"I'm an imposter,"
a Roman Catholic said to the Russian Orthodox priest (Letters to the Saints #1)
Dear St. Theophan,
After your admonishing words had humbled me in a way that “turned my heart [back] to God,” I eventually began my journey to the Sacramental Church - the True Church. (As you know, I didn’t hear back from St. Mary’s Russian Orthodox in little Cornucopia, WI when I had first reached out. I see now the Holy Spirit had been undeniably shepherding me to the Catholic church, where to this day I find a full life of faith.)
Being confirmed Catholic didn’t mean I turned my back on the Eastern Church. Far from it. As you know the Philokalia (which I later learned you also had a hand in translating from church Slavonic to Russian) held the sayings of the Desert Fathers who further informed and enriched my faith. Hearing from the Desert Fathers was like hearing from long-lost friends. I will be making a separate post about them as there is too much to say here.
As you know, I almost attended a Coptic Orthodox Liturgy this January. My dear friend Derek had intended for us, in his group A Dose of Theosis, to attend Divine Liturgy at his Coptic church in the Pittsburgh area. Providence would have other plans (maybe one of His many reasons was that my first Orthodox liturgy was meant to be here at St. Mary’s?).
I finally walked up the concrete steps of St. Mary’s Russian Orthodox church
and walked through her doors, last Sunday the 28th. Finally.
11 years after seeing the church for the first time by an accidental turn, and about
6 years after reaching out to them.
Time means nothing to our God.
Rather, He knows how to wield it in a way that is most efficacious to our salvation and enriching to our faith.
It’s no accident my first attendance was this year, and on the eve of the Feast of the Holy Archangels - Michaelmas - which is a significant date for me. St Michael has always been fighting at my side, along with our most Holy Theotokos. Their presences have been made known to me in crucial times of my life.
I walked in and immediately noticed the priest in shining gold standing with a parishioner in the front left corner of the church. They were both slightly bent over a small table bearing (I think) an icon. They spoke in low tones for some time. (Eventually, the priest would lay his stole over the parishioner’s head and then I concluded this to be Confession). While this was happening, a woman (choir director I later learned) sat upon a plain white stool at the other side of the church at front, singing a Psalm.
As I walked into the church, I observed the parishioners before me walk up to an icon placed at the center of the aisle, bowing down to kiss it. It looked like an old icon. I bowed before it before finding my place to sit.
I believe the icon the Nativity? Yes, now that I think of it, it would make sense - the full name of this church is the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary Orthodox Church.
Which makes me smile, because recently on a walk while praying the Rosary, I reflected how the Nativity is my favorite Joyful Mystery. I love the image of the shepherds walking great lengths to the birthing location of God Incarnate… I am awed by their humility, their clarity of soul, to be able to recognize that a little swaddled baby, born of a poor woman, lying in a feeding trough meant for beast… was the One Prophesied to Save us: God Made Flesh.
They saw with eyes of Spirit, not with worldly understanding.
I sat on the left side of the small church - the pews a rich, glossed wood. The flooring simple, tight-woven tan carpet.
A huge chandelier, in style perhaps from the 70s?, hangs down the center from blue-sky painted beams. It seems such a large lighting fixture would be overbearing considering the smallness of the church. And yet somehow it isn’t. Somehow it blends in.
The ceiling (and walls? My memory already fades me) is painted sky-blue, although water damage can be seen at the very top. One or two clouds are painted in a very basic style along the ceiling. And by basic, I mean that at first glance I had mistaken one cloud for a segment of missing paint; a segment of plaster showing. I don’t say this in a tone of criticism. I actually find it endearing. Even the brown water spots above.
To me these touches say: we may be a small and financially struggling community, but we are yet here to worship our Lord Jesus Christ, with the saints and angels and with each other.
Two stands of many candles are at the front of the pews.
Larger candles and thinner candles alike. Some parishioners are lighting the bigger candles, and one woman is sticking small, thin candles into the candle holder. I’m wondering for a moment if this is something everyone is supposed to do upon coming in? But then I don’t see anyone else doing so. So perhaps they are for private intentions.
At one point the priest disappears behind the iconostasis and reappears to give ear to a woman’s confession. At this point, the man who had finished confession took over singing the Psalm that was before sung for his confession.
More people file in, including a rotund man with two young boys in tow - who were very well-behaved the entire Liturgy. (Only once did he have them stand on either side of himself to separate what I thought was a infinitesimal disruption.)
It was chilly in the church despite it being fairly nice outside; I should have worn more layers. At one point the heating system kicked on and I had mistaken it for a large truck outside somewhere.
Most the women with children wore simple scarves wrapped around their head. Some of the little girls wore Eastern-European patterned scarves. It had crossed my mind before attending that I should bring a scarf myself, but I noticed other women did not wear one, so I didn’t feel too badly. I’m not sure if I will wear one in the future or not. Maybe once it gets colder I will consider it.
But every woman wore a skirt or dress (I believe). I notice everyone was dressed very nicely - simple, but nice. And the families present seemed to be wearing natural fibers. Everyone present felt to me just salt of the earth. Next time I will adjust my own clothing - not that I had been immodest, but I could have worn a longer garment over my jeans, and so I apologize for that.
The icons!
Two banners with painted icons stood at front of the pews, closer to the iconostasis. The banner on my side was of the Holy Theotokos and Child Jesus. On the wall beyond, another Mary and Child Jesus icon which looked like an antique. My side of the church was the Mary side, apparently.
The other side had a banner icon of Jesus Christ, and a framed icon beyond of Jesus Christ (again, old-looking). I did not get to see each of the icons which lined the top of the iconostasis, but after Mass I did ask the priest about a larger one in particular in the main segment - an old icon of a woman with a bi-colored garment (yellow and black or dark blue), and this was Mary Magdalene, holding the oil.
Holy Trinity in Chicago - I believe this is where the priest and parishioner R had said the iconostasis came from. Weathered, rustic… beautiful. That is how I think of the iconostasis.
Liturgy began with a capella singing and incense.
A capella feels instinctively to me one of the most reverent forms of music for Liturgy. (I so wish that Catholic Masses would rid themselves of guitars. But I digress.)
I cannot deny how at home I felt.
It was like this little church and this liturgy had been burning in my heart in secret for so long and we were finally able to meet each other.
I felt the same familiarity at St. Nicholas of Myra Ruthenian church up in Beaver, PA, where Father Anthony leads the Catholic faithful in the Byzantine Rite of Mass.
Sometimes I wonder… since I have Catholic ancestors from East Poland (some now buried in Two Rivers, WI), what if their prayers for me have made a particular impression upon my spirit?
Our modern world so rarely considers our roots much less how our roots, our ancestors, perhaps carry forward distinct notes within us.
If generational demons are a reality (which I believe now more than ever) then why would there not be generational angels which echo familiar forms of worship and creativity? In other words, if destructive generational cycles plague families (and they do), why would there not be beautiful and creative generational cycles that serve to bless and guide families? But again, I digress.
Silver autumn sunlight beamed through the incense smoke, covering the choir in heavenly veil.
And it’s silly, but at one point I could not stop watching the choir director, who at a certain angle looked just like my mother. (For a moment I imagined what it would be like if my mother were an Orthodox Christian, even one directing a choir; it was a nice feeling but I shook myself from the imagination.)
I noticed the director was very serious about her choir, wanting the songs to be just right, because I happened to see at one point her head tilt and a quick look of disappointment flash over her face when once the choir did not quite hit the right timing or melody.
The entire Liturgy, as you already know St. Theophan, was sung. And the only time we sat down was for a short homily. Everything is a bit of a blur, but I seem to remember most of the singing were of the Psalms?
I did not sing, mainly because I just wanted to absorb everything. This is how I experienced Catholic Mass the first few times - I just allowed myself to absorb and observe. (There was a little “Divine Liturgy” booklet clipped at the back of the pew before me and I had opened to the first page upon my arrival. However I did not follow along with it.)
The readings.
The Book of the Gospels was not bound within the usual red-with-gold embossing as we have at Mass, but was a metal binding - silver - intricately detailed, with gospel images or saints I presume. The top of the binding was tarnished. The rust somehow made it even more beautiful to me. When the priest opened the Gospels, I caught a glimpse of the pages which were also beautifully printed with some fancy scarlet illuminations.
Beyond the iconostasis - now that I could see beyond the curtain and doors (I don’t know the proper terms) - I unfortunately could not see the altar at my position. I noticed the window at the back of the rounded room, the pull-down shade was a bit weathered and tattered; like old parchment. (The shades in the main church looked newer). Again, this is nothing of criticism, as I found everything about the church endearing.
A church whose beauty comes mainly from the Liturgy, the icons and altar, and the people itself carries a certain un-replicable transcendence.
It is like the Nativity itself: humble, decorated by Truth Himself. You inhale not only incense but the untamed comfort of the hidden and ever-present Holy Ghost.
The priest opened and closed the curtain and doors of the iconostasis a few times throughout the Mass. I know there is spiritual significance to this, and I intend to learn more at some point. I presume one of the times this occurs has to do with the symbolism of Christ buried and resurrected. But I will stand corrected as needed.
The Holy Supper.
The priest stood at center front with the gleaming chalice and a small silver spoon. Two elders (deacons?) held a crimson cloth just under the chin of the faithful receiving the Eucharist. The priest would lift out from the Precious Blood some of Christ’s Precious Body, which the parishioner would receive by their mouth.
Ave Verum Corpus, my spirit cries out.
There was a small table to the left, which held what I later learned was blessed bread. After Liturgy, I asked Father Klarr how I could participate knowing that I was Catholic, and he kindly explained to me that I would go up and say, “Just a blessing” and that I could partake in the blessed bread.
I watched one mischievous boy - a joyfully devious grin spread across his face - take one piece of blessed bread, and then lingered for another piece, now three hunks of bread. His older sister - blond pigtails and charming wide-set eyes, she was like a fairytale princess - smiled with embarrassment of her little brother, and patiently admonished him before he slunk back to their pew… brother still grinning with childish deviance and three chunks of bread nestled in his hands.
Of course at the time I was watching this, I did not know it wasn’t transformed bread, only blessed, and so I nervously observed what I thought was irreverence (though understanding he was young, maybe didn’t understand, and knowing full-well that I was only a guest. No one else was concerned, so I was not going to be either).
After Liturgy, a different younger boy went up to the silver platter which had held the blessed bread (now all consumed), and scooped up all the crumbs. Again, before I knew it was only blessed bread, I smiled nervously at a parishioner, but again there was no reproving of the boy’s action so I allowed myself to not think any further of it.
At the end of Liturgy, Father held a decent-sized Crucifix and stood at front.
The wooden cross looked solid, the Christ figure like iron.
The parishioners made a line to go up and kiss the feet of Christ, and some kissed the hand of the priest as well, though some did not. Some would then also kiss the Nativity icon again before leaving.
I noticed the line was petering, and Father looked like he was about to walk the Crucifix back to its place, so I hurried up to kiss the feet of my Lord.
Father Hermann Klarr was so kind to me. He said “I looked familiar” to which I explained to him,
“I’m an imposter; I’m actually Roman Catholic.”
He went on to say that I was very welcome to be here; he - on behalf of the parish no doubt - invited me to the lunch afterwards in the community hall down the street. As I was not ready to have attention on me (as if I am ever “ready”), or questions asked of me, I declined. But I said - and I meant - that I would like to soon.
My patron saint Theophan,
admonisher and dear friend to my soul… I wanted to write to you about this first Russian Orthodox Liturgy experience because you - a Russian Orthodox Bishop - were the first one to speak at length to me about the nature of my wayfaring heart.
Your pen not only plunged into my soul to wound it where it needed wounding, but went on to write over it with careful, loving, and difficult (true) Christian direction.
My heart is a palimpsest.
And I sincerely pray that everyone who reads this might also allow their heart to be written over upon with the Word: our Lord Jesus Christ the One True God and shepherd of souls.
Your little pastushka on the Lake Superior southern shores,
Melissa 🐝
This is beautiful, Melissa. Dear St Theophan, pray for us!
Such a beautiful reflection! I'm both humbled to have been mentioned and delighted that you had such a warm experience! That's unity in my book!