. . . and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
– TS Eliot, Journey of the Magi
Every pilgrimage, indeed every journey, gets to the point where you see the Sun’s first glimpse, where you come round the bend to see the spire of the Town in the distance, where the Goal – be it a cathedral or an inn – finally comes into view. A short while later you have achieved your goal. What remains is the unravelling, the denouement, the last bit, the ‘getting home’. This part of the journey can feel directionless, anticlimactic and unreal.
I write this report some time after the end of my journey. As I write, I’m trying to make sense of something that is already being internalised, which is becoming part of me and for this reason is in the process of being forgotten; and while I am in the process of adapting to, and trying to make sense of, the new reality I find myself in.
So I ask your forgiveness if this account is a bit disjointed – it’s because the writer is somewhat discombobulated.
We left early one morning for St. Sergius Lavra, the most famous monastery in all Russia. We arrived, a whole busload of us, outside of the gates on a brilliant, sunny winter’s morning. We were given no introduction as to what we would see or experience, and so somewhat abruptly I was faced with the relics of arguably Russia’s most famous saint, St. Sergius of Radonezh, specially opened for our veneration, right next to the almost equally famous Rublev iconostasis.
I was dog tired and caught off guard and had no time to collect myself or reflect, to take in what was happening. I remained so for the rest of the whistlestop tour of the famous relics room of the Lavra, the bell tower and the seminary, and the inevitable deluge of group photographs. It was over before I was there, before the camel of my soul had arrived. I will have to return.
Then we continued driving, on and on, to the monastery of St. Nicholas at Solba, arriving after dark, first to tea and then to the evening service. I was tired, emotionally disoriented and not in the happiest of moods.
And after the evening service, another ‘ekskiurshion’. But this one was different. We walked around the monastery, a pale moon glistening above us. Gradually I became aware of the breath of holiness as we were shown one place of beauty after another: the Church of St. Barbara, an entire Orthodox fairy tale in one wooden building; right next door, a simple, small stone Church with mosaic icons of such sublime craftsmanship and vivid spirituality that they could have been made in the first centuries; then out of nowhere, in a Church full of girls busy with a choir practice, the relics of St. Spyridon, one of my favourite saints, to whom I pray for the well-being of my family – a nod and a smile from the saint and from God. Afterwards we had a wonderful supper, received some gifts from the nuns, and then we left. It was late in the night when we arrived home.
After a brief few hours of sleep, I got up again to celebrate the Liturgy with Father Dionysij, the abbot of the St Andrew Stratelatis monastery at Sparrows Hill in Moscow. He asked me at a moment’s notice whether I wanted to preach. I looked at the Gospel reading for the day; three minutes later I was preaching. After the Liturgy, we continued the conversation we had started the week before. I will keep in touch, for I have much to learn from him.
In the evening, we got on the train to Karélia. It is not possible to enumerate my impressions of Karelia – they are too rich and too many. I mention only a few: the village Church where Father Stanislav serves, and how small and humble it is – and how intimate and personal. The celebration of a Liturgy the day after our arrival, with many practical tips and positive feedback from him. Then a small tour of Karélia: drinking special mineral water from three springs, tasting strongly of its very high metal content; a chapel on a hill with a breathtaking view of a lake and so small that it barely has space for one person to stand in; homemade muffins with fresh berries, warm out of the oven; a Church with exquisite Greek fresco’s in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere; ringing the bells in the snow at the little belfry outside the Church; doing the full banya, or Russian sauna, experience, complete with rubbing myself with snow between sessions, and thereafter being treated to a smorgasbord of different fish dishes. All of this interspersed with many conversations with someone you could consider your priestly elder brother. We concluded the tour with a visit to a beautiful exhibition of Karelian icons and art, then got in the train to watch the winter wonderland slip silently by, wondering at the overwhelming hospitality I had experienced.
I was surprised by the status I had attained on my ordination. I first saw it in the people who came up to me to be blessed in Church, holding out their hands, cupped right hand on left, for me to make the sign of the cross over them and then to place my right hand in theirs, to kiss. The reasoning behind the kissing of the right hand is that this is the hand that touches the Lamb, which is the Body of Christ, when the priest takes communion in the altar. Very few people ask for this blessing in Cape Town, because there is no tradition of doing so, but in Russia it happens all the time – I was even accosted in a metro station. And it confronted me with the fact that I was now able to bless people in a way which was not possible before.
And people started laying their lives, the attention of their eyes, and their sufferings and sorrows, in my hands. It seemed to me as if the cross around my neck caused people to respond more truthfully to me.
I had missed a group visit to the Museum of Russian Icons during a previous excursion, for reasons which I forget. On a Sunday morning after Liturgy, I went to this museum with Elena, an ecologist-kindergarten teacher who also helped with translation work, and an archimandrite from Tanzania. We saw centuries old, profoundly African and profoundly Orthodox – not to mention exquisitely beautiful – Ethiopian icons and Liturgical objects. And a vast array of Russian icons and objects from all ages, speaking of the different ways of living and worshiping, and of such beauty as to leave you breathless.
I had also missed a meeting with Mother Cornelia, the nun who is editor-in-chief of the Orthochristian website, because she had contracted Covid. And then, during the service on the morning before Theophany in the new Church at the Sretenskiy monastery, one of the monks I knew came and asked me whether I would like to meet with her. Of course I did. I eventually spent about three hours with her after the service, and what a happy acquaintance it was! She is an American who came to Russia a long time ago already, and is erudite, cultured, funny, and deeply spiritual. I felt I could spend the whole day there.
On the morning of Theophany, I celebrated the Liturgy with Metropolitan Leonid in the Church of the African Exarchate. Theophany is a special service, during which the water is blessed in commemoration of Christ’s baptism. A lot of people come to Church with bottles, to take some of the blessed water home. And then the priest – or in this instance, the Metropolitan – takes something like a paint brush with long hair and sprinkles, or rather splashes, everyone with the water. It is a joyous occasion, with everyone bracing themselves for getting wet, and laughing afterwards.
I was standing amongst the people during this part of the service, in one of two rows of priests facing each other, at the point in the service when the blessing of the water had just been finished.
Suddenly there was a movement behind me and the Metropolitan’s mother appeared, pushing through the people and the clerics with her water bottle to where her son was standing, to have herself splashed and her water bottle filled.
Now I should mention that Russian bishops are many things, but laissez-faire they are not. Protocol is protocol, and things are conducted correctly at their services, or else.
But the Metropolitan obliged, or rather indulged, his mother without a murmur. It was entirely inappropriate and yet entirely correct – and for me a vivid image of the intimate relationship between the Mother of God and Christ.
Think of the Kremlin and you think of cannons, a museum with armoury, and of course of the Russian government and Putin. We had been promised to go to the Kremlin on a number of occasions, but for some reason this never materialised. I did not mind much, as I’m not much of a museum person and the trappings of power have never attracted me.
And then one cold afternoon Olga (I have mentioned her before – she fetched me at the airport) took me to the Kremlin, and I discovered that the Kremlin is a treasure trove of icons.
Now I should say that there are very few really old icons left in Russia, as most of them were destroyed during Soviet times. Most of the icons you see in Churches date from the late 17th to the early 20th centuries, when the Catholic influence first grew stronger and then predominated. To me these icons have lost much of the Orthodox sensibility and in most cases are too naturalistic and … well, too sentimental, for my taste.
But in the Kremlin, none of this was in evidence. These icons there included some of the most ancient, strange and beautiful icons I had seen thus far. I was awestruck.
My visit to Saint Petersburg is equally a jumble of impressions, emotions and experiences. It followed on an early morning journey in the Sapsan, Russia’s speed train, during which I was cornered by a Russian bear with very good English, who decided to share his views of the world with me, including the undeniable fact that the Russians themselves had blown up the Nordstrom pipeline, told to me in strictest confidence behind his hand. (I’d be interested to know what he says of Seymour Hersh’s latest article.) It was entertaining, if nothing else.
At the Saint Petersburg station I was met by Vadim, a Moldavian tour guide who looked like a monk in a painting by El Greco. His English was adequate if not entirely fluent, and its deficiencies were compensated for by his enthusiasm, sincere piety, and intelligence. I spent a lovely day with him, walking around the Hermitage and the Russian museum, and taking a general tour of the centre of of the city. Ever so often he would surprise me by pointing out God’s providence in small things, such as the lack of a queue at the Hermitage, and the finding of a silk scarf for Emilia at the Russian museum.
In the evening we went to the Alexander Nevsky Lavra, the largest monastery in St Petersburg. I had a brief tour and then met Father Nikolai Sviatchenko, my host, for one of several meetings with missionary groups I had over the weekend.
On Saturday morning I celebrated the Liturgy with Father Nikolai at his parish Church, which boasted not one but two deacons with beautiful tenor voices, one of them a professional opera singer. Then I was taken back to the centre of town to meet an old friend at a Georgian restaurant for a lovely meal and wine, and another walkabout through the beautiful centre of St Petersburg. On Sunday morning during the Liturgy, I was presented with gifts of not one but two sets of vestments by the Rector of the Church. And this huge present came from a man who had only met me the previous evening and spoken three sentences to me in broken English!
After the Liturgy I went to the General Staff Building of the Hermitage, which houses a beautiful exhibition of Art Nouveau, an astonishing tapestry collection and a small but beautiful collection of Impressionist paintings. We left as the museum closed.
Outside it was dark. Vadim and Vera, the kind lady who was my chauffeur that day, took me to the Smolensk cemetery, where the chapel with the relics of Saint Xenia, St Petersburg’s most beloved saint, is situated. I had wanted to visit it for years. At first it appeared as if we would have to rush, as the cemetery, or at least the chapel, was about to close. But Vadim reminded me of God’s providence and we went in.
Of course the chapel was open. There were about 10 people there – a far cry from the mile long queues often present at the chapel. I went and venerated her relics at the tomb and then went and stood in a corner, struggling to contain my tears, because as was the case at the relics of St Matrona, I was absolutely overwhelmed by an awareness of her presence and love. Then Vadim came to me and told me that there was some miron oil standing on the tomb, that he had asked the woman in charge whether I could anoint them with the oil and that she had agreed. This I did, by painting a cross with the small brush, dipped in the oil, on the forehead of each of those present. It was a profoundly blessed moment.
One of the women I blessed in this way was an acquaintance of Vadim, who agreed to give us a tour of the cemetery. She showed us the graves of the spiritual mother and daughter of St Xenia; a meter or two from these graves, the gravestone at the place where about 40 monks, nuns and clerics were buried alive by the Soviets; and much besides.
I walked away from the Smolensk cemetery, knowing that I had once again been touched by the grace of God.
On my return from St Petersburg I had two whirlwind days of last meetings with people, sad goodbyes and then the flight home. At the Cape Town airport, a last little miracle. For the first time in my life I was stopped by a customs official. My bags were full of gifts and things I had bought for our chapel, none of them with receipts. Anyone opening my bags would have had a field day. But before I got there, I had asked the Theotokos to help me get through customs. And she listened: The official asked my passport, then asked whether I had been to Moscow for business or tourism. I explained to him what I had done there and said I was unsure whether it would count for business or tourism. Then he asked what was in one of my bags, which was suspiciously wrapped in white plastic. I replied that it was full of vestments, books and other Church items. And then, without a further word, he let me go. A moment later I was in the arms of my family at last.
There is another way of looking at the end of pilgrimages to the one with which I started this report. The pilgrimage of Christ’s disciples had its climax with Christ’s resurrection and His ascension to heaven. As the disciples watched Christ ascending, they knew that their pilgrimage as disciples had come to an end. They were left with promises, instructions and the ashes of their former life in their hands. Another journey was about to begin.
