Easter Monday

Easter may be "over," but today we finally enjoyed the Easter bundt kulich (a new invention?). The preparation was about a 12-hour process interrupted by lazy yeast and a trip to the store for missing ingredients.

(5th attempt to get both of us AND the cake in the photo)

A glimpse into Russian Orthodoxy

In class on Friday, one of the teachers poked her head into our room and said that the last class was canceled but that we could attend her church’s Good Friday service. Of course it wasn’t mandatory, but she knew that it was Easter all over the world, and that we might be interested.

I wonder if American college professors would be allowed to invite students to church. I suppose a plus of teaching foreigners is that you can call it a “Cultural”  excursion.

Valentina is an Orthodox believer and sings in her church’s choir. Even though it seems that attendance at Orthodox services is intermittent, they do have ongoing activities as in other Christian congregations, and the liturgy is read only once a day, so people have to be somewhat intentional if they are going to attend.

There is definitely a mystical side to Orthodoxy, but I didn’t find it as intimidating as I had in the past. continue/-

Perhaps it just doesn’t feel quite as “foreign.” I suppose that kind of fear is a social fear; the fear of being ostracized for being an outsider; for not knowing all the customs. The fear of being plunged suddenly into an unfamiliar ritual; of being forced to do something that you’re not comfortable with; of someone turning to stare at you and say “you don’t belong here.”

No, it is something more. There is a spiritual element. Even when you don’t believe in the rituals yourself, when you are aware of everyone in the room praying to/kissing the icons, aware of them searching for the power of something unseen….well, you feel something “in the air."

Anyway, I had worn jeans that day and I had a scarf around my neck that I figured could cover my head if necessary. When we entered the church, I waited for Valentina to cover her head, but she didn’t. So I didn’t.

Then she led us up to a loft/backstage area where we hung our coats and settled on wooden benches (yes, you are allowed to sit during the service, as long as you are ready to give up your seat to someone who might need it). After giving us a copy of the liturgy so we could follow along, she disappeared downstairs to sing.

From up in the loft we could watch everything going on. I did a scan for head-coverings and calculated about half of the women wearing them, including members of the choir. I thought for a moment that it might be related to hairstyle (loose or pulled back), but there was a woman in the choir with long hair, loose like mine. And no head covering. So I didn’t bother.

We were joined in the loft by some families with infants who could nurse the babies and listen to the service at the same time.

We worked through the text, chanting different prayers, listening to Scripture readings, and offering prayers of supplication. The chanting was in Church Slavnoic, but with the help of the parallel Russian Synodal text it wasn't too hard to follow what was going on. The service is pretty rigid and they don’t do personal announcements or greetings, but at the same time people are all standing up and walking around and shepherding children and such, so it feels loose in that sense.

The priests and deacons were dressed in black and silver costumes, which reminded me of something knights would wear during the Crusades. I found it amusing that from above we could see beyond the iconostasis into the “Holy of Holies,” which just looked like a regular room, probably storing the priests’ coats and shoes and the different things needed for the service. The "Holy Gates" usually hide the room from view, but in this case all the secrets were revealed.

The priests and deacons walked around spraying incense from a censer, letting it waft into the air in puffs. There were moments when the congregation crossed themselves repeatedly or got into a certain position. I didn't participate much because I didn't want to be false or bow to something/someone without understanding fully.

At the moment in the service where Jesus’s burial was referenced, a few elders came out with a “casket” draped in a cloth with an embroidered Crucifix.

In-between meditations of Christ’s sacrifice, I was analyzing this sampling of Russian Orthodoxy. How often did these particular people attend? How serious were they about the words they were uttering? And how did they happen to be there at 2pm on a Friday afternoon? Had they switched shifts with someone? Would an employer in Russia let someone off for a Christian holiday?

Earlier that morning, I had read in the newspaper various descriptions of people's Easter plans... mainly, going to the church to bless their Easter food so they could eat it. "I'm going to get my eggs blessed." Something like that. No mention of Christ.

To me, there are still gaps. I was a bit distressed to read the same newspaper's description of American Easter celebrations (all about the Easter bunny) even though they noted more religious celebrations in other countries.

I suppose it is often obvious to people what we really value. Maybe our Christian observations are not newspaper or Hollywood worthy, but hopefully they are evident...

Leaving again

You know you've been in Russia too long when...

-You stop at the store on the way home just to buy fermented cabbage sauerkraut. I really need to learn how to make my own...

Anyway, what I really meant to write is that I'm going away for the weekend. I'm not leaving the country, or even the surrounding region, but I am going out of town to a church retreat. It happens to fall on Easter this year, so that should be a blessing.

Just call me the Traveling Frog.

Typical day at the orphanage

A trek visit to the orphanage. Would it be worth it? It seemed like for the past few months I had often shown up at an inopportune time, when the kids were in bad moods or otherwise occupied. But I needed to at least fulfill my commitment, and I also had to get some information from the director, so that was another reason to go.

As I approached the orphanage, I went straight into the school/administrative building, in order to catch anyone that might still be in the office. I decided not to look for the director, because as friendly as he is, I couldn’t picture him sitting down and getting some information for me. I went instead to seek out the slightly intimidating, yet competent social worker.

Room numbers and street names are not always my strong point, and I usually rely on my visual memory. Walk into the building, turn to the left, then into the first door on the right, then a jog to the left. continue reading/-

There was a woman sitting at a desk in between the two offices. Was she a receptionist or had she just not gotten lucky with the choice of rooms? I peeked around her to see if the woman I needed was there. She was.

"May I enter?" I introduced myself and there was a flash of recognition. Yes, we would have seen each other 3-4 years ago, perhaps with my mother. We had had tea and discussed Nastia and Masha's latest adventures.

"Have a seat."

I explained that I needed some information for Nastia. The social worker sprang into action, looking up the information and making some phone calls, all while asking me some leading questions, finding out how her former charges were doing.

I left with the address I needed, thanking the social worker. Her eyes twinkled for a second and the corners of her mouth twitched as if she wanted to smile.

Across the street, my group of second-graders was out playing soccer. Easy access! That might sound strange, but I hate having to go through the "security" (babushkas guarding the door) and various other adults to have to get to my pupils. I know they are just protecting them, but I always feel like a criminal. Plus, I don't understand why they don't remember me or write down that I come at the same time every week. But on the other hand, I am lucky that I don't have to have any medical tests or other procedures in order to volunteer there. It's a mixed blessing.

We kicked a soccer ball around for several minutes, I reliving my youth while at the same time worrying what the adults would think of my muddy clothing and shoes.

After some time, the girls and I went inside and we had a mini-lesson.

No tantrums, no sticker scandals, no tears at all this time. Of course, they may have only remembered one or two words from the lesson, but the relationships were renewed.