I’ve long realised that pilgrimages, if pursued long enough, eventually reach a place in the woods where we get lost. The initial excitement and its accompanying energy wears off; we grow weary and the obstacles prove more formidable than when they were small mountains in the distance. Then the weather takes a turn for the worse and the truth of the inadequacy of our preparation dawns on us. We come to a wood at the side of the mountain. The road divides and we realise that no matter which one we take, we will doubt our choice before we had given ten steps down the road. Or we see a turnoff which is not on the map, and then another feature which is out of place; and we seem to remember that overgrown little path a while back which we disregarded at the time, but which now seems to have been the obvious choice for continuing in the right direction.
Tonight (Sunday) I went on my first ‘individual excursion’. Those of you who know me well, know that I’m not a group animal. You can call me egotistical, individualistic, eccentric, narcissist and you’d probably be right on all counts. But there it is, as the emperor in Amadeus so succinctly said.
And slowly but surely these ‘group excursions’ are getting under my skin. They are usually undertaken just when you realise that you haven’t been to the loo for some time, and hey, how long ago was breakfast again? There’s usually the ‘little lecture’ by someone who has given it a hundred and seventy times before, and who is no doubt a secret expert on the glazing over of eyes. There’s the tired exhibition of some long forgotten Wonderful Person who is not canonised yet, but will be soon. And so on. Sometimes I manage to break the mold (an instance of which I will tell you anon) but not today. The high point today was humming along with two Russian babushka’s who in a convent refectory sang a Russian folk song whose melody I recognised from my childhood and meeting a strange monk (on whom more later).
To treat myself, therefore, this afternoon after the group excursion I went to the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, a treasure trove of wonders. Or so I thought. My pilgrimage there provided some tips for the undertaking of such a trip, which I share with you gladly.
Make sure that you know what your destination is before you get on the train. I had to go to Borovitskaya (Боровицкая), but ended up going to Borisovo (Борисово) instead, because that’s what my one room mate, who knows no English beyond ‘Gello’, indicated to me was the station closest to the Pushkin museum. The application of this tip to pilgrimages is obvious.
If you feel it’s wrong, it usually is. After two metro stations my doubts overwhelmed me. I had another hard look at the Moscow Metro map posted in the carriage and the general map of Moscow I downloaded, and realised that I was on my way to the southeast of Moscow, half way to Kazakhstan, whilst I should have gone to the southwest of the centre of Moscow.
People are more helpful than you think, but language is, in fact, a barrier. I got off at the next station, went to a police woman, who took a full 5 minutes and several trips to the metro map to give me an explanation of how I could go three stations in a north-westerly direction on another line, then change to another line, go 5 stations to the southwest, then change a third time and then after two stations, I should be there.
Trust your m(app). I managed to connect to the Metro wifi and consulted my newly downloaded Metro app, which showed that there was a much shorter, quicker route. I followed it.
Appearances can be deceiving. Or, help often comes from unexpected sources. And, it’s darkest just before sunrise. I got to Borovitskaya, and was confronted by 6 exits, all seemingly going to other metro lines, each about 150 meters from each other, but none to the street. I walked up steps at the end of the station and found myself confronted by three possible exits, all indicating different streets, but none of them the one I was looking for, or to be found on the map I had downloaded. And nary a police person, male or female, in sight. The only stationary person was a very pretty girl (have I mentioned the impossibly pretty Russian girls before? I should have: they look like dolls), who was looking at a phone in that abstracted, absorbed way youngsters do nowadays. Now I have a thing about pretty girls, which dates from my teenage years: I suddenly feel all gawkish and self-conscious again. But I reminded myself of the grey hairs in my beard and the first time a pretty girl called me ‘Oom’, and strode over. I explained my problem, pointing to the Pushkin Museum on the map on my phone. She looked at me, did not call over a police person (there were none, remember?), stuttered two or three words in Russified English, went to the Russian form of Google translate on her phone, and typed ‘That is very far from here’, whilst beaming a beatific smile at me.
I felt like the time when the customs officer asked for my son’s unabridged birth certificate at the border to Namibia. And then I spotted a blue dot on the map on my phone, which indicated that I was no more than about 300 meters away from the museum. I asked her how to get to the street indicated on the map, she pointed and smiled again (and a very pretty smile it was). In seconds I was in the street, my map started to make sense and I strode on, a song of joy in my heart. For goodness sake, here I was, confident meters away from a treasure trove of art, trudging through snow, feeling the crisp cold of a Moscow winter evening on my face. How lucky can a man get?
It ain’t over till it’s over. I arrived at the museum. Scanned my bag. Delivered my jacket to the cloak room lady. Went in the direction of the entrance. Asked a knowledgeable looking lady where I could buy a ticket. And was informed that the main museum is closed for a concert but that I could visit a temporary exhibition of conceptual art works in paper, about which the knowledgeable looking lady look not very enthusiastic.
On the way back to the station I discovered the final lesson: Don’t look at your phone whilst walking with wet shoes down marble steps. You may fall on your bum. There is a spiritual lesson in there, but I have yet to make out what it is.
I will grant you that this is a long prelude. The main point of which is this: It is not the stated destination which makes the pilgrimage worthwhile. It is the substance, the steps themselves (and occasionally your bum). Being lost is an essential part of pilgrimage and its meaning is uncovered unexpectedly, when you’re not looking for it.
Which brings me to the reason for this strange report. We have been here for a month now. The date of our ordination remains a mystery. It seems even uncertain whether we will be ordained at all, or merely as deacons. Nobody knows. According to a priest I spoke to, it’s a very Russian thing. I wouldn’t know. But I have become lost in my pilgrimage, like Dante.
Meanwhile, we keep practising the Liturgy without actually practising it, which is a bit like learning how to drive without actually driving. Because we may not celebrate it ourselves, of course, because we have not been ordained. And we have classes about medieval Russian saints, schisms past and present in the Russian Church and the order of night vigil services, none of which seem to me remotely relevant to service as a priest to the Afrikaners.
But there are several nourishings along this winding way. Some of the practical lessons – on the intricacies of censing and how to cut the prosphora bread – are nuts and bolts I have always wondered about.
I have discovered an unexpected pleasure and joy in singing during the interminable vigil services, even if I feel completely lost half of the time in melodies unfamiliar to me. And I keep having wonderful conversations with interesting people and objects.
Thus we were taken on Tuesday to a bell-ringer, who gave us a close-up of a bell-ringing session and then, halfway through his version of the ‘little lecture’, discovered that I was really interested. So whilst my sun-loving colleagues had disappeared down the belfry to look for tea, he told me some fascinating facts about bells. The are called ‘prayers in bronze’ and are considered to be sacred objects. A bell has not only one sound, but can produce up to three different sounds if struck (which sound indistinguishable, but may be picked up with sound equipment). A bell is a fragile object which, if rung too hard, or during a hard frost, may develop microscopic cracks, which alter their sound for the worse. Bell-ringing in Orthodox countries use Liturgical songs as the basis for their tunes. Eastern European bells sound slightly different to Western bells, for reasons which no-one has yet discovered. Bells are played with both hands and both feet – and the most difficult part to master is the playing with the right hand, because it is the least rhythmical part of the body. Oleg Ivanov, the bell-ringer (the Afrikaans ‘beiaardier’ is so much more beautiful) has developed a notation system for bell ringing and has his own YouTube channel (type in ‘Oleg Ivanov bell ringing’ in the search bar or use https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLms5LqzPl0 ).
And during an otherwise fairly boring visit to a convent, the name of which escapes me now, whilst a little lecture was being given by a woman who had mastered the rare craft of looking continually surprised, I discovered an icon which could have been painted by Salvador Dali, and a few days later, a similar icon. And some magical needlework, and a wonderful ceramic oven. Elsewhere, high up against a wall, a reproduction of a painting of a medieval man, staring out of the picture. By his feet, a soft cat, staring no doubt at a mouse.
Also, earlier today, a visit to an utterly strange, otherworldly monk, who told us some wonderful things from St. Simeon the New Theologian about being a priest.
And of course, that visit to the Pushkin State Museum of Modern Art.
But the actual point of this missive is this: It is only when I am lost that I can be found. It is only when my plans, goals, m(apps), thoughts, and reasonings about God have broken down, when my grasping has finally failed, that the utterly transformative beholding of the ineffable, illimitable, warm-as-blood God can take place. May God in His mercy grant this to all of us.
And please continue to pray for me.
