It’s Greek to me….
The August sun glistened over the deep blue Aegean Sea , the sound of a clanging bell rose from the
valley calling me, calling me.
After the community breakfast in the retreat house, I and
two new friends disregarded our dishwashing duty and followed our hearts. The narrow cobbled side street, on the Island of Skyros , was full of people walking
towards the cool shade of the Greek Orthodox Church. Inside old ladies sat on ancient wooden
chairs at the back of the building whilst men stood encircling the front area;
two cantors were chanting from enclosed upright wooden booths using chest-high
arm rests to steady them through the long service.
The priest, heavily robed and wearing a high hat, sported a
long grey beard and swung an incense thurible as he muttered in a language I
could not understand. Icons, gold
laminated, gave colour to the service and atmosphere; the sweet smell and smoke
rising to the blue sky coloured dome above, where our prayers were
heading. Candles flickered and the
congregation ‘crossed’ themselves before the communion was offered.
A baby, about 8 months old, was forcibly spoon fed wine – it
really did not want it and was obviously scared by the man with a big beard
holding his face towards him, crying and twisting his body over his father’s
shoulder. Bread, a whole cob, wrapped in
cellophane, was handed out to everyone from a basket. I took mine and tears filled my eyes feeling
unworthy but included. Later, I tasted it
and it was sweet like saffron cake.
As we filed out into the morning sun we were all handed a
plastic cup, filled with a wheat mixture, and a spoon. My new friends explained it was in honour of
the deceased – I had noticed a photograph of a man on a pedestal surrounded by
white flowers. We enjoyed fellowship
together in a street cafĂ©. Sunday in Skyros was a special day – ritualistic, dutiful, ancient,
honouring.
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