My Blind Date with Heaven

Note: In June of this year, I became a catechumen (a person officially preparing to be received into the church) of the Orthodox Church in America. The following is a journal entry from April 2012 about the first time I stepped into an American Orthodox church. If you have questions about the Orthodox church, why I chose to convert, or anything along those lines, I'd be happy to try to answer them (or find someone who can answer them, as I'm still learning myself.) I'd also suggest looking at the Orthodox Church in America website.

I survey the building from across the busy avenue. Light colored stone, seemingly seamless from my vantage point, is all there really is to the austere facade. As I contemplate the building, I pull out my phone to double-check the address that I had looked up the day before.

“We're going to the basilica in the morning for mass.”

“Which one? The basilica for the entire OCA is in DC.”

“The Catholic basilica. I think it's something like the Basilica of the Holy Shrine of Immaculate Conception or something.”

“Please go to the Orthodox one if you have a chance.”

“I'll have to look up where it is and see if I can find it.”

I snap a picture of the church on my phone and send it to my friend before backtracking up the road to the crosswalk and dashing across the street between cars. As I approach the building again, I notice someone working in the flowers next to the sign. I wonder if anyone else is even here.

I walk up the sidewalk to what seems to be the main entrance, stopping to survey a memorial bell tower. Symbolism. Everything means something. Even for things like honoring veterans.

As I approach the door, I take note of the painting over the door, making a note to figure out later who that particular icon was depicting. After reading the information on the door, I hesitate for a moment then retreat to the street where I keep walking past the church, say hello to the flower cultivator and continue around the corner to the other side of the church.

I repeat the same actions at the next door I find: approach, study, read, take note of things to research at a later time (this side included a mosaic of St. Nicholas), retreat.

“I'm afraid to go inside.”
“Why? Lol.”

That was a very good question. Why am I afraid? I am afraid of intruding, of being the misfit in a room, of crossing the line between my Protestant knowledge and this new world that had recently been brought to my attention. But if life has taught me anything, it is that the situations in which I am most fearful are the times that I desperately need to hold my head up and move forward. Courage. I need a dose of it right now.

My hands are shaking, and so is my voice as I approach the working man and ask tentatively, “Excuse me? Is there any way I could look inside? Just for a minute.”

He wipes his hands on his shirt and carefully exits the flowerbed, saying something about showing me around for just a few moments, as it was locked up and he couldn't leave me alone in there. I just nodded understanding and thanked him.

His name is Mark. As we walk to the door, he seems quite excited about showing off the inside, explaining how the outside was traditionally quite plain, but the inside was much more decorated.

“Have you ever been in an orthodox church before?”

“Not a Russian Orthodox church, no.”

He mumbles a few words, crosses himself, and slides the key into the heavy lock. The mechanism slides easily and the door begins to swing open.

I step forward slowly, allowing my eyes to adjust to the smaller amount of light filtering through the windows. As I raise my head to take my first glimpse at my surroundings, my breath catches in my throat.

Perhaps it is the amount of book knowledge I've gained recently about the Orthodox church. Perhaps it is the general splendor of the walls before me. Perhaps is is the nervousness spilling over from working up to this moment by twenty minutes of wavering back and forth in my resolve. Or perhaps the Holy Spirit really is incarnate in this place and I'm surrounded by the splendor of my King. Whatever the reason, I found myself holding back tears as Mark excitedly explained the different paintings and structures in the church.

The life of Christ and the lives of the saints surround me in gold-toned colors and sharp lines. From the dome, Christ as judge looks down upon all the proceedings. The altar is screened in and decorated with traditional depictions of the Virgin Mary and Christ in their respective places, and Mark explains to me the uses of the different doors. I had seen similar in a Greek Orthodox church in Argentina, so the information isn't completely new to me. For some reason, though, it still feels so new and foreign, yet so familiar.

The icon of St. Mary of Egypt is still on its stand in the center of the room from the services the previous day. I know her story of redemption and salvation. Seeing her emaciated figure only further reminds me of the dedication that she had in her repentance and how much I would love to be able to show that kind of fervor for the God I serve.

As Mark finishes his small tour, all I can manage to coax from my lips is a weak “thank you” and a grateful smile.

Before we left, he turned toward the back wall and pointed out the Pascha icon.

In the Protestant church, we always have the iconic picture of Jesus walking from the tomb and greeting the weeping Mary in the garden. That is our Easter depiction (among others). Mark explains to me that this is not the case in the Orthodox church, as you will never see a picture of the risen Savior. Instead, the painting depicted Jesus entering Hell and raising Adam and Eve from the grave, a symbol of his victory over sin and death. Never in my life had I considered looking at the resurrection in that way. Never again will I be able to look at it in the exact same way.

I again say my thanks as we head back to the door.

“What is your religious background”

“Oh, I'm Assemblies of God.”

“It's quite different, isn't it?”

“Yes, yes it is”

I look over my shoulder one more time, take a deep breath, and walk over the threshold to the waiting sunlight. As we parted ways, he to the flowers and I to the bus stop, I pulled out my phone one more time.

“I did it! It was so beautiful. I almost started crying.”

“You stepped into heaven.”