The stranger at the door
Stepping into Eastern Orthodoxy
This reflection is not intended to persuade or suggest that one tradition is better than another. It’s simply a personal account of my own spiritual journey—what I’ve experienced, questioned, and discovered along the way. I deeply respect the diverse paths others walk in their faith, and I offer this story only as a window into mine—for those who might be on a similar journey.
Before I was old enough for school, I experienced the wonder of two Christmases each year.
Santa Claus came on Dec. 24. Then, two weeks later, on Jan. 6—Christmas Eve on the Julian calendar—Russian Santa arrived.
I imagined them as two distinct men; Russian Santa based on an image of a saint I must have seen in my grandmother’s house. But the part I remember most wasn’t the gifts—it was the dinner.
It was by candlelight. Hay was placed under the tablecloth. The foods were things I didn’t eat, like mushroom, barley, cabbage and pea soups.
But I loved the pierogies and bread with garlic dipped in honey. I filled up on those.
The adults drank wine, and the kids enjoyed Welch’s carbonated grape juice.
To this day, I buy a bottle of Welch’s every Christmas.
We passed the food around family-style, each dish making its way from hand to hand. My aunt gently insisted it was important to eat a little of everything. I, naturally, was defiant—I wasn’t about to touch anything I didn’t like. I’m sure I whined, maybe even cried. I was young, after all.
I didn’t understand the point of all this. Couldn’t we just have ham or turkey, like we did at “normal” Christmas?
My father always went first, sitting at the head of the table. He spooned a bit of each dish into a small separate bowl—a quiet act of hospitality for the stranger or guest who might come to the door. Only later did I learn its meaning from Russian tradition.
Then, he passed the bowls one by one around the table.
There were no individual plates. We all dipped our spoons and forks into the shared serving bowls—a literal expression of togetherness.
I can’t name the aromas that filled that kitchen, but they’re still tucked away in my memory—earthy, warm, and unmistakably tied to those evenings.
Compared to our average American Christmas, it was downright foreign to a little kid. And while Russian Santa wasn’t as much a thing when the Russian Orthodox church that my grandmother and aunt attended switched to the “new” Gregorian calendar, as in the West, the Christmas Eve dinners continued.
But they always remained foreign to me, even into adulthood. While my father was raised Russian Orthodox, I knew very little about the faith. I was raised Protestant, my mother’s background, which shaped most of my spiritual journey. Orthodoxy was just as foreign to her, who was raised Baptist, and I cherish the foundation she provided at a small-town church.
As a little kid, you don’t realize how fleeting certain moments will be. The greetings, the rituals, the traditions—they all passed me by, strange and unexplained. I didn’t ask questions, and maybe no one thought to explain them.
Or maybe they did, and I just wasn’t ready to listen.
My grandmother was a woman of strong opinions. But I believe she respected my mother’s decision to raise us in her own Christian tradition. She never pushed her faith on us.
A recent event brought back a faint memory: my grandmother gently guiding my fingers into the position used by Orthodox Christians to cross themselves. Beyond that, I don’t remember learning much about the faith. I think I may have attended a service once with my aunt, but the memory is so hazy I’m not sure if it’s real or imagined–a subconscious effort to connect to the past.
It was all so different. The images in my grandmother’s house of Jesus, Mary and saints looked nothing like the traditional Baptist depictions of Jesus praying in a field or holding a lamb.
Psyanky eggs at Easter were nothing like the Paas-colored ones we had at home (I can still smell the vinegar and hear the color tablets fizzing). Different foods. Different prayers. Compared to the simple traditions of mainline Protestantism, it was bewildering.
And yet, something always drew me back—if only from a distance. An Orthodox cross that belonged to my great-grandmother hangs on my wall. I wear a gold one in honor of my Russian heritage. About a decade ago, I learned to make pierogies and now serve them each Christmas Eve, even if I skip the cabbage (I still can’t stand the taste).
For at least a decade, I’ve carried a quiet curiosity about Orthodoxy. Aside from a few funeral services—which only deepened its sense of mystery—I had never entered an Orthodox church to truly explore my heritage.
Until recently, that is.
I have heard it said that a Christian walk often ebbs and flows, and I believe that summarizes my experience. I’ve walked with God through a variety of Protestant flavors: Presbyterian, Christian and Missionary Alliance, Baptist and non-denominational. I once even attended a Pentecostal church - a second visit was not needed. Each strengthened my understanding of God in different ways, and I don’t regret any of my experiences.
But they all shared a similar foundation with doctrinal differences.
My last church was what’s often called a ‘seeker’ church—one of those mega-churches with a massive auditorium, theatrical lighting, a fog machine, and a rock band. It set aside traditional elements in favor of a more contemporary, accessible style. That church gave me the space to show up anonymously, to explore my faith without pressure. It was exactly what I needed at the time, and I’m grateful for it.
It did—and still does—a lot of things right. That church knows exactly what it wants to be, and it carries out its mission with focus and skill. There’s a place for churches like that, and I remain grateful for what it offered me.
But for the last several years, I felt disconnected. I started to feel a little disillusioned, too. I noticed that the Protestant church, in general, was being influenced by culture. My walk with God stagnated; my relationship with Him was hanging by a thread.
Just the thought of finding a new church was exhausting. I avoided stepping foot into a new place, having to meet new people, having to play the “game,” so to speak. I tried to re-engage my church, but it just wasn’t clicking. I needed to take a step back and do some serious soul searching.
My mind kept coming back to that foreign faith I had glimpsed in childhood. Maybe it was time to make the foreign familiar.
What was Orthodoxy, really? Did I need to challenge some of my long-held beliefs about Christianity—and about God Himself?
What if I had been relying on assumptions that were quietly holding me back from a deeper understanding?
I’d argued for decades that infant baptism was wrong. Could I walk into a church that baptized babies—and honestly consider their point of view?
I wasn’t sure. But I felt led to find out.
I did some research and discovered that my grandmother’s church had closed just this past year. But I traced its roots to the Orthodox Church in America, which led me to a parish just 20 minutes from home.
That church is multi-ethnic. What I always assumed (and that’s something I have realized quickly – I made a lot of assumptions) was that Russian Orthodox was a denomination and Greek Orthodox another, like Baptist and Lutheran are in Protestantism.
But that’s not how Orthodoxy works.
Orthodox is Orthodox.
While ethnic groups – like Greek, Russian, Antiochian, Ukrainian or Ethiopian – may bring their traditions within the church community, the core is basically the same. The church I found has Slavic roots, but its parishioners are from a mix of backgrounds.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached out to the priest for guidance on how to visit for the first time. He connected me with a parishioner who would meet me and sit with me during the service. I put on my Sunday best (something my last church didn’t expect) and headed to the church, full of nervous anxiety.
I asked God repeatedly for discernment as I drove there.
The person I was supposed to meet had car trouble and couldn’t make it. But he texted others, and almost immediately, church members - including the priest - came to make sure I wasn’t alone. They answered my questions patiently and helped ease my anxiety with genuine warmth.
Truth be told, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. The walls were painted top to bottom with elaborate scenes from the Bible. Saints lined the screens at the front. A large portrait of Jesus gazed down on us from the center of the ceiling. Incense hung in the air. Candlelight was seemingly everywhere.
And then the service started. To say it was all Greek to me would have been very apt if it were a Greek Orthodox church. To say I was lost was an understatement. I watched as people approached the altar and kissed images that included Jesus and Mary. They crossed themselves repeatedly. They sang in melodies I’d never heard before in my life. They chanted psalms and scripture with a rhythm and reverence I’d never experienced.
Even with the provided printed booklets of the service and hymns, I struggled to follow along.
I’ve since come to understand how layered and intentional everything in the Orthodox service is—but in the moment, it was simply overwhelming. Honestly, I just hoped to make it through without doing something embarrassing or disrespectful.
It took me days to reflect on what I experienced and formulate my thoughts on it all.
My best friend asked me if I felt anything. I had to admit, I didn’t.
But as I thought more about it, my interpretation is that Orthodoxy isn’t meant to manipulate emotions. While my last church would hit you with heart-felt worship songs and messages meant to elicit an emotional response to Jesus, Orthodoxy is about a steady and purposeful rhythm to grow closer to God. One parishioner explained it to me recently as patterns to keep your journey steady – not waves of an up-and-down emotional roller coaster.
He was a former evangelical too—and, as I quickly discovered, he wasn’t alone. Many in the parish had come from Protestant backgrounds. One book I read offered a helpful framing: Roman Catholics added to the faith, Protestants–in protest– removed from it, and the Orthodox believe they preserved it—the original Church founded by the apostles after the resurrection.
That idea seems to resonate deeply with many converts. More than once, I was told, “I kept wondering: What happened to the original church that started after Pentecost?”
As a non-Orthodox Christian, I couldn’t receive Communion—something that would have deeply offended me just a few years ago. But I stood quietly, respectfully. Then something unexpected happened: members of the church approached and handed me pieces of blessed bread. I may not have received the Eucharist, but in that simple gesture, the church offered fellowship—and made me feel like I belonged.
The worship may not have affected me emotionally like I was used to in an evangelical service, but the actions of the people sure did. It moved me in a way that is hard to explain.
See, one thing I’ve learned quickly is that Orthodoxy seems to be a communal faith. Like sharing from the same bowls on Christmas Eve more than 40 years ago or being ready for the stranger at the door, connection is an Orthodox priority. Which is an adjustment for an introvert like me.
That connection extends to many of the people I’ve met at the parish, who act as if they’ve known me for years. They seem invested in my journey, eager to contribute in any way they can. They sit and chat with me at fellowship hour on Sunday, and just build connection.
As I continued to wrestle with my emotions and questions, I attended my third service. And that’s when something shifted. As we began singing the words of Isaiah 6, the passage practically jumped off the page:
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!” He said, “Go and tell this people: Be ever hearing, but never understanding; be ever seeing, but never perceiving.”
God was speaking very clearly to me as we sang that hymn. See, several years ago I went on a men’s weekend at an Emmaus community. The weekend was one of new beginnings.
It was also one where I had a literal encounter with Christ. It would take too long to explain, but at one point on that weekend, I looked into the eyes of a man and could most clearly see the eyes of the Lord staring back at me, looking deep into my soul. I wept, and the weight I’d been carrying lifted.
I met Jesus face-to-face and nobody will ever convince me otherwise.
The theme for that weekend? “Whom Shall I Send?”
The song we sang repeatedly that weekend? “Here I Am, Lord.”
Each time the line rang out—‘Whom shall I send?’—our group of men responded with conviction: “Send me!” (That audible memory remains crystal clear in my mind).
And here it was again – I hadn’t heard it since that weekend. There are no coincidences with God. He was affirming to me that I was where I needed to be.
He was showing me I was on the right path—that I could trust Him to reveal more of Himself in time. My only job was to be where He had sent me.
It will take time before Orthodoxy doesn’t feel foreign to me. I am learning a whole new way of thinking about God and how to approach Him. I am slowly absorbing and processing literally 2,000 years of worship, tradition and ritual.
It’s a journey that started almost 50 years ago at a candlelit table in a kitchen on Christmas Eve with the flickering candle light dancing on my grandmother and aunt’s faces – unaware that the seed they planted would begin to sprout long after they entered heaven.
Back then, I was as confused by what I saw as I was walking into the door of the Orthodox church decades later.
Perhaps I was the stranger who was always meant to come to the door.
Now I’ve come inside to the table, leaning on my heritage to walk forward—toward a deeper connection with Christ.
I trust Him to lead me.
Lord, have mercy.
