A Dutch Journey to Armenian Orthodoxy

OCP News Service
Katinka – 16/5/15

‘Seek and ye shall find’ – Katinka’s Journey to the Armenian Orthodox Church. 

The priest who served as a guard, welcomed me cordially in French “Ah, vous êtes la Hollandaise, entrez, entrez!” I thanked him friendly, and walked into the quarter. The tom-tom supposedly worked fine. I walked across the open square, passing the Club, and went up the stairs towards the apartment. His family was waiting there, and welcomed me.

It had been many, many years since we first met. During my Hebrew studies, it was common to study also at the Summer Ulpan at Hebrew University- and so did I. I did not feel like renting a room at the Campus, about which the wildest stories were told: student’s life to the extreme, with slurry drinking parties. No thanks, a room in a convent seemed a much better alternative, and that was arranged during a holiday. Mother Superior made me perfectly clear that it was a convent, and that the house rules had to be followed strictly. I did not have a problem with the rules. The rooms were huge, light, not expensive, and the convent was situated downtown, the surrounding had that serene atmosphere- a good environment for studies.

A few weeks before Ulpan started, I suddenly received phone call from the Sister in charge of the rooms: someone had decided to stay longer, so my room was not available for the moment. She advised me to change my flight a bit. When I told her that was just impossible, she answered to go somewhere else temporarily, and she recommended another Convent, in the Old City.

I arrived with a heavy suitcase with lots of books and some clothing; the driver of the sherut arranged a porter who rushed with my suitcase to the aforementioned convent. Upon arrival, Mother Superior poured me a cold drink, to relax somewhat after the travelling. In the reception room more people were present, and we started to talk. A bit later someone offered to show me around in the Armenian Convent of St. James, but I did not thought of it as a good plan. When he showed me pictures of his family, and told me that he would of course bring a friend along, it seemed not as suspicious. What could happen at a tour in the Convent? Little could I guess how this innocent sightseeing would eventually change my life. In the next months we often went out, initially the three of us, later just the two of us, his friend and me: to a Water Park near the Dead Sea, visiting Churches and Convents, to an Armenian party, eating Arabic ice cream. Also after my studies I often returned for visits, and it turned out that our friendship ran much deeper than we both imagined.

In the month of February there was a communal trip, to the original baptismal site of Jesus, where He was baptized by John the Baptist near Jericho, in the Jordan River. I received a warm invitation to join, as the only non-Armenian. That Sunday morning I arrived early in the Quarter. I did not want to miss anything of it. The busses were waiting outside Zion Gate, and the atmosphere was like on an exciting school trip. We went the well-known route, which descended to the Dead Sea, passed Jericho, and turned left into the Jordan Valley. Further on, we suddenly turned right on a sandy road, where soldiers and border patrols were waiting for us. It was a complete caravan heading towards the Jordan River. The big dark limo of the Patriarch ahead, two flags with the sign of the Armenian Patriarchate flapping on both sides of his vehicle, then two busloads of excited Armenians, and along the whole route guards, escorted by police and border patrol with festive blue flashing lights.

We drove into no man’s land, quiet, dusty and abandoned, here and there some sprouts of green which hinted at the presence of water. The road seemed endless, till far away some real green could be seen, curving through the landscape. I realized that that tiny stream had to be the Jordan River.

We got out of the busses, and walked towards a place sheltered with a wooden rooftop, which served as chapel. Of course the Patriarch went ahead, accompanied with a battalion of priests, all wearing beautiful decorations: the well known pointy head coverings, long black garments, big golden crosses with pearls and precious gems. The clergy started singing Psalms, while the crowd was being clouded with the sweet scents of incense in the mystic atmosphere of an Oriental Orthodox Church. Bibles, richly decorated in silver and gold with laid-in precious gems were presented, and people around me answered the clergy in singing. People whispered which Psalms were being sung, and which Bible Texts were being recited, so that also I would be involved in the happening. In a certain way these melodies, although new to me, sounded familiar. One could read the trust in God in their eyes, and I was well aware of where I was, amongst the presence of Armenians, of whom their faith is a part of their identity. There I stood; the only non-Armenian and I sensed the holiness of the place and the moment. Eventually the crowd went to the bank of the river, many filled bottles with living water, maybe meant for a baptism, or drank a sip and put some water on their head. On the other side of the Jordan River, sturdy soldiers of the Jordanian army were at guard, and watched the whole scene carefully, seemingly unmoved by the deep Armenian spirituality. After this, the group got back into the busses, and went to Jericho. One could go by cable car to the Mount of Temptation and climb the steep stairs towards the Church; but the Greek Orthodox priest did not have his Sunday rest disturbed by Armenian pilgrims. Downhill they were enjoying the scrumptious lunch in a restaurant, which, not without reason, was mentioned after the mountain.

In the meantime I was more in Israel than in Holland, and it was a logical step to start my life here, and return to my studies. Thus I got more contacts within the Armenian community, who were always friendly towards me. Everybody knows everybody in the Armenian quarter, and people greet me cordially, start a conversation, are interested how I am really doing- I feel accepted in the community.

I try to find an explanation for this feeling of coming home. Is it understanding and experiencing a kind of Diaspora? Is it because of my studies in Theology and languages? Is it because I speak Hebrew and Arabic? Is it because I learn Armenian? Maybe it is a little bit of everything. But it is especially the hospitality, the cordiality, the openness and above all the warm heart of the Armenians that affect me. Everybody is looking for something in Jerusalem. Did I find what I was looking for? Maybe more than I ever thought I would find here.

Source:
OCP News Service