The Interview

Happy Sunday, dear readers. I got a pleasant surprise at the Carmelite church tonight because the African priest who's last Mass I'd attended had been so terrible (he was VERY long-winded and rambling) that I almost designated him as the first African priest I DIDN'T like, redeemed himself by being concise and orthodox with a stirring sermon about virtue. I was most pleased to see that his connection to the Holy Spirit was strong tonight. I usually have a very positive opinion of African priests (Indian ones too) because the ones I've met were well-catechized, orthodox and usually more intelligent than the average American priest I encountered. I suppose he was having a bad day that time and it just happened to be the first Mass I saw him in. Oh well. He's back in my good graces now and life can continue on as usual.

On Thursday, my husband had a job interview. He applied to work as a janitor at a local Presbyterian church, and the office called him in to be interviewed. Since there were errands to be run, I tagged along on this dreadfully hot day.

It may surprise some of you to learn that despite my die-hard Catholicism, this was not the first time I've been to a Presbyterian church. When I was growing up, my family joined an up-n-coming Serbian Orthodox church in the suburbs close to my home town. Before then, we'd been either going to the churches in the city of Chicago or the monastery in Lake County. Since the church parish was still so new, we didn't have a proper church of our own, so the managers were renting out the side chapel of a huge Presbyterian church in Deerfield, IL. I don't remember much about this place since I was a kid during the time we went there, but I remember the chapel being small, dark, and dusty with cobwebs on the windows. However, the building it was connected to was quite large. There was a hall behind the choir area which led to a kitchen and that was where the coffee hours were held. The basement was huge because that's where the Sunday school, Serbian language/culture, and dance classes were held and where the caretakers lived (they would regularly complain about the rambunctious kids banging on the door that led to their living quarters). I also remember my Serbian language teacher taking us on a tour of the building where we went past the double doors in the basement separating the part where the side chapel was to the main building, seeing the school classrooms there, and going into the actual main church itself. I don't remember exactly what the interior of the church looked like, but I remember there being alot of nice woodwork and it was dark. The second time I was in a Presbyterian church was when I was in 6th grade. It was for a comparative religions class which also included a trip to a local mosque and the huge Presbyterian church which was located in my hometown's downtown. Like my family's starter church, this local Presbyterian church had some nice dark woodwork inside and lovely stonework on the outside, though I remember looking at the tiny medicine cup-sized communion cups and kitschy-print missalettes in front of me in the pew and thinking this place looked more like the bank my parents did business with (at the time) than any church I was familiar with. There were crosses and banners proclaiming the glory of God, but not a single crucifix could be found anywhere.

Playing with her sunglasses

On this trip, I would not be checking out the church. I would be sitting in the office waiting area while my husband was interviewed. The secretary was kind and got the baby and I some water, but just like my previous trips to Presbyterian churches, the property was huge (this one was large enough to sustain a proper school). While the actual office itself was roomy and light with bright cabinets and clear windows, the waiting area was kinda dark. It had dark woodwork with kitschy stained glass depictions of biblical scenes and Christian themes lining the top of the room, but there was an entire wall which was designated as a sort of gift shop with trinkets, books, handmade quilted items, fair-trade coffees and mugs with the image of the church printed on them all for sale. The office waiting area itself was not very big, but it was large enough to walk around and the baby could crawl on the carpet without interruption. There was also a large china cabinet that held some mementos off to the side behind the chairs and on the coffee table in the middle of the room were two copies of some Billy Graham evangelical magazine keeping a "bible" company (I put bible in quotes because it wasn't exactly a Bible. It was selections from the Bible arranged to form some kind of storyline). I skimmed through the magazines and the "bible", but the baby kept me from delving into too much of this heresy by crawling around on the floor.

After the main office lady called my husband to the back for his interview, I walked around the waiting area and looked at the various things on display, both in the china cabinet and a nook across from the door. It was in the china cabinet that I first noticed a book with Cyrillic writing on the cover. Given my Slavic background, it piqued my interest and I took a closer look at it. On the shelf where the book was, I also noticed a pair of cloth dolls dressed in traditional Russian costumes half-hidden behind a folded sign explaining the items on display. I couldn't tell exactly what the dolls costumes looked like or where they were from in Russia, but I had the impression that the costumes were pre-Kievan Rus, based on the headdresses. On the shelf below was also a lacquered cup in traditional floral patterns. Below the Russian mementos was a display from Romania. There was either a place mat or a belt woven in a traditional pattern underneath a small Romanian flag and a plaque from the city of Timisoara.

The china cabinet. Not pictured: Russian cloth dolls in traditional costumes. Also, what is it with Presbyterians and dark wood?! It's too East Coast for this part of the country

The contents of both the Russian and Romanian shelves, the display signs read, were donated to the church by evangelical bible societies doing missionary work in their respective countries. I began feeling my blood pressure go up in anger as I read the sign on the Russian shelf which stated that the book which caught my attention was apparently a Russian bible and that it had been donated by a family evangelizing in Russia on behalf of the Wycliff Bible Society. These maggots have NO business poaching my people away from the REAL Church, just adding fodder to their CIA/Masonic front! I may have been suspicious of Protestantism in my previous life, but my conversion to Catholicism and subsequent marriage to my husband introduced in me a militant hatred of them, with bible-thumping evangelicals taking the lead in the hate list. Also, while reading Cyrillic is slow-work for me, the book did NOT say "Bibliya" or "Holy Bible" on the cover. It said "Hosh Habar", which Google translate says means "Aromatic Message" (Google also suggested that it was in the Kazakh dialect, which I thought might explain the costumes on the dolls, but an image search didn't match up any costumes from Kazakhstan that were remotely close to what I'd seen). Fortunately, I had the baby to look after and she provided a much-needed distraction to keep me from raging and destroying that cabinet.

Finally, after about thirty minutes or so, my husband came back. I refrained from saying anything about what I thought of the Presbyterians until we had left the church property, keeping the subject limited to his interview. My husband felt positive about the job interview, but gave it a 50-50 chance that he would be hired. He told me he was interviewed by three people, which I thought odd because if you're a qualified candidate for a job, you typically have only one interview with whoever is the person doing the hiring. Once we were out of the parking lot and away from any prying ears, I told my husband about the Russian mementos and how furious I was to see my people being led away from the Faith. I also complained how the decor in the office was in bad taste because it was dark wood with cheesy stained glass images, to which my husband surmised that because Presbyterians are outside of the Church, they can never know the true beauty of the Faith and can only resort to making copies of what they think it should be.

Well, it's been a few days since the interview and we haven't heard anything back from the Presbyterian church. My husband assumes it's a no-go and has proceeded to apply for other means of stable employment. The temp and inventory counting jobs are few and far between right now, so he's been trying to get more regular employment. So far, he's been canvassing for a political office, but that job ends the first week of July. Time to keep looking.

Thank you for reading this post and please don't forget to share, comment, and subscribe!

Christ is Born! Indeed He is Born!

Hristos se Rodi! Vaistinu se Rodi! Srecan Bozic svima! (Christ is Born! Indeed He is Born! Merry Christmas everyone!)

"Peace of Christ, Christ is Born!" Pic found here

I would like to take a moment to wish all of my Eastern Orthodox readers and family members a Merry Christmas. Having grown up Serbian Orthodox, I remember the burning of the Badnjak (Yule Log) on Christmas Eve and then going to church on Christmas morning before going over to either my grandma's cousin's home or my grandma's home for lunch. With the exception of Christmas 2010 when my mom was hospitalized following a minor accident, Christmas always held fond memories for me. And yes, we would open our presents on this day too.

Even though I am no longer Serbian Orthodox, I will continue to observe Orthodox Christmas because of the traditions surrounding it. My fervent Serbian nationalism couldn't keep me in the Orthodox Church anymore, but it didn't die when I became Catholic either.

In honor of Orthodox Christmas, I'll post a few traditional Serbian Christmas songs I remember singing as a youth. Enjoy!


"Oh Yule Log, Oh Yule Log" traditionally sung while the Badnjak is being burned


Traditional Christmas hymn praising the birth of Jesus


"Christmas Christmas Blessed Day"


Serbian rendition of "Jingle Bells". Not exactly traditional, but I remember singing a version of this at a church Christmas concert as part of the Sunday School kids choir


"Silent Night". The song is actually of German/Austrian origin, but I too recall singing a version of it as a kid in the Sunday School choir. I don't remember whether this was the same version I sang or not, but we did a rendition of it.

Have a blessed holiday and please don't forget to share, comment, and subscribe!

The Slava

Today is a special day for me.

On this day, many generations ago, my Serbian ancestors left their pagan roots behind and embraced Christianity. This conversion date is called "Slava", and this distinctly Serbian tradition is a modified pagan custom which is passed down through the generations, forming an integral part of our culture and identity. The saint on who's feast day fell on the conversion date was venerated the family's guardian and patron saint.

Common Slava spread with Kolač (foreground) and Žito (bowl with candle sticking out). This one is set up to honor St. John the Baptist. Pic found here

This day, December 19, is St. Nicholas' Day in the Serbian Orthodox calendar. He is my family's Slava and one of the most popularly celebrated saints, followed by St. Sava, St. Michael the Archangel, St. George, St. John the Baptist, and Prophet Elijah.

Celebrations of Slava involve starting the day with a special church service, where after the Orthodox Liturgy the priest blesses a specially baked bread loaf (Kolač) and a special boiled wheat and nut dish (Žito). The Kolač is made in honor of the family's living relatives using special recipes passed down to the generations, and the Žito is made in honor of the family's dead relatives. After the service, the celebrants go home and celebrate with food, drink, and music.

This hymn is sung when the Kolač is blessed. It commemorates the martyr's sacrifices and Isaiah's prophecies about the coming of Jesus. Of note, it is also sung at weddings when the couple ritually walks around the altar.

What actually goes on when the Kolač is blessed in church. The raising and rotation of the Kolač is done as a symbolic offering to God

I've educated my husband about Slava, and when my children are old enough, they too will learn what it is. No matter how diluted the Serbian bloodline becomes in my descendants, this is one custom that must be passed on.

I may change my name and religion, but I will never forsake my Serbian heritage.

Blast From the Past

Happy Wednesday, dear readers!

Today I showed my husband something I hadn't seen in years: an Orthodox Divine Liturgy!



For those of you who may not be aware, I was born and raised Eastern Orthodox (Serbian Orthodox, specifically). I formally left the Church and became Catholic in 2012, since hubby and I planned on getting married and decided it would be better to raise the children Catholic (in my custom, women traditionally follow the man's religion if she marries outside the Orthodox Church, though it sometimes swings the opposite way). Prior to 2012, however, I'd lost faith in the Orthodox Church for a number of reasons and it got to the point that even my fervent Serbian nationalism couldn't keep me in the church anymore.

I did promise my hubby that one day I would show him an Orthodox Liturgy so that he would know and see what I came from. I tried finding a Serbian liturgy on Youtube, but the clips were too short. The only full-length videoed liturgies were Greek Orthodox. Their way of conducting liturgies is slightly different than what I remember from my days as a Serbian Orthodox youth, but the basic structure is still there. Compared to the Catholic Masses I've been immersed in for the past three or four years, Orthodox Liturgies are LOOOONG! I don't find liturgies any more or less beautiful than Catholic Masses, but I regard Catholic Masses as being more authentic and "user friendly", so to speak.

Enjoy the video. Maybe this is your first time watching it too.

everything you ever wanted to know about the orthodox church, part 1

under normal circumstances, i dont focus or write much about religion. i read about it and i visit many religious websites and blogs, but i generally tend to distance myself from the institution.

today, that will change.

this started actually in the comment section of a blog i subscribe to on my sports blog-cells bells. when the authors featured sports (specifically, baseball)-themed tattoos. i commented that although i'd like to get a tattoo myself and have nothing against body art, my religion prevented me from doing so. that comment opened the floodgates into the world of orthodox christanity. since one of the authors made an inquiry about my faith, and there was more room here on this blog to discuss it than in the comment section of that other blog, i decided to dedicate a few entries here on this blog to describe the orthodox church and what it stands for.

the first thing you need to know about the orthodox church is that while we are called a variety of names, the mission remains the same. we have been called the byzantine church, but since the catholics have a byzantine division, my church is referred to now as the "eastern orthodox christian" church. however, it is most commonly abbreviated as simply "orthodox church".

we in the orthodox church trace our roots all the way back to the time of jesus and his disciples. it was our religion that the roman empire adopted and later made official. while the history books refer to the early church as "catholic", the meaning was not the same as today, for the roman catholic and orthodox churches were once united. the term "catholic" was basically and encompassing term for early christians. as a result of this shared history, the roman catholic and orthodox christian churches do share some saints, most notably some early ones such as john the baptist, st. jude (yes, that one-the patron saint of lost causes), st. nicholas, and st. augustine of antioch (i also think we share st. augustine of hippo, but im not sure on that one).

before the split in 12th century, the roman emperor constantine convened a church council in the city of nicea in around the 10th century. this meeting basically established the orthodox church as we know it today-who the saints were, what procedures were to be done regarding communion, prayers, and the most well-known remainder of this meeting was the nicene creed.

more to come later.

tamtam

the original 'boys in the hood'

i found this article on a british website about a sect of orthodox christian monks under seige. these monks come from greece, and they're an obscure, breakoff sect of the mainstream orthodox church. though i myself am an orthodox christian and i can sympathize with these monks, given the course of history that my faith has taken, i think these men are being a little overreactive.

Outside the church of St Antoni, a small domed chapel on the cliffs above Esphigmenou, a chilly grass snake struggles along a cold rock. From here, the monastery looks like a fortress, its sea-face a blank, turreted wall against the Aegean. This wall has protected the riches and relics within from pirates and Muslims alike. It has weathered the humiliations of the Ottoman Turks, and gloried in the triumph of Byzantium. And yet Esphigmenou now finds itself embroiled in a battle so formidable that its occupiers believe that the outcome will determine the very future of humanity.

The tale of the Esphigmenou monks is one that should exist only in the pages of a Dan Brown thriller. Divided from the Orthodox establishment by a theological disagreement, and living in an isolated monastic peninsula, they are fighting a lone battle for the soul of their religion.

Esphigmenou is a community under siege. Its lands have been seized, its bank accounts frozen, and it has severed all contact with its 19 brother monasteries throughout Mount Athos, the obscure, semi-autonomous monks' republic of northern Greece. In that time, the monks have faced warships, marines, the police and the coastguard, and engaged in hand-to-hand combat with rival monks, while at night they take part in stealthy sorties into the surrounding forest and in a speedboat that smuggles in essential goods. All of this to beat a blockade imposed by the Patriarch of Constantinople, the leader of their own church.

Put simply, the conflict is down to what the monks consider is Patriarch Bartholomew's cosy relationship with the Pope. The monks believe that ecumenism - the search for religious unity, in their case with Roman Catholicism - is not just heresy, it is the final heresy that precedes the end of the world. After years of debate with Constantinople over it, the monastery ceased to pray for the Patriarch 30 years ago, and since then he has been trying to evict them. When a warship was dispatched by the Greek Government to cut off the monastery by sea Esphigmenou faced them with a black banner: Orthodoxy or death.

Because of their views on the papacy, there are limits to the monks' hospitality.
“You are Catholic,” states Dimitrius, after I arrive at the monastery, having lied about my destination to the Greek officials controlling entry to Mount Athos and walked 10km through the forest. “The father wants you to know you cannot go in the church, and you cannot eat with the monks in the trapeza [dining hall].” Between us, a thick booklet shows pictures of the Patriarch, Bartholomew, embracing the Pope and other Catholic leaders. Its caption Dimitrius translates with a slightly embarrassed smile. It reads: “The kiss of Judas.”

Dimitrius, who usually works in a pizza restaurant in Thessaloniki, has come here for spiritual fulfillment, but also because he is trying to quit smoking, banned in the monastery (“I hit two targets with one bullet,” he explains). We sit talking together in the wooden-roofed guest quarters, warming ourselves on a wood-burning stove and eating Turkish delight - although I suspect they don't call it that. There are a few biblical pictures on the wall, but most are of stern men with excellent moustaches: “Greek heroes,” Dimitrius explains. Another pilgrim is more descriptive. “They kill Turks,” he says, grinning as he makes a throat-cutting gesture.

The monks here belong to a small minority of Orthodox called Old Calendarists, who reject the Gregorian Calendar, by which most of the world counts its years. Although superseded half a millennium ago, their alternative - the Julian Calendar - does at least have the virtue of not being introduced by a Catholic, Pope Gregory XIII.

It may seem absurd, but the monks regard themselves as the guardians of their faith. For them, it is deadly serious.

Father Savvas was asleep the last time what he calls the “false brotherhood” attacked. One of seven monks stationed in one of Esphigmenou's outlying buildings, he had been expecting trouble. At 6am it came.

Monks, asked by the Patriarch to restore the monastery to his control, were trying to break in. “We had finished the morning service an hour before,” Father Savvas recalls from his office overlooking the monastery's central courtyard. “And then someone heard people using crowbars on the lock. He shouted ‘Fathers, fathers, they are coming,' but they were already in the basement.”

In the ensuing struggle, Father Savvas was the only one of the seven monks to escape hospital. “It was extremely violent; they punched, kicked and used iron bars. One of us still has problems with his back. But they did not think who was inside; we had filled the building with very powerful men. People say: ‘You are monks, you must tolerate everything.' We are not obliged to be idiots, though. We did not have the blessings of the abbot to punch - only passive defence - but it was enough.”

At this, he looks a little wistful, and points to a large man in the courtyard. “You see him; he used to be a bodyguard. He is like a gorilla. If I had given just him permission to punch, we could have incapacitated them all.

Although the attack was two years ago, if anything the situation has worsened. Since 2005 the monastery has existed without any official external funding. It produces most of its food in fields and vineyards around the main building, and ships in the rest - avoiding the coastguard with night-time smuggling runs. Any external holdings, which include a farm just outside Athos, are kept permanently occupied. And whenever monks are rotated from this service they have to sneak through the woods - crossing a border controlled by the police.

While European Union funds have converted surrounding monasteries to near-hotel standard, with showers, electricity and modern kitchens, Esphigmenou now gets by, it claims, on a daily budget of €130. Why, many have asked, would they make such sacrifices, simply because the leader of their church is friendly with the Pope? “The Patriarch tells us that we have no love for Catholics - no love in our hearts,” explains Father Savvas who, after 20 years in the monastery, is one of the more senior monks. “Well, is it an expression of love to let people live in deceit? In Europe, with your Protestantism and your Catholicism you are in...” he stops, to find the mot juste in his English-Greek dictionary. “Oh yes, perversion.” The word pleases him. “Popism is a perversion of Christianity.”

The churches of East and West finally split in 1054, for political as much as theological reasons - the latter centring on apparently minor differences in the Creed. But Esphigmenou's fight is about so much more than a dislike of Catholicism - it is about an entire worldview, in which the stakes could not be higher. They believe that after the churches eventually unite (and they are convinced that they will), the day of judgment will be upon us. “One day, one government will control all the world,” Father Savvas says. “Only once will this happen, and this government will be run by the Antichrist, the Messiah of the Jews.”

For this to happen, there must be globalisation - and for true globalisation there must be unity of faith. “The European Union offer money, much money, to restore the monasteries,” Father Savvas says. “But it is a trap - to make friends and destroy us. Our fathers hate ecumenism; they are against globalisation. And anyone who hates globalisation is an enemy of the EU.

“The coincidences are so many that you cannot turn a blind eye. For example, globalisation requires the barcode system.” He finds a magazine and points to two lines on its barcode that are longer than others, repeated three times. “Do you know which number each double bar is?” This is conspiracy theory bingo, and I am about to get a full house. 6? “Yes ! It is 6!” 666: the mark of the beast. Technically, I later learn, those lines do not represent 6 but I doubt that the monks, who proudly call themselves zealots, would have taken my word for it.

That said, it would be wrong to consider them hostile. Throughout my stay they are friendly, welcoming and unfailingly hospitable - even if initially their rules made me feel isolated. Before my first meal and, sitting on the stone steps of the church, I wait with the cats - for the leftovers after the others have eaten. Meals on Athos are an austere affair, even if you are Orthodox. Beans and rice, wine and fruit - maybe fish on Sundays. In Esphigmenou, they sit in silence while, from a pulpit, a monk reads from the Bible in Greek. When the reading is over, the meal is over.

And then, crowding out of the trapeza with the other monks, Father Chrysostom beckons me inside. The oldest surviving building, the centuries-old frescoes of the trapeza are blackened from the indignities of occupying Turkish troops, who in the 19th century briefly used it as a kitchen. Sitting me down on a wooden bench away from the clatter of tidying up, Father Chrysostom, the head of the kitchen, brings plates of rice pudding, chickpeas and kiwi fruit. Other monks put sweets and wine in front of me, with a wink, like over-indulgent uncles.

Father Chrysostom almost tries too hard to put me at ease. “I like very much your English soap,” he says through a long, scraggy beard. I look confused. He jogs to a friend, then returns - victorious, but no less mysterious. “I like very much your English swords!” he makes the movement of a pirate removing his cutlass from a scabbard, and grins.

Later he introduces me to Kitsos, a shabby donkey, who hangs around the monastery. His ostensible purpose is as insurance, “in case the oil runs out”, but while the tractors still work he leads a charmed existence eating apples, being stroked and occasionally pulling his stake out of the ground to canter - triumphant - across the vineyard.

When I am finally allowed to meet Abbot Methodius - the stern philosophical scourge of the Orthodox Church - he has a stuffed toy donkey on his windowsill, looking very much like Kitsos. Methodius, who heads the monastery, tells me that he believes they stand alone, upholding the true faith until the time when, perhaps, the Patriarch is declared a heretic. “Esphigmenou will last, so long as God wants us,” he says. And he welcomes pilgrims - housed in two rooms, their wood-burning stoves gently warming centuries of accumulated body odour.

It is here that I meet Alexis Papalexiou - a US citizen who has returned to the old country, and the old faith. Extravagantly hairy, and wearing a vest, he looks like a moustachioed Tony Soprano. “For weeks I had these dreams,” he tells me. “I heard the Holy Spirit, and it said ‘prodotis, prodotis' - ‘traitor, traitor',” he stage whispers. “Then, later, ‘Judas'.
“It stopped when I switched to the Old Calendar. Esphigmenou holds the true faith: that is why the Devil, and the Patriarch, are against them.”

After evening prayers, hooded monks navigate the cloisters, lighting dim oil lamps on the stone walls. The cats move inside as well, lurking like malevolent shadows - waiting to trip up unsuspecting pilgrims on night-time toilet trips. To enter this world is to be in a place where demons still possess men, where visions are commonplace and where icons perform daily miracles. With the zealotry of the convert, they want to save me too. As I am dozing off one night, Alexis wakes me with an urgent whisper. “Tom, I will not see you tomorrow, so I must say: remember that prostitution, adultery, seeing a witch - these are deadly sins.” Silence for a bit. “And jerking off, too, that is bad.”

On my final morning Constantinos, a stockbroker from Athens, negotiates for me to visit the church. “See this picture,” Constantinos points to a Madonna and Child. “Many years ago it was stabbed. And look, now it bleeds.” He takes me to another. “This is our most powerful picture. It has done many miracles.” Gathered around its base are gold offerings - including a swimming medal.

Constantinos confesses that they are worried about what I will write. “Thomas,” (he pronounces it Toe-mass), “it is important that you write the truth. We say, you can fight a war with blood or with ink - so do not lie, you are powerful. Do not say ‘they are bad - they would not let me eat with them.' That is just our rule. When you write, ask the Holy Spirit to help you.”

As I walk through the stone gateway for the last time, I pass an aged monk, sitting sentinel beneath its frescoes. I offer him a Quality Street - the last of my bulwark against a beans-only diet. He takes the box and turns it over carefully, methodically. Then he points to the barcode, and shakes his head, his long beard accentuating the motion. The packet is returned, untouched.

Mount Athos, a peninsula in northern Greece, is a semi-autonomous monks' republic. For the past 1,000 years all females, including most domestic animals, have been banned. Why? One story is that the monks became too frisky with shepherdesses, another that the Patriarch of Constantinople wanted to remove temptation.

The earliest record of Athonite monks is their attendance at a church council in 843. The first monastery was founded in 963. It is now a Unesco World Heritage Site. But some monks claim that Emperor Constantine the Great founded the first monastery in the 4th century. Others claim Christian tradition began when the Virgin Mary found refuge on Athos in a storm. Recently Athos has become a favoured retreat of Vladimir Putin and the Prince of Wales.


i support my orthodox brothers, but to be honest, i wouldnt mind reuniting with the catholic church. given that the orthodox church is a minority almost everywhere you go (not so much in the soviet-bloc countries, but its getting there), the catholic influx would certainly boost our numbers and give us more spiritual armor against the moslems and athiests. sure we'd have our differences to settle out (we don't have popes or recognize popes), but that can be done so in a fair and reasonable matter.

good bye and god bless!!
tamtam