A Journal on Greek Orthodoxy
Today I accompanied my grandmother to a service at the Holy Apostles Greek Orthodox Church. It was a rainy day, the air was cool, the sky was dark and the grass was emerald and dewy in the park across the road. It was quiet, and as we approached the steps of the church, the muffled hums from the service could be heard alongside distant cars and a soft patter of rain. The doors to the church were a warm orange, and they glowed with the obscured movement of candlelight from inside.
My grandmother and her brothers were brought up by her two Greek parents in rural Australia. Her mother, my Yaya, devoted lots of time to involving herself with the Anglican church from their town, and my grandmother experienced a strong presence of Christian orthodoxy throughout her childhood. In the car sprinkled with raindrops, she told me about communion rituals, how she taught at Sunday School, and how my Yaya would help run flower stalls for the church. As time has rolled on, religion has not remained as seminal as it may have been for my Yaya. My grandmother did not force religion on her children, and my atheist parents have not forced religion onto me. Because of this, I now have a sort of detached admiration for the beauty and dedication that is involved in Greek Orthodox Christianity. As someone who has only been to church for funerals and weddings, I felt completely enthralled by the ritual, culture and history of religion.
We opened the door and the smell of incense filled the air around us. There was a small stall of candles to our left, and the man behind the counter gave us a brochure and a warm smile. We lit some candles and placed them in sand. I watched some people before me kissing the icons that were framed in ornate portraits at the entrance- a seal of devotion to the divine. We sat along the back pew and I took it all in. There was so much to look at: the ornate silver gown of the Papa, the pink roses that lined the gold ledges of the Pulpit, the Greek women wearing black and crossing their hearts, the depictions of Christ and his Apostles that lined the walls, the circular skylight of a starry night on the ceiling. One of the key features of Orthodox Churches is that the faith and the church are synonymous with each other. Rich iconography, whether through paintings, carvings, needlework, architectural design, and the acts of the clergy themselves, are all representations of stories, saints and traditions that allow worship to manifest visually.
Most cathedrals and churches are formatted like a cross on the inside, therefore also imitating the shape of a human body. In this way, churches intersect with the divine- a way for people to enter a space where the veil between physical and metaphysical realities are thin. Another way this is achieved is with the inclusion of upper levels decorated like heavens, with spires on the exterior reaching high up in the sky. When I peered around at the ceiling, I became transfixed on the circular skylight above me. It was painted dark blue with stick-on stars scattered across it. Some were peeling off. It looked both like an Elysian paradise, and also like the ceiling of my childhood room. I felt like both an adult and a child in that moment, strung together by this comforting fixation on the prospect of heaven.
The low hums of the Byzantine choir were peaceful and haunting. In long black robes they gathered around the podium, chanting hymns in Greek, reading from ornate books. I thought about the sounds of the Greek language, and for how many centuries these hymns have been sung. It made me feel alive-like a small heartbeat at the end of a long line of precious Greek ancestors. I studied the strokes of the Greek lettering at the Pulpit and thought about my Yaya’s wrinkled hands and cryptic cursive writing. I inhaled the vapours of the incense, watched it waft from the Papa’s Thurible. The smell was mystic and put me in a trance-like sedation.
My grandmother asked if we should go, but truthfully I could have stayed there all day. Watching, looking, feeling. I felt like I had entered a different world. When I opened those blurred window panes on the door again, I walked a threshold between normality and sacrality. And when I stepped out into the damp August air, everything had remained just as it was before I stepped in.
