FR. LUKE VERONIS
We live in an impure world where it seems so much easier to focus on the negative, to point out the darkness and evil in others. In fact, our own impure minds and hearts lead us to question and doubt even that which is most pure and beautiful. That is why we see so many people tear down others, concentrating on what they see as negative and evil.
Yet, in the words of Metropolitan Anthony Bloom of blessed memory, “Unless we look at a person and see the beauty there is in this person, we can contribute nothing to him. One does not help a person by discerning what is wrong, what is ugly, what is distorted. Christ looked at everyone he met, at the prostitute or the thief, and saw the beauty hidden there. Perhaps it was distorted, perhaps damaged, but it was beauty none the less, and what he did was to call out this beauty.”
How aptly these words apply to the development of discipleship on the margins. For if people truly on the margins are to become disciples of Christ, they must first experience love and respect from people within the Church.
Let me share a story from the Kosovo War in 1999. As the United States was bombing Serbia, half a million refugees flooded into neighboring Albania, a country of only 3.5 million people. Ninety-five percent of these Albanianspeaking refugees were Muslim, and they were fleeing from what they perceived as a war with Serbian Orthodox. I was serving as a missionary for the Orthodox Church of Albania at that time, and we were placed in a unique position with the refugees as fellow Albanians, yet also as Orthodox Christians. Archbishop Anastasios of Albania quickly mobilized our church to respond to the tragic needs of these refugees. We set up a refugee camp, and the archbishop asked all the faithful to volunteer and help out wherever they could, particularly seminarians and university students.
We began to plan how we would go about visiting the refugee camps. As Archbishop Anastasios talked with our seminarians, one student asked him: “When we go into the camps, should we wear our crosses so that all can see them?” “No,” our archbishop responded. “Keep your crosses under your shirts. Just live the cross by serving and sacrificing for others.”
So we did. We went into the camps and talked with the refugees every day, listened to their stories of pain and suffering, offered them aid, and did whatever we could to make their lives more bearable. We went day after day simply offering a loving presence, and the refugees began responding to our students: “Who are you? Why are you coming here every day?” Friendships slowly developed.
Our students were initially uncertain and even afraid to be among these mostly Muslim refugees, but they connected with them through their love and concern. Every day they came back and shared their stories of how they felt a bond with these people and no longer looked upon them as “refugees” or as “Muslims,” but more as fellow human beings and fellow children of God.
Ramazan
My students introduced me to one man named Ramazan. I stopped in his tent numerous times to share in conversation over traditional Turkish coffee. Our discussions often revolved around spiritual themes, as Ramazan continually tried to make sense of how this whole tragedy had taken place. He had had many Serbian friends before the war. In fact, it was his Serbian friends who had helped him and his family to escape Kosovo alive. Yet he had also seen his business looted and burned, and he did not know the status of his house. Thankfully, all his family members were still alive, as far as he knew. He stayed in our Orthodox refugee camp for two months. Following the end of the war, he returned home.
A week after Ramazan’s return, however, I received a phone call from him. He was back in the Albanian capital, Tirana, trying to buy needed supplies that were difficult to find in Kosovo. He asked to meet with me and came over to my office with a neighbor from Gjakova, a town in southwestern Kosovo. This time I offered them coffee, and Ramazan told me about the situation back home. His house had been thoroughly looted, but the structure was still standing and in good shape. In general, his family was well, except for two nephews whose whereabouts were unknown. Ramazan was hoping that they were in prison in Serbia, but this remained unconfirmed.
His neighbor, however, shared a more gruesome tale. His sister and brother-in-law had been burned alive in their home. He had seen the skeletons himself. As the three of us talked, Ramazan said that he still believed Kosovo could be a multi-ethnic country with Albanians and Serbians living together. His friend vehemently disagreed. He bluntly said that he could never live with a Serb as a neighbor. An awkward moment followed, but—since I had a relationship with Ramazan—I ventured to express my hope for the future. From a human perspective, I surely understood his friend’s anger and hatred. I myself cringed and deeply felt his sorrow when he described the skeletal bones of his sister. Yet I gently suggested that such human anger and desire for revenge would only perpetuate other acts of violence in the future. What Kosovo and the entire Balkan region needed more than ever was not human anger and revenge, but Divine mercy, forgiveness, and love. Ramazan’s friend looked at me not fully understanding, but he listened as I said that only through the grace and power of God could hatred be transformed into mercy and even love for ones’ enemies.
Unexpectedly, Ramazan nodded in agreement. “It will be extremely difficult, seemingly impossible,” he reflected, “yet I still have hope.” As the pair left my office, Ramazan then handed me a large oil painting. He apologized that it was not the most beautiful painting, but it was all he could find in Gjakova. He was offering it to me as a small token of gratitude for all his new friends in the Orthodox Church who had done so much for him and all the refugees. He said that through such concrete and loving actions of the Church and her people, he still had hope in humanity despite the atrocities he had witnessed. Ramazan ended by saying, “I have seen what true Christianity is all about.”
“We cannot have enemies”
Considering the topic “discipleship on the margins” led me to remember this story and to reflect upon it from two perspectives. Trying to mentor our students and to teach them what our faith truly means through reaching out to the stranger, to the refugee, to the Muslim, is one perspective on discipleship. At the same time, is Ramazan’s witnessing of Christ-centered love at a critical time in his life not also an awakening point for discipleship?
Archbishop Anastasios would say again and again: “A Christian should never have enemies. Never call someone a ‘bad Communist,’ ‘a bad atheist,’ or a ‘bad so-and-so.’ Every person has the image of God in them, and they are His children! Every day we pray ‘for those who hate us and those who love us.’ Thus, we cannot have enemies. The message is clear. Our salvation depends upon respect for the other, respect for otherness. This is the deep meaning of the parable of the Good Samaritan. We see not that someone is my neighbor, but how someone becomes my neighbor. It is a process.” This lesson of faith, a process of transforming strangers into neighbors and friends, became a reality as our students visited and befriended Muslim refugees every day. We modeled and practiced our faith as we taught them to be disciples on the margins. Simultaneously, though, we offered a witness and became friends with the Muslim refugee strangers who no longer simply had labels—“a Muslim” or “a refugee”—but who had names with stories, who went from being strangers to friends.
Alba and Drita
A further example of this experience occurred after the war ended. A couple, Sevdi and Vjollca, discovered their home in Kosovo had been destroyed. They therefore chose to stay in Albania, hoping to find a way to emigrate to Canada. As they waited day after day in the sweltering summer heat of Tirana, I suggested that maybe we could take their teenage girls to our summer camp for a short break. I explained to Sevdi and Vjollca that—although this camp was a church camp with quite a bit of worship, Bible study, and religious activity—their girls would experience a lot of fun and fellowship through other activities. They could participate in whatever they felt comfortable with.
Since we had built a bond of trust with their parents, fifteen-year-old Alba and fourteen-year-old Drita were permitted to go. Before they arrived at the camp, my wife Faith and I instructed our camp staff how to treat these Muslim refugee girls—with loving Christian hospitality, but also with the freedom to participate in whatever they wished. Our Kosovar visitors planned to stay for only two or three nights. ]
On the first day of their visit a somewhat serious incident occurred. After a day of fun activities, the time came for our evening Vespers. All the girls at the camp came to church, including the girls from Kosovo. When Alba saw everyone making the sign of the cross, she immediately left the church. One of the counselors walked out with her and asked her if she was okay. She simply responded, “Where I come from, the cross is associated with violence and death. I can’t stay anywhere where people are making the sign of the cross!”
Following the service, I talked with Alba and offered to take her and her sister back to Tirana immediately. Alternatively, she could stay, and I reiterated that she was free to participate in whatever she felt comfortable with. Alba chose to stay, but emphasized that she would not go inside the church again.
New understanding
Our camp staff and the other girls responded with incredible warmth and love. After three days, Alba and Drita asked if they could stay until the end of the camp. Sevdi and Vjollca agreed. By the end of the camp, not only were both Kosovar girls attending every activity—including church services, they were even reading psalms in church! On the final night of the camp, Alba stood up in front of all the campers and said, “I have never experienced such love in my life as I did at this camp. I will never forget this experience! It has given me an entirely new understanding of Christianity.”
Before I took Alba and Drita back to their parents, they asked our camp leader for the same packet which all the other campers received. This packet included a Bible, stories of the saints, icons, and other religious material. Both girls even put crosses around their necks. When I saw them wearing crosses and carrying these packets of materials, I requested that they be very careful when they returned home. I told them not to wear the crosses, but to show all the things they had received to their parents, and to ask their permission before keeping any of the materials. I did not want Sevdi and Vjollca to think that we had brainwashed their children. Finally, though, I explained to them: “You have experienced a taste of God’s Kingdom at this camp. Cherish this memory in your hearts. Seek out God, try to learn more about His teachings, and cultivate His Spirit within your hearts.”
In these two stories, I cannot say whether these people on the margins became faithful disciples of Jesus Christ, but I can say that they were treated with love, respect, and dignity, and thus experienced a taste of what it is like to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. Perhaps seeds of faith were planted within these people. Perhaps one day, as they reflect upon their journey through life, they will remember how they felt God’s presence through the authentic witness of Christianity.
Fr. Luke Veronis has served as an Orthodox missionary in Albania, parts of Africa, and Mexico. He is currently parish priest of SS Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church in Webster, MA, and is the director of the Missions Institute of Orthodox Christianity at Hellenic College Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology in nearby Boston.
