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Swimming the Bosporus, Chapter 5: Reaching the Far Shore
I began attending my local Antiochian Orthodox church, erratically at first, then more and more often. My wife and kids weren’t sold on Orthodoxy but were very supportive as I made the journey by my lonesome.
At the same time, my dad was dying. He was diagnosed with dementia about eight years prior, then Alzheimer’s disease a couple of years after that. My siblings and I would regularly visit though he could barely communicate.
Read the previous entries: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4.
Being a good stoic Finn, I betrayed almost no emotion. I had to hold it together for my daughters’ standard teenage drama and their own struggles with behavioral health, autism, and annual hospitalization. It seemed unnatural to be so cold, but they came first; maybe I can fix myself later.
Better to keep occupied. I set my mind on joining the church as if I was working on a college degree. I rarely joined the evangelical churches I had attended since I bounced from place to place. About all that was requested was signing up for the email list. But in Orthodoxy, there was a formal process.
Visiting on Sunday mornings, I was an “inquirer” – a non-Orthodox guy figuring out the basics. For the first 18 months or so, I participated in the services to the best of my ability, got into the rhythm of the liturgical cycle, and studied on my own.
Sundays at the megachurch, I would listen to a preacher’s sermon, get three actionable goals, and get back to work. The liturgy was different. Yes, there was a homily, but that wasn’t the main event. We were at church to worship. Surrounded by icons, candles, incense, and heavenly voices, the entire assembly, priest included, faced the altar as one.
In the Orthodox understanding, we weren’t worshipping on our own but joining the eternal worship in heaven alongside the angels and all the other congregations around the world. The focus wasn’t on the speakers, musicians, or me – it was only on God. Such a relief to stop being self-absorbed for an hour or two.
“The Divine Liturgy is truly a heavenly service upon earth, during which God Himself, in a particular, immediate, and most close manner, is present and dwells with men, being Himself the invisible Celebrant of the service, offering and being offered. There is nothing upon earth holier, higher, grander, more solemn, more life-giving than the Liturgy.”
— St. John of Kronstadt
Now, this next part will be tough to admit because I’m such a rugged, manly guy (nobody laugh). I’ve always viewed emotions with contempt. I don’t cry. Okay, I do when a family member dies. Or a dog. On each occasion, I’d have one ugly sob session alone, then flip back to stoic mode. Yet after nearly every liturgy, I would walk to my car, get in, and weep.
I don’t weep. Didn’t even know what that meant. If you’re gonna cry, go all in and be done with it. But week after week, some tears would come, along with a bit of sadness and a bit of sweetness. Utterly inexplicable, not to mention unrugged and unmanly, but there it was. (Don’t tell anyone about this, ok? Gotta maintain my rep.)
I was used to evangelical sermons aimed at my intellect, that’s my comfort zone. When previous churches tried to yank my heartstrings, I saw it coming and reflexively got stonier. What are you trying to sell me, pal? I’m not buying the Buick.
Orthodox Liturgy was bypassing my brain and emotions altogether to reach something deeper. I was still enjoying a steady diet of heady stuff from books and online, but these services were unlike anything I had experienced.
During those 18 months as an inquirer, my father passed away and the Church helped me process it all. After the funeral, I drove an hour to lay his ashes in a cross at his favorite fishing spot and said some prayers. Since I was alone, there might have been an ugly cry.
As 2020 began, I joined the catechumenate along with a few others. We attended classes each Sunday, learning the key points and asking lots of questions. I still had – and have – questions about some details but all the big-ticket items greatly expanded and enriched my view of Christianity. Everything I heard further convinced me to join.
“Are you sure you guys want me?” I occasionally asked our deacon. “I’m kind of an idiot.” If he had reservations, he politely kept them to himself.
The normal time to formally enter into the church is around Pascha, the Greek term for Easter. But 2020 being a dumpster fire, COVID-19 delayed it a couple of months. It was worth the wait.
I had already been baptized as an infant and a young adult, so my priest said I didn’t need to go for the trifecta. With my wife in attendance, we watched two other catechumens be baptized, then I received chrismation.
In baptism, we participate in the death and resurrection of Christ. In chrismation (equivalent to “confirmation” in the West), the priest anoints you with oil to participate in the Holy Spirit. Immediately after, all the catechumens received their first Holy Communion as Orthodox Christians.
The experience was overwhelming. I didn’t see angels or hear a voice from Heaven, but it was different from any communion I’d received. Kind of like I felt it.
It took about two years, just like my priest said it would. But I had swum the Bosporus.
Home at last.
Thus ends the heroic narrative. Five posts and 5,000 words was as brief as I could make it; there’s so much left unsaid. As I wrote in the first piece, hopefully it provides some answers or at least raises new questions to all who have wondered why I made this change – family, friends, and strangers alike.
I’ll continue the “Swimming the Bosporus” series to discuss related issues, points of theology, architecture, icons – who knows what else. I’d also like to answer any questions you might have so feel free to pitch topics in the comments. Again, talk to a pro if you want authoritative info but I’ll do the best I can.
Thanks to all who’ve read, shared, and commented on my blathering. Chat with you next Sunday.
Chapter 6.
This is fifth in the series “Swimming the Bosporus,” on my journey from the megachurch to the Orthodox Church. Installments every Sunday morning. Chapter 1 is here. Chapter 2 is here. Chapter 3 is here. Chapter 4 is here.
Published in Religion & Philosophy
I read something from a pastor years ago (I think it was Richard Wurmbrand, and I am sure I am not quoting him accurately enough), where he said that the Protestant Reformation shifted the main focus of the service to the sermon, and that he did not think there were enough gifted preachers for that to be the best model. Obviously, studying the Word is very important, but then there is the distinction between knowing about God and knowing God.
Anyway, I’m not a big fan of the megachurches either.
Have thoroughly enjoyed reading this series. Thanks for sharing the journey!
The Lord loves an idiot.
At least, I’m praying He does.
I have so loved your stories on your journey, Jon. They are moving and rich. Thank you.
This was Luther’s doing – he said the emphasis on church was to be teaching, not worship, and the Eucharistic part of the service was shortened.
I joked rather bitterly with (or At) my wife, before my own jumping ship, that Sunday “worship” sure didn’t seem worshipful, being several (often theologically weak) modern songs sung at the congregation by a band, followed by a lecture disguised as a prayer, followed by the formal lecture. “Where is the awe? Where is the humility of standing in the presence of God? Where is the Communion?”
@skipsul, that was my experience with a megachurch. “Praise” songs by a rock band seemed to be the dominant part of the service. Rather than a worship service in which the congregants participated, it was an entertainment event in which we were the audience. The Orthodox Church is getting to be very attractive.
I know the feeling.
I felt this for so many years in the pews!
Every Sunday after church I feel sadness. I assume it’s because I work there, and I see how the sausage is made.
Great series, Jon. I wish it could go on and on, but you’ve already made the swim. Still, there’s nothing stopping the rest of us from bookmarking and re-reading it from time to time. I do that with SkipSul’s religious series.
I was barely through my first Lent when I was asked to be treasurer, and thus appointed to the parish council. Suddenly I am involved with everything, including the intimate details of parishioner giving. Church work is weighty, far beyond the pastorate.
You recited a beautiful journey and I can relate to all of it. The part about weeping – good grief! That’s me….I start at the music, and feel embarrassed, so I have tried to focus on cute earrings or a nice haircut, or pinch myself. I don’t want to feel like an idiot either but it never works. My nose starts to run, my eyes get red – I know it is the Holy Spirit responding to the music and the service, and my feeble attempts to control the response as to what can only be described as other-worldly never has worked. I hope you will continue to write – I’m on the same road, and I love taking this journey with you –