An Easter story by the "Dostoevsky of Greece:"
Uncle Milios never spoke a truer word, when he said the good Christians living outside the town might end up having to celebrate Easter that year without a liturgy. In fact no prophecy was ever closer to fulfilment, for it almost came true twice — but happily God made the authorities see the light, and in the end the poor villagers, local shepherd-farmers, were judged worthy to hear the Word of God and eat the festive eggs.
The cause of all this was the busy little coaster that (supposedly) linked those unhappy islands to the inhospitable shore opposite, and which twice a year, when the season changed in spring or autumn, would almost invari- ably sink, and as often as not take the whole crew down with it. They would then put the post of captain up for auction, and each time some poor wretch, undaunted by the fate of his predecessor, was found to undertake this most perilous task. And on this occasion, at the end of March, as winter was tak- ing its leave, the coaster had gone down again.
The parish priest, Father Vangelis, who was also the abbot (and only monk) of the small monastic establishment of St. Athanasios, had been appointed by the bishop to take charge of the villages on the opposite shore. Though already an old man, he would take the boat across four times a year, during each of the main fasts,1 to hear the confessions of his unfortunate parishioners — the ‘hill-people’ or ‘mountain-scarecrows’ as they were called — and give them some spiritual instruction, before he hastened back to his monastery (if it was during Lent) to celebrate Easter there. But that year, as we have said, the coaster had sunk, the islands were cut off for sev- eral days, and Father Vangelis was reluctantly obliged to stay and celebrate Easter on the far shore of the billowing, storm-tossed sea. It seemed as though his little flock in Kalivia, whose homes clustered around the monastery of St. Athanasios, would end up not having any liturgy at all.
Some of them thought they should take their wives and children down into the town, to hear the Resurrection proclaimed and attend the liturgy there, but Uncle Milios, the village elder of Kalivia, wished to celebrate Easter the way he always had; Sevenmonth (so called because he had been born premature) did not want his wife being stared at by the townspeople; and Uncle Anagnostis, an old villager who knew the Easter service by heart, but could not actually read a word of it,2 longed to chant ‘Receive the body of Christ’ himself. All three insisted (and many agreed) that at all costs they must get one of the priests in town to come up to Kalivia and celebrate the liturgy for them there.
Everyone felt the best choice would be Father Kyriakos: he was not of a particularly good family (he was even related to one or two of the villagers himself) and he didn’t look down on them. He was even said to have some Albanian blood in him. He certainly wasn’t stand-offish —in fact it was rumoured here and there that the priest had a habit of ‘finishing off the hus- band’s procreation duties’ with his female parishioners. But that was just the idle talk of mischiefmakers and grudge-bearers, and only fools paid any attention to it. Like most of the true clergymen of the Greek Church (with one or two exceptions), the priest was by and large of blameless character.
Though this is true, the fact remains that married priests are usually out of pocket and out of luck, and, being forever burdened by the need to feed their offspring, they can appear to be grasping individuals, who do not even trust their own colleagues fully. This was the case with Father Kyriakos, who was perfectly willing to go and celebrate Easter for the villagers, as he had a generous heart and would have liked them to enjoy Easter and the arrival of spring along with everyone else, but he had his suspicions about the other parish priest, and was reluctant to leave him in charge of the parish, especially on that day. Father Theodoris, the other priest, who was known as ‘the Whirlwind’, urged him to go, saying it would be a pity to lose the income from Kalivia, and suggesting that they share the receipts from the parish and the village equally between them.
This did not reassure Father Kyriacos at all, in fact if made him even more suspicious. However, as he had already more or less made up his mind to go to Kalivia when he asked his colleague for his opinion, he told his son Zachos — who pulled a face and grumbled — to stay in the church sanctuary as a spy, collect his half of the offerings and the priest’s fee, and only come and join him in Kalivia at sunrise, when the liturgy had ended.
It was four hours before dawn, and the Evening Star was already high in the night sky. Uncle Anagnostis woke the priest, and before they entered the lit- tle church of St Dimitrios he improvized a bell out of a solid piece of walnut wood and a stick, and walked through the village, banging noisily to wake the sleeping inhabitants.
One after another the villagers arrived, accompanied by their wives. All were dressed in their best clothes.
The priest gave the blessing.
It was four hours before dawn, and the Evening Star was already high in the night sky. Uncle Anagnostis woke the priest, and before they entered the lit- tle church of St Dimitrios he improvized a bell out of a solid piece of walnut wood and a stick, and walked through the village, banging noisily to wake the sleeping inhabitants.
Uncle Anagnostis began to recite from memory, beginning with the pre- liminary prayer and the canon, ‘On the wave of the sea’.
Father Kyriakos appeared at the sanctuary doors, chanting ‘Come, receive the light’.
They sang ‘Christ is risen’, and all went back into the church. Men, women and children: no more than seventy souls, all told.
Uncle Anagnostis began to chant the Easter canon, and the priest himself (as there was no one else to do so) gave the responses from the sanctuary.
He was about to come out and say the preparatory prayer, kiss the icons and begin the liturgy, when a rather tall twelve-year-old boy, flushed and pant- ing, followed by two other boys of about the same age, suddenly walked, or rather burst, into the church. It was Zachos, Father Kyriakos’s son. He rushed into the sanctuary, gasping for breath, and began addressing the priest. Though the congregation could hear his voice, they could not make out a single word of it.
This is what he was saying:
‘Papa, papa!’ (the children of priests also usually address their father as papa). ‘Papa, papa! . . . Father Whirlwind . . . by the back door. . . the obla- tions. . . from the sanctuary. . . his mother-in-law. . . and his wife . . . carry- ing . . . by the back door. . . the oblations . . . I saw them . . . by the back door. . . the oblations . . . from the sanctuary. . . and his mother-in-law . . . and his wife . . .’
Father Kyriakos was the only person who could have made any sense of his breathless son’s disjointed words. He understood from them that Father Theodore, the Whirlwind, the other parish priest, was stealing the collec- tion and passing it out to his wife and mother-in-law through the back door leading from the sanctuary.
Perhaps things were not exactly as Zachos suggested. Like all young boys, he loved the countryside and he loved having fun, and he had found it very difficult to obey his father’s orders and stay behind in the town. He would have jumped at any excuse to get away and set off on a nocturnal jaunt to Kalivia, especially as he had not had any difficulty finding some friends to come along with him.
But Father Kyriakos did not stop to think. He went red and flew into a rage. In a word, he sinned. Rather than giving his son a good box around the ears and calmly proceeding with his duty, he immediately stripped off his stole, removed his surplice and strode down the nave and out of the church — averting his eyes from his wife’s face as she stared at him in alarm.
Uncle Milios, however, had an idea about what might have provoked this behaviour, and went out after him. A short distance from the church, between three trees and two stretches of fencing, the following conversation took place:
‘Papa, papa, where are you going?’ ‘Don’t worry — I’ll be right back.’ He didn’t know what to say. The fact is that he had resolved to go back downto the town and confront the other priest about the theft. He honestly believed he had enough time to get back and celebrate the liturgy before the sun rose.
He resumed: ‘If he is a thief, it is for the Lord to . . . forgive him. . . him and me. I must do my duty.’
‘Where are you going?’ insisted Uncle Milios. ‘Get Anagnostis to read the Acts of the Apostles. I’ll be right back.’ He had forgotten that Uncle Anagnostis couldn’t read anything, unless he already knew it by heart. ‘After all, I’m leaving my wife here!’ he added, unable to think of anything else to say. ‘I’m leaving my wife here with you!’ And with these words he was gone. Uncle Milios walked gloomily back into the church. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered to himself. He felt a tear run down his cheek.
He turned around and hurried back up towards the church to continue the service.
else to say. ‘I’m leaving my wife here with you!’ And with these words he was gone. Uncle Milios walked gloomily back into the church. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered to himself.
‘And I was actually going to drink water! I am not fit to celebrate! But what can I do? I can’t take communion! I shall say the office without taking com- munion — I am not worthy! “Behold the first fruits of the vine!” I am not worthy!’
He re-entered the church, and the villagers greeted his return with joy.
In the church great astonishment held sway. The villagers stared at each other in bewilderment. Some were whispering. The women were asking the priest’s wife to tell them what was going on — but she was even more at a loss than they were.
Meanwhile, the priest ran and ran. The cold night air cooled his brow a little.
‘And how am I supposed to feed all these children? Eight of them, God forgive me: the wife makes nine, and me — ten! They’ll rob you as soon as look at you! . . .’
Five hundred paces from the church the path began to descend, and led down into a lovely valley. There was a watermill standing on the slope, by the side of the road. As the priest listened to the gentle murmuring of the stream and felt the cool breeze against his face, the fact that he was going to celebrate the liturgy (let alone how or where he was going to celebrate it) was swept completely from his mind, and he stooped down to drink. But his lips had not yet touched the surface of the water, when he suddenly remembered, and realized what he was doing.
‘I have to celebrate the liturgy,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I’m drinking water. . . ?’ And he did not drink. Then he pulled himself together. ‘What am I doing?’ he said, ‘Where am I going?’
He made the sign of the cross. ‘I have sinned, Lord. I have sinned! Do not hold me to account!’
Read the whole thing at the excellent The Road to Emmaus Journal here.
ΕΥΛΟΓΗΤΑΡΙΑ ΑΝΑΣΤΑΣΙΜΑ - ΟΡΘΡΟΥ Μ ΣΑΒΒΑΤΟΥ - ΑΓΙΟΝ ΟΡΟΣ
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