Novel Terrain:

My First Encounter With Orthodox Worship

LILY ROLLER

As a 14-year-old missionary kid growing up in Colombia, I’m used to lively church services. A typical church service for my family includes deafening worship music, a congregation clapping and singing at the top of their lungs, praise dance with waving flags, and a 40-minute sermon that often ends in tears of joy. So my first visit to an Orthodox church was a completely new experience.

Every summer, my family returns to the States to visit our relatives and the churches that support us. This year we had a free Sunday to go with my cousins to their service at St. Mary Magdalen Orthodox Church, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Oh, this will be interesting, I thought, as we drove over the George Washington Bridge.

“Come on,” my cousin said, as she grabbed my hand and led me through the ancient-looking doors. The strong smell of incense greeted me the moment I stepped inside. Beautiful gold designs lined the pillars and the low ceiling of the sanctuary. On all sides there were pictures of people with halos on their heads. “Saints,” my cousin explained, noticing that I was studying them. They wore dark, thick robes. I stopped to look at one saint in the middle of the wall. He was bald but had a long beard, as if to make up for his lost hair. A book was tucked under one arm, and his other hand was raised, like he was giving a blessing.

I sat down on a bench, sandwiched between my cousins. The service started with the priest reciting the Liturgy. He wasn’t just reciting it, though—it was almost like a song. He chanted some of the lines, and the small choir in the back answered him in the same melodious way. Then the words flowed through the room as everyone raised their voices to join in harmony.

As the Liturgy continued, six young men stepped down from the stage where they had stood next to the priest and walked to the center of the room, where a hollowed-out table sat. Inside the table was a picture of Mary, surrounded by a dozen unlit candles.

“Those are the altar boys,” my cousin whispered as they passed, their long black robes swishing with every step. “They help the priest with stuff.” They took turns lighting a few candles each and then stepped back. One of them looked like he wished he were somewhere else.

The priest then grabbed a strange object from a table and started shaking it back and forth in a rhythm. Incense came out of it, contributing to the already fragrant room. After a little while, the altar boys sat down on the benches next to their families, and the priest stepped down from the stage. I looked around the room as he started his sermon. There was a symbol on the wall, a cross with letters: IC, XC, NI, and KA. The priest had a matching symbol tattooed on his wrist. What language was it? What did it mean?

Many things in the service puzzled me. Later, for instance, during communion, the priest dropped the elements directly into people’s mouths. It reminded me of a mother bird feeding her young.

“What’s he feeding them?” I asked my cousins as they walked back from getting the food dropped into their mouth.

“The holy soggy bread!” my little cousin smiled as he took his seat.

“No, it’s the Eucharist, bread soaked in wine,” his older sister explained, trying to keep a straight face.

Soon the service was over, and as everyone left the church, laughing and joking with each other, I smiled. My church was so different from this one. Both churches were unique, and I wondered if that might be a good thing, not a problem to be solved. Both churches are places where people gather to praise God—the same God.