Greek Easter

Mount Lycabettus Pilgrimage

In Greek mythology, the goddess Athena was said to be carrying a limestone mountain to build the Acropolis, but was startled by a crow speaking to her, and dropped the mountain. She left it there, and eventually it was called Lycabettus Hill, or Lycabettus Mountain. It is 324 feet to the top, 909 feet above sea level, and the highest point in Athens. It’s name may have come from “where the wolves walk”. There was a temple to Zeus on the top for centuries, but about a hundred years ago the chapel of St George was built on it’s ancient foundation. It is now a popular tourist destination, and has a funicular carrying visitors to the top, where there are also a bar and a restaurant. 

In 1966 there was only the trail and the chapel. I was in the 9^th grade in the Halandri Academy, a high school catering to the children of American military  and businesses men, with a few Greeks whose parents wanted them to learn English. One of those Greeks was my friend Haralabous (Harry) Bousberelis, and he invited me to spend the Easter weekend with his family. They lived in a high rise apartment building in a downtown location. In the 1960’s Easter was a big event, similar to Christmas in the US. On Good Friday his parents drove us to the bottom of Lycabettus Hill and dropped us off in a very busy place where the hike to the top started. The climb started in a pine forest. The paved trail was busy, and there was a solid line of people all the way to the top. It would have been a significant effort for many of the people there, but for a pair of 13 year olds it was not challenging.  I didn’t know what pilgrimage was at the time, but for the thousands who climbed that evening it surely was a spiritual journey. By the time we reached the top it was dark, and small plaza outside the tiny Church of St George was completely full of people. Following tradition, we had candles with us, and soon a flame was passed from the candle on the altar to the crowd outside. We lit our candles and began our way down the mountain. The steady stream of pilgrims walking both up and down the mountain soon all carried lit candles, and I remember being awed by the sight of the candlelit zig-zag trail.

I don’t remember how we got back to Harry’s apartment; perhaps we walked or took a bus and I don’t remember much else about the weekend. On Sunday we had a big traditional Easter Sunday lunch in their apartment. I can imagine what was on the menu now, but I only remember one dish, because it was such a surprise to me. The family had been fasting, and Sunday was the end of the fast, and it was a huge meal. Harry’s big celebration was drinking a big glass of milk, all in one gulp, denied in the fasting of the prior week. A bowl of boiled potatoes cut into cubes came around to me, and they looked great, so I took a big helping. The shock was that the potatoes were cold, and coated in olive oil. I suppose it was the Greek equivalent of our potato salad. I ate everything, as I was trained to do; growing up in a family of seven meant that there were never leftovers, and you ate what was offered.

I remember another Easter weekend in the village where we lived, Glyphada, a suburb of Athens. There was harbor full of fishing boats and old sailing ships, and a large paved plaza with a stone dome-shaped church. The plaza was full of people, and at midnight on Easter Sunday morning men emerged from the church carrying a litter with the statue of one of their saints or relics. They were followed by a band of sorts, and there was singing and chanting, and people were greeting each other in the traditional Greek Orthodox manner: Χριστός Ανέστη (Christos Anesti), Christ is risen, to which the response was Αληθώς Ανέστη (Alithos Anesti), He is risen indeed. This tradition continued in my family for many years. There were also hard-boiled deep red colored eggs, which you would crack open by tapping your egg into that of another person and making the statement of faith. There were fireworks and joviality and energy, and I have wondered since if there wasn’t also a good deal of ouzo or wine. Another Easter Sunday tradition was barbequing a lamb, which we did at the house of some Greek friends, in their front yard, over a barbeque pit dug into their bare earth front yard, using a spit made from some branches of a tree in the yard. We turned the spit often and basted the lamb with melted butter and lemon juice. The home was quite modest and most likely the residence of a Greek Evangelical Church pastor named Kiriakakis, my dad’s best friend among the Evangelical pastors. The state sponsored church was Greek Orthodox, so the Evangelicals were the outsiders, the equivalent of protestants, and were a small but enthusiastic group.

I have participated in many Easter traditions in the years since, but none have come close to the energy and enthusiasm of the Greeks. I believe these traditions have as much to do with community and spirituality as any particular religious belief, and I hope some of this still exists. However, as I write this in Belgium, here these traditions are disparu, disappeared, lost in a single generation. I have never liked the greeting “Happy Easter”; I see Easter as a time of reflection, a call to consider the larger picture of my life. How did I get here? Where am I headed? What is truly important?