The chapel was filling gradually, slowly (Greek time as we call the disregard for the clock), some stopping to light a candle and place it with others then stooping to kiss the framed icon before taking a seat. The two front rows on either side were reserved for 'memorial families'. My only living brother, his wife and I were there at 9:50 and waited for the mnimosino service to start at 10 AM, as congregates flowed in steadily. On the left stood the motley crew of choir, some in Aegean blue robes with yellow trim in the back, some in street clothes, one woman with her young son, about eight, by her side.
The priest usually spoke with his back turned away, visible through the door in the center of a wall of religious figures, a couple of them doors through which the altar boys passed. To the right were two trays of 'koliva', one in memory of my brother and the other for another family. Apparently, if you are Greek Orthodox, your soul wanders in limbo for 40 days until a priest mumbles a ritual that cleanses it of earthly sins and sends it along to Heaven. Nothing is mentioned of any other route to the hereafter, suggesting it is a sure thing you will get to Heaven if you go to church and do this.
As the priest chanted and read into the mike, a Cantor, sounding like an audio tape being played backwards, echoed him randomly. The choir dropped a 'kyrie elaison' now and then. The congregates seemed to know when to rise, cross themselves, or sit down again. Tediously, each section was given successively in Greek then English. As more candles were being lit, consuming more of the oxygen, the priest then walked around the chapel shaking the smoke from incense burner until those of us with compromised lungs were left coughing and struggling to breathe. After one hour, the smoke was so thick I believe I did stop breathing and coughed constantly for the second, unbelievably tortured hour. The choir chanted a frequent 'allelujah'.
Apparently time stands still in religion. I heard the priest say, "The Apostle Paul said today in his epistles....". I wondered why the church was still making the air unhealthy with the candles and incense, stuck in their time warp of parables and fiction. This day's reading was the parable of Lazarus from the Gospel of St. Luke, again given in two languages...the parable of the great reversal of riches in life. (Lazarus means God's help, we were told). His poverty ended with God, in Heaven. While in Greece the government has traditionally taken on the major expense of the church, in America the congregates shoulder the entire burden, making the plight of Lazarus easier with which to identify.
After 70 minutes, the liturgy repeated in both languages, the Lord's prayer said multiple times over, people knelt though there were no kneeling pads. As a child in the church I was taught that one of the distinctions between Orthodoxy and Catholicism, is that we didn't kneel. At this point I felt as pained as someone being water-boarded and would have confessed to any sins just to be out of there. This was not to be. The church was full of small children, speaking in that loud voice in which the deaf and small children do. As I wondered why the parents had them here, I saw it was communion day for them. We sat as they filed up to the priest, who held the same red napkin for all of them to breathe and drool onto, as he popped a demitasse spoonful of wine in their mouth. This was followed by the chaser, a square inch cube of bread. Any adult, wishing to receive communion, was next. We went back to the getting up, sitting down, making the sign of the cross, with an occasional kneel for variation.
As the priest now stood before the two trays of Koliva, an altar boy coughed, trying to hold the incense burner for the priest whose hands were busy blessing the koliva. The incense smoke rose to the altar boy's face so he held it away from his body. I smiled as it blew into the face of the priest, who then also began to cough.
The word 'dead' was never spoken, only 'those who have fallen asleep'. I longed for the religious equivalent of Mr. Clean, fast-acting and thorough, to cleanse one of the 'earthly sins'. It was not to be had. After two hours, the priest pronounced the two being memorialized were now without sin and sang Omonia, with the choir, or Memories, which had been sung ad nauseum at the funeral a few weeks before. The service ended with local announcement and news before the two plates were passed, one for the church and one for the ladies society. People filed forward to kiss the hand of the priest and receive a cube of bread. This must have been sinner's communion for not having fasted. I finally had enough. Two full hours of my life had been wasted. Amidst glares, I walked to the end of the pew and escaped out of the chapel muttering, "I'll be damned if I will kiss a priest's hand". Who knows, maybe I will be, but will I know why, when or where?
The priest usually spoke with his back turned away, visible through the door in the center of a wall of religious figures, a couple of them doors through which the altar boys passed. To the right were two trays of 'koliva', one in memory of my brother and the other for another family. Apparently, if you are Greek Orthodox, your soul wanders in limbo for 40 days until a priest mumbles a ritual that cleanses it of earthly sins and sends it along to Heaven. Nothing is mentioned of any other route to the hereafter, suggesting it is a sure thing you will get to Heaven if you go to church and do this.
As the priest chanted and read into the mike, a Cantor, sounding like an audio tape being played backwards, echoed him randomly. The choir dropped a 'kyrie elaison' now and then. The congregates seemed to know when to rise, cross themselves, or sit down again. Tediously, each section was given successively in Greek then English. As more candles were being lit, consuming more of the oxygen, the priest then walked around the chapel shaking the smoke from incense burner until those of us with compromised lungs were left coughing and struggling to breathe. After one hour, the smoke was so thick I believe I did stop breathing and coughed constantly for the second, unbelievably tortured hour. The choir chanted a frequent 'allelujah'.
Apparently time stands still in religion. I heard the priest say, "The Apostle Paul said today in his epistles....". I wondered why the church was still making the air unhealthy with the candles and incense, stuck in their time warp of parables and fiction. This day's reading was the parable of Lazarus from the Gospel of St. Luke, again given in two languages...the parable of the great reversal of riches in life. (Lazarus means God's help, we were told). His poverty ended with God, in Heaven. While in Greece the government has traditionally taken on the major expense of the church, in America the congregates shoulder the entire burden, making the plight of Lazarus easier with which to identify.
After 70 minutes, the liturgy repeated in both languages, the Lord's prayer said multiple times over, people knelt though there were no kneeling pads. As a child in the church I was taught that one of the distinctions between Orthodoxy and Catholicism, is that we didn't kneel. At this point I felt as pained as someone being water-boarded and would have confessed to any sins just to be out of there. This was not to be. The church was full of small children, speaking in that loud voice in which the deaf and small children do. As I wondered why the parents had them here, I saw it was communion day for them. We sat as they filed up to the priest, who held the same red napkin for all of them to breathe and drool onto, as he popped a demitasse spoonful of wine in their mouth. This was followed by the chaser, a square inch cube of bread. Any adult, wishing to receive communion, was next. We went back to the getting up, sitting down, making the sign of the cross, with an occasional kneel for variation.
As the priest now stood before the two trays of Koliva, an altar boy coughed, trying to hold the incense burner for the priest whose hands were busy blessing the koliva. The incense smoke rose to the altar boy's face so he held it away from his body. I smiled as it blew into the face of the priest, who then also began to cough.
The word 'dead' was never spoken, only 'those who have fallen asleep'. I longed for the religious equivalent of Mr. Clean, fast-acting and thorough, to cleanse one of the 'earthly sins'. It was not to be had. After two hours, the priest pronounced the two being memorialized were now without sin and sang Omonia, with the choir, or Memories, which had been sung ad nauseum at the funeral a few weeks before. The service ended with local announcement and news before the two plates were passed, one for the church and one for the ladies society. People filed forward to kiss the hand of the priest and receive a cube of bread. This must have been sinner's communion for not having fasted. I finally had enough. Two full hours of my life had been wasted. Amidst glares, I walked to the end of the pew and escaped out of the chapel muttering, "I'll be damned if I will kiss a priest's hand". Who knows, maybe I will be, but will I know why, when or where?
2 comments:
After reading many of your journal entries, I remain envious at your ability to express your feelings. It takes me a long time to figure out how I feel about many situations. It may be because I spend too much time rationalizing.
Thanks, Harriet. My 'big mouth', as it has often been called, has not always received positive comments.
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