St. Herman's Russian Orthodox July 12, 2012

I have always had a sort of murky understanding of Orthodox churches. Their ancient aesthetic is inherently mysterious.

I've been wanting to go to the small local Russian Orthodox church since the beginnings of our Sunday adventures. Their 9:00am services require some forethought and prior coordination with my dad, but we finally got it right and found ourselves outside the little scrappy building with the blue metal roof and tall blue dome minutes before things got started. There were two other cars present.

The small worship building is built in the frontier style. If it didn't have the tall spired dome on the metal roof, it could easily be a large bathhouse or garage or storage building. There are few visible windows and the stairs appear hastily, though sturdily, built from all-weather wood. It is located on a rough wooded lot off Goldstream Road. The drive and lot were constructed in a similar motif to the building; they are laid down with rough tailings keeping the weeds and wild roses at bay. An Orthodox cross stands at the entrance to the coarse drive and lot. A sign indicates the name of the patron saint of the parish, 'St. Herman' guiding the way for spiritual adventurers.

The unusual Orthodox cross, I learned, is sometimes called the Cross of St. Andrew. St. Andrew used it when preaching about Christ in Southern Russia near the beginning of time. The short topmost bar represents the plaque inscribed with 'INRI', the lowest and tilted bar represents the footrest of Christ. The side on Christ's right, tilted upward to symbolize the idea that those on Christ's right were bound for heaven, those on Christ's left, bound for lesser, lower destinations.

We decided to walk on into the blue building and find our usual seats as, hopefully, more souls arrived. We were both a bit worried about not having the safety of the crowd to cover ourselves with. On opening the utility grade steel door, we were greeted with the sounds of chanting and the faint smell of incense. We passed through a small, poorly lit, and confining foyer. The walls were cluttered with CD's and a few small icon replicas and other bits of Orthodox paraphernalia for sale. We were drawn forward by the chanting, now grown louder, and the open room ahead. At first the words were difficult to distinguish but it became clear it was English and some form of the Lord's Prayer.

We entered to discover there were no pews. The only places to sit were a few mis-matched metal folding chairs and a couple of likewise mismatched benches. These seating options were pushed against the wall, sort of out of the way of the main worship space. The room was floored in discount laminate wood flooring with a springy, cheap feel to it. The wall ahead presented several life size medieval looking replica icons of various holy personages with gold backgrounds. They were compelling to the eye the way the form of a nice antique holds your attention for a moment. Around them on the raised altar space were several large brass candlesticks, a sort of closed brass font or baptismal to one side, and an ornate brass and wood podium. In the middle of the wall behind the altar were a pair of carved swinging doors, like saloon doors. They were painted gold and behind them one could see a couple of hairy hippie guys dressed in ornate vestments working busily and making preparations. To the right and left of these swinging doors were two single doors for a total of three doors leading from the raised area into the back room. In the space to our immediate right there was a gentleman in black robes sort of sing-songing along through what sounded like repetitions of various standard Catholic prayers. Beside him and joining in at times were a couple of Slavic looking women standing behind music stands. There was no music, just their voices, which, though enthusiastic, weren't of great caliber.

Beyond this trio an elderly overweight native woman, I would guess Athabaskan, was sitting on the bench against the right wall. I remember this now from the church in Jerusalem. It seems strange to have people sitting, as though waiting for a bus, perpendicular to the direction of travel. I am so accustomed to people seated facing the altar, that to have someone seated in this way seemed awkward. We stepped to the left and stood in an open area with a man, perhaps 55, who was standing with bowed head. Another elderly native woman sat beyond him against the left wall. She was also Athabaskan, I would guess, and sat heavily in a folding metal chair.

We stood uncomfortably. We were clearly outsiders and clearly had no idea what we were doing. There were no little handouts, no hymnals or guides. We had walked in on the ritual and were completely clueless. But, there we stood.

After several minutes the priest, I guess, came out of the central doors and began chanting. He swung the thurible three times here and three times there, and then proceeded around the room and over each occupant repeatedly. The man with whom we stood motioned that we should step forward so the priest could walk behind us - to thoroughly coat the walls in sacred smoke. I believe this has to do with chasing away evil influences, spirits, and protecting from the same.

This was the beginning of the service and for the most part it proceeded this way. There were only a couple of songs. They were sung by the trio and somewhat by the parishioners - we didn't know them and didn't help much but sort of mumbled along during the repetitious refrains. The priest would come and go from the main worship chamber using the three doors on the altar platform in a curiously intricate pattern which was nearly comical. The whole wall was only about 16 feet across so to be coming and going from the various doors, all leading to and from the same two rooms, was a bit silly. Also, at times, he or one of the deacons in the back room would pull a black curtain across the opening beyond the saloon doors. There was chanting and the ringing of bells from beyond the wall. I suspected that the miracle of transubstantiation was taking place at this time, but there were also other times when the curtain was pulled and more chanting and bells and it was all rather byzantine. Literally.

The priest was a heavy set younger man. Probably not more than 30. I think he lives on-site in a small cabin, possibly with some of the deacons who were serving that day. He was pretty scruffy with a big round head, patchy beard, and a greasy short pony tail tied beneath his fancy green hat, sort of like a square miter. He had kind eyes and a peaceful and gentle way about him, but had a slight tinge of officiousness about his actions and words. His vestments were badly soiled along the back hem. It was as though he had been walking and working outside in those vestments all summer. They were also torn and a bit tattered here and there, like he'd worn them on some long hikes through brush.

Others showed up as time went along. After 10 or 15 minutes into the service there were probably 10 people standing in the room with a few sitting. Maybe there were four or five native ladies, all elderly. I suppose these ladies probably had grown up or been exposed to Orthodox services years ago and now they found it comforting, an imprinted memory from when they were young. I thought about how strange for them to sit in the church and take comfort from the habits and bizarre rituals of the once-conqueror, now conquered. The rituals themselves were an inherited influence on those that first brought them to Alaska. That is the transmission of culture; sticky stuff, and little is more culturally sticky than religion.

The priest did present us with a brief sermon, which I gather is unusual. He wanted to tell us that although there had been many things said online and in 'forums' and 'emails' that we shouldn't worry about those. He wanted us to know that gossip of that nature is just a distraction. He encouraged us to carry on and do good and be good and let others sort 'things' out. It didn't matter if some had ill to say of the 'metropolitan', our job was not to gossip or spread ill rumors. Ours was to simply serve and obey the word of Christ. It struck me very much as a 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,' sort of moment. I wasn't sure what he was talking about but it made me curious.

The whole event seemed centered around transmitting a feeling of subservience on the attendees. There were big and important things going on and we were there to catch a glimpse of them, to witness and behold. The authority was before us. The mysticism was behind the curtain and we were to stand and observe. The coming and going through the three doors and screens further reinforced our distance from a special and sacred world. I can imagine what it would be like to come in off the steppes or in from some primitive illiterate agricultural daily slog, to come into a chamber filled with gold and ritual and song and incense and the repetition, and the repetition, like hypnotic meditation - you could understand its power in the ancient world. But I'm not sure it works today.

At the end, and after a great deal of coming and going and many flourishes of incense there was communion. One of the deacon's offered for us to partake if we had been baptized, but we passed. Everyone else shared the cup. The priest stood in the middle and had assistants to the left and right who held a gold colored towel between them suspended below the cup. One walked forward, knelt, and the priest gave you a sip from the goblet over the gold colored towel - it was there to catch the drips. Then, on the left, you could help yourself to a little piece of bread. There were small cups and plates and you could have a small amount of what again looked like wine. People dipped their bread in their wine as they went back to stand and recite the lords prayer - again sort of half singing it. I was surprised at how much of the service was word for word identical to the Catholic mass. The various branches of Orthodoxy have all been around since about the same time, shortly after 300 AD. That is also about the same time, within a couple of decades, of the formation of the main body of the Catholic Church in legislation by Constantine the Great.

For me, the old show fell a bit flat. In an ancient hall of stone it might have had more power but the man behind the curtain was too visible, the content too light, too ritualized, too anachronistic. There was almost no interest in engaging the subjects. We were not participants and I was not moved in any way. I didn't feel any connection to others in the room with us. There weren't any moments of introspection or reflection, nor was there an attempt at achieving this. There wasn't much of the binding of community. We just looked on, over the fence, if you will, at important events in the distance. My legs got tired and my feet got sore. That's not to say I didn't like it. I did enjoy the experience and I'd recommend it. But, I wouldn't go again and I can't imagine spending a lifetime of Sundays in such emptiness. But, if you've grown up with something, imprinted on it at an impressionable age, the nostalgia itself has value. And the meditative peace achieved with an hour and a half of chanting repetition certainly makes you feel as if you've done something, or seen something at least.

We walked out into the warm summer air and I was glad. We had done that. It was still early in the day and I was glad to have that time ahead of me on a Sunday. Later, I found out that the head of the Orthodox Church in America had been dismissed in a scandal involving the protection and cover-up of a priest accused of rape. He's been replaced by another now. Direct your attention elsewhere.