
how your God is both one and three. And His Son is a Son and is also God. This is
a hard understanding. I never hear of the Martin Luther from Germany. If I find his
understanding, I find your understanding My father is IIAF officer. He says your
father helps Iran's people, makes us the strong.
You have your writings. I have Koran, Hadith, and Ejma. I am Shiite. I have twelve
Imam. The way from Mohammed is though [sic] daughter Fatima and son in law Ali. Ali
is First Imam. I believe in Twelfth Imam, too. He is gone a long time. He will come.
He will bring the Justice. All the leaders wait for Him.
You know Hoseyn? He is Third Imam, Son of Ali, Grandson of Prophet Mohammed. He does
the suffer and death of your Jesus at Karbala. It is in Iraq. British teacher teaches
it as Moharram, 680 your date, the ten day after.
Your Jesus--has He the First Imam, the Third Imam, the Twelfth Imam? I find your
understanding.
My box has book of Hafez, Rumi, Ferdowski [sic], Sadi, Jami.
Your [sic] learn please about Sufis. We are pure, clean, and love the people and
God. We join with Him.
There is no God but Allah, Mohammed is His Prophet, Ali is his Assistant. British
teacher shows me to write this.
I am your Student. Signed, [name withheld by author].
The mystery of 27 years duration is simply this. How does the woman in the chador
know the date of my birthday? Is my student employment file with IIAF this wide open?
She is indeed Pure, in Union with God, Omniscient, and, as Erasmus would have said,
Knows the Sources. I shall not forget her.
 The pungent odor of Brasso finally ends the labor of
love and the night visions. It is now early dawn. The rags are piled virtually to
knee level. My reflected image in the hue of burnished bronze is definitive. The
storage room door bursts open. My wife is in the doorway.
She asks, "What on earth are you doing in here? It's seven a.m. How long
have you been in here?" My reply is an honest and simple one. "I finished
cleaning my copper plate. I reclaimed it as mine." She then asked, "Is
it time for me to turn on your Internet news sites or the news on television?"
"Neither," I replied with inner satisfaction. "Today, I'm going to
think about that which is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent,
and praiseworthy. And the God of peace will be with us."
Author
Mark Dankof is a Lutheran pastor pursuing post-graduate study at Westminster
Theological Seminary in Philadelphia. In 2000, he was the Constitution Party candidate
for U. S. Senate in Delaware. An occasional correspondent with the orthodox Lutheran
weekly, Christian News, he has an upcoming review of "Seeds of Fire,"
the inside story of September 11 penned by internationally renowned author Gordon
Thomas (Dandelion Books). The review will also be carried by Bill Topel's www.freedomwriter.com. Pastor Dankof
can be reached through his web site at www.MarkDankof.com.
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The copper plate
