We just got back from a local paneyiri. Les will post pictures later. For now I want to share an insight into Greek religion that I got from contemplating aspects of the paneyiri that have always bothered me.
First, a basic definition. A paneyiri (πανηγύρι) is a festival, usually centered around a church, and it celebrates the saint(s) to whom the church is dedicated. To be honest, the first few paneyiria we went to, back when we spent summers in Ancient Corinth, we didn't even realize it was a religious festival. There is a service, often including a procession in which the saint's icon is carried around the neighborhood. But mostly what you see when you go to one is a long street lined with booths, with people selling all sorts of things: some food (mainly snacks, including yummy loukoumades, or fried dough balls coated with honey and cinnamon), some religious items, and books, but mainly cheap toys, household goods, jewelry and clothes. There might also be music or dancing, but mainly it is the endless booths and the crowds that strike you. Once we figured out that these were religious festivals--the one we went to tonight was associated with the church of the Prophet Elijah (Profitis Ilias), in the next neighborhood over--we were baffled. Most of the stuff for sale is cheap junk, and the crowds of shoppers don't seem to be paying much attention to the religious festival. To a western eye, there is a jarring contrast between the holy activity in the church and the crass commercialism outside.
As I watched the people entering and exiting the church and milling around outside, it began to dawn on me that the festival makes sense, given the way the Orthodox faith works. In western churches, including the post-Vatican II Catholic church, as well as the Reform and Conservative branches of Judaism, the service is a transaction between the priest/minister/rabbi and the congregation. The congregants are participants; they share in the holiness of the occasion, and in a sense it cannot happen without them. The Orthodox faith (much like, I think, pre-Vatican II Catholicism) works in a different way. The service--especially its heart, the eucharist--happens on its own, whether or not the congregation takes part. The congregants are not vital. This is why the Orthodox services I have seen seem so relaxed, if not chaotic. People enter the church if they wish to witness the sevice; they can drift in and out whenever they choose, or they can hang out on the steps, listening in or chatting with friends.
I think it is best to think of the church as embodying layers of holiness. The holiest of holies is the altar, which is hidden, in fact, from the laity by the iconostasis. The naos is the second-most holy place, where you can witness parts of the service and venerate the icons. Then many churches have a narthex, an outer room or lobby that is less holy, that allows for a transition between the profane world and the sacred space. Beyond that are the steps and courtyard of the church, which partake to a lesser degree in the holiness of the sanctuary. This notion of degrees of holiness differs from most modern Protestant denominations, which observe a binary valence--outside the church is profane, inside is sacred--although what makes it sacred is not an icon, or a relic, or an altar, but the fact that it is the meeting place for the celebrants and the minister. (Greek Orthodoxy echoes Judaism, which observes a trifold distinction: outside the sanctuary is profane, the sanctuary itself is sacred, and then there is the holy-of-holies, the ark, whose sacredness permeates the sanctuary only when its doors are open and the Torah is revealed).
What makes Greek Orthodoxy unique is that this system of graded holiness extends beyond the church. That, for me, was the insight that explained the paneyiri. Sure, the goods for sale were mostly rubbish, many of the stall-keepers were immigrants who were not even Orthodox, and many of the shoppers had no intention of entering the church--probably many of them would not even claim to be particularly religious. Nevertheless, the tradition endures: by attending the festival you are participating in the celebration of the saint, even if at a more removed level. The holiness of the church is extended to the neighborhood, which is anywhere within hearing of the church's bells. This extension is further enacted in the procession, which takes the icon around local streets before returning it to the church. It is, in one sense, akin to the English custom "beating the bounds", claiming the entire neighborhood for the saint. But it also brings the saint's protection to all of the people of the neighborhood, even the ones who stayed home and didn't come to the festival. That sense of neighborliness--the church is the community, and vice versa--came through very strongly tonight. As we hung around the church, I saw, not just shoppers and church-goers, but a local band, local art exhibits, and people chatting and catching up with their friends and neighbors. Only in countries with a single dominant church can you get this close an identification between the religious and secular community. For all that we value our multi-valent society, and prize the dividing line between the sacred and the secular, I can see the attraction of this kind of close spiritual and community identification.
First, a basic definition. A paneyiri (πανηγύρι) is a festival, usually centered around a church, and it celebrates the saint(s) to whom the church is dedicated. To be honest, the first few paneyiria we went to, back when we spent summers in Ancient Corinth, we didn't even realize it was a religious festival. There is a service, often including a procession in which the saint's icon is carried around the neighborhood. But mostly what you see when you go to one is a long street lined with booths, with people selling all sorts of things: some food (mainly snacks, including yummy loukoumades, or fried dough balls coated with honey and cinnamon), some religious items, and books, but mainly cheap toys, household goods, jewelry and clothes. There might also be music or dancing, but mainly it is the endless booths and the crowds that strike you. Once we figured out that these were religious festivals--the one we went to tonight was associated with the church of the Prophet Elijah (Profitis Ilias), in the next neighborhood over--we were baffled. Most of the stuff for sale is cheap junk, and the crowds of shoppers don't seem to be paying much attention to the religious festival. To a western eye, there is a jarring contrast between the holy activity in the church and the crass commercialism outside.
As I watched the people entering and exiting the church and milling around outside, it began to dawn on me that the festival makes sense, given the way the Orthodox faith works. In western churches, including the post-Vatican II Catholic church, as well as the Reform and Conservative branches of Judaism, the service is a transaction between the priest/minister/rabbi and the congregation. The congregants are participants; they share in the holiness of the occasion, and in a sense it cannot happen without them. The Orthodox faith (much like, I think, pre-Vatican II Catholicism) works in a different way. The service--especially its heart, the eucharist--happens on its own, whether or not the congregation takes part. The congregants are not vital. This is why the Orthodox services I have seen seem so relaxed, if not chaotic. People enter the church if they wish to witness the sevice; they can drift in and out whenever they choose, or they can hang out on the steps, listening in or chatting with friends.
I think it is best to think of the church as embodying layers of holiness. The holiest of holies is the altar, which is hidden, in fact, from the laity by the iconostasis. The naos is the second-most holy place, where you can witness parts of the service and venerate the icons. Then many churches have a narthex, an outer room or lobby that is less holy, that allows for a transition between the profane world and the sacred space. Beyond that are the steps and courtyard of the church, which partake to a lesser degree in the holiness of the sanctuary. This notion of degrees of holiness differs from most modern Protestant denominations, which observe a binary valence--outside the church is profane, inside is sacred--although what makes it sacred is not an icon, or a relic, or an altar, but the fact that it is the meeting place for the celebrants and the minister. (Greek Orthodoxy echoes Judaism, which observes a trifold distinction: outside the sanctuary is profane, the sanctuary itself is sacred, and then there is the holy-of-holies, the ark, whose sacredness permeates the sanctuary only when its doors are open and the Torah is revealed).
What makes Greek Orthodoxy unique is that this system of graded holiness extends beyond the church. That, for me, was the insight that explained the paneyiri. Sure, the goods for sale were mostly rubbish, many of the stall-keepers were immigrants who were not even Orthodox, and many of the shoppers had no intention of entering the church--probably many of them would not even claim to be particularly religious. Nevertheless, the tradition endures: by attending the festival you are participating in the celebration of the saint, even if at a more removed level. The holiness of the church is extended to the neighborhood, which is anywhere within hearing of the church's bells. This extension is further enacted in the procession, which takes the icon around local streets before returning it to the church. It is, in one sense, akin to the English custom "beating the bounds", claiming the entire neighborhood for the saint. But it also brings the saint's protection to all of the people of the neighborhood, even the ones who stayed home and didn't come to the festival. That sense of neighborliness--the church is the community, and vice versa--came through very strongly tonight. As we hung around the church, I saw, not just shoppers and church-goers, but a local band, local art exhibits, and people chatting and catching up with their friends and neighbors. Only in countries with a single dominant church can you get this close an identification between the religious and secular community. For all that we value our multi-valent society, and prize the dividing line between the sacred and the secular, I can see the attraction of this kind of close spiritual and community identification.
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