Except for my beloved and blessed and delightfully light-hearted and all-knowing priest, Abuna (our father) Beniameen. In his enthusiasm to shepherd a lost sheep like me, he had a tendency to skip over the hard parts in my studies of Orthodoxy and get straight to the juicy bits, like how much God loved and accepted me and how the water in the baptismal font in his church was heated in the winter time. He made everything about it sound cozy. Orthodoxy as a feel-good love-fest. Which at its deepest levels, of course, it is. I loved discovering the zen-like wisdom and yogic immersion parallels in the writings of the desert fathers. I was not so keen, however, on reading the texts of the actual liturgies. While dear Abuna was ready to answer any and all questions, I simply didn't know what to ask until it was too late.
Which is how I ended up spilling the blood of our savior on my first communion following my baptism, a crimson drop for a scarlet letter on my white sweater (not quite a christening gown, but the best I could do at the moment. The search "white dress" still comes up every time I type "w" in google.) The attending priest, who unfortunately or fortunately was not "my" Abuna, turned into the embodiment of wrath, his eyes popping out of their sockets and chin pulling down to distort his terrifying expression even more. The nun usher, who must be at least 100 years old and is a no-nonsense kind of gal when it comes to headscarves, pulling offenders aside to tie knots tightly under chins before allowing them to rejoin the communion crush to the front of the church, gasped audibly and crossed herself.
Did I mention it was Christmas Eve? Yes, Abuna had offered up this date for my dunking, supposing it would be extra special to share my re-birth day with the King of kings. I had emerged from the warm waters that very morning. So the church was packed for the midnight mass before the great feast. I'm guessing about 600+ people. Generally, the most pious among the congregation get there early and occupy the first few rows of pews. They also tend to be aged, slightly stooped, stern featured and dressed all in black. These are not women you want to encounter in a dark alley after a night of sin. Or, believe me, in church after a botching a sacrament. I darted away from the nun's tsk-tsking and the priest's glaring only to be confronted by a sea of women in black who looked like they wanted to spit on me. Still completely oblivious to my grievous offense, I'm thinking, "are they afraid because I might have stained the church's scarf which was draping my head and shoulders, or my sweater or what?" So I smile reassuredly and whisper "Maalish" (as in no biggie, nevermind) as I pass them, mopping up the tiny droplet with MY OWN scarf to demonstrate that the church scarf had not been damaged, nor had my nice sweater! See, all clean!
Glad no one had any very small rocks on them.
I learned the hard way what happens. The offending item–scarf only, I managed to hide the speck on the sweater–was whisked away to be desanctified in a similar painstaking ritual-in-reverse or the like before it could thrown in the laundry. And I was filled with humility. As in humiliated. Small children were managing to tip the tiny spoon into their mouths without incident. Perhaps I should have watched them a little more closely and followed their example. A little child shall lead them and all that. Perhaps I should have practiced with unholy liquids first. Like cough syrup.
Abuna Beniameen had missed the whole ordeal, but soon found out about it from his gracious wife, who had tried to be reassuring with me when I filled her in on the debacle which she, too, had graciously been oblivious to until my confession. He paused, his brows furrowed, then he simply shrugged and said, "Maalish. You didn't know. You are like a child now. You have many things to learn." And I piled into the sedan with his wife and kids and went back to their place to dig into the traditional fast-breaking meal which consists primarily of meat with a side of meat. Busy as I was reliving the evening's incident and hoping I hadn't stained my and Abuna's reputations too badly, it was all humble pie to me.
The next morning, filled with excitement of my new life, and bursting with the promise of a good story, I banged out an email to my parents, the Unitarian ministers, sure they would appreciate the nuances of my experience. Dad was still in his cave most likely wondering what he did to deserve a born-again daughter, but mom, in her matter-of-fact tone, just told me not to worry about it, that she was sure Jesus would have laughed.
That was about a year ago, and I've come a long way and attended more than a few masses without incident since then. Actually, I was starting to feel pretty good about my slow integration into Orthodox society, demonstrating my belongingness upon entering churches by lighting candles before pictures of saints, wadding up scribbled prayers and shoving them into nooks and crannies near pictures of saints, and very occasionally, when the spirit or the longing not to be viewed as "other" moved me, touching a picture of a saint and kissing my hand for a blessing. When I'm not in proximity to my church, I even venture solo into other churches where I am not known when there is a special service that I want to attend. Such was the case last Wednesday, the third and final day of the Fast of Jonah of Nineveh. Jonah of whale belly fame.
While I had not exactly followed the fasting rules properly those three days, I had, in preparation for attending mass, not taken any food or beverage since before midnight the prior day. My growing low-blood sugar induced light-headedness was allowing me to really feel the spirit. I was feeling pretty proud of my independent, spiritual self, sitting in a crowded pew in the back, with a brand new headscarf emblazoned with St. Mary and Son purchased from the Orthodox convent in a village in
Headscarf tied securely under chin: Check. Native-like obliviousness to being continuously shoved and people cutting ahead in the semblance of a line: Check. Cloth napkin retrieved from basket at front to reverently hold in front of mouth while chewing His body to protect any errant morsel from exiting the holy church body: Wait, where did they keep the napkins in this church? Wait, there's the basket. But it's empty. Okay, um, maybe we were supposed to bring our own? Quick scan of women around me. Nope, no one is clutching a napkin. Wait, that women just got passed one. Where did she get that? Oh no, I'm next in line! Wait, there's a piece of cloth in that basket. I'll take that. Wait, this is a table runner. Okay, stay calm. I'll keep it folded and no one will notice. Okay, open mouth, take bread from nice priest. Cross self. Phew, thank God I got through that! Then: Shucks! I am supposed to be meditating in a state of praise and grace while receiving this most glorious gift and I got distracted! Okay, composure. Breathe. Oh, whoa! That was quick, there's communion part II, The Blood, right in front of me! But I'm still chewing. I still have my napkin! Dang, I don't want to hold up the line. Keep moving. But where do I put the napkin? Okay, here comes the blood. Remember: Chin tilted back, and mouth the spoon and whatever you do, DON'T SPILL. Okay, Phew. Nicely done. All gone! No dribbles!
Hand, still clutching table runner, automatically begins to rise up towards my mouth, as is the custom when one is holding a napkin and is on best behavior in front of royalty and has just taken a little sip of something and wishes not to expose the contents of her mouth when it does that automatic post-swallow opening response. Tsk tsk, utters the priest. I glance up and see that face, the face of wrath again. No, no! I didn't spill, it's fine! my eyes plead with the priest as the deacon steps in front of me, blocking my path, and pushes my hand with the table runner away from my face. "We don't kiss the napkin after the blood," the deacon says, in perfect English. I nod, and begin the walk of shame back up the center aisle.
Back in my pew, I try my best to get back in the spirit of praise and worship that I come for. I am fighting back the tears of embarrassment, of loneliness, of feeling set apart, the outsider again. The tears come. No matter how deeply I venture into the bowels of this culture, in the end, it spits me out. I may have willingly swam into my whale, seeking transformation, but it is God, not me, who decides how to accomplish it and it seems that God has an infinite number of innovative lessons in humility stored up for me. And I am an eager pupil.
I showed Abuna my story and he had two comments:
1. "We don't believe it's the 'literal' blood of Christ, no. It's not like we think if you looked at it under a microscope you would find blood. It is the spiritual blood." Well, I'm glad I got that cleared up!
2. "You are very sensitive. There is no need. There are many many who make the same mistakes as you and they have been raised in the church. They are small things. Don't give it so much attention. These ceremonial aspects are not the main point. Keep your attention on God, not the people around you." Wise man, my abuna....
