A quick eye

The Millennium Bridge brought me from the south bank of the Thames to the north almost to steps of the cathedral. My skin was heated by the August afternoon sun and chillness of the medieval stone walls cooled it at the entrance. I bought a ticket and took an audio-guide. At that moment I had no idea this stroll could become one of the most important in my life.
The interior of St Paul’s seemed quite extraordinary and incomprehensible to me. There was no painting on the walls depicting the faces of saints and biblical scenes that I used to see in the Orthodox churches. There is always a kind of semi-darkness in Russian candlelit churches. So it was unusual to me to see a lot of daylight in the cathedral. Also I was enraptured by its majestic stone arches and huge space under the dome decorated inside with frescoes by Sir James Thornhill. I couldn’t even imagine the height of the dome so it seemed inconceivable. I felt myself very strange and tiny man.
Time was coming to 5 p.m. New visitors were not allowed to enter. A voice announced about the beginning of Choral Evensong and all were invited to join. Tourists stopped talking and took their chairs. They were given the wordage of Wednesday’s Evensong. Lamps were turned on in the Choirs. A number of women and men dressed in long white mantles appeared in the south transept and went towards the Choirs. They carried prayer books.
The priest read the psalms: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God…”. Visitors repeated these lines all together: “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name… Give us today our daily bread. Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil…”.
I’m not a religious person. But according to the family tradition my mother christened me in the Orthodox Church. In my childhood grandmother took me with her to a church. I remember her watching holy image and whispering a prayer. She repeatedly crossed herself. In St Paul’s Cathedral everything was different. People gathered to pray together. I repeated the words of the Wednesday’s Evensong along with other in a completely alien to me Anglican Church. It did not matter to read the prayer in English and not in my mother-tongue. Every word remained behind inside me without any linguistic identity. “What’s the difference? Prayers addressed to God are the same. People do believe the same things”, - I thought. I didn’t feel myself like a stranger anymore.