Urban Labyrinth, Reflections on Orthodoxy

After Wednesday’s search for the suburban language school, when I eventually had to agree to meet the owner at Ayios Dimitrios church in the town centre so that she could lead me to the school after my failing to find my way from the ring road (this is a bit like driving from Hendon to meet somebody in Trafalgar Square in order for them to lead you out to Golders’ Green, because they can’t direct you from the North Circular), I should have learned the lesson: you can’t find anywhere in non-central Thessaloniki without either a very good map and a lot of time, or GPS (though I’d be interested to see to whether that has all the streets in the right places). The problem is that there are very few points of reference: every street and block of flats looks pretty much the same, and not every one knows the names of the churches or can characterise them adequately in English.

On Friday, I arranged to meet an English-speaking priest at his suburban church. I took care to ask him to send all the details by e-mail, so I could check it out on Google map. I went so far as to use the satellite function and take a close-up look at the street, the church buildings themselves (there’s also a church academy on the same site) and the nearby geographical features such as a stream. I took my small one page map, which covered some of the distance, and a sketch I had made based on Google map to make up the difference. But all to no avail – once I was in the massive maze of similar looking streets, I was lost, knowing nothing more than roughly which direction was home and which further out of town. After the best part of an hour, I decided to call it a day and head back into the centre, looking out for Number 11 or 58 buses as I knew these went to the church. Once I saw an 11, I parked the car, and hopped on the next one that came along, and from the comfort of a window seat, I could look out for the various features I had discovered on the Internet and find my way to my destination.

So I arrived at the modern, relatively small church with the liturgy in full swing. It was packed and I came in through the north door and found myself at the very front of the ladies section. Feeling somewhat self conscious about this, I waited for the Eucharistic procession to pass, and crossed over to the other side where I took the only unobtrusive place available, which was right next to the choir – so close that I was to help a chorister by handing him one of his books from the chair beside me.

The sermon, which was delivered after the Eucharistic consecration, with iconostasis curtain still drawn, was given by a layman. He was in black robes, but had no white collar, and, perhaps more importantly, no beard. He spoke very clearly and the acoustics were such that I could make out most of the words and understand various chunks of the message. He quoted Isaiah and the prophecy about the virgin being with child.

Many more people (including lots of infants) received the communion wine (dispensed with a spoon) than at the services at other churches I have been to. Once they had done that, they could take bread from a bowl on a stand as they made their way towards their seats or the exit.

Gradually the numbers subsided and I was left standing alone and Father Stavros (not his real name) noticed me, immediately realised who I was, and greeted me with a handshake. He introduced me to Stathis (another replacement name) the head chorister, who he said would take care of me till he was ready. We went over to a dining room with another chorister where we chatted and consumed juice, coffee and water. I was also given some of the cooked and sweetened grain, which I had seen last week and thought was a cake at Ayios Dimitrios. It is used as part of a ceremony in connection with praying for the dead (something I don’t believe in, but this was only explained afterwards and it was polite to accept).

I had a friendly chat with the two choristers. We looked at the music books where the annotation is completely different from the five bar system we are used to – it is a sort of script, which is somewhat reminiscent of Arabic. Eventually Stavros came over, and that made three of us with Stathis who was still there. We had a genial and quite lengthy conversation, which included covering quite a lot of theological ground. Here are a few of my thoughts and observations on orthodoxy flowing from that.

Orthodoxy is refreshingly non-Roman – they believe in the collegiality of bishops, which means that each bishop has authority in his own diocese, and there is an order of priority of the bishops of senior sees as to who should have the role of presidency at ecumenical councils. They maintain this list was originally topped by the bishop of Rome, but that when he separated himself as “first of all” (i.e a ruler more than a chairman) rather than first among equals, the metropolitan of Constantinople took that leading place, followed by Alexandria, Jerusalem and Antioch in something like that order.

It is also more Christocentric than Rome. Mary has a role in iconography and theology that would make most Protestants uneasy, but you would never see what I observed on TV in Rome - a churchful of people lead by a senior cleric praying the Hail Mary at umpteen times over. The orthodox stress on “kyrie eleison”, “Lord have mercy” and “soson imas”, “save us”, seems basically wholesome. Belief in, and weekly celebration of, the resurrection, have a healthy place at the heart of worship.

I feel more open to the idea of the iconic system both in the images themselves and in the priesthood than I was before I began to attend services here. I cannot reject the idea that the presence of a bearded man dressed in priestly robes somehow makes us more mindful of the person of the Saviour. The mysterious comings and goings of the priests emerging from and disappearing behind the iconostasis seem to express aspects of the sublime theology we find in the heart of John’s Gospel.

The use of the original language of the New Testament in services needs no mention as an enormous plus for anyone who has studied the original texts.

My greatest reservations are in connection with sacramentalism, the cult of saints, and a doctrine which found its way into the church in the earliest centuries – that of the immortality of the soul. The latter is of course held by most Protestants, and I only came to see its incompatibility with scripture and everyday experience, a few years ago. It goes against what the Word of God and instinct teach about the comprehensive and catastrophic nature of death, and also subverts the joyful emphasis the Bible puts on the resurrection as the reversal of the tragedy. Its results can be an unwholesome lack of interest in the benefits, possibilities and challenges of this life, and the development of burdensome religious preoccupation with the departed good (the “saints” to be looked up to and even prayed to), bad (the terrible torments in hell of whom are to be solemnly reflected on) and indifferent (i.e. the everyday believers and others who are often anxiously prayed for and become the object of rituals offered in the hope of improving their disembodied lot).

Stavros and Stathis talked about the whole church, living and dead, being present at the Eucharist, about the indispensability of baptism, and the process of someone becoming a saint, in a way which I found incompatible with the centrality of the person of Christ, union to him by faith as the foundation stone of salvation, and the sanctification of all believers.

I did not raise my objections in any direct way but rather probed more deeply to find out exactly what is believed. I agreed that I would try to meet up again with Father Stavros (he mentioned a project he had been involved in about the Apostle Paul’s travels in the Mediterranean region, which might tie in with my website), and Stathis, who is a Greek teacher but lives in Edessa, said he would contact me with details of a possible potential teacher for me here in Thessaloniki.

A Riddle for the Would-be or Practising Detectives among you

Well it doesn’t get much weirder than this.

On Wednesday evening I reluctantly used my car to go in search of the language school on the edge of town. The chief reason for my concern was the fact that I would be moving the car from its parking space and knew that it would not be easy to find a new one later on. When I came back my fears proved to be justified as there was nothing practicable in my street. I drove around for about quarter of an hour and eventually found something which seemed just about possible in front of the pedestrian gate to some flats. It was not wide enough for a vehicle so I figured that as long as I left space for people to walk past this would be OK.

On Saturday evening, three days later, I went to check the snow chains were in the car in anticipation of my planned journey across the Balkans to Hungary on Tuesday. It was dark, but as I approached I immediately noticed what appeared to be paint marks on the car. Closer inspection revealed two types of mark. The first, in a lighter colour, were what seemed to be the result of the car being near a wall when it was being painted with a roller – lots of tiny spots and a few bigger ones. These spots cover the whole street side of the car and also a band running from the back hatchback door, over the roof, down the windscreen and down the bonnet, indicating that the area being painted was higher than the car. In addition to this are a few streaks of darker paint which seem to be the result of splashes from brush work. There is also a slight dent in the bodywork of the car above the right rear wheel – nothing unusual as nearly every car parked in these crammed narrow streets has several of these.

The weirdness of the whole event was compounded by the presence of two sheets of A4 stapled together inside the car under the windscreen. On these sheets were two and a half sides of densely written (obviously on a PC), presumably photocopied Greek, and a black and white photograph of what I originally thought was some sort of exotic bird. I look around inside the car – nothing had disappeared. Beside the snow chains and the cars papers, there was a hat, a scarf, and a pair of leather gloves that might have been of interest to a casual thief – nothing had been taken. My first extravagant thought was of some sort of tradesman prankster who had skilfully broken into the car, taken it off to place where he did some painting and then returned it to the exact location he had found it, leaving some witty text inside. I checked the petrol level and it was very near three quarters full. I seem to recall that my circumnavigations on Wednesday evening took it down nearer to half full so this was fuel to the bizarre prank idea, with somebody actually going quite a long way and then putting petrol back in the tank. Such an idea, though, is what an early nineteenth century theological writer might have referred to as a “moral impossibility” (in modern English: something as good as absolutely impossible). Besides, the car is in exactly the same position I left it – if it had been driven off it is most unlikely that it could have been returned to the same part of the street, let alone to a location identically distant from the lamppost and the gate.

The text was the next thing to occupy my attention. On closer examination, the photograph turned out to be of the face of a glamorous blonde behind glass shattered by a gunshot – see photo. My task, like that which I often have to give to my students, was to work out the gist of the text. As I struggled through with the help of my dictionary my interpretation swung between it being some sort of message of complaint from the residents of the flats which they gave to all people who parked in front of their gate to it being general anti-establishment propaganda. I eventually decided that knowing its general meaning as soon as possible was more important than having an impromptu and laborious Greek lesson, so I headed off to the Internet café I frequent, where all the staff speak both Greek and English (though none of them are Greek). The manager/owner was there, and he thought there might be some connection with some mafia type issues as some Costa (the text is entitled “A letter from a householder” and starts “Dear Costa”) had been shot in Chalkidiki and his wife/girlfriend had been injured. He suggested I report the whole incident to the police.

A Greek customer came in at this time and took an interest. He read through it quickly and confirmed my soberest suspicion - it was simply agit-prop, like so many of the sheets handed out by the anarchists, syndicalists and the like. Costa is probably Constantinos Caramanlis, the Prime Minister.

My guess is that there were two or three separate events. A youthful propagandist saw I had left the car door unlocked and took the opportunity to place his wares somewhere I couldn’t fail to notice them. The spots and streaks came from some paint spraying vehicle or event in the street (but then why is there no paint on the neighbouring cars or on the cobbles?), which may or may not have been connected with the dent. The latter may have just occurred during some routine manoeuvre by any car in the street.

The hardest thing to account for is the paint – any suggestions?

PS (Sunday) some sort of retribution for parking in the wrong place may have been involved - today an empty tub was put out in the place where my car had been.

A youthful propagandist saw I had left the door unlocked and took the opportunity to place his wares somewhere I couldn’t fail to notice them. The spots and streaks came from some paint spraying vehicle or event in the street, which may or may not have been connected with the dent. The latter may have just occurred during some routine manoeuvre by any car in the street.

The hardest thing to account for is the paint – any suggestions?

Well it doesn’t get much weirder than this.

On Wednesday evening I reluctantly used my car to go in search of the language school on the edge of town. The chief reason for my concern was the fact that I would be moving the car from its parking space and knew that it would not be easy to find a new one later on. When I came back my fears proved to be justified as there was nothing practicable in my street. I drove around for about quarter of an hour and eventually found something which seemed just about possible in front of the pedestrian gate to some flats. It was not wide enough for a vehicle so I figured that as long as I left space for people to walk past this would be OK.

This evening, three days later, I went to check the snow chains were in the car in anticipation of my planned journey across the Balkans to Hungary on Tuesday. It was dark, but as I approached I immediately noticed what appeared to be paint marks on the car. Closer inspection revealed two types of mark. The first, in a lighter colour, were what seemed to be the result of the car being near a wall when it was being painted with a roller – lots of tiny spots and a few bigger ones. These spots cover the whole street side of the car and also a band running from the back hatchback door, over the roof, down the windscreen and down the bonnet, indicating that the area being painted was higher than the car. In addition to this are a few streaks of darker paint which seem to be the result of splashes from brush work. There is also a slight dent in the bodywork of the car above the right rear wheel – nothing unusual as nearly every car parked in these crammed narrow streets has several of these.

The weirdness of the whole event was compounded by the presence of two sheets of A4 stapled together inside the car under the windscreen. On these sheets were two and a half sides of densely written (obviously on a PC), presumably photocopied Greek, and a black and white photograph of what I originally thought was some sort of exotic bird. I look around inside the car – nothing had disappeared. Beside the snow chains and the cars papers, there was a hat, a scarf, and a pair of leather gloves that might have been of interest to a casual thief – nothing had been taken. My first extravagant thought was of some sort of tradesman prankster who had skilfully broken into the car, taken it off to place where he did some painting and then returned it to the exact location he had found it, leaving some witty text inside. I checked the petrol level and it was very near three quarters full. I seem to recall that my circumnavigations on Wednesday evening took it down nearer to half full so this was fuel to the bizarre prank idea, with somebody actually going quite a long way and then putting petrol back in the tank. Such an idea, though, is what an early nineteenth century theological writer might have referred to as a “moral impossibility” (in modern English: something as good as absolutely impossible). Besides, the car is in exactly the same position I left it – if it had been driven off it is most unlikely that it could have been returned to the same part of the street, let alone to a location identically distant from the lamppost and the gate.

The text was the next thing to occupy my attention. On closer examination, the photograph turned out to be of the face of a glamorous blonde behind glass shattered by a gunshot – see photo. My task, like that which I often have to give to my students, was to work out the gist of the text. As I struggled through with the help of my dictionary my interpretation swung between it being some sort of message of complaint from the residents of the flats which they gave to all people who parked in front of their gate to it being general anti-establishment propaganda. I eventually decided that knowing its general meaning as soon as possible was more important than having an impromptu and laborious Greek lesson, so I headed off to the Internet café I frequent, where all the staff speak both Greek and English (though none of them are Greek). The manager/owner was there, and he thought there might be some connection with some mafia type issues as some Costa (the text is entitled “A letter from a householder” and starts “Dear Costa”) had been shot in Chalkidiki and his wife/girlfriend had been injured. He suggested I report the whole incident to the police.

A Greek customer came in at this time and took an interest. He read through it quickly and confirmed my soberest suspicion - it was simply agit-prop, like so many of the sheets handed out by the anarchists, syndicalists and the like. Costa is probably Constantinos Caramanlis, the Prime Minister.

My guess is that there were two or three separate events. A youthful propagandist saw I had left the car door unlocked and took the opportunity to place his wares somewhere I couldn’t fail to notice them. The spots and streaks came from some paint spraying vehicle or event in the street (but then why is there no paint on the neighbouring cars or on the cobbles?), which may or may not have been connected with the dent. The latter may have just occurred during some routine manoeuvre by any car in the street.

The hardest thing to account for is the paint – any suggestions?