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choco_froshI still think of it as Galata: the former Genoese colony to the north of the Golden Horn, crowned by a huge fourteenth-century tower. It’s at the top of a very steep hill, which we hiked up more or less by guesswork. Beyond it begins Istanbul’s main shopping street, the Iskiklal Cad, which we wandered around before hiking down, through increasingly poor neighbourhoods, to reach Christ Church.
Christ Church was built by the British as a monument to the Crimean War. As such, it’s not surprising that it’s built in nineteenth century gothic, in a style imitating that of the early 13th century, with narrow windows and lots of marble. We were let in by one of the refugees for whom the church provides a home, and met the vicar, who’d responded with enthusiasm to the news of an American seminarian who was going to be in town, wanting to go to church for the Triduum, and willing to preach the sermon on Maundy Thursday. He greeted us with equal enthusiasm, despite the fact that he’d just had knee surgery and then had his cell phone stolen, and let us into the church to go over details of the next few days with Grace. I took an opportunity to study the rood screen: again 19th c., but more recently decorated by a local artist called Mungo McCosh: he’d done saints on a golden ground (in very much the traditional mode), but with a panorama of the city in the background and as modern people (mostly). Something is undoubtedly lost by not having Moses be an irritable-looking, mystical patriarch. On the other hand, something is also gained by having him as one of those 20- or 30-something Jewish guys with a scarf and permanent 5:00 shadow. Most his companions were less easy to identify. Francis was pretty clear, as was Thomas (portrayed as one of the south Indians among whom he’s supposed to have ended his days, and wearing a carpenter’s apron), and Helena (looking like anyone’s old granny, assuming yours carries churches around), and Augustine (African, intense, in robes the color of flame). Beside him, though, was a prissy-looking guy in the robes of an evangelical bishop and carrying a crozier, who would have looked terminally dull, except that that’s difficult to pull off when you have fire coming out of your fingers. And who was the faintly androgynous person, in anxious prayer, wearing what looked like a striped nightshirt? Or the old Greek Patriarch? Or the ordinary young woman with the jumper and the lily?
The central doors had the Virgin and Child, with St. John (looking philosophically Chinese) and Gabriel, who (quite appropriately) was difficult to pin down as male or female, gay or straight. (As an angel, he should really be “other” or “non”; this was a good attempt). Michael, on the other side, was a British officer, complete with thin moustache and medals, but with a rose in his rifle.
I suppose I’d better say something about the services, which I’m sure Grace has discussed at length. Ian (the rector), is VERY high, but has eccentric ideas about liturgy, so the hymn selection was a little odd. Grace preached a fantastic sermon on Thursday. Friday was a lot shorter and less…wrenching than I was used to (I’ve gotten accustomed to Christ Church...). For the Easter vigil we started with the readings, Grace sang the exsultet (faking the tune, for which Ian didn’t have any music); and then we had the rest of the service in the morning, including baptism of four Tamil refugees by total immersion (apparently whoever designed the church was ahead of his time, or perhaps expecting converts, cause the font was for once large enough to do this!). All in all, ok, but not the greatest liturgy experience of my life. Partly ‘cause it’s kind of weird to do Holy Week stuff when you’ve been touristing all day.
After the Maundy Thursday service, Ian invited us out to dinner at a restaurant near the Galata tower (called Enginar, or artichoke, which amused us), with a couple of English and American expats, and insisted on paying for us, for which we were profoundly grateful.
Christ Church was built by the British as a monument to the Crimean War. As such, it’s not surprising that it’s built in nineteenth century gothic, in a style imitating that of the early 13th century, with narrow windows and lots of marble. We were let in by one of the refugees for whom the church provides a home, and met the vicar, who’d responded with enthusiasm to the news of an American seminarian who was going to be in town, wanting to go to church for the Triduum, and willing to preach the sermon on Maundy Thursday. He greeted us with equal enthusiasm, despite the fact that he’d just had knee surgery and then had his cell phone stolen, and let us into the church to go over details of the next few days with Grace. I took an opportunity to study the rood screen: again 19th c., but more recently decorated by a local artist called Mungo McCosh: he’d done saints on a golden ground (in very much the traditional mode), but with a panorama of the city in the background and as modern people (mostly). Something is undoubtedly lost by not having Moses be an irritable-looking, mystical patriarch. On the other hand, something is also gained by having him as one of those 20- or 30-something Jewish guys with a scarf and permanent 5:00 shadow. Most his companions were less easy to identify. Francis was pretty clear, as was Thomas (portrayed as one of the south Indians among whom he’s supposed to have ended his days, and wearing a carpenter’s apron), and Helena (looking like anyone’s old granny, assuming yours carries churches around), and Augustine (African, intense, in robes the color of flame). Beside him, though, was a prissy-looking guy in the robes of an evangelical bishop and carrying a crozier, who would have looked terminally dull, except that that’s difficult to pull off when you have fire coming out of your fingers. And who was the faintly androgynous person, in anxious prayer, wearing what looked like a striped nightshirt? Or the old Greek Patriarch? Or the ordinary young woman with the jumper and the lily?
The central doors had the Virgin and Child, with St. John (looking philosophically Chinese) and Gabriel, who (quite appropriately) was difficult to pin down as male or female, gay or straight. (As an angel, he should really be “other” or “non”; this was a good attempt). Michael, on the other side, was a British officer, complete with thin moustache and medals, but with a rose in his rifle.
I suppose I’d better say something about the services, which I’m sure Grace has discussed at length. Ian (the rector), is VERY high, but has eccentric ideas about liturgy, so the hymn selection was a little odd. Grace preached a fantastic sermon on Thursday. Friday was a lot shorter and less…wrenching than I was used to (I’ve gotten accustomed to Christ Church...). For the Easter vigil we started with the readings, Grace sang the exsultet (faking the tune, for which Ian didn’t have any music); and then we had the rest of the service in the morning, including baptism of four Tamil refugees by total immersion (apparently whoever designed the church was ahead of his time, or perhaps expecting converts, cause the font was for once large enough to do this!). All in all, ok, but not the greatest liturgy experience of my life. Partly ‘cause it’s kind of weird to do Holy Week stuff when you’ve been touristing all day.
After the Maundy Thursday service, Ian invited us out to dinner at a restaurant near the Galata tower (called Enginar, or artichoke, which amused us), with a couple of English and American expats, and insisted on paying for us, for which we were profoundly grateful.
