Imagine my delight when a local lady, Galina, recently befriended me and invited me to tour the Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Baku, the Cathedral of the Holy Myrrh-Bearing Wives. A little history on this church: It was originally constructed in 1907 by an oil baron, millionaire, Muslim Azeri, but the church's doors were soon shut in 1917 when the Soviets took control of the country. The church was then used as a type of gym for soldiers and fell into complete ruin. The church was eventually destroyed during the 1990 war for independence, but again was saved by a local wealthy Muslim man who vowed to restore the church, which was finished in 2001. How interesting is that? This church owes its thanks to two Muslim benefactors.
I've visited numerous Protestant and Catholic cathedrals in Europe, a church turned mosque turned museum in Istanbul, but I have never quite experienced something like this...
As we stood in the back of the cathedral, fussing over our scarves, which we were using to cover our heads, the senior priest approached us. He was my image of a stereotypical Russian man: tall, robust, booming voice. He looked better suited to a fur hat and bottle of vodka instead of the robe and cross he was wearing. But, this very generous man set about giving us a personal tour of the small cathedral. In Russian (with Galina translating for my benefit), he explained the religious icons along the walls, the church's tumultuous history, the significance of lighting candles and the patron saint of this church, St. Bartholomew. I asked many questions that popped into my head and he patiently answered each one.
As we were wrapping up our conversation, he asked us if we'd like to touch the church's sacred relic, supposed pieces of bone of St. Bartholomew. My initial mental reaction was, "eek! ick!" but Galina nudged me with her elbow, so I nodded my head in approval. We were led through a restricted gate to an embellished chest that creeked on cue as the priest opened it. Galina eagerly stepped forward, crossed herself and took a few moments in prayer. Then, I hesitantly approached and looked down into the chest to see a few bone fragments covered in plexiglass. I delicately placed the tips of my fingers on the glass and mumbled a few words of gratitude. I don't buy easily into this sort of thing, but I swear I felt a jolt of electricity run through my arm when I pulled away.
As we exited the church, Galina was overjoyed, "That was truly a special experience! They don't ever let the local parishioners touch the holy relic!" She continued, "The priest must have wanted to make a good impression on a foreigner!" I was humbled. Here I came waltzing in to the cathedral, not knowing what to expect, and I got to touch something that few people ever get to see. I felt even more fortunate when I looked around at the day's visitors, several poorly dressed babuskas who were praying their hearts out to the icons. It should have been them, not me.
I walked away from the Holy Myrrh-Bearing Wives Cathedral with a song in my heart, a broad smile and an encounter with a saint to always remember.
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