Vine Domnul Popa
December 17th, 2008It’s Christmas time and there is much joyful larking about.
In Romania, it means your home gets a special visit from an honored guest. Over three different Craciunuri, I’ve received such unexpected noctural knockings twice. Here’s how it works:
You’re at home peacefully relaxing with the faint inklings of song in the far distant background noise, when the bothersome sounds of a barbarian at the gates disrupt you.
The urgent rapping at your uşa repeats frequently as you scurry to open the door fearing news that your elderly neighbor may have passed away. Sliding to a stop before your socks carry you into the wall, you fumble with the keys to unlock the entrance.
Flinging open the portal: there he is! A sparkly-eyed man with a broad grin across his face nods at you and sucks in a large volume of air. And, so, the singing begins.
A Gregorian-style song erupts from the large cavern above his chin and the stranger thrusts a painted picture of baby Jesus into your face as though it were a sheild warding away any sinful reprisals.
With the force of God safely holding you at bay, the man begins stepping into your abode without so much as a welcome or a wink. The bold maneuver secures his ability to take control of the situation.
Fait accompli.
The faux franciscan hymnal incantation spews forth a melodious mumbo jumbo, calling upon the Hindu-sized parthenon of Orthodox deities — most of whom are cleverly disguised as mere “saints” with demigodly powers of protection — to both bless your home and frighten away evil spirits.
The showmanship of a shaman. The words of a witch. Your misperception of a priest.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, a substantially bulkier man steps out of the shadows and imposes his figure across the threshold of your home with hairy palm outstretched to receive the expected offering.
You see, while the man who is pretending to be a priest may have sang the song to protect you from the Devil and help you win the lottery in the coming year, the ritual affords him a certain dignity of distance from gelt of the temporal world. A man of God should not perform Acts for compensation, but because the Lord commands him so.
Like so much an emporer’s new clothes.
Thus, the thugly sidekick steps in to give baby Jesus a helping hand in collecting payment from the superstitious rabble as well as coerce the reluctant victim who will invariably buckle under one level of pressure or another.
Cough up the dough, Jack. It’s all part of the magic trick.
Granted, I’m a fair bit recalcitrant, so my reaction is completely different. And evolving toward a new purity. For example, in Braşov, I simply closed the door in the face of the so-called priest in his 30s wearing the şmecherii uniform of blue jeans and black leather jacket.
Whereas tonight, here in the Decebal cartier of Bucureşti, just before closing the door, I shared the season’s newsflash with Popa: “Dumnezeu e mort.”
