One of the great joys of mid-life (there are apparently a few) has been the chance to rediscover a role I played as a youth: altar boy or altar server as it is more appropriately called in my case. Back then, I was not able to appreciate or understand what it means to play such a vital part in the Divine Services of the Church. Serving every Sunday was just something I did with little thought or reverence for the part. How amazing it is now to see what happens in the Altar and have a real understanding of what occurs during the services.

For the non-Orthodox reader; the Orthodox Church is very strict about who can enter the Holy of Holies, the Altar. It is not a place where one comes and goes nonchalantly. One first must have the blessing of the priest to enter. Women can not at anytime enter the Altar (sorry girls, that’s the rules!). It is a sacred place, where the unexplainable becomes real. A place where simple wine and bread are miraculously transformed into the body and blood of Christ. It is said that many of the saints and holy priests that have served over the centuries could see the descent of the Holy Spirit and the accompanying Seraphim and Cerubim (holy angels) during the Divine Liturgy. Our beloved St John of Shanghai and SF was apparently blessed with this gift.

To assist in what takes place in the altar and to witness things only seen by a few is an honor and a great privilege. Making the experience even better is serving along with my son Michael. Each week we carry out our liturgical duties with little talk, cuing each other with a nod or glance, moving in rythmn with the unseen hosts of heaven that joyously accompany us. Although Michael probably approaches this role much like I did, I have a sense that he has a better grasp on things than I did at his age.

The image above is us with our priest, Hieromonk Tryphon (a monk who is a priest). Up until recently we wore a mix of vestments that were hand-me-downs that really looked awful I’m sorry to say. Michael had managed to outgrow everything over the years and was wearing a vestment he could hardly get into which only came to mid-calf (it came from the parish I grew up in and could have been one that I, or one of my brothers wore). During my recent trip to Greece I had a matching set custom made. Since we are both about the same height (he’s a bit taller) I was able get two. Being vested properly makes a difference psychologically, much like the difference one feels putting on a coat and tie.

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