St. John of Rila

While sifting through old emails I came across this one from May of ’01. A friend of mine who was compiling short stories from different people asked us to recant tales that were funny and slightly embarrassing. This qualifies. Any of the parts sound familiar? After reading it again, it reminds me of something Sreag would write.


Hi Kids,

Here's my offering . . . albeit not as torrid or sultry a story as Gabs', what it lacks in zeal and humor is compensated with enough shame and humiliation that even the harshest of cynics can find it amusing.

Upon arrival of what is now our much beloved and much cherished St. Peter The Apostle Antiochian Orthodox Church, I made . . . lets just say . . . a lasting impression on the entire congregation.

Before the morning matins service, I was able to spend some "getting to know you" time with the parish. Being the new face amongst a small assembly, I was received with such amazing, awe-inspiring, compassion and genuine warmth, that it almost creeped me out. A sort of Jim Jones meets Jesus' Apostles at the used car dealership type-of-vibe ( . . . just for clarification, I'm Jim Jones in this analogy).

These people are truly amazing and treat me and my family with the love and concern that warrants sainthood. It must be my beard.

Anyway, we enter the nave and I am immediately overwhelmed . . . the beauty of my surroundings engulf me . . . the sweet fragrance of frankincense and myrrh absorb my thoughts, the vestibule, nave and sanctuary of an Orthodox Church is transforming. Whatever your personal beliefs, whatever your denominational background . . . I strongly urge you to visit an Orthodox Church merely to appreciate its rich magnificence and engaging splendor.

This little Billy Graham will now step of his soapbox . . .

Anyway . . . along with its "smells and bells" I am made aware of another overpowering feature of this Holy House of God . . . it has no pews! The entire congregation stands. Which is perfectly fine . . . "when in Rome, right?" (ooh, bad analogy). . . however . . . the service is 3 hours long! Unbeknownst to me of course.

You ever stand for three hours? Anywhere? Anytime in your life? You ever have that feeling when you lose all knowledge of whether or not your standing upright or have managed to fall flat on your back, all without your awareness and in absence of alcohol? I think they call it vertigo. You know when your asleep and are suddenly awaken by a jolt with the feeling that your freefalling . . . multiply that by nine, transport that dream into reality, and place it in front of 86 other people who are conditioned and have the strength and fervor to accomplish this act of faith . . . now call that "John's Introduction to Orthodoxy".

I, however, was like the newborn colt who everyone cheers on to take those first life-affirming steps in order to catch up with the rest of the bunch, whom if unable, will be left behind and become a portion for jackals and vultures.

Better than this . . . is the fact that three hours is a long time for me not to be eating. Combine this with a 5:30 am wake up call, a forty-five minute drive and a three hour "lets play British Royal Guard" service, and I'm left feeling like a crap-sandwich. I wished I was a crap-sandwich on account I would have eaten myself. Any of you who know me, know that when I get hungry and I am withheld gluttony . . . things get kinda spooky for those around.

A-ny-way . . . Divine Liturgy is now over and I bolt for a much needed potty break. I emerge to the fragrance of delicacies and delectable dishes being offered in a room adjacent to the nave. It looks like Thanksgiving . . . and believe me, I'm ready to give some thanks. Something that hits me strange is that everyone is kinda just hanging around, chatting and putting the last minute touches on what appears to be a feast fit for an army.

Well I'm hovering and after about a second of polite hesitation, I resolve myself to dig in and grind. I am of Samoan ancestry and I make it perfectly clear by the portion of food compiled on my already failing sheet of styrofoam. And in keeping with Polynesian feasting tradition, I don't bring my head up from that plate for a good 7 or 8 minutes . . . well . . . I finally realize that the room has been reduced to the repugnant sounds of smacking lips and sucking fingers . . . which are mine solely, by the way . . . and become aware that the entire room is transfixed on this little "Chaka" devouring his spoils of the hunt. Just when the embarrassment and horror of it all becomes apparent to my pea-brain . . .

a little voice from the back of the room . . . faint and almost as a whisper . . . inquires. . .

"Has Father Blessed the food?"

The entire congregation . . . almost unanimously and as if singing a Hymnal of Condemnation and with raised eyebrows, belts out in unison . . .

"No"!

Blame it on the new guy.