The Blue Monkey Review

Consistently, however, since probably my first day teaching high school I have found myself in the company of different kinds of students. These have included charming underachievers, the phlegmatic but earnest, heavy metal guitarists, artists without an audience. Students whose parachute didn’t open. Members of unloved religious, sexual, or racial minorities who were trying to both fit in and bring down the “man.” Students who would become fathers before becoming bachelors of art or husbands. Students who would not be inviting me to the Pulitzer award ceremony but who might need someone to see the principal on their behalf. Or to stand bail for them. Students who would not be taking the straight and narrow or any other known road after graduation, and whose lives after school often contained more than a fair share of emotional car wrecks. They have had in common, I think, a greater than ordinary struggle to find a moral universe to live in, have had to work more than others to overcome the brokenness in their lives. And while it is strange that I continually find these students interesting and appealing, it is beyond strange or any other adjective of the bizarre that they find themselves drawn irresistibly to me.

And, just as in the United States, so in Crna Gora. In fact, three students whose descriptions you can find above volunteered to take me to church last Sunday. I’d made the request to my classes during the first couple of weeks for someone to take up the white Montenegrin’s burden and become my guide through a Serbian Orthodox service. Just before the trip to Belgrade a student made the offer to do it, and we set it up for the Sunday after the Sarajevo trip.

It turned out that I needn’t have set aside a Sunday for this. According to Dragan, who made the original offer, the same service is offered at the local church every day, at 8 A.M. and 6 P.M. Apparently there is a special service on Sunday for communion, but it was probably as well that we didn’t try for that. Instead, we went to a church service that forms part of the daily routine of the Serbian Orthodox Church, a service intended to establish ritual in the lives of its communicants.

As indicated, Ruth and I had not only Dragan but also Ranko and Alexander as escorts. I don’t intend to characterize all of them, but Alexander turned out to be the most knowledgeable about the Serbian church and provided some excellent insights and advice during our time at Sv. Vasily Ostrokh. “It is traditional,” he told us, “that when you leave you walk backward for a few steps. It is not required for you. But it is traditional.” Alexander proved a surprising guide for this pilgrim’s progress. Of the three he looks like the one who most likely knows and appreciates the work of Judas Priest. In fact, he is a musician in what he describes as a “death metal” band, “but the music is very harmonious, very emotionally satisfying.” I keep asking for a CD.

As I’ve written before, church buildings elicit religious ritual here. Each of the students crossed himself repeatedly as we entered. The church is fairly compact and plain, but with several icons in special positions around the church (in the center, near the pillars, near the altar). Each worshiper, upon entering, kneeled and crossed him or her self before the icon of Sv. Vasily and then kissed the icon (I wasn’t doing any kissing last Sunday). In fact, the more usual ritual was for the worshiper to bow and cross three times, kiss the icon and leave some change on the icon, and then repeat that at each of the featured icons. Bowing, in this instance, meant reaching the right hand to the floor, or at least making a good faith effort. And the crossings are the full-body practice of the Orthodox. Rather than the more cerebral forehead-scapula- left-right cross of the West, the Orthodox go forehead to stomach, then right then left.

About forty people gathered for this service, and in spite of what I’d been led to expect by Dragan and others who talked about the Montenegrin faithful, the group was not old. In fact, I was probably well above the average age, with young adults making up the majority of attendees.

Some chairs lined the walls, but most of us stood behind a line that would have divided the church in half. The priest and the cantors stood on the other side, nearer the altar. The altar was more of a marble wall, also covered in images, with doors on either side and in the center. During the service the priest went behind the wall more than once, and also left open the central door for a few minutes so that we could all see an altar behind the altar where, I suppose, the elements of communion sit during a communion service.

The service began when the chanting began. Chanting continued, then, for the entire service. Five cantors took turns with most of the chant, the song going from one to the next without a break, and then sometimes shifting to the priest. The priest moved around quite a bit. As I’ve mentioned, he went behind the altar more than once. Just after one of his disappearances I heard the ringing of bells, like sleigh bells, and he reemerged with a censor. He shook it continually, keeping the jingle bells going as he went around the church spreading the incense (the good kind, not the stuff that makes you gag) and covered all the worshipers with it.

With the other worshipers, we stood silently. Those who were real Serbian Orthodox crossed themselves many times, apparently on a recognizable cue. No one called for “Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus” although it would have been appropriate in the circumstances. Nothing else was required except that at some point everyone went down on knees, then hands and knees, and then kissed the ground. ( I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous, so I bowed, but as I’ve said, I wasn’t doing any kissing that day.) We did this seven times. I think this is the practice known as the kowtow, a show of obeisance that the Russians took from the Mongols. I’ve never seen anything like it. Turns out, neither had Alexander, Dragan, or Ranko. And next day in class they checked this with Ana, who also worships somewhat regularly, and she had never seen it, either.

Then, abruptly, the chanting ended. I thought perhaps it was time for communicants to go forward and accept Jesus as their savior or take communion or something, but Alexander turned to me and said, “We can go now.” Following his lead, we turned toward the altar at the doorway and gave shallow bows as we went out.