The Russian Orthodox Church keeps the Julian calendar. This means that they run to a timetable 12 days behind the rest of the Christian world. So on 7th January our time, it is Christmas Day in the Russian faith. That’s today. Long after the trees and decorations have been cleared away and everyone here is on a diet, Jesus is born again in Russia.
But unlike in Britain, where Christmas seems to have lost most of its religious meaning and become primarily a commercial occasion, in Russia it retains its religious significance. The present giving is already dispensed with: for Russians, the holidays start on New Year’s Eve and the tree is a New Year’s tree (a Yolka) not a Christmas tree. So Christmas is primarily a festival kept by the newly religious…or the anciently devout. The Orthodox church has undergone renewal since the collapse of Sovietism. It has many devotees. Our daughter, Emily, was baptised into the Russian Orthodox church. Her Godmother, Ocsana, is devout – she takes Communion every Sunday at the new church where her children went to school. The priest who presides there, Andre Tkachyov, has a Holy presence – when we were at the baptism, I felt the authority of something divine in his person. Yes. I did. And it felt comforting. Yes. It did.
An Orthodox service seems to last ages. On Sunday morning, we arrive at 10am and leave at the end. The service has always been going a long time and we arrive – usually about twenty minutes before the taking of the Sacrament. The church is full. Everyone stands. People – children, adults, men and women, wander in and out. This is not a static affair like in the Anglican church. Here you move about, chat outside, look after babies, pop back in, cross yourself (I don’t – the Protestant in me, er, protests), soak it all up, recite the responses if you know them, pop out again. The choir is not visible but the singing is, for me, the Great Soul of All the Russias. It is mystical and enveloping. It transports me into the ethereal world and I find great comfort there. I wish you could hear it. It is transportive. Deep. Soaring to Heaven. Vibrating into the Earth.
At Emily’s Christening, taken when the service had been completed and the congregation was going home, our lovely priest, so Holy in his resplendent gold robes, leads the Godparents around the font three times and they renounce the devil. Emily is immersed in her golden bath for the first time. She is naked and held in the hands of her Church incarnate in Andre. She is somewhat taken aback by this dunking, where she is wholly submerged. The second immersion calls forth her indignation which is written all over her shocked face: are you kidding? Again? The third is merciless and renders her speechless with shock at the effrontery that anyone would dare do this to her. She is wrapped once more in the warmth of her Christening robe. Belligerent but now welcomed into her church; indignant but saved. The family pose for photographs. Neil, Godfather; Sam, Emily’s eldest brother – I am so glad that he has come to be here on this day with us; Nefisa, loyal friend; Ocsana, Godmother and the one we have to thank for arranging all of this; Steven, ever so proud to hold Emily in his arms for the photograph. Tanya, head covered, as all women must be in the church, and beautific on this day of days; our priest, officiate and conduit to Emily’s introduction into the fellowship of Christ. Me. In Heaven already.
There is so much I will never know about Russia. But the fragments I see and feel and taste draw me in deeper and deeper. None more so than the peace I feel in the churches. Christmas has always been special to me. It holds my heart for the hearth of home, for those I love, for company and companionship and for drink, making merry and for the rituals of Scrooge, presents, feasting, cooking, holly, ivy, singing along to carols at full volume. But recently the religious significance has gone. The story that started it all is missing. At her nativity, Emily was an angel. Her part was to sing the 12 days of Christmas with altered lyrics. A partridge in a pear tree became, for some unfathomable reason, “A shrimp on the bar-bie”. She doesn’t even know the basic story. What chance has she got when they start mixing it up with some ‘I’m a celebrity, get me outta here’ menu recitation? In the Orthodox faith, Christmas is about Christ. Simple. No kangaroos. No platypi.
On this Christmas night, I am for the majesty of miracles. We need some magic, some hope. We need guidance and good news in these malign times. Focusing outside of ourselves, transcending the world and joining in communal celebrations of a life that served us all is a joyous way to re-centre ourselves. Maybe it’s the rituals; maybe it’s the smells and bells, the incense, the chanting, the music, the comfort of ritual. Maybe. And then again, maybe it is the Light of the World that comes to us from the most unexpected places.