Timket - Feast of Epiphany

Being an atheist, religious establishments are not what you might call my natural habitat. That is not to say I do not visit churches and cathedrals, as I find them aesthetically pleasing. In fact, I would go as far as to say that in some cases architecturally stunning and awe inspiring, though the opulence and grandeur associated with places of worship often strikes me as somewhat disingenuous and at odds with the church's doctrines, particularly those that pertain to the poor. However, that is one for the churchgoers to ponder and resolve.

So, what found me devoting eleven hours of my time in Liverpool cathedral on a cold, wet and windy day in January 2018? It certainly wasn’t just so I could be aesthetically pleased. That could have been achieved in a fraction of the time and I could have spent the rest of the day at the infamous Cavern club reliving the heady, trippy days of the swinging sixties.

Officially, I was chaperone to a small group of Eritrean asylum-seeking teenagers who were attending to celebrate a religious festival known as Timket. Whilst the festival was being commemorated at many smaller churches around the UK, the Ethiopian and Eritrean community had come together to create a mass event for those who were spiritually homeless in their resident towns.

Liverpool cathedral was without doubt a spectacular setting for a spectacular event. It is a behemoth of a building that at first glance belies its true twentieth century history. Built on St. James Mount it hones into view as you wind your way through narrow streets lined with three storey Georgian terraced houses that stand to attention almost guard like over weary travellers making their annual pilgrimage.

Built in the Gothic revival style, though not quite on the grand scale of the Notre Dame in Paris which is arguably one of the finest examples of French Gothic architecture still partially standing, the cathedral does not present itself from the exterior as particularly convivial. Indeed, I would go as far as to say it fills you with a sense of foreboding. Its epic proportions and sharp angular russet red stonework, tainted by the industrial grime and filth of Edwardian Liverpool, made it feel more suitable as the backdrop to a Gothic horror film, than for the setting of one of the most revered festivals in the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church’s calendar. However, once you step inside you can understand why it was chosen.

My plan for the day was to pay a cursory visit to the cathedral to check on the welfare of my young charges before embarking on a solo tour of the city and experiencing the wondrous sights and sounds Liverpool has to offer.

As I entered the cathedral on that dank Saturday morning through an unnecessarily large, intricately carved heavy oak wooden door that swung effortlessly on its hand forged iron hinges, I was met with a riotous assault on the senses.

I had joined the convocation during an eerie, reverential silence that seemed almost impossible to achieve amongst a congregation of almost two thousand that included several generations where everyone was welcome including new-born babies.

Feeling conscious that the dull thud of the colossal oak door closing behind me could precipitate the turning of a thousand heads searching for the interloper amongst them, I attempted to make myself as small as possible and took refuge in a tiny stone nook, designed for what, I do not know.

The interior of this monolithic structure was as welcoming as the exterior was intimidating. Despite the vast space that engulfs you and the exceptionally tall Gothic arches that dwarf their surroundings, there was still a feeling of intimacy and warmth created in no small part by the soft light that shone through a myriad of stained glass windows casting their stories onto silky, smooth to the touch, stone façades. The Intricate and sophisticated detailing of carved animals at every twist and turn brought the cathedral to life in a way only nature can. Staring high into the central tower you could not help but wonder how the worlds heaviest peal of thirteen bells surrounding the great Bourdon bell found their way into their new home, each reverently and affectionately named after bible characters or eminent local dignitaries.

The distinct aroma of what many would describe as Ethiopia’s national dish, Dora Wat, filled the air and was an unwelcome reminder I had skipped breakfast. The heady mix of garlic, ginger and berbere spice permeated my nostrils with a distinct familiarity, due to the kindness and generosity of the very special young people I was here to support. Young women who despite possessing very little, would insist on sharing their food whenever you had the pleasure of visiting. Traditionally served with a fermented sour dough flat bread known as Injera, this spicy chicken stew always left a lasting impression on the taste buds and is a constant humbling reminder of the generosity and humility of the Eritrean people.

Spread before me in one of Europe’s largest cathedrals was a sea of gently rolling waves of worshippers kneeling, paying obeisance to a high priest who shone like an ethereal beacon an eternity away on the high altar holding court over his disciples. Their traditional attire treating me to fleeting glimpses of the bold red, green and gold hand-woven bands that decorated their hems and collars in stark contrast to the pristine white of their flowing Habesha Kemis robes and netsela shawls. This traditional dress is usually reserved for five significant religious festivals in the Ethiopian calendar and there is an old Amharic saying, ለቲምካት ጥሩ ካልሆነ በጭራሽ ለምንም ነገር መልካም አይሁን, that loosely translates as, let a dress not meant for Timket be shredded.

The festival of Timket also referred to as the ‘Feast of Epiphany’ is a three day event that contrasts seamlessly with the solemn observance of faith and the spectacular, colourful ebullience of its worshippers. The festival at its heart is a celebration of the baptism of Christ which culminates in communal baptism for its followers. Paradoxically for a celebration of such reverence, it is also known as the festival of love where the throwing of lemons at your intended loved one was once common practice, though now sadly in decline with the advent of social media where citrus fruit based dating rituals appear to have entered the digital age.

As proceedings progressed, the unfolding pageant was nothing short of wondrous. Imagine if you will, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat being performed during Mardis Gras. Priests adorned in a multitudinous kaleidoscope of ceremonial robes being protected by chromatic embroidered umbrellas that doubled as collection plates when upturned and passed over the heads of the worshippers. Perched precariously upon their heads, the sacred Tabots draped luxuriously in the finest of silks.

A slow rhythmic drumming awoke the trance like gathering and before long I was enveloped in the cacophony of a thousand pilgrims singing, clapping and dancing as though their very lives depended on it. For the uninitiated it was an incoherent wall of sound that bounced off every hand cut stone surface and answered itself in echoes. For the erudite it could well have been a smash Broadway musical such was their enthusiasm and adulation. Every careful step of the journey from the high altar to the nave was met with a fanaticism that involved long deliberate pauses enabling each and every worshipper to fully engage and revel in the glory of the moment.

Sadly, my Timket experience is a bittersweet memory. As previously mentioned, I am an atheist and at one time would even have described myself as an anti-theist. As age has crept upon me, I would like to think I am now more in the accommodationist camp, but some may disagree. My world view has precipitated many a conversation with the Orthodox Christians in my care, initiated by them I hasten to add and one young lady in particular, had made it her life’s mission to make me see the error of my ways and convert me into the God fearing man she so desperately wanted me to be.

Despite her efforts, I believe she had resigned herself to the fact we were going to have to beg to differ, although she reminded me constantly how she prayed for me every night. You can therefore imagine her delight and anticipation when I chose quite freely to spend the whole day amongst her brethren taking in the wonders of the Timket festival instead of the wonders of Liverpudlian hostelries. My mistake had been to have chosen the second day of Timket to grace them with my presence as that was the holiest of days when the water was blessed and the reaffirming of baptisms took place. The young lady in question was genuinely excited that her ‘English daddy’ as she had come to refer to me, had succumbed to the will of the Lord and was prepared to be affused with holy water from the large inflatable baptism pool that had been set up in the sunken nave by the great west porch.

Initially, her cajoling and the friendly tug of war towards the pool struck me as nothing more than harmless fun. However, it dawned on me fairly quickly that she took the whole situation far more seriously than I. Rather abruptly the frivolity stopped and she became unnervingly silent in the wall of noise that had reached a crescendo as believer after believer waited excitedly for their turn. I turned to look at her and the sadness in her eyes was painful. A single tear had crept down her cheek as she fought to hold back her emotions. I had no need to ask what was wrong, I knew immediately I had let her down. The disappointment was palpable.

Persuading her to join me in the quiet and serenity of the grandiose Lady Chapel, where the portrait windows of noble women loomed over us like guardian angels, we ruminated for what seemed like an eternity before she turned to me, trying hopelessly to hold back the tears that were now flowing uncontrollably. No words were exchanged. I simply shook my head; she smiled the brightest smile she could manage and we hugged before returning to the exuberance and excitement of the hoards of believers being blessed by the high priest.

Religion is not just a fundamental part of the lives of these extraordinary young ladies, it is all consuming. It is their faith and belief that guides them through the darkest of days and brings them unbridled joy in equal measure. When I sit and excogitate on the horrendous, tortuous and often abusive journeys they have endured and survived, I wonder if maybe, just maybe they had someone or something watching over them.