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In 1991, Communism fell in Russia, and in 1993, Madonna House opened a house in Magadan, a city that had been created in the Sub-Arctic wilderness as the administrative center for some of the death camps.
I doubt if anyone in North America or Europe has ever experienced, as we did during our first year in Russia, a Christmas totally devoid of advertising glitter.
After the Russian Revolution, religious feasts had been replaced by secular holidays. Traditions such as the Christmas tree, gift-giving, and family gatherings had been transferred to New Year’s, which then became the most popular celebration of the year.
For Orthodox Christians, Christmas fell on January seventh in accordance with the Julian calendar and had only recently been reinstated as a public holiday.
In 1993, December 25th fell on a Saturday, which in Russia was an ordinary work and school day. Since the pastor of our small Catholic parish had not scheduled Midnight Mass, we decided to invite some friends to join us for a Christmas Eve prayer vigil and refreshments.
By five o’clock that afternoon, Marie was still baking Christmas cookies. A friend—squeezed between the sink and the kitchen table—was trying to wash dishes, and a ten-year-old was helping me copy out Christmas carols in Russian. Soon there were more children, more dishes, more noise—in short, loosely organized chaos.
Eight adults, five children, and three Madonna House staff workers eventually gathered in the chapel. On the altar, flanked by pine branches and vigil lights in glowing green and red glass holders, stood a beautiful Nativity carving by one of our Madonna House sisters.
Our nervousness at leading a prayer service in a language none of us spoke well was quickly dispelled by the loving support of our friends, who led the five decades of the rosary, filled in the prayers I’d left out, prayed the readings from the Vigil Mass, and joined in a heartfelt Russian rendition of Silent Night.
The spontaneous prayer intentions embraced the whole world: believers and non-believers; Catholics, Orthodox, and Protestants; our community, families, friends, and enemies.
People were delighted by our simple Christmas decorations. In the living room, the little artificial tree we had discovered in one of the closets was decorated with four colored glass balls, a few strands of tinsel found with the tree, walnut shells wrapped in colored foil from a box of chocolates, and two or three ornaments given to us as gifts.
From cardboard and aluminum foil Marie had fashioned a silver star for the pinnacle of the tree. A crèche, icon prints, Christmas cards, and brightly coloured cloths completed the decorations.
From the corner of the room, called the “beautiful corner” in Russian, a vigil lamp flickered softly before the icon of Our Lady of Kazan, who watched over us all.
After our guests had departed and the three of us had sat down to relax with a glass of wine, another friend came to pray in the chapel. She eventually joined us for tea and had just left when a second friend, Marina, appeared at the door.
She had seen the Wayfarer’s candle burning in our kitchen window. Late as it was, she knew she would be welcome. This was Marina’s first Christmas as a Catholic.
On Christmas Day many regular parishioners were unable to leave their jobs to attend Mass, but other worshippers arrived, some of whom we had never seen before. Overflowing the seating capacity of the room, they stood along the walls and in the aisles.
The choir director was working, and her teen-aged choir girls were at their Saturday morning classes, but the congregation sang from their hearts all five verses of “Silent Night,” and “How Great Thou Art” at the recessional.
The kiss of peace went on and on, as people pushed through the crowded room to embrace each other. Fr. Austin baptized four children and three adults and then stood gazing upon his new parishioners with such paternal tenderness that it brought tears to our eyes.
We didn’t have a parish church then, and there had been nothing in the streets to remind us that it was Christmas, but in that rented hall on the fourth floor of a commercial and office building, the coming of Christ was celebrated with a sincerity and depth of faith that surpassed anything we had ever experienced.
The hopes, dreams, and future of every believer present were in the hands of the Savior born to Mary in Bethlehem.
Most of the friends who came to celebrate with us that afternoon and evening, or who phoned to express their good wishes, were non-believers.
We had invited Vassily, whose wife was away, and were only mildly surprised when he arrived with Dima, a non-believing Jew, and Dima’s nominally Orthodox wife. They had brought a bottle of Russian champagne and offered a toast “to the feast.”
“To Christmas,” Marie added quietly.
“To your beautiful faith,” said Dima, “even though I don’t share it myself.”
The table conversation was not easy. The Soviet Union had ceased to exist, but no one knew if the present freedoms would last, and daily life was becoming more and more precarious.
We had just heard that in a town only five hundred kilometres (310 miles) north of Magadan, a power plant accident had left ten thousand people without heat or electricity in temperatures of minus fifty Celsius (minus 58 Fahrenheit).
After our guests had left, Marie, Alma, and I struggled to find words for the impressions flooding our hearts.
Again and again in Russia, we were to experience this mingling of joy and pain. But with the baptisms that morning, we had seen new shoots of spiritual life budding forth from the ruins of communism. Again and again, Fr. Austin had proclaimed, “Christ is born!” and the people had responded, “Glorify him!”
Jesus was born, he rose from the dead, and in this desolate city on the furthest edge of Russia, a tiny group of people had been given, through grace, the eyes to see his victory. We had been given the privilege of standing with them as they struggled to rebuild their lives on faith.
On Christmas Eve, Marina had said to us, “We Russians long for spiritual rest. Communism promised golden tomorrows, and they based their ideology on Christian values. Maybe that was why we went along with it and why, now that it has all collapsed, some of us turn so naturally to God.
“It’s not that teaching we hunger for. Everything around us is uncertain. No one knows what the future will bring. But to know God exists, that there is a love that will never change and that we can’t lose, no matter what we do—this means everything to us!”
Excerpted from God Calls Me Miriam by Miriam Stulberg, (2009). pp.121-124, available from MH Publications
