It was my fifth visit to St. George Cathedral at the Alaverdi Monastery. Positioned on the picturesque Alazani River valley of Kakheti, surrounded by vineyards against the backdrop of the snow-capped Caucasus Mountains, the cathedral beckoned me to return. Along the road at the entrance to the monastery was a fountain around which was painted an icon of Jesus and the woman at the well—an invitation to be nourished by living water.
Entering the cathedral underneath the fresco of St. George slaying the dragon elicited the possibility and power of overcoming evil. The building made of simple fieldstone was anything but simple, and the commanding 11th century cathedral’s high ceilings and dome evoked the possibility of touching heaven. The 15th century mural of a not-so-pensive Mary and Jesus surrounded by angels above the altar captured innocence and grace. I wanted to remain there for hours.
The grand cathedral also drew the reverence of others—Georgians on pilgrimage and tourists from Virginia, Korea, and Russia. There beeswax candles elicited prayers and a touch or kiss of an icon instilled hope in the believer.
On each visit I connected with a young priest-in-training who greeted me with his limited English, with a knowing and welcoming glance, or with an expression of delight that I was being ministered to by the church it was his assignment to tend. How many other visitors had joined him by sitting hours in the coolness of the sanctuary in silence?
One day when lighting a prayer candle, tears appeared, and through the light of the flames in the reflection of the Holy Mother, I was reminded of my own mother who had borne me, nursed and bathed me, smiled as I took my first steps and stretched herself to embrace the strong woman I had become. Were the icons ministering to me?
I was delighted when the opportunity arose to return to the Alaverdi sanctuary one more time before completing my sabbatical journey. I made my way into the sanctuary, again assured by St. George of the possibility of conquering evil, to encounter beautiful music. Few parishioners were standing in the middle of the cathedral as two priests antiphonally chanted, prayed, read scripture and spread blessing with the thurible. I, like the others, bowed as the priest cast incense my direction, realizing my foreign status would be obvious in the small gathering, yet grateful for the gift of this magical, mystical moment.
The melodious chant arising from behind the alter screen was answered in beautiful harmony by the priest in the nave. They repeated a musical refrain. Could I possibly remember it? What if this was communion? Would I be included? Earlier I had inquired about services open to the public and had been told only Sunday worship was offered. What had I walked into? A gift! Certainly it was a parting gift for my sabbatical journey.
The chanting, praying, incense/blessing scattering, reading and bowing were choreographed by the priest’s movements in and out of the altar screen doors. I was basking in the moment when from the left of the altar screen, the young priest I had greeted each visit made a direct approach to me and said, “There is a code in the Orthodox church that only the Orthodox participate in the service. You must leave. So sorry.” I stood there in disbelief and said, “You really mean it? I have to leave?” He nodded and I turned to walk away from the sanctuary where I had sensed the presence of Christ, walked out the door over which St. George takes on evil, and out the gate past Jesus offering living water to a Samaritan woman. Kicked out of church.
When reporting I was kicked out of church on my last day in Georgia, many of my friends asked me what I had done. Surely, they chided, I had opened my mouth to challenge a priest or insist on the use of inclusive language. “No,” I replied, “I was trying as hard I as I could to blend in.” I was not Orthodox, and the young priest-in-training knew it. Did he come on his own, or was he sent by the presiding priest?
What painful wounds of the church at home did this experience echo? Of when the pastor Or when a pastor of my youth turned his back on me and couldn’t even look at me 40+ years later. Or when a local association upon receiving my resumé and/or photograph un-invited me to speak in a world mission conference. Or when dozens of pastor search committees tossed my resumé aside when searching for a pastor. Or when after 12 years of faithful campus ministry I was fired. Yes, I have been told to leave church before.
I was reminded of the church business meeting I attended as a young teenager when my church voted not to receive African Americans who presented themselves for church membership.
I was reminded of my brother for whom church has not been a safe or welcoming place. Now he finds no inspiration in church after having been denied welcome for so many years because of his sexual orientation.
Upon leaving the monastery grounds, I thought, “Are you followers of Jesus who welcomed this woman from Samaria to the well, or are you followers of the Orthodox Church patriarch? Which one?”
Which one are we—the church in the world today—following? Do we follow the example of Jesus regarding those on the margins, or do we follow a church riddled with fear of those who are different? Do we reserve God’s graces for the chosen few like us, or do we extravagantly share with all God’s children? And in the sharing, do we work to create a church and a world where all are welcome, all are fed, all are free to flourish and pursue lives of dignity that are fulfilling?
I left the monastery and I left Georgia more committed to shaping a church where all are welcome and embraced, inspired by St. George to take on evil when I encounter it—even and especially within the church. Not the parting gift I expected, yet one I am grateful to receive.