Christmas with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen, and St. Nik

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I just got back from the capital of Bulgaria, Sophia, where I spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and St. Stephen’s Day (Dec. 26). I went to Sophia because I wanted to spend those days in a Christian country, and I wanted to visit Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. (I’m a cathedral junkie, a "collector" -- I’ve quite a few under my belt, and even more hanging over my belt). In December in Istanbul, one sees the occasional decorated tree, or a snow man (kardan adam in Turkish -- interesting that their generic word for man is "adam"), even a Santa, but that’s it. I was sure the rare Christian congregations had their crèche scenes up, but the general atmosphere was just not there here, here there, whatever.
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There were two Masses scheduled at Alexander Nevsky Cathedral on Christmas Day, one in the morning, one in the evening. I decided to sleep in and watch Christmas Day on TV. Luckily, I found three Masses: one from Moscow and two from Rome. I say luckily because if I hadn’t found the broadcast from Moscow, I would have spent over two hours standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a huge crowd of freezing Bulgarians and tourists, doing nothing, seeing nothing but frosted breath and candles melting, while all the action took place behind a curtain. I’ve been to Orthodox Masses before but never at Christmas. On TV, both Roman Masses began after and ended before the Orthodox Mass. But the broadcast took us behind the curtain and I got to witness the liturgy from the priestly point of view. Here’s what I learned:
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The more senior a member of the clergy happens to be, the bigger, fancier and heavier the hat he gets to wear. So the older a priest gets, the more he has to bear on his head (there’s a metaphor there, but I’m not going to chase it). When he had his hat on, the poor old archbishop had to be helped by two large acolytes (the only people behind the curtain who did not sport elaborate vestments -- they wore simple black cassocks and did not get to wear metal hats).
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The ritual is very trinitarian: the priests cross themselves in threes, they kiss the icons three times, they take three hits from the chalice (which was huge and barnacled with gold and precious stones -- the communicants had to grip the base with both hands while another priest helped heft it up to their mouths). When it finally came time for the congregation to receive the Eucharist, it became a friendly mob with two options: 1) crowd around a priest with no hat who handed out a crumbly piece of bread from a huge gold-plated platter, kiss the hand that fed them (the hand was never wiped clean, so there must have been a great feast of saliva-based bacteria celebrating there), then press your forehead against and kiss an icon of the Virgin and Child (which was also not wiped clean); or 2) wait before another priest (also sans hat), and be given a morsel of bread soaked in wine dipped from a reasonably sized chalice on the end of a long, slender silver spoon. Interestingly, the latter option was the favorite of parents within children in arms, who all got spooned.
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The choir (located in a balcony behind which the lay people cannot see, and dressed in winter coats with scarves and gloves) sings almost non-stop throughout the entire service. They function responsorially to chants from the priests (during those rare times when they come out from behind the curtain), acting, I assume, as the voice of the congregation; they sing the Ordinary of the Mass; and they sing anytime the priests are not chanting. They sing in that full-throated Russian style, sopranos and tenors warbling stentorially above the vodka soaked basses, while the altos dig musical potatoes. The music itself would put me to sleep if I didn’t find it so irritating. The harmonic rhythm is at best lugubrious, and the changes are turgid and predictable. The only surprises are sudden dynamic changes. It is all a cappella, which is delightful, unless everything sounds the same, which everything does. I believe the intent of this style of composition is to lull the untutored and illiterate into a trance, aided by the beautiful icons, magnificent vestments, fragrant incense and big hats.
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I’m glad I didn’t go. Instead, I investigated the neighbor (boring), drank good coffee, read and rested. I did not hear a single siren or car horn all day. Sunday was St. Stephen’s Day. Stephen was the first Christian martyr, so his saint day is placed next to the Christ Mass in honor of his sacrifice. (He was a Roman soldier who refused to recant, so they tied him to a tree and let the archers use him for target practice.) I took a taxi to Alexander Nevsky Square, which is round. The cathedral is a magnificent example of neo-Byzantine architecture -- soaring, gold-capped towers, harmonious exterior detail, exquisite balance -- begun in 1888, the year of Bulgaria’s independence from the Ottoman Empire. The interior was a disappointment because it was too dark to see the frescoes at any distance. I was struck by the ones I was able to get close to, however, because they are in Art Deco style. Upon reading more about the cathedral, this made sense, as the building was completed in the 1920s, and the frescoes are usually the last things added.
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I then crossed the circular square to an open park where vendors had set up tables. The Bulgarians had the best spots, and were hawking icons painted in garish colors, making them anciently modern kitsch to my eye. I was more interested in what the Russians were offering further back into the park. On rickety card tables I found entire tables dedicated to ball-point pens, or cheap watches, but most were a potpourri of bracelets, coins, knives, scarves, hats, cast off Russian military paraphernalia, etc. Very eclectic. I stopped and watched two men playing chess. It was like being in Istanbul except for the different game, different clothing, different language, but the banter between players and kibitzers was identical.
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I discovered an artist selling prints of his drawings, largely surrealistic images, which I love. I searched through his offerings and even named a few that were based on classical images (Sisyphus pushing a giant pumpkin uphill, Hamlet at a dead-end cross road). He was impressed. We chatted awhile; I bought two and he gave me one free. If you want to see his stuff, go to www.boyans.com.
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As I turned to go, I looked up and saw a beautiful gold-capped tower not far away. An unexpected treat! This turned out to be the church of St. Nikolaj the Miracle Worker. Also begun in 1888, it is in classical Russian Orthodox style with four small towers (for the apostles) surrounding a soaring, ornately decorated central tower (Jesus). The interior was small and could have stood a congregation no larger than 50-60. Even so, there has a ground level choir stall in the rear, a mere eight paces from the screen.
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So, I spent Christmas 2010 with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen and St. Nik. But I missed all of you.