It
was 1914. Moscow. The first Sunday of Great Lent — "The Sunday of
Orthodoxy." On that day, all lovers of church splendor flock to the
Uspensky Sobor, the Dormition Cathedral, to try to attend the festal
services, the "Anathema," as it was known. But for an ordinary mortal,
getting into the Dormition Cathedral on that day was not easy. You
needed to get on line very early in the morning, almost at dawn, and
even then the chances of getting into the church were slim. Long before
the beginning of the service, the Cathedral was filled to capacity, and
the police charged with maintaining order closed off access to the
church in order to prevent people from being crushed.
When
I learned that among the bishops serving at the Dormition Cathedral
would be Bishop Arseny of Serpukhov , someone with whom I was
acquainted, I asked his subdeacon, Hierodeacon Fr. Joasaph, to help me
get into the Dormition Cathedral for the Anathema service.
Kind
Fr. Joasaph said, "Nothing could be easier. Come to me on Sunday, and I
will give you Vladyka's miter case , and we will go to the Cathedral
together."
At
the appointed time, I came to see Fr. Joasaph in the Chudov Monastery
(later demolished after the Revolution) , and we went together to the
Dormition Cathedral, which was but a three minute walk [from the Chudov
Monastery.]
It
was a warm day, on the threshold of springtime. The sun shone dully
through a thin layer of clouds. Dirty yellowish-brownish snow was
already melting, and murky streams were running along the sidewalks and
noisily pouring out into the storm sewers. The air was gentle, humid,
and filled with the smell of slushy melting snow. From the Ivan the
Great bell-tower, the great bell droned, vibrating the air with its
velvet, thick, brazen tongue, and causing my chest to shiver. …
The
area before the Western gates of the Cathedral was absolutely black
with people. Among them would briefly flash the black and orange piping
on the overcoats of the municipal police, and the grey-blue overcoats of
the police officers. The crowd pulled me away from Fr. Joasaph even
before I had gotten to the Cathedral doors. At that time, the members of
the Synodal choir were going in, two at a time. I followed along with
them, but the policeman stopped me.
«You
can't go in,» he said, barring my way. "The Cathedral is filled to
overflowing. Young man, be so kind as to go to a different church."
"But I am carrying Bishop Arseny's miter," I replied, and showed him the miter carrying case.
"Ah,
then go on in. The young man with the miter is to be allowed to pass,"
he ordered the municipal policeman who was standing directly before the
Cathedral doors.
With
some difficulty, I somehow pushed my way through the crowd filling the
Cathedral, and into the chapel on the left, and from there got into the
Altar. There was a multitude of clergy getting ready to meet the
bishops.
I
was lost among the crowds of deacons, subdeacons, archpriests and
archimandrites. Protodeacon Rozov, renowned throughout Russia , a
handsome rosy-cheeked knight in a gold brocade, seemingly forged [and
not woven] sticharion, was softly explaining something to one of the
archimandrites in a mantya. At that moment, Fr. Joasaph approached me,
took the case from me, and led me to a small archway connecting the
Altar with a dark passageway, poorly illuminated, with a window with an
elaborate grill, and round mica-covered windows. It was there that the
Synodal choir members were putting on their festal caftans of purple
velvet and gold, caftans whose cut was reminiscent of boyar attire, with
high collars, quite different from those worn by ordinary Russian
church choirs, kuntush caftans modeled on 17th Century Polish-Ukrainian
style.
From
the crowd filling the church came a restrained dull roar. The powerful
toll of the bell in the Ivan the Name Great Type Tower merged into the
general rumbling sound. The sun's dull rays penetrated into the Altar,
piercing through the aromatic, blue smoke coming from the censers.
Here
two subdeacons in gold brocade sticharia with oraria belted cross-wise
around them, pulled back the heavy, silk curtain - whose supporting
rings made a faint ringing sound as they moved along the rod - and
immediately opened the low, wide Royal Doors. The crowd quieted down.
One could hear the quiet tinkling of bells on the bishop's mantiya.
Bishop Dimitry of Mozhaisk, one of the celebrants, entered the Altar.
The Royal Doors again closed… The bell from the Ivan the Great continued
its drone.
Soon,
Bishop Arseny of Serpukhov and Bishop Modest of Verei were greeted in
the same way. But suddenly, the sound of the great bell was joined by a
multitude of harmonics, as the festal «trezvon» peal sounded out.
The
clergy (except for the bishops) began to leave the Altar through the
side [deacon's] doors to meet Archbishop Vladimir of the Don and
Novocherkassy, who was to be the principal celebrant. The trezvon
ceased. The crowd buzzed almost imperceptibly. At the entrance, the
rattling rumble of the mantiya bells was joined by the gentle ringing
sound of censers being swung by the deacons.
And
then, in the midst of the quiet that had suddenly descended,
Protodeacon Rozov's deep but gentle basso sounded out – not loudly, but
filling the entire church: "Wisdom…" And then, even more quietly, in an
even lower register, in a quiet rumbling, conversational tone: "It is
truly meet to bless thee O Theotokos…"
It
was as if a breeze had moved through the ancient cathedral, like unto
the sound of distant waters, or the sound of approaching rain. Very
quietly, from both kliroses, the assembled Synodal choir began to sing
the opening "It is truly meet…" The pure steady voices of the young
boys, the silvery treble, the coppery altos, the fluttery tenors, the
melodious baritones and velvety profoundly low bassos merged into one
powerful yet soft and marvelous choir, whose sound filled the entire
cathedral.
And
that cathedral held memories of the Great Princes of Moscow, of those
who had assembled the lands that make up Russia , of the early Tsars,
the Emperors, the Metropolitans and Patriarchs. By turns, the choir's
voice would build, and once again become hushed.
Although
by then I was hard to amaze, I was staggered by this singing. I had
already heard the famous choirs of Moscow and St. Petersburg and Kiev ,
and had witnessed hierarchical services in great cathedrals. But I had
never heard anything like this. In that moment, I acutely felt the whole
inexpressible beauty of what surrounded me, into just what my whole
being was immersed at that moment. I understood the solidity of the
whole: the ancient cathedral with its massive round columns, decorated
with stern frescoes and stretching upward, and the Altar, bright with
gold, and the aromatic smell of incense, the gold vestments worn by the
clergy, and the marvelous chant, and the pious sound of the crowds of
people; the words of sacred chant, the signs of the Cross devoutly made
by the faithful — all these were inseparable parts of one unity,
connected to one another in one marvelous whole….
And
suddenly a loud and festive chord sung by the entire choir rang out:
"Ton despotin, kai arkhierei imon," and from the ambo, the bishop was
blessing the people. The vesting of the bishops began. The
concelebrating bishops were vested in the Altar. The choir sang, "Thy
soul shall rejoice in the Lord," but not the L'vov setting that
calloused the ears, but rather another setting (by Balakirev, I believe)
that I had not heard before. I marveled at the structured, measured,
symmetrically synchronized movements of the subdeacons vesting the
bishops. And again, in them as well, one sensed the traditions that had
been established over the centuries, something inexpressible in words,
the centuries-old tradition of our pious fathers. It was expressed in
everything: in the movements of the clergy, and in how the people stood
in church, and in how and what the choir sang. One had the sensation
that here the best of the best had been assembled. Yes, this is
unforgettable, and blessed is he who has seen and heard that beauty.
Such glory and beauty no longer exists upon the earth!...
The
reading of the Hours came to an end. The Rite of Orthodoxy began. The
bishops and all of the clergy came out of the Altar. The bishops took
their places on an enormous hierarchical ambo, covered with scarlet
cloth, in the middle of the church. The mass of clergy, with icons in
their hands, stood in two rows stretching almost to the Royal Doors
themselves.
And
so the solemn rite of prayer approached its conclusion. Protodeacon
Rozov ascended to an analogion set upon a specially-installed dais at
the front left column. Everyone's attention turned to Rozov.
"What
God is as great as our God? Thou alone art God, Who workest wonders," —
Rozov quietly begins to sing, in a low register and according to an
ancient melody. And after a short pause, he repeated the same, but more
loudly, and at a bit higher pitch. And a third time, he sang the same
words, the same melody, but already at full voice and in a higher
register. And then he began to read loudly and expressively, in an
ordinary conversational declarative tone, the history of the Rite of
Orthodoxy: "Celebrating the Day of Orthodoxy, faithful people…," and
then read the Symbol of Faith.
But
how he read it! Although he did not sing it, he imparted to every
single word particular power and expressiveness. I was amazed at how he
accomplished such expressiveness, without relying on some kind of
"declaiming" "oratorical" or "theatrical" effects. He spoke so simply,
as if in persuasive conversation with someone, and so triumphantly, but
without the slightest hint of dramatic effects, something so dangerous
to fall into when engaging in "declamatory recitation." No wonder that
Rozov was famous in Russia as an artist-protodeacon, not only thanks to
his unique voice, but thanks to his ability to use it.
"This is the true Faith,
This is the Faith of the Apostles,
This is the Orthodox Faith,
This Faith established the universe,"
Thus,
Rozov sang to the melody of the ancient chant, after he had read the
Symbol of Faith. Then he read how the Church maintained the Faith and
Tradition of the Holy Fathers, and how those who believe otherwise it
separates from itself …(and there, changing to a somewhat lower pitch,
Rozov said slowly and deliberately) "…and a-na-the-ma-ti-zes!"
Then, in a yet deeper voice, he begins the «recitation» of the anathema:
"All those who deny the existence of God, and assert that the world came into being by itself - Anathema!
«Anathema!
Anathema! Anathema!» — in an awesome unison the entire mass of clergy,
the vast majority of whom were bassos, sang in reply.
The Synodal Choir took up and echoed the chant, "Anathema, Anathema, Anathema!"
Once again, Rozov «exclaimed» a new separation – and in response the awesome "anathema" thundered from the clergy and choir.
The
faces of the holy martyrs looked out sternly from the frescoes on the
tall columns. Sternly and solemnly, in all the glory of Orthodoxy the
bishops stood, vested in gold sakkoses that looked as if they had been
forged [rather than woven].
The
Church's awesome power to bind and loose was palpable. Those proclaimed
anathemas, which year in and year out had thundered from within the
confines of these arches, were terrifying and awesome.
Were
those anathemas, as many suppose, condemnations? No. In a condemnation
there is hatred, and a desire for revenge and destruction. Here, though,
is what was being clearly confessed: The Church did not condemn, but
simply separated from its midst those who did not see themselves as
belonging to it, those who refused to accept its teachings. Those who do
not believe as the Church teaches, are separated from it, are alien to
it, are "anathema," "set aside," but they can always be received again,
should they recognize their error and return to Orthodox teachings. It
is not so much that the Church separates them from itself, as that they
themselves had set themselves apart from the Church, and now the Church
solemnly announces that fact.
The
pronouncing of anathemas came to an end. Rozov began to read how the
Church glorified and kept and honored the memory of those who have
defended and preserved the Orthodox Faith. And now, soft gentle sounds
move through the Church: "In a blessing falling asleep, grant O Lord,
eternal rest…" How amazed I was to hear "…to the Equal-to-the-Apostles
Tsar Constantine … Justinian the Great…Theodosius the Great, Theodosius
the Younger… the Equal-to-the-Apostles Prince Vladimir…Tsar Ioann
Vasilievitch, Tsar Alexey Mikhailovitch…Emperor Alexander III…"
In
that commemoration, I realized that in the consciousness of the Church,
all of the generations of Orthodox people - not only those living now,
but also those who had died long ago - lived. In that "memory eternal"
which immediately followed the anathemas, and which was sung for those
to whom we serve Molebens as well as for those for whom we serve
Panikhidas, was expressed the totality, the sobornost' [conciliarity],
and the universality, the omnipresence, of all of the generations of the
entire faithful Orthodox people.
And
after the "memory eternal" had been proclaimed, there followed the
usual thundering "many years" for the Sovereign Emperor and the other
Orthodox ruling figures, for the Orthodox Patriarchs – of
Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch, and Jerusalem, for the authorities,
and for all Orthodox Christians.
The
Choir festively sang Kastalsky's marvelous «many years,» which is in
such an ancient Russian mold, and which is so loved in Moscow .
At
the singing of the Te Deum, "We praise Thee, O God," Archbishop
Vladimir and the other hierarchs processed into the Altar. As his legs
were not well, [Archbishop Vladimir] did not serve the Liturgy. It was
served by Bishop Modest, assisted by the other hierarchs.
And
here again I was amazed at the art of the Synodal Choir: They sang "We
praise Thee O God" not as a concert piece, but in the simple Moscow
setting of the 3rd Tone, antiphonally, alternating between two kliroses.
Yet how festive was the Synodal Choir's rendition of that hymn! Barely
perceptible emphases, and the choir's wonderfully expressive diction
turned that primitively simple and continually repetitive melody into a
real artistic composition, far more expressive, festive and powerful,
than the loud and pathos-filled Bortniansky concert piece that is used
everywhere. Since then, whenever I hear that piece by Bortniansky, there
creeps into my soul a longing for the Synodal Choir's "Thee O God we
glorify," in that ordinary, most simple Moscow third tone, but… with the
Moscow Synodal Choir's diction!
The
solemn Rite of Orthodoxy in Moscow's Dormition Cathedral made an
enormous impression upon me, one that has remained with me all of my
life. Both before and since, I have attended solemn, festive church
services in a variety of places, and have listened to some very good
choirs. However, in terms of how great an impression was made upon me,
the service I have described has remained for me the most memorable, and
is still unforgettable. Now, half a century later, I can confidently
state that [at that service] I took a deep breath of what is Russian
Orthodox Church Tradition and Name Russian Type Church culture. They
cannot be learned from books or accounts; it is in their fullness that
they can be grasped.
Translation by Protodeacon Leonid Mickle
