Visiting Greece for the first time – as I recently did on holiday – I found myself drawn to the seductive glamour of Orthodoxy. The Greeks in general – island Greeks most of all, I expect – seem incredibly easy-going, considering that they are still in the middle of an economic crisis. Take the appealing way in which middle-aged Greeks bathe in the sea, drifting in up to their necks and floating there while chatting to each other, keeping their hats on at all times.
How much of that air of wellbeing is attributable to the fact that Christianity is still central to their lives? The post office in the little port we visited, the only state building around, smart and air-conditioned, had a picture of Jesus – giving a blessing in Pantocrator mode – hanging on the wall. In Britain you might once have had the Queen’s image. You felt (to make a gross generalisation) that here the Church was a friendly presence, not one whose excessive control is resented. That said, I was told that a Greek superstition dictates that men must touch their testicles if they bump into a priest in the street.
