An unlikely ending

This afternoon I picked up the latest copy of Ðy‎namis, our parish monthly newsletter, that appeared in my mailbox. I always look at the “Our People” section. That’s a section that I created years ago (when I was the managing editor) to chronicle significant events in the lives of people in our community. Now, they use that section to list baptisms, weddings, funerals and other announcements. Avidly I looked for the funeral announcement of a recently reposed new friend of mine, only an acquaintance really, but meeting him somehow closed an open circle in my life. The announcement was there, very brief, but it had the dates of both his repose and his funeral:
Reposed February 2. Buried February 28. Age, 70 years.

I first met Stéphanos (I’m using his middle name to protect his anonymity) one evening when Brock and I were hanging out at Common Grounds coffeehouse on Hawthorne Avenue in Portland. We went there to study Torah and practice reading Hebrew out loud, the same way that we also read Greek New Testament, to improve our language ability. We had our Greek scriptures with us as well, but the heavy leather-bound tome of Tanakh (Torah-Nevi’im-Ketuvim) the Hebrew bible was what we were intending to practice.

We noticed an older man, probably in his late 60’s, sitting at one of the small round tables next to the only two empty spots left in the crowded room, as I dropped off our bags and books on the tables to claim them while we got our mochas. This older man we’d seen once before a few nights previously. He was involved in some kind of altercation with some people that resulted in the police coming and even turning on their lights. All this happened outside in front of the coffeehouse and the adjacent shops.

We got our mochas, sat down with them and began handling our books. The older man sitting next to us was dressed in quasi-military fashion, down to his green beret, and he wore various medals on his “uniform” and around his neck. Some of these medals contained the cross, others looked more Masonic or occult. The man’s complexion and stocky build made Brock and me think he reminded us of Saddam Hussein or at least an Iraqi general or something.
We were sure he was an Arab.

Suddenly, he looked over at us sitting right next to him and commented something like, “Is that the bible?” and that was the beginning of a slowly expanding conversation with him. When we explained that we came to read Greek and Hebrew, he said something like, “That’s good, so you read Greeks?” When we nodded in the affirmative, I suddenly became aware that the man was speaking with a Greek accent. “Are you Greek?” I asked with amazement. “Miláte elliniká?” I added. “Of course!” he said, he was a Greek. I asked him his name, and told him mine. “Stéphanos, Romanós me lene!”

Our conversation deepened by fits and starts. We found out that Stéphanos knew a very talented young Greek cantor who was also an excellent guitarist, and whom he admired very much. He only saw him occasionally, sometimes at this coffeehouse and elsewhere.

“That’s my son Andreas!” I exclaimed, “You know him?”

“Of course! He plays here and practices chanting outside in front of the coffeehouse. He is your son? I will tell you, he is a very good person, not just a good musician. I want him to come with me back to Greece. He can stay in my house there. Tell him that I want to see him again, please.”

What a small world we live in, or rather, how small the Lord the God of heaven and earth makes the arena in which He suffers His servants to meet one another!

And so our conversation continued. Stéphanos approved very much of the bible, agreeing with us that it is above all else, i alitheía, “the Truth,” but he did not have kind words for the Church, that is, the Orthodox Church (for him, what other was there?). To him it was all just a business, a racket, a way for dishonest men to squeeze money out of the people. Of course, the same idea has occurred to almost every thinking Christian, and he was a Christian too, though in some ways uninstructed, or maybe just rebellious.

Like not a few Greek Orthodox whom I have met, Stéphanos seemed to believe in God and in Christ (and maybe in the Theotokos and the saints), but he didn’t seem to understand or accept the unique mediation of Jesus Christ; he seemed to think that anyone who believed in God and, following their conscience, did unto others as they would have done unto them, would be saved, would “make it.” This attitude is not monotheism (only One God) but rather henotheism (one God among others, and mine is best for me).
I’ve found this attitude at both extremes—the over-educated types and the simple, uneducated types, both sometimes espouse it, the first through arrogance, the second through ignorance. I’m not sure which end Stéphanos was at, but I believe it was through ignorance, in spite of the fact that he was well-read.

Stéphanos was a cultured, well-read man of the world. He seemed rich enough, not a homeless person, whom he almost resembled because of his clothing, trinket-like medals and big sacks of books. Yet, I would say that he was not an arrogant intellectual, but someone who like most of us, reads a little more than he should, grasps a little less than he thinks, and lets appearances fool him into sometimes holding absurd opinions. Brock and I met him there on at least one or two more occasions. The last time, he reminded me that Andrew had not called him, and asked me to remind him again. That was at the end of January. When I got home that night, I reminded Andrew that Stéphanos wanted him to call urgently.

Now, where to go from here to finish this story?

Recently, I wrote about an incident at my church that happened more than 15 years ago, in my post entitled He never did take off his hat. In that post I told the story of (what I took to be) a gypsy man coming into the Divine Liturgy at Aghía Triás one Sunday morning, planting himself right in the center of the congregation, and joyfully participating as best he could, even going up to receive the communion from the hands of Fr Elias (of blessed memory). The man received communion and then joyfully left, giving a fervent hug and kiss to one of the men near the side aisle as he went past him.
We never saw him again.

I want to tell you all, that I think I was quite mistaken about that man being a gypsy. As I have looked back on that incident many times since meeting Stéphanos, I am almost completely certain that it was no gypsy, but a Greek non-conformist named Stéphanos, whom I had the good fortune to meet and get to know in some small way. This man was a remarkable individual, and an individual indeed, a free-thinker yet a man of faith, of trust in the mystery of God. Maybe I am wrong about him. God knows I didn’t get to know him well. But God knows him, I think, and that’s all that counts.

February 2nd, the day the Orthodox Christians commemorate the presentation of the infant Jesus in the Temple, when the aged Simeon took the babe in his arms and said, “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people, a Light to enlighten the Gentiles, and the glory of Thy people Israel.”

On this day, Stéphanos also departed, though not in peace. He died within his burning house, which collapsed around him. They must not have known anyone was inside. They probably found his charred body after the fire was out. He was a smoker. Maybe his cigarette started the blaze. But he was also a crazed man in some ways, forced to the perimeter of this earthly existence. Who knows how the fire started, but that became his door to the mystery of God. May his memory be eternal. No one to sing his 40th day memorial, he was alone here in America.

He departed just a couple of days after I reminded Andrew to call him. He never did get in touch with him, but he chanted his memorial service on the 28th of the month. The body of our friend was held by the authorities while they searched for any relatives. Just as he never did take off his hat—if that man was Stéphanos—but marched boldly in before the earthly throne of grace, so may he be found among those who can appear boldly before the judgment seat of the heavenly King, knowing that his sins were nailed with Christ to the Tree. So ends this story, as far as we can tell.