On the morning of Sunday, September 11, I attended Divine Liturgy at Holy Trinity Orthodox Church, 231 E. Cordova Road in Santa Fe. This is the main weekly religious observance (equivalent to the Roman Catholic, Lutheran or Episcopal Mass). One enters the living room of large house (Now a Temple, Ed.), which has a few racks of literature, books about Christian Orthodoxy, and religious art both displayed and for sale. The sanctuary is through to the left. Immediately I sensed that this large room with low ceiling had been transformed into a living and very different sacred space. The mood there was solemn, warm, mysterious, welcoming, communal, and ancient.

Antiphons were being sung, softly and devoutly, in English. The Deacon would intone a versicle of praise or prayer, followed by a sung or intoned Response by a chorus of six or eight people, frequently joined in by the people gathered there. Everyone was standing. As the harmonic antiphons of praise and devotion continued, people crossed themselves frequently. Some devout young men bowed and touched the floor with one hand after crossing themselves, in an individual and apparently spontaneous gesture. (This they call a metania, or "lesser prostration.") Dozens of candles illuminated this sanctuary. Many painted icons of saints, mostly small and of ancient imagery, decorated the walls. Several were accompanied by their own suspended candle sconces. As the service warmed up, entering parishioners crossed themselves, and some went to a wall to kiss one of the icons. Then each found a place to stand and began to sing the responses. (I am told that the icons are considered as "windows" or "eyes" to the divine realm.) There were no pews in this richly atmospheric sanctuary, except for a few chairs along the back wall. They are there for the infirm who cannot stand for long periods, mothers of infants, and perhaps guests.
The altar itself could be seen through a veiled screen (part of the ikonoastasis, or "wall of the icons" ) at the front. A seven-light candelabra rested on the altar, which I am told is much like the seven-light candelabra and cube-like altars of the ancient Jewish temples.

A crucifix on a wooden staff stood behind it. The ikonastasis, a false wall with archways and doors at the side clearly defined the altar and sanctuary area. I watched as the pastor and five or six deacons and servers, most with beards, faced the altar, singing and preparing. As the people
continued to enter the nave (main area) of the church, acolytes dressed in white> processed in and out of the altar area and through the side doors.

Some 50to 60 people came for this service. They were of all ages, including young children and babes in arms. Most women and girls wore a light veil, or mantilla, into the sanctuary, but no other dress by men or women was exceptional. In fact, I could discern no leanings as to age, race, ethnicity, or socioeconomic grouping to distinguish this congregation. They appeared to be very much a mainline American mix.

A reader (a subdeacon) intoned a passage from an Epistle and soon thereafter the Deacon sang a passage from the Gospel of John. Very harmonious responses were sung to the Gospel reading. I observed than none of the men in clerical clothes wore visible crucifixes, as is common in Latin rite churches.

The pastor here is Father John Bethancourt. In a moment, the mood changed as he began to speak the day's sermon. This is the only part of the service, except for announcements at the end, that is not sung or intoned. Everyone who was standing now sat on the floor, in random fashion, to listen to Father John's sermon.

The topic was "The Feast of the Holy Cross," which he explained is one of the twelve great feasts of the church. Wednesday was the date of this feast. Father John's vestments included a white outer garment, trimmed in blue with simple designs suggestive of Maltese crosses. His manner was
friendly and surprisingly informal.

"God did not send his son to judge the world, but to save the world," he explained at one point, and paraphrased Jesus saying, "There is a Word that judges, but I don't judge." Father John said that the Cross is "a compassionate 'rule of life' that will bring us peace." He recalled the Apostle Paul saying (in the letter to the Galatians), "May I never boast of anything, save the Cross of Jesus Christ."

Now he diverted from the sermon topic to talk about the baptism of an infant there just the night before. Miriam and her young parents are there, and he had much to say about this holy and wondrous event of her baptism. Father John returned to explaining about the bronze serpent on a pole (from Moses), and its connection with the medical caduseus. (As with healing), "this has lifted us." He said that the meaning in this is a symbol of the crucifixion: "Take a difficulty or a grumbling, and offer it up to Jesus, in communion. Lift it up! Take it up to Jesus. Let this be our communion."
He concluded by asking the people to make ours "a life of communion through the life of Jesus Christ."

With an invocation to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, everyone again stood following the end of the sermon. A deacon intoned a verse from a written script. The people respond, "Lord have mercy..."

The entire feeling of this service of Divine Liturgy was solemn yet kindly, and not at all severe. No musical instruments were played, yet it was deeply musical. The altar is screened behind a veil, yet there was a continual intermingling of those in clerical dress, the choir, and the ordinary parishioners.

Censing with incense took place in a slow procession of the clerics after the sermon. A censer with small bells was used. The pastor blessed the people and the icons while the chorus sang softly. Some people joined in the familiar verses or simply hummed them. Intentional prayers for various parishioners were intoned, and the people crossed themselves for each one in turn. Five white-robed men now came in procession from behind the altar screen. (This is called the Great
Procession.) The priest carried a chalice. A deacon carries the discos with pieces of the consecrated bread (host). Father John prayed for the church's bishops and the Metropolitan, the leading bishop in the United States. Mary, the mother of Jesus, was invoked. My eyes turned to the many icons of Mary, clearly an important figure in this Orthodox tradition. A version of the familiar Nicene Creed was next recited by all. When the leader said, "Peace be with you," the response was: "and with thy spirit."

Once again, people who are used to the Roman or Anglican Mass would recognize familiar phrases and patterns in the liturgy, but there are also remarkable differences in style, nuance and sense of sanctity. Several phrases and responses known to Catholics were in this service, but were intoned instead of said. And after awhile these seemed to me to be like an echo, or a replication, of angels.

The Consecration is done at an unseen "altar of preparation" in the sanctuary before the public service, and often takes more than an hour. Orthodox churches use leavened bread, which is first broken into "the lamb," and then into smaller pieces with special prayers said for bishops, priests, parishioners with special needs, and the departed. Now at the offering at the altar, the pastor sang the familiar words from the synoptic gospels, "This is my body. This is my blood, the blood of the new covenant, which will is poured out, for the remission of sins."

A Communion prayer, familiar to all there, was said ("Communion is for entering into a holy mystery and remission of their sins."). The preparation of the gifts, and serving of the bread and wine to the clerical party, took place in the sanctuary at the altar. Serving Communion to the people happened next, in front of the altar with the people slowly coming forward in an informal line. A spoon dipped into the cup was used by the pastor to serve the consecrated wine and "lamb" to each person. The cup was then kissed by some, after the spoonful was served to them. "Blessed bread" was taken by each person from a basket held by a little girl standing to the right of the pastor. In the form of small individual cubes, this blessed bread is not part of the consecrated host, but is a bread of sharing and participation which may be taken by anyone present. Everyone was singing or chanting softly in unison during Communion.
("Rejoice, Oh unwedded bride.") Some couples held hands as they came forward. And here again I sensed a profound yet simple devotion--more with gentle humility than with guilt, and more with sanctimonious piety.

Another round of censing followed Communion, and more responsive song.
("Let us go forth in peace.") A spoken benediction was spoken by the priest: "Blessed be the name of the Lord, now and forever."

Among the people now there was much crossing of oneself, and again with a quick touch of the floor with the same hand. The pastor processed with a hand-held crucifix. "God grant you many years." Before leaving the sanctuary, there was a second blessing by the pastor. As I left that room, everyone was invited to take more blessed bread from the basket. Although the service of Divine Liturgy had ended, there was more to come as people gathered in the living room. Agape, a communal meal, was soon shared by almost everyone there, including guests. The meal was informal with people helping themselves from a serving table of various dishes, including salads and watermelon. The liturgy was quite long, probably over two hours in all, so it very much seemed time for the midday meal.

I had to leave before the Agape was over, but stayed long enough to observe how Father John directed the informal conversation, which was related to matters of the church community. I was invited to tell who I was and what brought me there that morning, and I was gently encouraged to
return by several people.

I had gone to Holy Trinity Orthodox Church that morning without many preconceptions, but with an anticipation that I might experience a spirituality suggested by the little I have learned about first and second century gatherings of Christians in the Middle East, Asia Minor and North
Africa. In that expectation I was rewarded. Despite all the atmospheric trappings and the intricacy of the antiphons, I felt that I was gathered into a community of gentle and profound devotion and a renewal of the Christian mysteries and a lifting of people's spirits toward the divine
and ineffable. How could one have hoped for more?

 

Back