A Week Later
For those of you with Facebook, baptism pics are here. Those of you without Facebook may be able to view them as well, or you can get access if you want it by emailing me.
My music history professor in college once said, "During the Christmas season, you can't swing a dead cat and not hit a Messiah performance." That's pretty much how constant church services were during Holy Week. There were morning and evening services until Thursday. (Then it got even busier!) Thursday evening was the first one I managed to get to. I'm so glad I did.
Because of the packed schedule, or because of tradition, or both, everything got shifted several hours earlier. We were all terminally time warped, because Thursday night was acting like some time Friday.
The atmosphere was hushed and solemn. The readings cycled through the Gospels, telling the story of the last hours leading up to the crucifixion. Each part of the story was read as told by each of the Gospels (though I couldn't tell if they were using all four, and I know Mark is much shorter on details than the others). With each reading, the tension grew. It began to seem as though we were there. There was the High Priest. Judas threw back the silver and hanged himself. Pilate's wife had a dream. Matthew. Mark. Luke. John. Each contributed their voice; each added to the mosaic of the experience. The crowds shouted, "Crucify him!" over and over and over again, because as soon as that section was read in one gospel, there were more prayers, then the next gospel told its part of the story.
Finally, Father Patrick emerged through one of the doors in the iconostasis. He was literally stumbling beneath the unwieldy weight of the cross which usually stands in the front corner of the nave, but which he was carrying, the crossbeam supported on his shoulder. The height of the door combined with his height plus that of the cross made it impossible for him to go through the door without great effort. His back and knees were bent at frightful angles. The effect of that alone was intense.
Hymns were being sung quietly, though I don't have a clear memory of what happened when. Once the cross was in the nave and laid out on the floor, though, from somewhere appeared the figure of Jesus, which Father proceeded to place on the cross.
The deacon handed him a nail. The nail was put in place. The mallet drove the nail into the wood. Three times they did this, each strike of the mallet more jarring than the one before.
I wish I could capture in words the profound difference between this and any other attempt I've seen of telling the story. It's been a few years since I've watched The Passion of the Christ on Good Friday, but even that leaves a screen between the viewer and the action. There's still an escape in the remote control. Not one incarnation of Stations of the Cross has been so painfully real. I've often commented at Easter that I felt as though I was missing something, that some depth of meaning was eluding me. I finally found it there, quite literally, at the foot of the cross, for that was where I was kneeling.
Great and Holy Friday began with my phone playing "Der Erlkönig." It was my mom, wondering when they should arrive at the baptism and what to wear. That they were coming was good news, indeed.
The three services for Friday are all run together in my memory. At some point, it may have even been Thursday night, Jesus was taken down from the cross and placed with great ceremony on the bier that had taken front and center. The icon, of woven cloth rather than painted wood, of Christ's burial was placed there as well. There was yet another procession, this one with the woven burial icon, which we all walked under as we re-entered the nave.
The Friday night vigil began after vespers, which was the afternoon service. People took turns reading the Psalter. In theory, the whole thing was read. They stopped for Saturday matins (which was held Friday evening), then carried on again through the night. A couple brave adults and most of the older kids spent Friday night this way.
I arrived at church at 8:15 Saturday morning. Father Patrick had gone over the basic idea with me, so I knew what I needed to do. At that point, what I needed to do was wait, and not go into the nave. Eventually I was steered to stand with Pam just inside the doors. My godmother and I stood there, facing Father Patrick and the deacon.
They started with prayers to get rid of any demons. I had been told this was coming and thought it sounded a bit freaky, but it really wasn't. Then Pam and I faced west- everything else is east- to renounce the devil. There was a part where we were supposed to spit on Satan. That was a little weird. Then we recited the creed, and finally I could go inside.
The service was a vesperal liturgy, meaning it was liturgy, starting with vespers, and therefore really long. Thus the time warp was still in place, for we were doing Saturday night at not quite 9 am.
There were fifteen readings prophesying the resurrection. I am not sure I heard any of them, because the elements of the service that directly involved me were happening at the same time. While Father Patrick and Deacon John went through the prayers and such to prepare the water for baptism, the altar boys struggled to stay awake, for they had participated in the vigil.
There was a great deal of incense, which means much jingling of bells as well. Father Patrick poured oil on the water in the form of a cross. Three crosses, in fact. Then he put oil on my forehead, eyelids, ears, hands, and feet. I suddenly realized I was really going to need a shower later. By that point, I was all a-jitter. It may have been nerves or excitement, or perhaps a bit of both.
Finally the big moment arrived, and I was ushered over to the water. I stepped in to find that the water was warm. I dropped to my knees, then Father Patrick, with his hand on the back of my head, pretty much pushed me under. Face first. I came up gasping for air only to go back under again, and then a third time. I am a bit neurotic about being under water, so there was just a hint of panic in there, but eventually I felt sufficiently oxygenated, and I calmed down.
Shortly after I changed into dry clothes, the six of us were chrismated. More oil! Again, this time with a stylus, the sign of the cross was placed on my forehead, eyelids, each side of my nose, earlobes, the front and back of the base of my neck, back and palm of each hand, and top of each foot. With each cross Father Patrick said something about being sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. I don't remember the exact words, though I heard them plenty. With each declaration from Father, the rest of the congregation repeated, "Seal!" The other five went through the same process, each of us with our sponsors/godparents standing close at hand. That corner of the room was a wee bit crowded, but it was convenient. When the last of us was sealed, he pulled all twelve into a huddle to tell us that we were now Orthodox Christians, full members of the community that we've each come to call home. (And there was much rejoicing!)
The liturgy was drawing to a close. Deacon John intoned, "With fear of God and faith and love draw near." At long last, the moment I'd been waiting for for months-- Holy Communion, and I could finally participate! In fact, the protocol is that I go first, not just Saturday, but every liturgy for forty days.
Two more things happened during the service. Father Patrick took a sponge full of water and, having thrown copious amounts of water at his six new Orthodox Christians, proceeded to sponge off all those oily crosses. Then, near the end, I was tonsured. This involved scissors, four small clumps of hair, and a candle. Father Patrick cut a bit of hair from front, back, and each side of my head, then burned it. It smelled, and I have no idea what it means.
To be continued...
----------------
Now playing: Casting Crowns - Who Am I (Live)
via FoxyTunes
My music history professor in college once said, "During the Christmas season, you can't swing a dead cat and not hit a Messiah performance." That's pretty much how constant church services were during Holy Week. There were morning and evening services until Thursday. (Then it got even busier!) Thursday evening was the first one I managed to get to. I'm so glad I did.
Because of the packed schedule, or because of tradition, or both, everything got shifted several hours earlier. We were all terminally time warped, because Thursday night was acting like some time Friday.
The atmosphere was hushed and solemn. The readings cycled through the Gospels, telling the story of the last hours leading up to the crucifixion. Each part of the story was read as told by each of the Gospels (though I couldn't tell if they were using all four, and I know Mark is much shorter on details than the others). With each reading, the tension grew. It began to seem as though we were there. There was the High Priest. Judas threw back the silver and hanged himself. Pilate's wife had a dream. Matthew. Mark. Luke. John. Each contributed their voice; each added to the mosaic of the experience. The crowds shouted, "Crucify him!" over and over and over again, because as soon as that section was read in one gospel, there were more prayers, then the next gospel told its part of the story.
Finally, Father Patrick emerged through one of the doors in the iconostasis. He was literally stumbling beneath the unwieldy weight of the cross which usually stands in the front corner of the nave, but which he was carrying, the crossbeam supported on his shoulder. The height of the door combined with his height plus that of the cross made it impossible for him to go through the door without great effort. His back and knees were bent at frightful angles. The effect of that alone was intense.
Hymns were being sung quietly, though I don't have a clear memory of what happened when. Once the cross was in the nave and laid out on the floor, though, from somewhere appeared the figure of Jesus, which Father proceeded to place on the cross.
The deacon handed him a nail. The nail was put in place. The mallet drove the nail into the wood. Three times they did this, each strike of the mallet more jarring than the one before.
I wish I could capture in words the profound difference between this and any other attempt I've seen of telling the story. It's been a few years since I've watched The Passion of the Christ on Good Friday, but even that leaves a screen between the viewer and the action. There's still an escape in the remote control. Not one incarnation of Stations of the Cross has been so painfully real. I've often commented at Easter that I felt as though I was missing something, that some depth of meaning was eluding me. I finally found it there, quite literally, at the foot of the cross, for that was where I was kneeling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Great and Holy Friday began with my phone playing "Der Erlkönig." It was my mom, wondering when they should arrive at the baptism and what to wear. That they were coming was good news, indeed.
The three services for Friday are all run together in my memory. At some point, it may have even been Thursday night, Jesus was taken down from the cross and placed with great ceremony on the bier that had taken front and center. The icon, of woven cloth rather than painted wood, of Christ's burial was placed there as well. There was yet another procession, this one with the woven burial icon, which we all walked under as we re-entered the nave.
The Friday night vigil began after vespers, which was the afternoon service. People took turns reading the Psalter. In theory, the whole thing was read. They stopped for Saturday matins (which was held Friday evening), then carried on again through the night. A couple brave adults and most of the older kids spent Friday night this way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I arrived at church at 8:15 Saturday morning. Father Patrick had gone over the basic idea with me, so I knew what I needed to do. At that point, what I needed to do was wait, and not go into the nave. Eventually I was steered to stand with Pam just inside the doors. My godmother and I stood there, facing Father Patrick and the deacon.
They started with prayers to get rid of any demons. I had been told this was coming and thought it sounded a bit freaky, but it really wasn't. Then Pam and I faced west- everything else is east- to renounce the devil. There was a part where we were supposed to spit on Satan. That was a little weird. Then we recited the creed, and finally I could go inside.
The service was a vesperal liturgy, meaning it was liturgy, starting with vespers, and therefore really long. Thus the time warp was still in place, for we were doing Saturday night at not quite 9 am.
There were fifteen readings prophesying the resurrection. I am not sure I heard any of them, because the elements of the service that directly involved me were happening at the same time. While Father Patrick and Deacon John went through the prayers and such to prepare the water for baptism, the altar boys struggled to stay awake, for they had participated in the vigil.
There was a great deal of incense, which means much jingling of bells as well. Father Patrick poured oil on the water in the form of a cross. Three crosses, in fact. Then he put oil on my forehead, eyelids, ears, hands, and feet. I suddenly realized I was really going to need a shower later. By that point, I was all a-jitter. It may have been nerves or excitement, or perhaps a bit of both.
Finally the big moment arrived, and I was ushered over to the water. I stepped in to find that the water was warm. I dropped to my knees, then Father Patrick, with his hand on the back of my head, pretty much pushed me under. Face first. I came up gasping for air only to go back under again, and then a third time. I am a bit neurotic about being under water, so there was just a hint of panic in there, but eventually I felt sufficiently oxygenated, and I calmed down.
Shortly after I changed into dry clothes, the six of us were chrismated. More oil! Again, this time with a stylus, the sign of the cross was placed on my forehead, eyelids, each side of my nose, earlobes, the front and back of the base of my neck, back and palm of each hand, and top of each foot. With each cross Father Patrick said something about being sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. I don't remember the exact words, though I heard them plenty. With each declaration from Father, the rest of the congregation repeated, "Seal!" The other five went through the same process, each of us with our sponsors/godparents standing close at hand. That corner of the room was a wee bit crowded, but it was convenient. When the last of us was sealed, he pulled all twelve into a huddle to tell us that we were now Orthodox Christians, full members of the community that we've each come to call home. (And there was much rejoicing!)
The liturgy was drawing to a close. Deacon John intoned, "With fear of God and faith and love draw near." At long last, the moment I'd been waiting for for months-- Holy Communion, and I could finally participate! In fact, the protocol is that I go first, not just Saturday, but every liturgy for forty days.
Two more things happened during the service. Father Patrick took a sponge full of water and, having thrown copious amounts of water at his six new Orthodox Christians, proceeded to sponge off all those oily crosses. Then, near the end, I was tonsured. This involved scissors, four small clumps of hair, and a candle. Father Patrick cut a bit of hair from front, back, and each side of my head, then burned it. It smelled, and I have no idea what it means.
To be continued...
----------------
Now playing: Casting Crowns - Who Am I (Live)
via FoxyTunes
Labels: Becoming Orthodox
posted by Sam Gamgee at
5:36 PM
2 Comments:
Oh My Goodness Christina!
You let him cut your hair and burn it, and you don't know what it means? I was hoping you knew what it meant... I guess I am going to have to ask someone myself. :-) That was a long service and there was a lot going on... I wonder what your parents thought of it all. We, of course, are soaking everything in since we are there to find out all we can about Orthodoxy, but still not remembering everything. It was a beautiful service and a most touching baptism. I am glad that I got to see you go through that.
Debbie Zahariades
Thank you, and again, thank you! Your perspective, insights and well-put analyses help this "old Orthodox" to see my own faith more clearly (and to love it more dearly - sorry, child of the 60's). AGAIN, Thank you, Baby Sis!!! BTW, I printed this posting to show to Dana-My-Bride and the munchkins. Christ is Risen!
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