As we

headed home, in 1998, from that surprising region of

glaciers and waterfalls, forest and sea, starry nights

and long, long days that is Alaska, we made a final stop

in Sitka - for one more surprise.

After

spending a Saturday walking the town, traversing old

streets and long docks, exploring cemeteries, savoring

the delightful flavors of the mixed cultures that make

this old Russian-American town unique, we left our hotel

in search of supper. A sign in front of St. Michael and

All Angels Russian Orthodox Cathedral, the crown jewel of

an otherwise unexceptional architectural scene, said

Vespers would be sung at 6:30.

Now Dave

and I frequent Vespers in churches in Europe, and our

expectation was of some hymns, perhaps a choral liturgy,

prayers, a brief sermon. Such a quiet half hour had often

provided a reflective close to our day.

Not this

time. We were two of a congregation of six. A chorus and

cantor added another six or seven participants, and the

priest and (I take it) a deacon completed the assembly.

The cathedral was tiny and the sanctuary somewhat

"in the round."

For nearly

an hour we stood, conspicuous outsiders, as the priest

chanted and the cantor and chorus responded - over

and over and over again. The appointments of priest,

deacon and altar were sumptuous, and incense filled the

air as the late afternoon sun poured a blessing through

stained glass.

Surely, we

thought, there would be a sermon or something we could

understand and participate in, if only by our

attentiveness. But the singing alternated from English to

Russian to Tlingit, the local Indian dialect, and we were

clueless. At last, we could take it no longer and slipped

back out to the street as unobtrusively as possible,

considering that we were one-third of the congregation.

Over dinner

we shook our heads and laughed a little as we wondered

whether Vespers would be over when we walked back to our

hotel.

The visit

to the Russian Cathedral, an historic landmark with its

white exterior and onion dome, was one of two reasons we

had opted to spend a weekend in Sitka. The other was to

attend Sunday services at Sitka Lutheran Church, said to

be the oldest Lutheran congregation on the West Coast.

Princess Maksoutoff, a Lutheran of English and German

lineage, agreed to accompany her husband, the last

governor of Russian Alaska, if he built a church for her

when she arrived in New Archangel, as the old Russian

capital was called then.

The church

was established, and the little parish has flourished

since, despite two catastrophic fires, one of which also

destroyed its neighbor, St. Michael's. But neither of

these worship services moved me - as unusual as one

was and as comfortable as the other - nearly so much

as another that took place on that Saturday evening.

Dave

returned to the hotel; I wanted to remain out in the

slanting light of the sunset, so I walked some more

- until I heard chanting again. But this was

different. I followed the sound to the open door of an

obviously new concrete building, where a sign said,

"All Welcome."

As I

slipped inside, I could see that this was a modern

version of an Indian tribal lodge. Broad concrete steps

with polished plank seats formed a square that descended

to a huge, unlighted fire pit, above which the roof was

open. At the far side of the building, dancers were

bowing to the applause of perhaps 40 persons scattered

about the seats. Most in the audience were Tlingits, the

native people of southeastern Alaska; only a handful

appeared to be tourists.

There was

an announcement that they'd take a break and return, and

I decided it looked interesting enough to stay. The

second part of the evening's program, however, was not

entertainment, as the earlier portion apparently had

been. Instead, it was a healing service. At first, I

admit, I was disappointed, but as the music and

testimonies began to build, I found myself deeply moved.

Anyone desiring healing - and it was pretty clear

that alcoholism and addiction were the unnamed illnesses

- was invited to come to the "stage."

One by one,

people made their way forward. Old and young, men, women,

youth, each was welcomed literally into the open arms of

the tribal elders already in place.

The Tlingit

nation is divided into Raven and Eagle tribes, and an

elder from each stood holding a bright red blanket

decorated with black and white buttons sewn in an

intricate stylized Indian design. They called it a

healing blanket, and as each supplicant came to the

stage, the elders walked the blanket around him until he

was wrapped in it.

The woman

leading the service reminded participants that those

members of the tribe who enfolded each troubled person

were also surrounded by the spirits of their ancestors,

closing in and likewise washing the suffering with love

and healing energy. Prayers were repeated, a few sobbed,

and a woman softly strumming a guitar sang a mixture of

music. Some of it was old-timey Protestant favorites like

The Old Rugged Cross, some were Tlingit chants, some

sounded to me like folk music.

Young

people gently invited everyone present to participate,

and several other visitors accepted. I did not, but I did

accept a simple cup of water poured from a clear plastic

bottle. Water is sacramental.

Let me say

this: This service of healing was absolutely Christian.

The fact that Tlingit traditions and beliefs were woven

into the Christian message - or was it the other way

around? - took nothing away from either conviction.

I have no idea how "successful" the healing

was, how well and truly relieved of their burdens these

people were, but I don't think anyone who was there would

have questioned the genuineness of those involved, or

doubted that this was a community of faith and mutual

uplifting.

I know my

heart was comforted and my step lighter when I walked,

awed, into the twilight.

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