| Jan. 10th, 2008 @ 04:01 pm Excerpt from Greek Un Orthodox, a book I'm writing. |
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I left the church when I was 12. It wasn’t for lack of spiritual interest, I certainly enjoyed the ritual. Its influence showed later in my installations and performance art, hence affecting all senses with scent, sound, visuals, something to touch, something to eat…a part of the art taken into the body. Perhaps art was my way of getting around the fact that Greek girls aren’t invited or allowed to become Greek Orthodox Priests. But, the day I left the church it was a simpler, more personal matter.
After asking enough questions they couldn't answer in Sunday School class, the teachers had banished me to the services upstairs, with the adults. I was sitting with my mom, the weekend after Thanksgiving, glad to be with the adults, experiencing the ritual. The warm glowing reverent energy of Greek Orthodox Services can still bring me to tears. During service, Greeks sit or stand at the appropriate times without making more than a shuffling sound, affording scent and sound the opportunity to realize their glory. The scent of Frankincense and Myrrh being waved in a censer with the tiny bell gently ringing, mixed with the scent of candles burning, cologne, the scent of dressy clothes, new leather or freshly polished shoes, Masticha (Greek chick lets) coming from an older aunts handbag that smelled like a new car lined with perfumed handkerchiefs all together, created a unique church service scent. We sat holding perfect posture longer than any other time in the week, in dress clothes that were always too warm or too cold, on slippery, cool pews, hearing prayers. Prayers sung in a nasally voice that perks our ears, in a language few of us know (ancient Greek and Latin) watching for the elderly women show us when it is time to “do our cross” the “right way”, the Greek way. As if affirming the priests song, we place thumb, pointer and middle finger together, press the last 2 fingers into palm, then cross: moving our right hand from 3rd eye to sternum, to right shoulder to left then close with a serious open hand to our sternum. The cantor’s operatic voice would bellow, enveloping us. Listening to his song, I felt as if I had been soaked in wine and dipped into a tub of warm mud. When the choir voices descended from above and behind us it felt like heaven clearing a path, welcoming our tired souls. After more than an hour of this holy water spraying, incense waving, and song, the father (priest), his altar boys and brothers (priests in training) would work quietly behind the magnificent ornate altar.
Under the supervision of the 12 Apostles depicted in the larger than life size Byzantine icons, Father Dova presented the climax of the show. He stood at the front of the aisle between the pews, on a step separating audience from performance. He stood holding an ornate golden chalice filled with holy, blessed wine and bits of bread, a red cloth (for dripping chins) and a tiny silver spoon to serve it with. I was always excited about accepting communion, to me it was feeling based, not so much thought about it being anyone’s blood and body. It was the well choreographed, audience participation, end to a great show. Still with good posture, we rose quietly to line up in the aisle. When it was our turn, our gray haired, delicately old world, regal Father Dova, the man who dipped our whole bodies when we were infants into the marble baptismal tub, same man who married my parents, took our chin into the palm of his hand that was covered in red cloth. He whisper/ sang a blessing to us individually, using our Greek Baptism names, performed a mini cross blessing at our third eye, and served us a taste of the bread and wine from the spoon. It tasted and felt like melting wood, that little bit of taste warmed my insides immediately. We then walked across to where an altar boy was serving chunks of holy bread to our fasted bellies from a basket. We made our sudden shift as we exited stage right, out the door to the side of the altar.
Exiting that quiet area to the noise approaching from the basement, I felt like a naked Pagan streaking. I ran downstairs where the donuts, coffee and coliva(yummies from someone’s memorial) were being served. Where the little Greeks ran screaming from Sunday school classrooms, in patent leather shoes sounding on the marble floors (until a mother or aunt got a hold of their ears or a bit of thigh to pinch and brought them back to the reality, that yes you can make some noise now, but it has to be within some reason. That quieting lasts only until another adult distracts the adult administering the pinching to speak of fashion or share gossip… kids ran wild with powder sugar on their nose.
Thomai Hatsios, © o4 |
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