Санкт-Петербург Dispatch #2

This evening I turned off Nevsky Pr. toward the Church of Our Savior of Spilled Blood, and I understood this line, for the first time:

"You're in Russia, and more than a million works of art are being whisked out to the woods. When the Nazis find the whole place dark, they'll think God's left the museum for good."

It's late evening as I type this, and the sun is beating down like mid-afternoon. This place is anything but dark - the sun doesn't vanish at night, it just lays low. Art has returned to these streets. It may be tempting to think that God's left this city, but under bluegreen onion domes and puncturing eyes of painted saints, one cannot help but be convinced that providence still reaches this far into Europe.

((If I needed any more convincing, enough was given by the gold-shrouded priest administering some holy fluid to a sick young girl amid icons and incense at Kazansky Cathedral this evening.))

The Nazis that Gord sings of were wrong to think God leaves anywhere.

Though sometimes he is hidden, and it takes digging through cracks, crevices or walks down long prospekts to find him.