Easter at Home
I never felt that Easter in Greece is strongly associated with religious reverence. It is more about being bathed in the essence of Spring, eventually emerging renewed through the freshness of the colours and the crispiness of the air. There is a joyous ambience, diffuse in households and streets, which, unlike other festive seasons, is neither commercial nor social, despite all the shopping and the cordial gatherings: it is intimate – a dialogue of the individual with the cosmos, an awakening of the senses amidst the blooming and the sunshine, an elation that seems to come in contrast with the somberness of the Sacred Passion. Ultimately, the Resurrection does not take place in the church; it is already embedded in the aromas of the sour orange-tree blossoms that mix with the heavy smell of the fasting meals and an occasional whiff of vinegar from the dyeing of the Easter eggs. In this space between the divine and the mundane, life finds its meaning: it is the space where one’s being becomes complete.
Passion Week
This year, the weather turned unexpectedly warm from Palm Sunday onwards, even though it was only the first week of April. People felt uncomfortable giving up their winter coats so soon, and only a few dared to shift to light jackets, often wrapping them around the waist, revealing plain t-shirts underneath.
The Passion Week is probably the best time of the year for anyone interested in exploring the Byzantine trails in the historical centre of Athens. Generally, this part of the town is so dominated by the presence of the Acropolis Rock, the radiance of the Parthenon, or the quaint beauty of Plaka that everything else frequently fades into obscurity. Still, the small churches that dot the slopes unveil – subtly but surely – the details of a less-known era and connect the visitor with a heritage that has left indelible marks in history and the nation’s psyche.
Despite my frequent strolls downtown, I seldom find these temples open, their doors remaining for large periods locked to the public. During the Holy Week though, the chapels become more welcoming, offering a rare exhibition of their architectural and decorative treasures. Among the people who take advantage of the opportunity to explore the small chambers and their mystical murals, lighting up a candle, bestowing a kiss on an icon, or whispering a prayer, one will invariably see several women fussing around in a sprucing-up frenzy. Floors are scrubbed, silver is polished, glasses are wiped clean, bouquets of flowers are put together, seats are dusted, spider webs are removed, candles are stocked up, light bulbs are replaced. This increased activity by visitors, priests, and cleaners alike, breaths life back into the temples – a harbinger in and of itself of the approaching Resurrection and the renewal of humanity’s faith in hope and rebirth.
Good Friday
The heat of the previous days had ebbed away, leaving behind breezes of an autumnal character infused with luscious scents, and clouds ready to burst into tears. The weather was typical of the day, obliging, as usual, for the occasion. After all, it is a funeral, transcendental as it is earthly, that takes place on this Friday.
I am not a pious person and, despite my interest in the artistic and historical wealth of any temple, I rarely attend religious services. But I make an exception for the Good Friday mass in which I find an unprecedented esoteric catharsis and mystical ennoblement.
I headed to the nearest church of my neighbourhood, Panagia Faneromeni, guided by the solemn chime of the bells, and enveloped in cloaks of dusk that turned the familiar road into an extension of the narthex: a preparatory vestibule. It had been many years since my last visit to this church, even though I pass by it daily. By the time I arrived, it was already packed. As I queued to pay my respects to the Holy Sepulcher, the Lamentations started, putting a pause in any other activity and thus giving me the opportunity to observe details which, otherwise, might have remained unnoticed.
Despite their mourning character, the Lamentations – some of the best Christian chants ever composed – are uplifting and moving in their core. There is no feeling of desperation, nor is there any heavy pain except for the choking induced by the beauty of verses and melody alike. After a while, it is the Spring itself that seems to find its way through the words, finally settling down with a royal grandeur on the canopy of the Epitaph where, for decades, florists display their best artistic skills, flowers compete in colours and scents, and even parishes engage in informal contests regarding the originality of the decoration. There was a time when we, as kids, would visit three Sepulchers before the evening service, thrice ducking under them as a ritual of good luck – the same way the Muslims pass under the Holy Quran, praying for protection. People will always find ways to involve the celestial forces into their challenges; these expressions of vulnerability, often superstitious but charming as well, may appear naïve; however, they embody an underlying spirituality, for it is through this surrender and receptivity that new strands of life are finally created.
Standing still under the dome and the sleepless gaze of Pantokrator, I felt as if floating in the centre of the cosmos, the surrounding crowd temporarily fading away. It was just me, a speck in the universe, bathed in a light that did not beam from the chandeliers, attending a mass that was not taking place on the ground. The Biblical scenes on the walls, painted following principles sealed one thousand years ago, the ascetic figures with their remote and subtle kindness, the blues, the crimsons, and the purples, they all conspired into enhancing this moment of unexpected elevation. And, even though the rigidity of the Christian Church’s ancient practices is – for me – a hindrance towards spiritual advancement, at that point I felt respect and gratitude, for, in their traditional nature, I had found a portal of transcendence, serenity, and joy.
I was kicked out of my meditation by an old woman who elbowed her way in front of me in the queue. I suddenly realised that there was no queue at all. Instead, a mob had gathered, constrained not by reverence or respect but merely by the limited available space. Another woman saw some friends and started a lively discussion. Children were being pushed forward by their parents, competing with the elderly who would stubbornly assert with all means at hand their right to the lead. Close to the left chanters, the municipal representatives stood rigidly in formal costumes, the typical political smile imprinted on their faces. On the other side, the few youngsters assigned with the task (or honour) to carry the hexapteryga, were already displaying signs of fatigue and boredom, wobbling, chatting, and occasionally laughing. A group of boy-scouts entered from the side door, causing more chaos than order. It was with difficulty that the priest and his entourage managed to penetrate the crowd for the Holy Gospel’s procession, sprinkling rosewater right and left (a couple of drops landing on my lips), and throwing carnation petals (a few getting caught on my blouse). I looked around. This was not a sacred ceremony anymore: it was just hubbub. As toddlers, the participants were loud, inconsiderate, and unsophisticated, causing agitation and annoyance. I felt surprised that no one was complaining. After a few minutes, though, my irritation subsided, and I even smiled faintly at the demonstrated liveness, the childish thirst for life, and the resentment for any rule that are so common in most Greeks. I stepped aside leaving room for one more old man who shoved his way in front of me, I paid my respects tucking inside my palm a few flower petals from those scattered around the embroidered Christ’s body, and I finally exited maintaining my state of inner peace intact.
The church’s courtyard was also crowded. People, holding lit candles and chatting loudly, were waiting for the Procession of the Sepulcher through the streets of the neighbourhood to begin. The rest of the town – including the surrounding shops and restaurants – remained busy and went on with life, as usual, bringing an additional spillover of noise and commotion into the church’s ground.
My palm holding the petals smelled of a cheap, lemony cologne that I remembered from my childhood and I thought it had been discontinued. Still surprised by this unanticipated flashback, I contemplated whether to linger a bit longer for the procession. In the past, they used to have all three Sepulchers of the municipality meet in front of the City Hall towards a culmination that had always felt celebratory rather than doleful. Maybe it was worth staying; the disorder and the confusion though suddenly felt overwhelming. I had enough. I formed the sign of the cross on my chest to seal my departure and retraced my steps to the serenity of my home.
Saturday
At about 11:30 pm, we – the whole family – dashed out of the house heading towards the church where, like every year, we would arrive moments before the dissemination of the Holy Light and stay until just a few minutes after the midnight Resurrection. Our festive candles at hand – the children’s ones having been chosen after lengthy research and a process of careful elimination by each kid individually, – we walked the short uphill to the temple. Despite their efforts to stay awake, my eldest nephews had already fallen asleep, and only my niece – the youngest of all – was still holding up, swaying her candle while perched comfortably in the arms of her father.
As expected, upon our arrival the church plunged into darkness as electricity was turned off to welcome the Light brought all the way from Jerusalem. For a while, the only glare was coming from the candle-stands next to the entrance and their reflection in the eyes of the worshippers. Even the sky was shrouded in clouds, allowing no starlight to reach the ground. Then, with the melodic announcement “Defte Lavete Fos” (Come and Receive the Light), the Holy Flame emerged from the sanctum and was passed on to the first congregant, spreading lovingly, person by person, smile by smile, touch by touch up until the courtyard. And once the bells started chiming at the cue of the priest’s “Christos Anesti” (Christ Has Risen), their vibrancy, merry and triumphant, competing with the bursting fireworks that filled the sky with rainbows, the rest of the chanting was lost forever, and the climax of the week seemed to be already over.
We hurried back home, managing to transfer the Light inside a lantern, for it was a windy night and the candle-flames were too weak to resist. We skipped drawing a cross with the smoke of the Light at the entrance of our house – a custom that wanes as increasingly fewer people wish to leave a dark stamp on their doors, even if it is a holy sign – and quickly prepared the last details for the traditional Resurrection-Saturday meal. The candles were placed in a water-filled jar and were left to keep on burning, the bowl with the Easter eggs was brought forward for the anticipated egg tapping, the aroma of the mageiritsa soup blended with the fragrance of the lilacs and the buttery scent of the Easter biscuits, and the first praises to the chef started being phrased. There was abundance around the table – joy and peace – despite the fatigued faces and the blearing eyes: this is the essence of spending Easter at home.
Photos: © Konstantina Sakellariou
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