The other event of the week was of a totally different nature. And one I'm reticent to speak of, partly because at times I am such a piss-poor Christian, but that was in its quiet way such a profound experience that I feel compelled to share. On Saturday I joined a local pilgrimage party and headed east across the great, flat extent of the Fens and into Norfolk and to Walsingham. Here is my post from last year. The morning's weather was superb again. Walsingham has this amazing air of serenity that, I think, is quite unique. The sun was warm and the apple trees were heavy with fruit in the garden of St Seraphim's church, like a painting by Samuel Palmer. The afternoon was, however, unfortunately wet. After attending two indifferent services in the Anglican shrine (Pilgrim Mass and Sprinkling - both meagre food for pilgrims) I found myself attending Orthodox vespers upstairs at the Anglican Shrine. The chapel was minute - hardly really more than a landing. So narrow a space that the iconstasis had room only for two doors instead of the usual three. An elderly priest lead the service, supported by a choir of one - I think it was his wife. From such meagre resources was created something incredibly moving, incredibly spiritual and powerful. Numinous. Transcendent. The congregation varied between two and seven, but that didn't matter. It had a deep integrity that somehow what was going on downstairs in the Anglican bit simply did not possess.
I've been attracted to Orthodoxy for a long time, but rarely attended a service. The opportunity has rarely arisen. To attend therefore something that is so freighted with expectation is to risk disappointment. I needn't have worried, the experience exceeded expectation. I need to return.
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