a baptism
Dear friend,
On August 27th, two days before my 27th birthday, after two years of serious consideration and study and prayer, I walked barefoot into the nave of my parish in Bărbăteni (Lupeni) and stood before a tall basin of water. Next to me were Dana and Brandi—the pioneers of our little expat community here in the Jiu Valley and my first Orthodox friends—along with their daughter Briana, ready to become my nași—my godparents in the faith. In the wooden seats around the periphery of the church were my parents—who raised me to know and love God, and who with open-minded understanding and open-armed acceptance encouraged me to find my own path to Him—alongside a great number of my dear friendship, all from differing faith backgrounds and beliefs but all present to support me and to bear witness to my decision. Behind them, and above us all, depictions of saints and angels, of apostles and evangelists, of the Theotokos (Mary, the God-bearer) and of Christ Himself watched on, visible reminders of the great invisible cloud of witnesses who have gone before us and who are indeed not so very far removed from us. And next to the water was my priest, Părinte Olariu, who had welcomed me with such love into his parish, and with such joy had accepted to baptize me into the Church, and he began to sing the Baptismal Divine Liturgy that would carry me through the sacraments of Baptism, Chrismation, and the Eucharist, and make me an Orthodox Christian.
I was nearly overwhelmed with the beauty and significance of the two hours that followed. We sang prayers and spoke creeds. We held candles and we held hands. I was annointed first with olive oil—a symbol of reconciliation with God—and later with Chrism—the seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit. I was helped into the basin of tepid water, Părinte Olariu submerged me three times, baptizing me in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and when I stood up out of those blessed waters I gasped and covered my face and cried with the raw emotion of re-birth. Having been in gestation for so long, I felt at last delivered into the brightness of a new beginning, helped by human hands into the divine life to be lived in the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church established by Christ our Savior and our God. Brandi wrapped me in towels like a midwife catching a newborn and walked me to the back room to change into another white dress and to cover my head with a white scarf. I remained barefoot as I walked back into the nave and took my place again by the basin from which I had just emerged, this time as a full member of the Church.
When an adult convert enters the Church, they usually take a Christian name, a saint’s name, thus forming a bond with one of the faithful servants of Christ who have already passed on to glory (babies baptized in to the faith are Christened by their parents). I took the name Xenia. My patron saint, Saint Xenia of St. Petersburg, is celebrated as a “fool for Christ.”She reminds me that sometimes God calls us to do foolish things, like moving to Romania alone or buying an apartment in Dallas. People ask for her intersessions for help finding a home, a job, or a spouse, and when I first read about her in the States during the pandemic (near the beginning of when I started to think more seriously about Orthodoxy) I had just recently been evacuated from my home in Romania, lost the ability to do the work that I felt so called to do, and had my heart broken. Finding her felt like finding a friend and guide who could understand and help me through these losses.
Furthermore, the name Xenia means both “stranger”and “lover of strangers.” Both of these meanings feel appropriate, and Părinte Olariu said as much after the Liturgy was completed. He went on to say that no matter where he is in the world, when he steps into an Orthodox Church, he feels at home. He hoped the same for me, that I would never fully feel like a stranger again having entered this vast family of the faithful that transcends both space and time. It is a sweet paradox that the more you accept and embrace your strangeness—or perhaps “strangerness” is the better word—the more you are drawn into a deeper sort of connection, the borders of which you could never perceive.
I felt a glimpse of that connection there in that church, and then later that day at my godparents' home as we all ate and laughed and told stories and made introductions. I had changed into an ie, a traditional embroidered blouse that my parents had gifted me for my baptism, and a few of my friends joked that I was becoming more and more Romanian every day. It’s true that this country has left a mark on me—is still leaving a mark on me—and I am carrying its influence in my life in ways that I never could have imagined. Like that paradox of the Christian life, I suppose, is my life here in the Jiu Valley: always a stranger, and yet always home.
With love to you, fellow stranger,
Xenia Grace
(P.S. I still do go by Jenna, but I love going by Xenia too!)
