We went to Alexander Nevsky Bulgarian Orthodox Church last Sunday. After a pleasing, foggy and breath-visible morning run through our own little Wash Park (just older dog owners and more artsy statues), we were already on that post-run-and-shower high. Down the stairs, out our door and up the hill toward the nearest intersection—one that always sits in a sort of dull yellow haze. In fact, I can’t even tell you which buildings are yellow, just that they make the corner a sort of cornbread soft through the Sofia smog. We marched along the sidewalks, often single file as usual, as the obstacle of nut-stands, tiny garbage receptacles, slow-moving babas, curbs and cars parked along the sidewalk just isn’t all that stroll-friendly. Plus, Michael and I have a strictly individual street-crossing policy. No holding hands, no maternal arm-shoots. At this particular spot, in fact, there is no light, just a crosswalk that is very obviously only visible to those crossing it.
But after an injury-free cross, it was just a short walk past the national art gallery, through some bushes and around the tables of angelic tablecloths and doilies for sale, to cross the wide roundabout that routes around the five-knave, linen-white, gold plated and mint green basilica. Finished in 1912, the Neo-Byzantine structure, like so many of the monuments here in Sofia, was built to express Bulgaria’s gratitude toward the Russians for bailing them out of 500 years of Turkish rule.
We formed a small line behind the door, and then crept past three (3!) small, tree-house colored and crafted corner “gift shops,” small, candlelit sanctuaries with a million versions of the Virgin Mary not unlike the last scene in Stephen King’s Carrie. The church loomed above, not ahead or to the side, but up, like we were at the bottom of some deep dark spiritual well. I looked around and realized that you could see the altar from many positions. To my right, the southeast glow was so illuminating, such a contrast to the dark and hollow center, even the worshippers against the windows were simply silhouettes. To my left were piles of chairs in the dust. The head of the church included yet another dome, with a red-curtained room (closed off to the public) a four-column middle-eastern like space and a high pulpit with white alabaster carvings. The church was very dark and the darkness, the smallness of the space, felt intimate. There were five-foot, asymmetrical candelabra stands poised ready to remember and bless. And on the walls were stare-washed frescoes that went right up to the ceiling. . .I loved the faces, the muted earth-tone colors, very unlike the bejeweled reds and yellows of the Western European Cathedrals. I was comforted by their worn appearance. Like the Last Supper painting in my grandparent’s old house, hanging quietly, full of power, but content to blend into the wall behind the dinner table. They comforted me and my current state of beliefs. Too, the stained glass was strikingly simple; high, rounded tops and straight bottom edged windows. Hundreds of them. And as yellow and purple as a child’s bedspread. I smelled second hand clothing, incense and winter coats. The gargantuan chandeliers above us, a mess of glass, fire and chains–straight out of a Tim-Burton movie—were a deep shade of brown metal. To me, they appeared even a little haunted, as though they’d seen a few too many sins. And their built-to-look-like-30-different-candle design was so imperfect, so crooked and full of bends and slants. Its flaws felt humble.
Then, to the top.
It was him. Such a rare sight, but such a big part of my childhood imagination! A ceiling painting of that white-bearded man—not the one on the cross, the other one!–in a white sheeted gown, his arms and hands, spread wildly about, curling just enough forward to infuse both fear and relief. Was he going to embrace me or whip up a quick tornado? I mean, what if I looked up? There he would actually be! At his waist stood an overly-feathered cherub angel, its wide-as-a-car-grille wings appearing to beat against the cloudy-day-pool-water-dome of Alexander Nevsky.
Everyone seemed to be gathered toward the front altar in a street-stopping, turned-to-stare fashion. Their soft, gloved hands clutched bags of groceries from Familia, nobody bothered to take off their coats, remove their hats or rest their purses on the stone floor, as if they weren’t staying long. Some inched quite close to the draped icons and stone figures while other stopped near the door. They just stood, bowing and signing and staring like a bunch of mad disciples. It was really quite a sight.
But, of course, this is partly because the pews were missing. I gulped down that emptiness with a big throat lump, trying to use and accept the space. But the stone, marble and hotel-lobby-black-and-white pattern was coming up to meet me so fast. The ten or twenty chairs we found, arranged as haphazardly as God’s guests, I now realize, were for the elderly. But we sat, because, I don’t know, sitting down seemed the right thing to do. Especially if a ceremony were going to begin. And then it did.
From somewhere behind us and above us, then came the hollow, ear-against-a train cloud of sound. . .the resonance I now know—one that crashes across stone and glass toward our ears–of a cathedral choir. With someone from the red-curtained room, the voices began a smooth sequence of call and answer, chorus and speak, whisper and listen. Because we couldn’t see even the choir director (or anyone singing, or the priest for that matter) from our position, we soon became comfortable with the assumption that angels had risen from these very walls and begun a heaven-sent serenade. To tour a cathedral is quite intimidating, but to attend service there, well, I learned, it’s quite extraordinary.
At some point later, a bearded, golden-robed, Holy Synod, previously protected by the altar, was now surrounded by deacon-like “wardens” clearing his path and wiping his chalice, helping him as he moved down toward the mass of visitors. He carried the smoke-exuding ball and chain (what is that thing called?) which honestly sounded like a wrist full of bangles every time it was tossed. But the crown was the showstopper; gold, sparkling and bejeweled, with a horizontal strip around the bottom, and a traditional Thanksgiving day-roll puff atop, it looked like it belonged on a pillow and in a glass case. The stiff and high golden collar of his robe guarded his head from tilting (and therefore losing the crown, I suppose). When he strode to the center of the church, people then rushed to form a line, backs to the altar in front of him, taking their turn. Some made the sign of the cross (in Bulgaria, it’s right shoulder first) and kissed his hand. An elder with orange and white hair that reminded me of the shiny white threads in my mother’s nativity scene, knelt to kiss the ground. A 20-something girl in a baseball cap curtsied. But no matter their age, their disposition was clear: Awe. Dedication. Thankful.
For the next hour, we were only observers, fumbling clumsily through the necessary sitting and standing (much like a game of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean in choir). I guess we followed the elders, but their movements may have been triggered by tired feet or arthritic knees. I’m not sure. People came, people left. But despite the thunderous choir, parishioners did not sing. They did not chant. They did not shake hands or pray together. There was no program. No smiling. Certainly no mention of a church picnic or rummage sale. And, instinctively, it didn’t fit. But then, I realized, without it, the cathedral would have a hard time, graduating, in my mind to something more personal than a tourist attraction.
But this behavior, this pattern was typical; it wasn’t so unexpected in Bulgaria. We had recently concluded that he fear of, or, perhaps bad memories of the communist collectivism (from school uniforms to big-brother curtain-closing practices) was so strong, that individualism was now the only path one dared to take. During church, at the market or in the park, it tended to be every citizen for themselves. Lines were seldom formed. People often appeared “closed”. And “community” without the funding or organization, most of all, without the initiative, simply doesn’t happen.
In the United States, I guess, we are utterly confident; so clearly secure about our individual rights, that coming together poses no threat. But not here. Certainly not now.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, a crownless, but elegantly robed man, ascended the elevated pulpit and began giving what seemed to be a Bulgarian sermon. And no, to answer your question, even after three months of Bulgarian, we understood very little. Our thoughts, during 10 minutes of talking, for example, might have included: “Oh, I think that was the word for “up”, yes, it definitely was”).
As this occurred, however, the viewers gathered attentively closer. There was an identifiable, but confusing, shift in the church—new arrivals, new departures, perhaps even a settling in—and we couldn’t help but feel like the service was just now beginning. Could it be?
Of course, at this point, we felt full, our limbs and thoughts heavy.
But our exit wasn’t a problem. We caused no disruption, received no dirty looks and no one had to stand up to let us out. We simply rose, lingered at the back for one last view and then heaved open the iron door, and headed for the café to talk about our new Sunday staple.
