Αγία Σοφία!

I'll start with a bold prediction: The Orthodox Church will one day burst out of obscurity and take its place as an influential church in America.

I spent Sunday morning at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church in Raleigh. When I say that I spent Sunday morning, I mean exactly that: three hours, from 8.30 to 11.30. I'm not thinking of de-poping or anything; I just wanted to see the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom.

I have in fact seen the Divine Liturgy before, but it was celebrated by a dual-rite (Roman & Byzantine, I think) priest in a Roman chapel; I had the distinct impression that I wasn't tasting the fullness of its flavor. I've also worshiped at a Maronite liturgy, which is supposed to be similar to the liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, and it was in fact beautiful, and again the priest struck me as holy. But that was a mission, and the liturgy was celebrated in a less-than-ideal American Catholic chapel.

Two weekends ago, I attended Raleigh's Greek Festival, organized by Holy Trinity parish. The annual event showcases Greek-style dancing, Greek food, and Greek-themed wares (with some Russian and Syrian wares as well). They offered a seminar on the Orthodox Church, and I decided to attend. The seminar was conducted by an affable Romanian priest. It seemed fair (as a Catholic, I would of course differ on a few points) and the priest invited the attendees to come visit their church: If you want to learn about Orthodoxy, he said, you must experience it. (Not an exact quote.)

I decided to check it out. I wanted to see as much as I could; the priest had said that Orthros (Matins) were at 8.30, and the Divine Liturgy at 10. Alright: might as well see the whole thing, then.


The parish church is easy to find, and it's a pleasing architecture. I don't know what building material they used, but it reminded me of the photos I've seen of Greek churches.

Entering the church
Upon entering, I saw on my immediate left a table with some photocopied guides to the liturgy, both in Greek and in English. The entrance to the chapel lay beyond that table. I had arrived a few minutes late, and I could hear some men chanting, so I didn't waste any more time exploring; I walked into the first room; the main worship space lay past a doorway in the opposite wall.

In most Catholic churches, one genuflects before sitting down or passing before the tabernacle; that is our way of acknowledging the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. I know that the Orthodox share our belief that the bread and wine are transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ at Communion, but I wasn't sure what their practices were for it, if any. I have read and heard several Catholic liturgists' assertions that the Orthodox don't kneel during the consecration of the bread and wine, as Catholics do.

So I hesitated to enter the main worship space, and paused to look around. The first room is something like a Catholic vestibule. Several icons keep their silent, dignified watch about the room. When I entered, one woman to my left was setting a tall, thin taper in a bowl of sand before an icon; then she made the sign of the cross. A man on my right stood before a little shrine, and made the sign of the cross repeatedly, bending down to touch the ground between each motion.

After one or both of them entered, I followed. There were very, very few people in the worship space at this time. Four or five women stood, following the program while three or four black-robed men chanted in Greek near the iconostasis, which as a Catholic I would describe as a giant, magnificent altar rail. Aside from the Greek style, the church looked exactly like a Catholic church:

• an altar (not very visible beyond the iconostasis)
  
• stained glass windows
• carpeting
• pews with kneelers
• liturgy books in slots behind each pew

I didn't spend too much time looking around, because I wanted to listen, to follow along with the prayer.

Orthros
As for the prayer and the chant, it was beautiful. Byzantine chant sounded similar to Gregorian chant, but it certainly wasn't the same. Virtually the entire morning prayer was sung by those three or four black-robed men. Occasionally, a white-robed priest would appear behind the iconostasis, stand before the altar, sing some line that belonged to the priest, then walk out of sight again.

I recognized some of the Greek, well enough to recognize the poetic choice of some words. Sunday was the feast of the Dormition of St. John the Theologian, and two of the words I recognized were φιλάνθρωπος ("lover of man") in reference to God, and θεοδιδακτε ("God-taught"?) in reference to St. John. I recognized a few others, as well, and I could even read a few brief passages here and there, but I spent most of my time reading along in English.

I'd like to make this one observation: the mix of Greek and English made an effective statement of both the antiquity of the Orthodox faith, and the relevance of the ancient message. Catholic liturgists could learn a lot from the Orthodox about how to mix antiquity and modernity. Judging by most Catholic liturgies, the guys in charge are paying attention to the wrong places.

There was some use of incense at one point: the priest emerged and carried the censer through the church. Little bells were attached to the censer, and they jingled with every swing.

The number of worshipers increased steadily throughout Orthros, and when it was time for the Divine Liturgy, the church was nearly full (more people would pour in throughout the morning).

The Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom
I'm not sure how to describe the Divine Liturgy that followed, aside from one word:

MAGNIFICENT

The choir consisted this time of a number of men and women positioned in a balcony above me. They sang everything in Greek - and with very, very beautiful music that seemed timeless. It didn't strike me as the same style of chant that I heard at Orthros, but it didn't sound very modern, either. Nor did it sound terribly classical. The only word I can think of to describe it is simply, Timeless.

One hymn I thought was particularly effective (the hymn of the cherubim? I forget) is actually interrupted by the priest (this is part of the rubrics of the Divine Liturgy). He emerges from the sanctuary to hold a brief exchange with the people, then enters again behind the iconostasis while the choir resumes their singing where they left off.

I noticed that one effective technique of the hymns was to build a phrase by repetition. Or perhaps they were cutting words from the phrase during the repetition? I forget. Regardless, I noticed that it had a positive effect on the æsthetics.

There is, as in the Roman Mass, a great deal of interaction between the priest and the people. The people kneel at a different moment for the consecration, after we Roman-rite Catholics would have knelt. But the people do in fact kneel for the consecration. I will never again let pass a liturgist's suggestion that the Orthodox don't kneel during the Divine Liturgy.

The biggest difference that I noticed was the sermon. The priest did not deliver his sermon during the Liturgy; he delivered it after the conclusion of the Liturgy. The sermon drew heavily on several fathers of Orthodoxy.

The offering was also taken after the Liturgy, but before the sermon.

Afterwards, people walked into another room (a fellowship hall, I think) for some snacks and conversation. I left at that point; I went home, and I sang Te Deum from Solesmes' Kyriale. It's a beautiful chant, and I love the hymn based on it: Holy God, We Praise Thy Name.

It had been an inspiring morning.