"Wait, and She will come!"
Just between the island of Delos, the sacred pagan center of Ancient Greece, and Mykonos, favorite island destination of Paris Hilton, lies a spiritual center of Greece: the island of Tinos and its famous Church of the Panagia Megalohari—my destination. Investigating religious healing and pilgrimage at this island shrine was to be the climax of my junior research fellowship. And so, on August 13, two days before the festival of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary to whom the church is dedicated, amid the gossiping, black-clad grandmothers, and the Mykonos-chic, cigarette-toting youths, I set out on my academic and personal journey to the most popular religious destination in Greece.
The Church of the Panagia on Tinos has been the site of many miracles since it was built in 1824 under the divine supervision the Virgin herself, who appeared to a local nun in a dream and told her where to find the miraculous icon. A widespread belief in the miracles that have occurred at the Church over the years brings thousands of pilgrims to the site every year. Often, pilgrims begin their “tama” (vow) with an initial visit to the Church to request healing or protection for themselves or a loved one. In this plea, the pilgrim will promise something in return—either a material object such as money, jewels, or a common votive offering—or some kind of physical sacrifice (the most common of which is ascending to the church from the harbor on one’s knees), to be completed on a subsequent visit to the church.
Pilgrims visit the shrine throughout the year, but come by the thousands on designated feast days of the Virgin. August 15th is the most popular of these days, and over 30,000 pilgrims—many of whom are gypsies—are estimated to visit the island on that day. On August 13th the line to get into the church was already wrapped well around the courtyard, and the heat wave and uncharacteristic lack of wind on the island made the wait oppressive. Surrounded by sweating, impatient, frustrated old Greek grandmothers and gypsies (who were not getting along), this first leg of this sacred journey seemed to me to be quite the opposite of spiritual.
The mass pushed forward under the watchful eye and elbows of ruthless Greek grandmothers yelling “Prochora!” (“forward!”). The only pilgrims who push through the line unimpeded are those on their knees; who, having made it this far, have earned the respect even of the old ladies, whatever their ethnicity. As the faithful, chaotic mass approaches the icon, the background liturgy is almost completely upstaged. The icon itself, I was surprised to find, is barely visible to the pilgrims who have traveled at great cost to request its healing. It is covered in a thick smattering of jewels and precious metals, which makes it impossible to verify the rumor that it is the depiction of a dark-skinned Virgin that draws the high attendance of gypsies.
After kissing the icon, people chaotically grab candles and holy oil by the fistful, lighting each candle with a different person or purpose in mind. Almost as soon as they are finished lighting them, the candles are removed by church attendants and urgently replaced with newly dedicated candles and prayers. Gypsy women with scraped, bleeding knees and palms now stand chatting or loudly chiding their children, their spiritual journey completed and seemingly forgotten. Other pilgrims sit in quiet reflection, and many become emotional.
At this point, the chaotic mass of pilgrims and tourists will move on to the baptismal chambers underneath the church. As I timidly entered the waiting area, I was approached by a young gypsy woman who implored me desperately to baptize her baby daughter. Though flattered and curious, practicality eventually won out, and I assured her very apologetically that I was not the one for the job.
The night of the 14th is marked by the important olonixtia (all night) service in which the Virgin often appears miraculously in her bell-tower to acknowledge the devotion of the faithful. The line of people continues to snake through the church, but with none of the hysteria of the afternoon. The churchyard is surprisingly quiet despite the hundreds of gypsies camped inside its walls, and the anticipation of the divine appearance is palpable. Gypsy children sleep peacefully under colorful blankets, and all eyes face the bell-tower, waiting for the climactic moment at which one pilgrim’s shrill cry will indicate the arrival of the Virgin.
Two gypsy women explained this process to me as we waited and watched, refuting my cynicism with their persuasive piety: “Perimene, kai tha erthei” (“wait and she will come”), they repeated with baffling certainty. Chuckling at my skeptical American friend, I was sternly reprimanded by another gypsy woman who demanded to know why I was laughing. I urgently insisted that my friend was just tired, and that surely I too was expecting the miracle. Intoxicated by the mystical atmosphere and surrounded by devoted, unquestioning pilgrims, I can’t say I was lying. Unfortunately, we left without having witnessed the miraculous appearance.
The next morning around 11, the bells begin to ring, and the whole island plus 30,000 visitors take to the street leading from the church to the port where they will wait for the miraculous icon to be carried over their heads in the famous August 15th healing ritual. The official church marching band leads the procession, playing patriotic Greek songs, followed by representatives of the military, and the Archbishop and Prime Minister of Greece. The bells, nationalistic fanfare, and fake bombs from real navy ships in the harbor signal the arrival of the icon, which is protected in its ornately decorated carrying case and supported by six white-clad soldiers. The atmosphere is heavy with emotion and hope as thousands of pilgrims pass underneath the icon, crossing themselves fervently and trying to touch the icon as it is carried over their heads—one at a time. When the icon has finally reached the water’s edge, the bells, bombs, and revelry cease, and the Archbishop flanked by government and military officials chants the liturgy over the gusting Tinos winds. As the official protectors of Greece, the military and the Panagia are closely associated, and the festivals honoring the Virgin often have a large military presence.
Despite the nationalistic edge to these religious festivals, most of the people I talked to expressed legitimate concern over the slackening influence of Orthodoxy on the country as a result of corruption and infighting within the Church. The general frustration with the Church, however, does not seem to extend to the Panagia personally. Women often told me that, though they did not believe in the Church, the Panagia—both through her unfailing maternal strength and through her continued miracles—would always provide them with hope and reason to visit and revisit her sacred island shrine.
