An excerpt from The Scent of Holiness: Lessons from a Monastery, pp. 69-72 published by Conciliar Press (now Ancient Faith Publishing):
It was the Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ, and although I was exhausted, I slowly made my way from the guest house to the monastery church for the vigil. As usual, the lights were off, the oil lamps lit, and the candle boxes full of candles—the smoke of which rose up as a symbolic prayer for the numerous souls and causes they burned for.
I entered the nave and venerated the icon of Christ’s Transfiguration that lay on the white embroidered covering of the icon stand. Beside it was a large candle stand that had a wooden portion near the top with intricately painted flowers and vines in pink, blue, purple, and green. The large beeswax candle burning above it illumined the white-clothed figure of Christ; it illumined the shining light surrounding Him and the figures of the apostles, who, stunned by the vision, were lying prostrate. Christ was revealing Himself as the perfect Radiance of the Father, the pre-eternal Word, begotten of the Father before all ages.
Shine Your light also on me, your lowly servant, I whispered as I kissed His feet.
I made my way to a stasidi* on the left side of the church—the designated section for women—standing in the one closest to the icon of the patron saint. I examined all the silver and gold rectangular plaques lined up on the bottom of his icon, each one embossed with a different body part: arms, eyes, legs, and hearts. They are called tamata, and many faithful buy them and place them on miracle-working icons in supplication for health or healing of the particular body part depicted.
I was tired and not particularly in the mood for a vigil after a day of work. It was still the beginning of Matins when I told myself: It’s one of the Great Feasts, wake up and pay attention!
Yet I couldn’t rouse myself or inspire myself to feel moved by such a wonderful feast.
I wonder how long this is going to take . . . My mind wandered again.
Shut up and say the prayer! I fought back.
Time passed, I struggled not to fall asleep, and especially not to fall over during those few moments I did fall asleep while standing on my feet. I made sure to always have one hand holding the stasidi, just in case.
“Doxa see to theexadi to fos… Glory to Thee who hast shown us the light,” the nuns chanted.
Okay, really, wake up now. The Liturgy is about to start, I told myself.
I shook myself awake, just in time to see Sr. Akakia and Sr. Arsenia moving from lighting the candles in the chandelier, to lighting the candles on the corona—the larger, circular chandelier that encircles the main chandelier (most often found in monastery churches).
They each held a long wooden rod with a small flame on the end. Facing each other they began to light each individual candle in the large, golden corona. And before I knew it the whole nave was encompassed in light.
Having lit all the candles on her side, Sr. Arsenia walked back to the narthex, with her black ecclesiarch’s robe flowing behind her.
Returning, she handed Sr. Akakia a different long, wooden rod with a metal hook on the end. Standing on opposites sides once again, they each placed the rod on one side of the corona. Slowly and carefully they pushed the rods in opposite directions, causing the corona to sway, turning left and right, the icons of the apostles and patriarchs embossed on the corona now moving in rhythm.
Before exiting this time, Sr. Arsenia reached up and gently held the golden right hand of blessing that points downward, attached to the bottom of the chandelier. Ever so slightly she turned it, causing the large chandelier to also sway in a circular motion.
I was taken aback. I had only seen this once, during Pascha at a monastery in America. I didn’t know they did this for other liturgical feasts.
As soon as the chandelier began swaying, I noticed Sr. Akakia in front of the icon of Christ in the iconostasis. As Sr. Arsenia had done to the hand of blessing, she too gently held the bottom of the large, silver oil lamp and guided it to sway in a circle. Next, she approached the icon of the Mother of God. Bowing and crossing herself, she kissed her before putting to motion her oil lamp. I stepped back, allowing Sr. Akakia more room as she approached the icon of the patron saint. His icon was lit by three oil lamps. She spun the one in the middle first, the other two afterward.
As the nuns began chanting the troparion for the feast, the whole nave was basking not only in light, but in moving light.
“Metamorfotheis en to orei Hriste o Theos . . . O Thou who wast transfigured upon the mountain, Christ our God, and shewedst to Thy disciples Thy glory, as they were able to bear it: kindle Thine everlasting light even upon us sinners, by the prayers of the Mother of God. O Giver of Light, glory be to Thee!”
The cosmos was swaying in glorious anticipation of the celebration of Christ’s revelation to the world as perfect God and perfect Man. And what had I been doing in anticipation?
O Lord, I was found sleeping when I should have been watching. Enlighten me with Your everlasting light, as far as I can bear it, and forgive me, a sinner.
Reflecting thus, I bowed low and made the sign of the cross as the priest intoned, “Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
* A stasidi (plural: stasidia) is a large throne-like chair that line the walls in most churches in Greece. They are usually connected in a row. The stasidi has a seat, which can fold up, so one can stand on the small wooden platform below or sit on the folded seat which is higher up, allowing one to rest, but in an almost standing position. There are arm rests for both positions.
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