I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help

Psalm 120, 1

Late October in north-east Slovakia, some twenty miles from the Polish border. This is Sub-Carpathian Russia. One Orthodox village after another, each with its own onion-domed church and priest. This Rusin village of 350 souls nestles beneath the Carpathians. High up there sheep are still grazing before the first snows. Above the sheep, the autumn forests of beeches and birches are golden all around.

A stream babbles as it rushes down from the hills. A farm dog barks.

After the early funeral liturgy, we proceed down from the church to the centre of the village. A boy with a cross and four young banner-bearers lead the way, followed by the priest, myself and the people. Virtually the whole village, Orthodox and Uniats alike, has gathered for the funeral, to be held in the open air. Around us are wooden farm buildings and homes, built in the traditional style. After a short panikhida in the family house, the open coffin is carried out of the house into the garden. My friend, Fr Rostislav, whom I have known since he was thirteen, is the priest.

A stream babbles as it rushes down from the hills. A farm dog barks.

The Rusin Orthodox people sing together in their ‘prostopenie’, or plainchant. Many know the service by heart. The old widows all wear black headscarves with their folk costume skirts. Nearly everyone, old and young alike, is dressed in black. An old grandad sitting holding a stick, looking as though he might be 100 years old, smiles at a small child, perhaps recapturing the innocence of his own childhood all those years ago.

A stream babbles as it rushes down from the hills. A farm dog barks.

The sunshine is penetrating through the morning mist. The priest preaches in Rusin: ‘The departed is going to where all pious people go, to Christ and His Holy Mother and the saints. The people cross themselves and a hundred voices are raised to sing ‘Eternal Memory’. The service is finished. The lid is placed on the coffin. A son weeps, a daughter sobs. The hand-bier, on which the coffin is placed, is pushed up the village street towards the onion-domed church. We stop on the way for Gospel readings on the Resurrection. Two cars stop, for the road is blocked by the village funeral procession. At the church, the last panikhida is sung and then we make our way to the other end of the village - to the cemetery.

A stream babbles as it rushes down from the hills. A farm dog barks.

The cross and banners lead the way, as at Easter. For the funeral of every true believer is also a Paschal feast. There the last hymns are sung. As the coffin is lowered into the grave, a woman sobs uncontrollably. It will take time for her to heal. Yes, she has deep faith, like all these people. But to recover from the sorrow of death, it takes not only faith, but also time. The greater the faith, the less the time needed. The weaker the faith, the more the time needed.

A stream babbles as it rushes down from the hills. A farm dog barks.

Clods of earth drop onto the coffin. I make the sign of the cross over it.

To the servant of God Ekaterina, Vichnaya Pamyat!

Fr Andrew
Bajerovce,
Carpatho-Russia

26 October 2005