Spiritus sanctus
Chisinau, Moldova
I AM FEELING like an intruder. I came to see a beautiful 400-year-old church in Moldova, somehow built with neither nails nor mortar. The church is stunning, the peaceful grounds neatly groomed. Flowers bloom everywhere. White doves flit around the roof.
My guide takes me inside the small sanctuary where a baptism is in full swing. A chubby baby is being blessed by a Russian orthodox priest, holy water sprinkled on his little head, an elaborate gilt cross waved over his little body. Prayers and blessings are murmured softly, rhythmically. The round room is small, crowded with family and friends.
Icons highlighted with gold leaf adorn the walls from floor to ceiling. There is a huge baptismal font and candles flicker nearby. All the women have their hair covered reverently except me, my scarf absentmindedly, thoughtlessly, left behind in my backpack in the car.
The family has hired a professional photographer who walks around the sanctuary between the guests, his camera fitted with a very large lens, capturing this ceremony forever. I feel very awkward crashing this baptism, a private holy event for this family. I whisper this to my guide Olysea, who says it’s okay then grabs my phone and starts taking a video. I am slightly horrified, but no one seems to mind.
Afterward, everyone hands money to the proud father. I give him $50. Moldovans are very willing to accept their local currency, the Moldovan lei, as well as dollars and euros. Moldova is a small country, still finding its way after independence, Russian the national language, reminders of the Soviet bloc everywhere.
I hope my gift of money somehow makes up for my rude intrusion into this holy sacrament.
