As I am back on Cape Cod sand after a weekend of exotic services in Istanbul, today I went to Christ the King, a large Catholic church in the neighboring town of Mashpee.  This is the second Catholic church visited in this project, the first being a Latin mass in San Francisco over the holidays, but one I had highlighted as a key visit in my local peregrinations. I have visited the large, white and relatively new parish twice before: once for my eldest son’s soccer banquet and the second for the funeral of a friend’s father. It is the largest Catholic congregation in the immediate area, perhaps on the entire Cape, and the church itself is the largest local church visited so far on the Cape.

Massachusetts is a very Catholic state due to the high influx of Irish and Italian immigrants in the 19th century.  I estimate half of my childhood friends were Catholic, and over time I felt I was in the minority as a non-church going, non-affiliated quasi-Christian. Those friends would talk about going to  ”CCD” (catechism class) and when visiting me on overnight stays, would need to make arrangements to attend Mass at a local church. Catholicism is an integral part of eastern Massachusetts culture, and I’ve always felt excluded when in the company of friends for whom the church was a fact of life.  As a WASP I was part of a different tradition that was more English and austere than Latin and emotional. As the local political columnist Howie Carr once observed, Bay State WASPs worship in wooden churches, Catholics in brick. WASPs tend to have roman numerals after their names, Catholics’ end with a vowel.

In the 1960s and 70s the Catholic parish that went on to become Christ the King was in temporary quarters on Route 28 in the Portugese section of Cotuit near the intersection of Newtown Road. I remember attending Mass there with a visiting friend one summer, the services were held in a tent evidently because the congregation swelled in the summer months and needed additional seating. My memories of that first Mass were of being confused by the Sign of the Cross, the genuflection before entering the pew, and the large amount of memorized rote evidently taught in the catechism classes. I was lost and felt very left out of the internal workings of the church.

Cape Cod become more Catholic after World War II and with the construction of the Mid-Cape highway and Route 3 from Boston in the late 50s/early 60s as well as the ascendancy of the Kennedy mystique during the JFK administration, the tenor of the Cape began to tip away from the Protestant Yankee Republicans of the old Cape to the Irish-Catholic influx seen today. The massive scale of the Parish of Christ the King is proof the demographics have shifted significantly from the days when the Catholic parish was housed in temporary quarters or in the strange pre-fab building that houses the current children’s museum near New Seabury.

The Service

I attended the 8:30 a.m. Mass in the misbegotten belief that it would be uncrowded and more aimed at the seriously devout. Instead it had all the decorum of a nursery school.  I had little ones in front of me and little ones behind me. There was a large youth choir, replete with boys dressed in Cub Scout uniforms (Pack 36). The choir master, a jovial Falstaffian figure of a man, made the rounds of the aisle and loudly complimented me on my bow tie.

The church was quite large, quite wide, and had two wings, or cruciform floor plan, with a bank of votive candles on the right or starboard side beneath a large  wooden sculpture of Christ, and a choir area across the way on the southern, or port side of the church. The apse and altar were wide. A crucified Christ was in the apse with a painting of Jersusalem in the background, three figures in adoration, and two discs — one perhaps signifying the sun, the other the moon. Two sets of silver organ pipes flanked the apse. At the entrance, above the doors from the narthex, were  three banks of brass horns.  The windows were decorated with stained glass. Some icons hung between them (the Stations of the Cross according to reader Craig M.); and along the ceiling ran a painted frieze with large letters proclaiming Christ.

The nave was very wide with two large banks of pews, and a cross aisle to speed cross-processional traffic and post-communion seat returns. In all it was the largest church I’ve attended on Cape Cod, and the second largest after Grace Cathedral in San Francisco. All in all it is a very new building with none of the darkness and well-worn aspects I imagined in a Catholic church.

The choir director got things started by coaching the congregation in the hymns which were printed in a periodical of sorts on the same cheap paper stock as a phone book. Those were inserted in plastic sleeves in the hymnal racks. The organist noodled a little off-key tune and then the processional started, with some choir boys and girls in hooded robes, the priest in green vestments, and other priests in beige robes. It was difficult to tell who was the priest, pastor, or head officiant, and some women took turns taking to the lectern for the readings. The priests, especially the choir director, spoke with familiar Massachusetts accents and the overall tone of the service was informal and in keeping with the family atmosphere in the congregation.

The hymns were contemporary. One bore the footnote that in August 2008 the Vatican struck the use of the word “Yahweh” from the hymn and that it had been edited as a result: I assume to the word “hallelujah”, which as devoted readers of this series will remember, is Hebrew for “Praise Yahweh.” This week’s religious word is “tetragrammaton” which refers to YHWH, the word which may be written, but not uttered. Therefore it makes sense that we would not try to sing it.

Following the reading from Isiah, the story of Jesus and the Fishermen, and Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, a priest summoned the young people to the altar and then he explained to them the meaning of the readings by comparing them to video games. He made a joke about liking to play golf on a Wii.

At the conclusion of the service the children of the congregation were resummoned to the altar where they were blessed by two priests who made the sign of the cross on their foreheads.

I couldn’t follow much of the service because of the child-noise throughout the church. It was okay though, I was relaxed and not annoyed in the least, though I probably will contract some infantile rhinovirus as a result of close proximity. I must resist the tendency to expose my inner W.C. Fields.

The transubstantiation of the host is always of keen interest to me as it is when the priests and the service get the most intricate. Bells are rung, napkins are folded exactly so, and words and prayers invoked to make the miracle of  bread and wine into body and  blood occur. So it was this morning, with delegates sent down the aisles with communion which the congregation partook of with great efficiency. I did not participate.

Two offerings were conducted which confused the heck out of me. The first one took the obligatory Churbuck fin, the second one found me declining the basket.  I don’t understand the double-pass of the basket and have never seen such a thing. even at Kettleers’ games when the little kids pass the kettles with great rapacity.

Random Observations

• What happens to any left over communion bread or wafers? After transubstantiation I find it hard to believe the orts would be thrown away; donated to the hungry. Me? I would feed it to the birds who would appreciate it on a cold February day.
• It is dawning on me, as I am now twenty-five percent through this process, that the different ways people worship is the true wonder and miracle of all this. It is staggering how similar but how different we all are. From the silence of the Quakers to the mass prayers of the Muslims to the aggressive campaigning of the pentecostals ….  and I have yet to visit a synagogue, witness with the Jehovah’s, or find the Latter Day Saints.
• I wonder to what extent the evident prosperity of Christ the King has to do with the declining fortunes of Catholic parishes elsewhere in Massachusetts? Meaning, is there is a demographic shift away from Worcester, Lawrence, Lowell and Fall River to a more modern Catholicism in the affluent suburbs?
• The warmth and familiarity of the service this morning is at odds with my stereotyping of Catholicism as a “top-down” faith where there was more aloofness and mystery between the altar and the pews.
• I definitely prefer solemn, baroque and dark experiences to sunny, light ones.
• The service was very much a celebration of the family and children. This was reinforced with the anti-abortion and end-of-life sentiments contained in the program handed to me as I exited.
• I thought about the abuse-scandals of the Catholic church during the service and tried to imagine the impact that has had on the faithful.
• Seven days ago I was struggling to watch Muslims pray in the Sultanahmet Mosque overlooking the Bosporus. Today I was in Mashpee looking at a Patriot’s logo on the back of a man sitting two pews in front of me.

Next week: I need to visit a temple but want to save Touro in Newport. Perhaps the Cape Cod Synagogue? I am also remiss in writing up the second Orthodox church I visited in Istanbul last Sunday. That would bring the church count to 15.

And now for something completely different, a post on interactive marketing!

Hat tip to Avinash Kaushik for tweeting this:

Click here to view the embedded video.

The International Olympic Committee has issued explicit blogging guidelines to “accredited” participants in the Vancouver Winter Games that take place this month.

As a marketing representative of the Olympics who promoted a large athlete blogger program — Voice of the Summer Games — in Beijing in 2008, I had some intimate insights into the IOC’s attitude towards blogging and freedom of expression by athletes which I stifled at the time in light of the corporate relationship. My true feelings towards the IOC and its bureaucrats may never be expressed in public, but suffice it to say that initial concerns about censorship going into Beijing which were directed at the wrong authorities.

The guidelines just released confirm in my mind that the IOC is hyper-sensitive and misinformed about new media and self-published content, are trying to preserve their lucrative broadcast revenues by prohibiting athletes from posting videos of themselves or other athletes, and are primarily concerned about athletes using their blogs to promote non-Olympic sponsors. Bottom line. The IOC is protecting its bank.  The guidelines continue to be restrictive, negative, and defensive in nature, and shows the wide  distance the IOC needs to cover before it catches up with the reality of athlete, coach, sponsor, and fan generated content and coverage.

The IOC should establish a program to promote blogging, tweeting, first-person streaming, and do its utmost to use its best assets — the elite athletes — to promote the Olympic ideal. Instead it will likely continue to issue DCMA take-down notices against non-sanctioned video and do its utmost to say “no” when it should be saying “yes.”

I understand from a colleague who worked with me in Beijing that there is some hope for London, but someone needs to throw an intervention in Lausanne and tell the IOC the time has come to promote, not negate, athlete blogging.

Sorry for the rant, but as one who was deep in the weeds with the IOC over this issue, it is depressing to see little if any change in their attitude in the past eighteen months. They are on Twitter: @olympics.

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Thanks to Kaitlyn Wilkins for alerting me to the new guidelines via twitter.

While in Beijing I stayed at the Intercontinental Hotel on the Olympic plaza, scene of the 2008 Summer Olympics which remain one of the more fun things I’ve ever experienced. Being a tad plump from the holidays I have entered the New Year a devoted walker — taking inspiration in the poet William Wordsworth who logged an obsessive 15 miles a day in his beloved Lake District of England.

While at the Intercontinental I have taken the habit of a morning and evening constitutional down the broad promenade of the Olympic plaza. With the blue Water Cube and the magnificent Bird’s Nest stadium, the astonishing Blade Runner Media Center tower, it is a very cool place to take the air and stretch the legs.

In the mornings, while it is still dark, at the northern end of the plaza, there is a subway station and beyond it a man-made hill and park. There I stop, kick the wooden fence to mark my arrival, and turn for the walk back to the hotel.

The first morning I was very concerned by the distant sound of a man in distress. A terrifically loud “Ho-Ho-Ho!!!” noise that I can only describe as a human rooster. The single loud voice in the darkness was off-putting. Was the man deranged? Was he being beaten? Would he find and beat me?

I walked faster, bound for my destination but not wanting to cross paths with the Hooting Man.

Then a man behind me hooted. This was bad.  I was surrounded. The asylum had been breached and the psychotics were loose. Then a lady cruised by in the darkness walking backwards and vigorously clapping her hands. Another man along windmilling his arms. He tilted back his head and let fly a lusty “HEY-HA-HEY-HA-HEY!”

I turned on my camera to record the sounds. Listen to the first few seconds. There is no picture as it was dark.  This is a morning ritual on the Olympic Plaza — lung exercises. The ladies-who-walk in Cotuit should do this.  It would endear them to the late sleepers on Main Street.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Cotuit – Feb. 6-9
Raleigh, NC – Feb. 10-12
Cotuit thereafter

More time on the road next week. Then I hope to decompress in Cotuit for a week or so. Passing on Brazil due to visa issuance problems.

Arrived in Beijing on Monday afternoon and have been in meetings non-stop Tuesday through today (Thursday). Last  night I connected with my brother Tom who is in country for the first time in his life and his Chinese colleagues suggested a restaurant near the Olympic complex that specialized in “Muslim Cuisine” from the western region of the country. Off we went, ending up in a basement disco where an Elvis impersonator and some ethnic dancers did a floor show while we ate meat on a stick and lots of lamb.

We passed on a whole lamb. This was on the menu and my brother nicknamed it “Snow Puff.”

We drank too much baiju and I am not well today and belching faint reminders of mutton under my  breath.

Home tomorrow. No time for any church/temple visits while in China.

Prior to the trip a good friend forwarded an article from the New York Times about a stellar breakfast restaurant in Cihangir, a neighborhood on the Beylogu side of Istanbul near Taksim, the “Times Square” of the city. I tried to hit the place during the week, but it was closed, done in by the snow or perhaps only open on weekends. I woke up this (Sunday) morning with no real agenda (other than to get a mosque under my belt) and started off by walking through the Besiktas Market (site of the fish vendors) via a little park that reminded me of Gramercy Park only grungier and surrounded by less posh apartments.

I saw this demented sculpture garden – quite possibly the weirdest thing seen this trip – and continued downhill past the by-now-common site of a gazillion mangy cats and pre-distemper dogs that infest the vacant lots and narrow hillside streets of the city. Some of the dogs have some sort of identification thing stapled through their ear – like cattle – and the cats are everywhere, perched on air-conditioner units, dashing into kebab shops, and languishing under parked cars with their tails ticking away. I imagine they must have to round them up and neuter the poor things every so often. Or, what I saw was a product of not rounding them up and neutering them. Some of the dogs are just nasty. They come wandering down a sidewalk and the first thing that comes to mind is “Oh shit. It’s Cujo.” You avoid eye contact –  be the dog whisperer – and stay out of snapping range. One bite and it’s fourteen injections through the belly button. I passed one cur that morning by the steps up to the German Embassy by the Karbatas soccer stadium that smelled like halitosis on four paws. It had this moussed electrified perm in its fur and smelled as if it had spent the night snacking in a dumpster. Two similes are not enough for this dog.

I wandered up to Taksim – a serious trudge up a big hill which instantly rendered my morning shower a memory and turned me into AquaMan – he who sweats buckets in January. No huffing or puffing. My cardio is okay. I just have very efficient liquid transfer capabilities. So off came the Filson logging coat and up I marched in shirtsleeves to the wonder of some French tourists bundled up for Ice Station Turkey. Taksim was quiet but I saw a big Orthodox church I spied from the morning I ate a “wet burger”, so I ducked in and took in another service to keep up the march moving towards 52 holy places in 12 months [I'll post on that later, I am highly burned out on churches right now.]

After the service at the Greek church I remembered the New York Times reviewed restaurant, Van Kahvalti Evi, was on a street that fed into Taksim Square. I Five minutes later was wedged into a seat next to a table full of loud Americans ordering a traditional Turkish breakfast from Van, the city in the easternmost regions of Anatolia, the Asian mainland of Turkey.

Tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, a little pot of peanut butter, another of butter, a basket of breads, a bowl of yogurt and dill and cukes, a saucer of wild unfiltered honey and sweet clotted cream, and five kinds of cheese: Armenian string cheese, a very hard and coming close-to-smegma clump of some cheese with herbs, a bland cheddarish cheese, the ubiquitous triangle of very salty feta, and a wet cube of something made from sheep’s milk. To add insult to injury and to keep up my reputation as a trencherman and gourmand, I tossed on a order of flatbread grilled with meat and cheese – think a pastrami quesadilla and you aren’t far off except the tortilla was more like filo than masa flour.

I dug in. This was a project that took some planning and strategizing and when I eat alone I tend to become self-conscious and understand why my two terriers, when given a bone, immediately head for the underside of a table or staircase to eat it alone in their lairs. I took notes about the church service in my notebook, Tweeted, checked out my city map, and did my best impersonation of a guy eating in prison – shovel quickly, don’t make eye contact, and guard the plate with both forearms. The breakfast was very different, very good, and not your usual IHOP clown-face pancakes with the bacon eyebrows.

I left a better man for it, and walked back up past the church (which had two Cujos in a muddy side yard jointly gnawing on what looked like a diaper) to a serious main drag – a pedestrian Broadway with a cute little tram clanking up and down it. It was open and booming on this grey, drizzly Sunday morning, so I took it all in, snapping pictures and taking little tram videolets until I stumbled into the Greek Embassy and an exhibition on the Greek churches in the city. More churches. Just what I needed. But it felt obligatory and I had to feed my head after doing so much damage to my stomach at the Van. In I went, picking up a program, and for a half hour I circled two rooms reading big placards about the sad little churches left behind when the Byzantine Empire tanked.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Back into the fresh air. I walked down the hill past the Galata Tower and headed into the Golden Horn for my Excellent Mosque Adventure. See below.

On the return back to the hotel I had to do some souvenir hunting back in the Besiktas bazaar. Sons get Turkish soccer scarves, daughter gets a collection of pins, wife gets the Sultan’s Dagger (the one with the emeralds on the hilt) and a box of Turkish Delight (assorted Fruit flavors). While there I decided to eat the Turkish Last Supper and go as low rent as possible for a full grey-meat-on-a-stick experience. What follows is mayhem. Pray for me on the ride to Beijing.

Right off – worst meal of the trip. Worst meal of the month. The waiter – who is Rudy Giuliani’s doppelganger – was as good in English as I am in Turkish – and the menu didn’t have any pictures. A good rule of life is “Do not order anything called a: Sausage Special” and don’t order something that on second check of the menu is described as “boiled leaves of dough with cheese and/or meats.”

Boiled leaves of dough was amazing in its nastiness. It was like eating with a finger down your throat. Gelatinous. Wet with hot water. Sort of floating in the hot water. Cheese was chunks of hard feta. Some pale green parsley was hanging around in there too. Someone had rolled up a handful of cheese and a bunch of parsley in six sheets of filo and tossed it into the dirty hot dog water. Then assaulted it with a scimitar.

So now I have that going for me. I couldn’t wait for the Sausage Surprise. I saw the cook messing around with a red squirt bottle and a white squirt bottle, the International Greasy Spoon symbols for ketchup and mayonnaise. Waiter brings same plate to me. What occurred was a bed of greenish French fries bedecked with two hot dogs – pure Oscar Meyer – and two discs of what looked like anemic hamburger patties but were definitely not cow, I am assuming weren’t pork, and most likely were lamb or goat or both. On one side was a pickle stuck in a wad of tartar sauce, on the other was two squirts of ketchup and mayo.

Surprise indeed. I picked at a couple fries. Abandoned the dogs after one bite, and finally just gave up. Rudy Giuliani was sad about that. But I tipped him anyway as I didn’t want to carry any Turkish lira out of the country and besides, it wasn’t his fault. He shook my hand and touched his heart in gesture of “hail fellow, well met.”

I lurched out into the rain, missed squashing a cat, and sent it flying into the restaurant in fear. Perhaps it will join the Surprise.

A sad note. As I walked back to my hotel I passed a bookstore and in the window, big as can be, is a picture of my hero, the late David Foster Wallace. I became very blue, and stood still for a second, tired from running around, tired from to-do lists, tired from the fever pace of this emerging market, and looked up across the square where the ferries from Asia dock and saw in big lit up red letters the word “Final.”

Thanks Turkey, that was awesome.

Today the 52 Churches project left Christianity after 12 churches and finally experienced Islam with a visit to the impressive Blue Mosque of Istanbul. This one was not easy, took some courage and persistence, but was well worth the extra effort and I am particularly proud that my introduction to Islamic worship was in such a venerable and magnificent mosque.

Formally known as the Sultan Ahmed Mosque in English (the Sultanahmet in Turkish), the Mosque was built between 1606-1616 by Ahmed I, whose tomb is located there. There is a detailed history on Wikipedia of course, so I will spare you the borrowed pedantry and let you click the previous link to educate yourself. It’s blue because of the extensive use of blue tiles throughout the interior, particularly in the immense dome, which in many ways mirrors the grandeur of Hagia Sofia, The Church of Wisdom, built 1100 years earlier across the grand plaza to the east. The mosque is notable for having six minarets, the most of any mosque except for Mecca, which was given a seventh minaret to retain its preeminence in the minaret department.

I tried to enter and observe prayers three times over the past seven days and polled several people about the etiquette and protocol of an infidel such as myself entering a mosque during prayers. In some cases and countries nonbelievers are firmly banned from entering mosques, but allegedly, because of the secular reforms of Kamal Ataturk, Turkey does not hold such a hard line and the Blue Mosque in particular is organized as a “tourist” mosque and permits visitors in between prayers.

Each time I tried to enter I was too close to the beginning of the next prayers and the guest entrance on the west side was closed. The carpet touts and would-be tour guides can be brutal and by my final attempt today, with only hours before I left Turkey for China, I resolved to make one last effort despite the warnings of many that I was a fool to expect to watch prayers. It simply isn’t easy and it isn’t like a typical temple or church where a non-believer can just stroll in and have a seat. Indeed, even in the Eastern Orthodox church they have a name for people like me — catechumen - who are supposed to observe the services out in the narthex outside of the nave. That apparently is NOT the case in a mosque, some of which prohibit a non-believer from entering at all. I was growing a bit pessimistic I would ever gain entry or worse, would have to disguise myself and enter in mufti like Richard Francis Burton did when he snuck into Mecca in 1853 disguised as a Pashtun (he also spoke nearly every Indian and Arabic language).  I am a huge Richard Burton fan by the way. He was one of the more amazing adventurers who ever lived.

I rode the tram from Kartakoy under the shadow of the Genoese-built Galata Tower in Beyolugu and disembarked at the Sultanahmet stop, making directly for the northern entrance of the mosque through the Hippodrome to avoid the rug touts. Confidence and momentum were the keys to gaining entry, so I zipped up my green coat and tried to be as inconspicious as possible. I took off my shoes, put them in a plastic  bag and carried them with me into the mosque.

First impression …. world’s largest carpet. A veritable ocean of red and blue tulip patterned carpet that stretched off into the distance where the mihrab, or altar piece stood. A wooden railing separated the tourists from the worshippers, so I took my place and snapped some pictures and made some short videos. Everyone was toting their bag of shoes like some tourist totem and I noticed no one was leaving them on the shelves provided for that purpose.

I strolled around in my wool socks, gawking upwards at the dome and the hundreds of chains and iron rods that descended to hold up the chandelier — if there is such a thing as a 100′ diameter iron chandelier — encircled by hundreds of blinding naked lightbulbs in small glass vases.

Along the southern side, facing Mecca, a long row of windows looked out at the Sea of Marmara and the branches of some evergreens. Most of the worshippers praying during the tourist time were up in front by these windows or the mihrab. It goes without saying there were no pictures of prophets, imams, etc. A single piece of calligraphy on the eastern wall, which I forgot to snap a picture of, but which I have definitely seen before, and a framed poster by the eastern exit were the only decorations aside from the ornate tulip patterns on the endless tiles and the incredible colors of the stained glass. A small roofed area supported by columns was on one side of the prayer space, and a little pulpit with a tall dunce cap minaret steeple stood next to the mihrab — a perfect isoceles triangle with the staircase forming the hypotenuse.

It was 1:30 pm when I entered and prayers did not start until 3:30 pm, so I immediately had four things occur to me. One: how much I hate being around tourists (it takes one to know one) and Two: how badly I needed to pee. Three: my feet hurt without my Merrill clogs and Dr. Scholl’s mega-gel anti-elevator-plunge survival insoles. And finally, Four: how bored I was.

There was a little sign on the barrier railing that said “Islamic Information Center” with an arrow pointing that-a-away. A little office with glass windows and an “Open” sign was near the exit. Inside sat a young man around 30 years old on one of my competition’s laptops. A notice said anyone was welcome to come in and ask questions. Once a reporter, always a reporter, so I knocked, stepped in and introduced myself.

The word “American” made the man obviously uncomfortable. I saw the shadow pass over his face for a second. Just two hours before, while buying souvenirs, a shopkeeper asked me if President Obama was a Muslim and then proceeded to pantomine his dislike for President Bush by pinching is nose with his fingers and making a sour face. The young man in the white skull cap had the same sort of reaction to my identifying myself as a “Merkin”  but I was on a roll and proceeded to tell him about this project, and how I wanted to observe prayers and would I need permission, where should I stand, would photographs be disrepectful, and other small talk. He smiled. Lifted his palms and said: “It isn’t a problem as long as you are inside before prayers begin you are fine. Sit behind the gate and you will be fine.” I was tempted to ask him some theological questions, but remembered the admonition of my editor William Baldwin at Forbes who told me only a moron asks someone a question that simple research could answer. Not wanting to waste the man’s time, I thanked him and went back to admiring the immense piers that supported the dome.

Time went by slowly. So I indulged in people watching. Little children turned loose on the pitch of the prayer rug all did the same thing when let loose from the parents. They ran, they danced, and they skipped. In that order. Everyone of them. The faces of the parents and grandparents were awesome. Some major moustaches happening, Omar Sharif/Josef Stalin big walrus moustaches. All the women wore silk kerchiefs and long ankle-length winter coats and were sloe-eyed. The men wore Member’s Only sort of jackets, shiny down coats, with strange “Engrish” sayings on them like “Classic Automotive Style Fashion.” I really had to pee and was feeling like Tycho Brahe (interestingly, urination almost uncovered Burton during his Hajj when he lifted his robe to whiz and was seen by a boy who, seeing he did not squat like Arab men, accused him of a being an imposter). I listened to a guide tell a large group of Japanese tourists about the  mosque in Japanese with an Italian accent. It was amusing. I was feeling crowded, and my attempts to stand stolid in one spot were thwarted by really aggressive grannies in black kerchiefs who were determined to get a family portrait right where I was standing wherever I was standing. I expect to be in a hundred family photo albums (“Who’s that Infi-Geek Grandma?”)

Finally it was 3 pm. A burly police man started pushing tourists out of the visitors area. He never said “shoo” in English, but his intentions were clear.   People started moving for the exits. I stood by the “Islamic Information Center” ready to invoke the permission given to me earlier. I stood still with my hands cross reverentially in front of me as I was taught to do as a Senior Prefect at The Brooks School in 1976 while attending to the Headmaster during End of School, except this time I had a bread bag containing my two size-13 shoes in front of me.

A few more police-like guys in black turtle-necks and boots came through telling people it was time to go. Never once did one directly hassle me but the tension was high. There was no way I was going to bail after 90 minutes of  listening to my back teeth sing “Anchors Aweigh.” I started thinking inappropriately of the Clash song, “Rock the Casbah” and its directive to place the bomb  between the minarets.  Past church infiltrations helped me display the appropriate karma and all was well. Gradually, over 15 minutes, a hush came over the mosque. The tourists were all gone save for me.

Then I heard the call to prayer. It was much softer inside of the mosque, whereas outside it is everywhere. I continued to stand and wait. Men began to file past me with their shoes in bags, they crossed the barrier and walked purposefully to the front of the mosque by the windows. Women were segregated into a penned off area in the back. I couldn’t tell if they were ascending stairs to the balconies or not, but it was only men on the main floor.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The muezzin went silent. An Imam with a white hat crossed the floor and vanished. The Islamic Information man left office and also vanished. An entering worshipper saw me, stopped and pointed at the base of the immense column. “You. Sit there.”

Yes sir. And so I sat. And what followed was pretty amazing.

Service

There is no liturgy and no music save the amplified voice of the muezzin.  With no guide I once again have no idea what he sang, but his voice was as magnificent as his mosque. The worshippers crowded together in tight lines. Islam is about worshipping together, in close quarters. There were no solo worshippers. No go-it-alone-prayer makers. Late arrivals rushed into the mosque, dropped their shoes onto a special shoe bench and searched for a place to fit into the prayer line.

Prayer follows a defined series of bows, kneelings, and prostrations. I watched carefully and observed the men begin by standing reverently. Then bending at the waist. Then kneeling. Then kneeling forward and touching their foreheads to the ground. Then rising and sitting back. Then gracefully standing. Whether they spoke something to themselves during this sequence isn’t clear. They were silent as they went through the moves.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The Imam called the prayer. I’ll upload a video of the sequence. It’s blurry but it will give an idea of how the prayers are conducted. They reminded me of well orchestrated calisthenics, or tai-chi in that the movements were well synchronized, obviously second nature to the faithful, and occurred smoothly with a physical sinousness that even the older worshipers managed to display.

The prayers lasted no more than 15 minutes. At one point in the prayers about 20 percent of the men rose and simply left while the others continued. A few more prayers later and then with no fanfare the prayers were over and everyone was heading for the exits.

I followed, stepped outside with a view of Hagia Sofia. Put on my shoes, and dropped seven lira onto a table with a sign asking for donations for the mosque. A clerk counted my coins and then filled out three receipts. One for five lira, and two one lira coupons and handed them to me. I don’t know why. Either I possess three lottery tickets, or tax receipts for my deductible charitable contributions. I figure given the exchange rate of 1.5, that my donation was in line with the typical $5 bill dropped in the basket of the other 10 churches (okay, Grace Cathedral got a $20 for Christmas).

I stretched. Took a deep breath, and booked off in hunt of a men’s room feeling pretty good to have gotten a mosque onto the list in grand fashion.

Random Observations

• This one worried me, I’ll be honest. A few people told me to skip the mosque thing. I’m glad I didn’t.
• I should read the Koran and get smarter on Islam in general.
• It is a beautiful service and a friendly religion when you get close to it. The children dancing on the carpet made me happy, especially since no one scolded them or told them to be quiet.
• It was very touching to see young boys watching their fathers to learn how to pray.
• The view out the windows on the Sea of Marmara was amazing.
• I wonder how often a “regular” Muslim prays? With ablutions and the shoes, and the whole process I wonder if anyone has time to hit all the prayer times?  Just once a day? A week?
• I understand the Imam will preach on special occasions from the pulpit. That did not happen today.
• Islam should hold Open Houses to introduce non-adherents. The exclusion thing sets the faith apart from nearly all others. The information offering inside of the Blue Mosque was a very good thing.

Next: I visited another Orthodox church in the morning. I will write that up later. I’ll check for stuff in China — recommendations welcomed. There is a Confucian Temple and the Lama Temple. If I have time I will try.

(Brace yourself church fans; this is going to be a long one I think)

First the context. Then the church.

The Eastern Orthodox Church is the second largest Christian denomination in the world (after Roman Catholicism) and is the prevalent Christian denomination in Greece, the Balkans, the Middle East, Eastern Europe and Russia. It is Greek in origin and traces its history directly back to Christ’s Apostles, emphasizing in its beliefs its unchanged connection directly  back to the foundation of Christianity.

It was the religion of the Byzantine Empire, which followed the Roman Empire and peaked in its power and extent in the middle of the sixth century but survived until 1453 in its capitol of Constantinople until the city was sacked by the Muslim Turks. The Patriarchate is the spiritual capitol of the faith, yet care must be taken not to assume that the Patriarchate is the “Vatican” of the Orthodox faith, or the Patriarch is tantamount to the Pope. He is, like the Pope, considered “first among equals,” and he is viewed as the leader of the Orthodox faith. Historically the position of Patriarch wielded immense power and in some regards was as powerful as the Byzantine Emperor. The piety of the Byzantine court cannot be underestimated, and the synods or early religious councils that were convened in the early centuries such as the Council of Nicea are fundamental to the history of all Christian denominations.

This is the religion of icons, of priests in black cylindrical hats and flowing robes, of smoking censers filled with frankincense. If you’ve seen Deer Hunter and recall the Orthodox wedding, then you’ve seen some Orthodox liturgy.

After the sack of Constantinople the Byzantine church limped around Istanbul, getting kicked out of one church after another as the Sultan converted Hagia Sofia — The Church of Holy Wisdom — into a mosque and commanded that no Christian church exceed a mosque in size or grandeur. Today the church is the small but elegant Church of St. George on the shores of the Golden Horn in Phanar (Fener), where it has resided since 1600.

From Wikipedia:

“Since the fall of the Ottomans and the rise of modern Turkish nationalism most of the Greek Orthodox population of Istanbul has emigrated, leaving the Patriarch in the anomalous position of a leader without a flock, at least locally. Today the Church of St George serves mainly as the symbolic centre of the Ecumenical Patriarchate, and as a centre of pilgrimage for Orthodox Christians. The church is financially supported by donations from Orthodox communities in other countries.

On 3 December 1997, a bomb attack seriously injured a deacon and damaged the Patriarchal Cathedral.^[4] This was one of the many terrorist attacks against the Ecumenical Patriarchate, its churches and cemeteries in Istanbul in recent years.The efforts to bring the terrorists to justice are continuing.”

The Service

Before travelling to Turkey I wrote an email to the secretary of the church seeking some information about services, but I never received a reply, which is not surprising given the incongruity of communicating with an ancient church through a digital pipe. Friday afternoon I used Skype to phone the Patriarchate’s press office where I explained my mission to visit interesting sacred places over the course of a year. I was referred to an American expatriate affiliated with the church, and one minute later had an encouraging discussion with a gentleman named Paul Gigos who told me my timing could not be better as one of the more significant Feasts of the ecumenical calendar was taking place the following morning, Saturday: the Feast of the Three Hierarchs.

In 1100, the Byzantine Emperor Michael Comenus established a feast to be observed every January 30 to honor three extremely influential early Christian Theologians who were active around the late 300s — just after Constantine made his conversion and moved Rome to Byzantium. The three were Basil the Great, Gregory the Theologian and John Chrysostom.  Basil’s brother was St. Gregory of Nyssa (fans of this pedantic series may remember your humble narrator having dance dance fever in San Francisco over the Christmas holidays at the church of the same name). Anyway — around 1000 the citizens and clergy of Constantinople started bickering about who was more of a bad-ass. Like baseball fans going at it over Babe Ruth vs. Barry Bonds vs Joe DiMaggio. It got pretty contentious until St. John Mauropous had a dream where the three appeared and essentially told him it was a draw: “”There are no divisions among us, and no opposition to one another.”"

Still with me? Okay, so Paul tells me that things start around 8:30 with the morning service — Orthros — (or as they would say in France, matins) and the Patriarch Bartholomew would make his appearance around 9:30, with the service for the Feast concluding around 11:30. Oh, and I was welcome to attend.

Cool. I did a little homework. Set the alarm, and at 8 am this morning hopped in a cab and asked to go to the Rum Patrikhanesi: 15 minutes later and I am standing outside of a guard shack in the old city asking the guard if he speaks English. Indignant, he says, “Greek” — so I say the Greek word-of-the-day:  Orthros and he decided I was not a mad bomber (I had on a Hermes bowtie and definitely stuck out from whatever norm the guard was accustomed to). He pointed up some steps, and off I went, right into the porch of the Church of St. George.

I was early but there was activity. As I stepped into the narthex I heard chanting. The place was dark, cool, and smelled like a nice old lady. I felt seriously in awe, and felt like I was sneaking into the church.

It was dark but dazzling. Two sets of red upholstered chairs fenced off with red and gold silk ropes, some strange side seats with rails that I think are called stacidia, a wide aisle, and above a long barrel vault with a picture of the Pantocrator in the center. Huge chandeliers hung low over the aisle — only the ones near the two choir stands were lit. At the end of the nave was a large gilded wall covered with icons — the iconstasis – and in this wall were three doors. A center one known as the Beautiful Gates, and two flanking called “deacon doors” marked with images of the Angels Michael and Gabriel. Being terrified of giving offense, I read that non-baptized worshippers are to stand in back, in the narthex, so I continued to stand behind the seats. There were no pews, and apparently seating was considered rude as the faithful were expected to stand throughout the service.

On both sides at the front of the nave were stations surrounded by six men of all ages, including young boys: so twelve in all. One side would sing, then the other would sing. While one sang the other sort of hummed this eerie drone. Sometimes they sang together. The right, or starboard side, had a chanter with the most beautiful voice in the world. Seriously. There is no hyperbole in that last statement. This man sang for three hours, nearly non-stop, and had a set of lungs that have to been heard to be believed. The sweetness of his voice, the ululations of his cries …. there is no instrumental accompaniment, just voices, and the choir at St. George’s was the real thing, twelve priests doing a pre-Gregorian series of hymns an dchants that reached back into Jerusalem, that were so ancient that they felt genetically coded into my head.

For an hour I stood in the back of the chairs and listened to this amazing singing by myself. Two sets of priests, dressed in black, each group gathered around a lectern, singing God knows what in Greek.

Right off, I broke the first rule of 52 Churches — I took out the camera. I was sneaky. I concealed it. But I couldn’t not capture what I saw this morning. As the service went on I realized I was not alone. There was a film crew there filming the Patriarch and several parishioners were snapping away — with flashes for crying out loud. By the end of the three hours I was a little more relaxed about the camera, but very nervous about bringing it out.

Orthros  blended into the Feast of the Three Hierarchs fairly seamlessly. For an hour it was me and a lady who made the sign of the Cross four times per minute (4 spm). A deacon arrived, inspected me because I was seriously out of place, and then seemed to hassle me, but in truth he was giving me a prime seat right up front, three rows back. He unhooked the silk rope and let me in, right next to the Stacidia.

There was some bustling in the narthex. The Feast was about to begin. A procession of somber senior priests — perhaps Bishops or Metropolitans — filed down the aisle and then took their places in the Stacidia next to me. Then the Patriarch Bartholomew followed, his robe held up by a retinue of helpers. He carried a staff with a silver figure on the top. He turned right before the Psalteria, where the choir was chanting, and climbed some steps to the Thronos. His helpers adjusted his vestments and made him comfortable. I was impressed, his Holiness had presence, and I realized I was suddenly in a crowded church of worshippers, mostly older men in their Sunday best  (some of whom wore red ribbons around their neck, like the Knights of Columbus) and women turned out in fur coats.

Genuflection was the order of the day and I realized I don’t really know the appropriate protocol. From what I observed, it is threeo fingers starting at the forehead, then down in a straight line to the netherlands, then back up right to left with a finish consisting of an open hand move over the heart. There are Sign of the Cross Triggers in whatever the choir was singing, when the Beautiful Gates opened up and one of the Priests In Gold (no acronym needed) made an appearance, or whenever the genuflecter sort of feels like it. I was getting a serious going over by a stern looking “helper” priest who stood next to the Patriarch in his thronos. This priest was the enforcer, and when it was time to stand he made an impatient “up-up” gesture with his hand, and the converse when it was time to sit.  Since I was a) 33% taller than anyone in the church b) obviously clueless about the meaning of the liturgy and c) acting furtive with my camera, I came under high scrutiny; especially when I did or didn’t cross myself correctly.

There was one strange man, perhaps 35 years old, obviously well muscled underneath his suit, with two embroidered crosses for epaulets. He did nothing the entire service except stand near the Patriarch. I am convinced he was a bodyguard, which made me a little sad that a man like Patriarch Bartholomew who looks like Santa Claus needs security. We live in bad times, especially when it comes to religious violence. The Pope was knocked down by a loon on Christmas Eve.

The two hour service was truthfully very captivating. There was no audience participation, meaning not even an “amen” or credo or Lord’s Prayer. The Metropolitans standing right beside me would sing along with the hymns from time to time, and the gentleman sitting in the row with me also hummed when there was time to make the droning sound that pervaded the service (one time the drone was so intense I thought an old airplane was flying overhead). Here are some of the service highlights:

• The procession of course
• The strange sequence of hats-off, hats-on prayer. When the Patriarch and the Metropolitans were bare-headed they all had serious hat-head lines in their hair and skull. Sometimes they wore the hat — basically a black fez with a flange on the top and no tassle. Other times they drapped a black shroud over the hat that flowed down their backs. Think of Paul Atreides sister Alia in David Lynch’s Dune. Orthodox vestments are very awesome.
• One of the Priests in Gold ascended the steps of the thronos, held up a very amazing bejeweled Bible for the Pattiarch’s kiss, then disappeared only to reappear way up on the side of a colum in a little pulpit reached by a long tiny staircase. I only figured this out when the stern Patriarch-helper guy made a “turn around” gesture at me  with his index finger and I had to turn 90 degrees and look wayyy up.
• The happenings behind the Gold Wall — the Iconstasis — in the Sanctuary: talk about sanctum sanctorum.  The Altar and Table of Presentation are back there. Censers get filled and ignited. Sacraments are blessed. All sorts of stuff happened back there. In Greek. That I could see through the Beautiful Gates. It was a mystery. It was Byzantine.
• The censers were awesome. Smells and bells is an understatement. Good trivia: this church is where the Patriarch used to bless all the chrism, or myrrh, the sacred oil used for baptisms through the Orthodox Church. The church is thus known as the Patriarchal Church of the Great Myrrh. (in case you find yourself on Jeopardy)
• Around the mid-point of the service a lot of young people — high school age. Girls in uniform (black and white checked skirts) guys in sweater vests and grey pants — crowded into the nave right across from the thronos. They may have been students, acolytes, but they were very patient, even sang a hymn and took part in some of the rites.
• There was a long sermon in Greek. I confess I started to nod off. One of the Metropolitans sitting next to me checked his watch. No lie.
• The Host was brought down the aisle in a procession of its own. There were three, or were there four processions.
• There was no collect — no money was exhanged.
• I took communion. Hey — second Churbuckian rule of #52Churches broken, but hey, this was a Feast and you have to eat at a Feast. I kissed the Patriarch’s ring and took a piece of bread. Then I filed out the front by the icons. He washed his hands with a Handi-Nap before the hand kissing commenced. I appreciate that in a Patriarch. He is, by the way, known as the “Green Patriarch” because he is active in environmental issues.
• There was no wine at communion.
• In the narthex some ladies were scooping a super bizarre smelling trail mix into white envelopes. This, I assume, is the Feast. It is very good: consisting of  nuts, raisins, and mystery spices. Think of  really cool cookie dough.

So, to summarize the Service portion of this post: it was Greek, it was sung, it was very complicated and very subtle. This was exactly what I expect from a “Mother Church” experience. Keep in mind, as Wikipedia points out, change is not a good thing in Orthodox religion and the service is meant to be very true to its roots:

“…the Divine Liturgy is seen as transcending time, and the world. All believers are believed to be united in worship in the Kingdom of God along with departed Saints and the celestial Angels. To this end, everything in the Liturgy is seen as symbolic, yet also not just merely symbolic, but making the unseen reality manifest. According to Eastern tradition and belief, the Liturgy’s roots go back to Jewish worship and the adaptation of Jewish worship by Early Christians.

Random Observations

• Parishioner demographic — mostly older Greek expats, some younger people too, and the aforementioned uniformed youth.
• Very happy vibe, but there were times the singing was so sad and dolorous that I felt I was at a funeral
• The Middle-Eastern ululation — the modulation of the voice — is common to the Muezzin’s call to prayer, the chanter, and the Jewish cantor. The priest with the astonishing voice moved his hands constantly while he sang, like  a conductor, and shook his head to make some vibrato.
• I understood the following words: “hallelujah” and  ”kyrie elieson” (Lord, Have Mercy) and that’s it. Everything else was Greek to Me.
• The smoke from the censers was very thick and I had massive contact lens malfunction.
• The Patriarch has a cough.
• There were no cars for the usual automotive/demographic observation as there was no parking lot. I see the Patriarch behind the wheel of a black Checker.
• Imagine how cool it would have been to see this in the Hagia Sofia? If this was the service they did in the old days, and in that church ….. This was serious awe, pomp. and ritual in a small church.
• Camera use is pretty wide open. No deacons telling people to knock it off. Guy in front of me was banging off his flash right in the Patriarch’s face.
• The icon collection made me think of the awesome Andrei Tarkovsky movie, Andrei Rublev, about the greatest icon artist of all time. Seek this out, bear with it, and wait for the bell scene at the end. Trust me.
• Kissing the icons is okay. I did not.
• “Iconoclast” — e.g. he-who-marches-to-his-own-drum — is actually grounded in the big controversy over banning icons by Emperor Leo III’s decision to remove an image of Christ from a Gate. Islam prohibits imagery as well (as the Danish cartoonists have learned), so this was a big deal at the time.
• I stand corrected on calling the men sitting to my right “Metropolitans” — I have no idea what they were. Metropolitans (I like the word) wear white hats.
• I put Constantinople in the title as the Patriarchate refers to itself as being based on Constantinople. Paul Theroux, in Pillars of Hercules, made jest of this affectation.
• Will I go to hell for thinking of the Feast of the Three Stooges during the part of the service where the icon of the Three Hierarchs was displayed?

Video to follow once YouTube digests it. Here is a slideshow of my Flickr photos from the service.

Next: In which I try to visit a Mosque. And fail. And fail again. And succeed. But sort of.