Carved by Gregory the Illuminator Himself (On Tradition)

When I lived in Armenia I would often visit a nearby church, Surb Zoravor, which was hidden among apartment buildings. The church kept regular hours, and so was closed at night, but a steep staircase leading to a basement was kept open, allowing individuals to light candles in prayer at anytime.

Surb Zoravor by Martiros Saryan (1934)

I spent many nights around that church. I found it quiet and elegant, particularly during winter as the snow fell. I would sit for long stretches of time on the empty benches around the church, lost in thought, soaking in the solitude, or watching those in despair make their way to the basement.

When the time came to spread my uncles ashes, it was at Surb Zoravor where we first said a prayer for the dead. Unable to return to Los Angeles for my grandmothers funeral, it was at Surb Zoravor where, far from family and friends, we had her prayed for and remembered. 

Several times during my time in Armenia, I was tasked with providing flour, oil, money and other goods as tithes to the church in exchange for a mention regarding a loved one. Being as I am unfamiliar with most Armenian customs, especially those involving religion, this form of payment intrigued me. 

Not too far from Yerevan is the Armenian religious capital of Vagharshapat, full of churches which include the beautiful Gayane, the ruined Zvartnots, the imposing Hripsime, and of course the oldest and most venerated church, Etchmiadzin Cathedral. 

Like many of the churches in Armenia, Etchmiadzin Cathedral was constructed from the ruins of a pagan temple. 

Underneath that holiest of locations exists a room with an ancient fire pit and etched pagan symbol that lines the back wall. During a visit there with my cousin Shant, I mentioned this to fact to him. A nearby priest, having overheard our conversation, directed us to an old wooden door, pulled out a large brass key, and invited us down the steps into the secret room.

For a moment, very briefly, I thought the priest was going to kill us.  

As we walked the priest informed that the room was closed to the general public for fear that exposure to it would cause Armenians to abandon God and re-embrace paganism, apparently something Armenians are genetically predisposed to.  

The priest then pointed some crosses carved into wall of a rear alcove. "Carved by Gregory the Illuminator himself," said the priest. Beneath the crosses was a pile of hundred dollar bills. Seeing my confusion, the priest remarked "People rub the crosses and leave a tithe, and within a year their wish comes true." Followed by an anecdote about a couple unable to conceive, and their return a year later, child in hand, to give more money in praise of the lord.

I rubbed the crosses, but being relatively poor I was unable to leave any money, which I suspect is why my wish failed to materialize.

Having heard my cousin and I speaking in English, the priest had clearly pegged us as a marks; his invitation to that room part of a scam to rid tourists of excess cash. I should have been angry, but I wasn't, the priest allowed me access to something rarely seen, a link to my distant past. 

It is well known that many customs and traditions of the Armenian Church were adopted from the pagan heritage; holidays, mourning rituals, and even certain forms of prayer among other things have their roots in an earlier time and belief. They are intertwined, like stones of a temple that became a church, the past carried through time, surviving in the present.

Though I am not religious, I am often overwhelmed by the traditions of my culture, embracing them because they are mine; in awe at the history and circumstance that allowed them to survive.