The Toll of Silence

As the last remnants of Richmond’s Russian colony disappear, the parishioners of Saint Alexander Nevsky Church, the only Russian Orthodox Church in Maine, find new life in ancient traditions.

Click here to listen to the Bells of St. Alexander Nevksy

Panikhida – The Memory Eternal

Church Road curves gently away from Pleasant Street before plunging sharply down to the Kennebec River, its vertiginous slope halted only by the perpendicular cut of the aptly named Front Street. Perched between the two, Saint Alexander Nevsky Russian Orthodox Church sits somewhat precariously at the lip of the ridge, poised to hurl congregants into the river with the next ice-laden storm or mud-slicked spring.

Arrayed like portly brass soldiers in waistcoats, the bells of the Church are dutifully rung under the watchful eyes of Saint Alexander himself, his visage framed by delicate Slavonic lettering above the entryway. On this night , the bells ring not only for Vespers, but also for Tatiana Kallaur. It is the ninth day since her death, and family members have requested that a Panikhida—a traditional Eastern Orthodox memorial service—be observed in her honor.  During the service, there are no tears, no admonitions of mortality or shared memories. The interior of the church is filled instead with the lilting recitation of Psalms, hymns, and prayers, all performed with the pervasive air of penitence characteristic of the Orthodox tradition.

The Panikhida provides people with a way to mourn, but also a way to remember, explains Libby Stone-Sterling, a relatively recent convert to the Church. “The person is still a member of our church . . . we’re separated now . . . but they’re still part of our family of people.” On a small memorial table, lit candles shelter a bowl of koliva—sweetened grains with raisins—waiting to be blessed by the Priest and then consumed by congregants. It is a physical representation of the fleeting sweetness of mortal life.

Each member of the small group clutches a small lit candle, a reminder that each holds his soul in his own hands. Nathan Williams, the young choral director and son of Archpriest Chad Williams, is holding both his soul and his future, balancing a candle and prayer book in one hand as he cradles his young daughter Tanya in the other, his voice booming a deep bass tone on the hymn’s ending chord.

As the final refrains of the Slavonic hymn Vyechnaya Pamyat (Memory Eternal) cease, one of the last remnants of Richmond’s once-vibrant Russian community closes its doors. Far below, the Kennebec Rives flows quietly into the darkness, unaware of one less voice among the chorus.

Death is not a stranger to the Alexander Nevsky community.

The original founders of the Church, part of a large Russian colony which arrived in the 1950s, have been rapidly disappearing over the past thirty years, leaving little behind save boxes of Russian books at the historical society, and a collection of stone crosses in the small cemetery. It is general knowledge that more Russians now reside in the cemetery than in the town itself.

One of the few Russians who remain, however, is Alexandra Sherbakoff. At 98, she has survived two world wars, refugee life in Yugoslavia, the rise and fall of the Soviet Union, and the restoration of the Russian Orthodox Church.

Alexandra’s front parlor is filled with a faded assortment of quilts, blankets, and pillows, the coffee table and other surfaces buried beneath stacks of old magazines and newspapers, family photographs, and a book about Kiev, a place she has not seen since her family fled the approaching Bolshevik army in 1920. “Old Kiev,” she says slowly,  “now is like a dream.” Her voice, though soft, is firm, her English occasionally sprinkled with flashes of her native tongue, augmented by the rich patina of soft consonants and rolled r’s particular to Russian speakers.

Neatly dressed in well-worn leather ankle boots, a dark knit skirt, and a green zippered sweater, she reclines almost majestically against the blanket-draped, overstuffed chair, occasionally leaning forward to emphasize a particular point with a deft wave of her hand. The grace of her bearing, though somewhat obscured by the vagaries of age, is echoed in the black and white photograph gracing the cover of Robert Jaster’s book on Richmond’s Russian colony. Dressed in traditional Georgian folkdress—perhaps in homage to her Georgian grandmother—the image stands as a memorial to Alexandra’s former life in Yugoslavia.

 Though close friends call her “Sandra,” she is quick to correct others who address her in such familiar terms. “I am Alexandra,” she says firmly. “That is my name . . . Alexandra Vladimirovna Sherbakoff.” She still employs the traditional Russian practice of incorporating her patronymic, a form of her father’s first name, into her introduction.

Not that introductions are usually necessary; Alexandra insists on living alone, and while she has visits and phone calls from friends and community members, she has not left the house in almost two years. She was an important part of the Alexander Nevsky community, and her stamina and dedication used to impress many parishioners. “Here she [was],” recalls Libby Stone, “obviously an extremely elderly woman, and she comes to the icon in the center of the Church . . . she makes the sign of the cross, and she goes all the way down to the ground. Most of us can’t be bothered to even do that.”

Alexandra’s expression is wishful: “I miss, so much, church . . . I was myself thirty-two years singer in this church.” Her sharp blue eyes flicker upward in the direction of the krasni ugol (beautiful corner), where the icons of the Holy Mother and Christ sit in their traditional positions of veneration. Like many other objects in the room, she knows their location by memory, as her ability to see, along with her hearing, has faded in recent years. Her memory, however, is still sharp, and as she speaks, names, dates, and characters are rendered in sharp relief against the gray backdrop of history.

Alexandra describes her devotion to Orthodoxy as characteristically Russian. “Russian people is very, very religious. . .  [ours is an] old religion,” she explains, pausing after each word. “When you see three Russian, you see [them] build a church.” This was certainly the case in Richmond, where the church was one of the first established organizations and cultural institutions in the colony. Even for those outside of Russian Orthodoxy, the peculiar onion domes, sung liturgy, and Byzantine icons are seen as characteristically Russian—even ethnic Russians believe that to be Russian is to be Orthodox.

This blending of religion and cultural identity is not unique to Russian Orthodoxy. The religious landscape of Maine has been shaped by the waves of immigration crashing upon her shores, each wave leaving traces behind as it subsides. Polish Catholic chapels join Somalian mosques and Russian Baptist churches—the combined elements of language, culture, and tradition creating a uniquely-seasoned spirituality.

The importance of Orthodoxy and Russian identity is echoed in the writings of famous Russian writers like Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, and Gogol. Even the Soviet dissident Alexander Solzhenitsyn wrote lovingly of how the evening chimes of Russian churches “. . . raised people up and prevented them from sinking down on all fours.” This cultural influence is part of the enduring legacy of the Orthodox Church, an aspect of Russian identity that Communism could not destroy.

Before the Bolshevik Revolution, the number of Russian Orthodox churches in Russia exceeded 55,000. By 1987, years of persecution and intimidation had reduced the number of functioning churches to less than 7,000. “When Communism come, after [the] Revolution, [the] Church was allowed, [for a] short time. Then they close the Church . . .  [and] Church destroyed,” laments Alexandra.

During this same period, the number of Russian Orthodox churches in the United States increased exponentially, as the headquarters of Russian Orthodoxy—often called the Russian Orthodox Church in Exile or Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia—was relocated to New York. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, Orthodoxy in Russia experienced a rebirth, and despite longstanding divisions between the Russian Orthodox Church in Russia and the Church in the United States (ROCOR), the two branches were eventually brought back into communion in 2007.

Those who identify themselves as Eastern Orthodox make up less than 0.6 % of the US population, with Russian Orthodox comprising the majority of this group. Worldwide, the Russian Orthodox Church is the largest of the Eastern Orthodox churches, second only to the Catholic Church in number of Christian adherents. Two-thirds of Russians identify themselves as Orthodox, a number which has been increasing since the collapse of Communism. In the United States, where many organized religions are seeing declines in membership, Eastern Orthodoxy, particularly Russian Orthodoxy, is growing.  Much of this growth is attributed to the beauty of the liturgy, consistency of the theology, and the sense of community that is a hallmark of Orthodox parish life. When people come here, explains Nathan, “they feel like they’ve come home.”

Though the Russian colony in Richmond is almost gone, and the Russian Orthodox Church is no longer seeking refuge in the United States, the demand for Russian Orthodox services in Richmond continues to keep the church, and its rituals, very much alive.

 Trapeza – Feasting at the Communal Table

Following the usual Sunday service, Nathan Williams visits Pierce’s Country Story for something to bring to trapeza, the potluck-style, communal meal observed after services. He tugs absentmindedly at his long, red-tinged beard, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in concentration as he examines the local wares. He greets the cashier by name, noting that the small, cellophane-wrapped package near the register “looks like a beer pong set.” Chips in hand, and black cassock swirling with each stride, he walks to join the other Church members at the aging grange hall down the street.

On the Church calendar, red lettering marks feast, fast, and festival days, their frequency apparent by the peppermint-patterned appearance of each month. The Church has specific restrictions regarding eating during these times, and a small key explains symbols denoting “Full abstention from food,” “Food without Oil,” “Fish Allowed,” and “Meat is Excluded.” It is feast or fast throughout the year, and today it is both.

Father Chad blesses a table laden with vegetarian delights–vegan chili, rice (which one of the women is concerned is too crunchy) peas, grapes, bean salad, dates with crunchy peanut butter (“which I made” proclaims a plump pre-teen), potato and carrot casserole, sliced bread with butter (“too perfect to be homemade,” Nathan jokes) and pasta salad with shrimp.

It is the Feast of the Elevation of the Holy Cross, a day when no pigs (or any other animals) would die. At least not for the trapeza. The presence of several delectable desserts –apple pie, apple strudel, and raspberry bars—makes up for the lack of barbeque chicken or beef brisket.

“Foo foo bird!” exclaims one pint-size congregant, her chubby outstretched finger pointing at the slightly mussed hair of several women who have recently removed their headscarves. Two small boys, awkwardly adult in their collared shirts and pressed khaki pants, chase each other around the extra tables, nearly tripping over a small girl, her eyes blinking owlishly behind thick glasses.

The congregation is a curious mixture of those seeking new paths to spirituality and those returning to old ways of communing with the divine. Roughly two-thirds of the Church’s congregation are converts to Russian Orthodoxy, hailing from a diverse collection of religious backgrounds and practices. Some parishioners attend infrequently, as they must travel some distance to Richmond. Several families began attending after the Holy Nativity Mission in Portland closed, while others come from as far as away as Vermont and New Brunswick. Several of them are Russian immigrants who have recently settled in New Hampshire and Maine. The hum of conversation during the meal is thickly layered with English and Russian, the tenor shifting slightly as the conversation drifts between languages and accents.

The icon of Christ gazes placidly at the bean salad before being serenaded out of the room and returned to his rightful place in the church, next to the icon of Theotokos, the Virgin Mary, Mother of God. 

Most Holy Theotokos – Veneration of the Icon

On a weekday night, as most residents of Richmond are fill up at Gary’s Qwik Stop or have a pint at the Old Goat Pub, the congregation of Saint Alexander Nevsky Church prepares for the veneration of the Theotokos (Greek for “God bearer”), the icon of the Most Holy Lady Mother of God. Icons are an important element of Russian Orthodoxy, and many were sent to the United States for protection during the Communist era.

An elderly woman, clad in a long skirt and a flowered headscarf, prepares arrangements of purple and white flowers to decorate the central altar where the icon will be placed.  As the service begins, the musky aromas of myrrh and ash mix with the cloying scent of roses in silent waves that crest and subside as the censer sways throughout the room. Crescents of light radiate upward as numerous small candles drip on shelves, flicker in hanging votives, and huddle in small forests before the iconostasis. Flames dance in the dark luster of polished wood, reflected again by bright twinkling glints of brass and glimmers of painted gold. Deeper pools of light spill crimson, amber, and ochre onto the carpeted floor, and in the deepening dusk of twilight the worn treadings of numerous penitents disappear into the velvety shadows lurking below.

The room is rarely silent, filled instead with the lulling drone of the liturgy, its melodic line darting downward, then returning; the dive of a hawk seeking prey. The choir answers, its layered polyphony resonating outward to fill each corner, eventually drifting upwards to join the clouds of incense lingering above. In Orthodoxy, unlike Protestant churches, there are no sermons, and all of the three-hour service is sung aloud. There are no pews, only a few benches for the elderly, and most of the service occurs behind the doors of the iconostasis, the icon wall, where only the Priest and the acolytes may go.

While some of the hymns and prayers are offered in Church Slavonic, most are sung in English, a change corresponding with the arrival of Father Chad and his family in 1987. Many of the older Russian residents, like Alexandra, decried the shift to services in English, but the change has greatly increased church membership, as English-speaking converts join the ranks of elderly Russian patrons. “I think it’s a balancing act,” observes Libby, “to be able to both preserve . . . that Russian aspect of it . . . and at the same time to be welcoming to people who don’t speak Russian.”

The church is now predominantly English speakers and converts, but several Russian families are still attending—some are immigrants, and some are second generation Russian Americans. Nathan and his Russian wife, Anya, speak Russian with their daughters, and many other converts study Russian or Russian culture in order to better understand their faith, though Libby admits that this is “the most difficult piece,” for her husband.

In the absence of older Russian women like Alexandra, Nathan worries that there “are not enough Russian babushki” to provide instruction to the next generation. “That’s to me what’s been the great thing about . . . having a lot of the older Russians in church,” agrees Libby, “ really being able to hold on to the way that things were and the way that things were passed down. . . get a better sense of some of the old traditions.”

Kresheniye – Baptism and Chrismation

The sun shines brightly on this late November afternoon, the warm air and green grass temporarily obscuring the lateness of the season. Inside the residence of Nathan and Anya Williams, preparations are underway for the baptism of their second daughter, Eufrosenia.

Several children, many of them under the age of three, play in a small carpeted sunroom, watched carefully by two older women.  Large families, though not required, are typical of many Russian Orthodox communities. “God doesn’t send you more than you can handle, whether it’s kids, or troubles, or whatever,” laughs Nathan, cradling two-year-old Tanya in his arms.

The rest of the adults cluster around the entrance to the living room, where a small metal basin of water and several lit candles await the baptismal rites. Under the watchful eye of the icons, and over Eufrosenia’s mewling protests, Father Chad submerges the baby three times,  then anoints various parts of her body with chrism, a mixture of olives and balsam.

“We’ve had kind of a baby explosion in the last couple of years,” muses Libby. “In that way we’re very much more hopeful . . . more like a living group of people versus ‘this is an old church that was established for Russian immigrants and now is dying out.’” She smiles at she holds the newly baptized Eufrosenia, waiting her turn to offer her blessings for the parents. “Congratulations,” she whispers, kissing Nathan’s cheek before embracing his wife and Eufrosenia’s godparents in turn.

There are no bells to greet Eufrosenia’s arrival into the welcoming folds of the Saint Alexander Nevsky parish. She enters in the same manner as Tatiana departed, with a chorus of prayers and Psalms, the words crossing a thousand years of history and the geography of two great continents.  Borne on the tides of time, the words join the waters of the Kennebec as it flows past the sky-clad cupola of Saint Alexander Nevsky Church, continuing to carve its ancient path to the eternal ocean beyond.