by Paul L Maier
“Sorry, dear. Someday I’ll grow up.”
“Doubtful!” She gave him a playful poke in the ribs.
Over the snowy Alps, down the long peninsula of Italy, and then eastward across the Adriatic, they flew until Pelops’s vast “island” came into view, hung on the Greek mainland by the slender isthmus of Corinth. Now their jet lost altitude, glided across the Saronic Gulf, and curved northeastward over Laurium Mountain to land smoothly at Venizelos International Airport, the vast new structure built just in time for the Olympic Games at Athens in 2004.
“I wonder what ‘Venizelos’ means in English, Shannon,” Jon wondered, tongue in cheek, as they disembarked.
“It means ‘Venizelos,’ you dunce!” she laughed. “It’s a proper name and you know it!”
“Ah yes, Eleftherios Venizelos, the prime minister of Greece in the early 1900s, a statesman with so much charisma he’s often called ‘the father of modern Greece.’”
“Enough lecture for now, Jon.”
They breezed through passport control at Venizelos to the reception concourse, which was festooned with welcoming signs in both Greek and English. They spotted their guide even before reading the Dr./Mrs. Jonathan Weber sign he was holding, a bearded young man dressed from head to toe in ecclesiastical black. He doffed his cylindrical hat and bowed slightly as he said, with studied formality, “In the name of Christodoulos II, archbishop of Athens and all of Greece, I bid you a most cordial welcome, Professor and Mrs. Weber.”
“Kalimera,” Jon replied. “You must be Father Stephanos Alexandropoulis?”
“Nai, nai!” he said, nodding in response.
Shannon smiled, recalling her first encounter with the Greek language when she learned that something so negative-sounding in fact meant “Yes, yes.”
“Please to follow me and get your luggage,” Father Stephanos said.
En route to their hotel, Jon acted as self-appointed tour guide to sights along the way, since Shannon had never visited Greece. “This is where chapters 17 and 18 in the book of Acts really come to life,” he commented as they drove through the heart of Athens and along the western side of the Acropolis on the Odos Apostolou Pavlou -the Street of the Apostle Paul. “There’s the Parthenon atop the Acropolis.” He pointed to the right. “And just northwest of it-see that rocky rise?-that’s the Areopagus, where St. Paul gave his famous Mars Hill address. And we’re just passing the agora, where he met the philosophers who invited him to give that speech.”
Father Stephanos was nodding proudly, almost as if he had arranged all the sites for their benefit. He told them how other tourists who had money but not culture infuriated him with inane questions: “Why don’t they tear down all those ruined buildings on top of that big hill?” Moments like that made the holy man want to strangle the inquirer, he admitted.
Now they drove through the Plaka to Syntagma Square and their hotel, the Grande Bretagne. Father Stephanos helped them with their luggage as they checked into Athens’s most famous hotel, frequented by the crowns of Europe and greats of the past and present.
“I hope you have good rest after your flight,” he said. “And I pick you up in the morning at ten o’clock. Will that be all right? Our appointment with the archbishop is at ten thirty.”
“Excellent, Father Stephanos,” Jon said. “You’ve been most kind. Ef charisto! ”
“Parakalo.”
Next morning at the appointed hour, they arrived at the headquarters of Hey Ekklesia Hellenike -known more commonly as the Greek Orthodox Church. A smiling Christodoulos II received them, the holy archbishop of Athens and all of Greece. He was a tall, imposing figure, attired, like Stephanos, in solid black. His salt-and-pepper beard provided a modest contrast, reflecting a man of sixty-seven maturing years. In many ways, because of a very lofty forehead, Jon thought he looked like Pericles himself, though without the helmet.
“Welcome, Professor and Mrs. Weber,” he opened in excellent English.
“Ine megali timi Makariotate, na’houme afton ton hrono mazi sas,” Jon returned in Greek, which he hoped would pass for “It’s a great honor, Your Beatitude, to have this time with you.”
“Your Greek is excellent, Dr. Weber,” the archbishop replied, “but please to use English. I love the English language and don’t have chance enough to use it.”
“I’m grateful for that, Your Beatitude,” Shannon said. While his wife’s New Testament Greek was as good as any scholar’s, Jon knew she was not familiar with modern, conversational Greek, which was markedly different.
“I am glad,” the archbishop continued, “that the fierce Muslim debate over that translation matter in your book seems to have ceased. When the news first reached Athens, I looked up that passage in the Greek edition of your book-and I saw that it was rendered correctly.”
Jon expressed his thanks, then came to the point of their meeting: the biblical manuscript project, which he explained in full detail. Would the archbishop be kind enough to look over a preliminary list Jon and Shannon had compiled of libraries and archives in Greece known for their ancient manuscripts, and provide any corrections or addenda? He easily agreed.
Jon’s next request, he worried, was more daunting. Might the archbishop be generous enough to provide them a letter of introduction that would be useful in establishing their credibility when they or their teams arrived at a given archive and desired permission to photograph the biblical manuscripts in their collection? Jon had prepared a list of safeguards, which he handed to the archbishop: 1. The librarian or archivist on location may always exercise his veto, with or without explanation. 2. All photography will be undertaken with utmost care so as not to inflict damage in any way on the precious materials involved. No flash photography will be employed in the process so as not to cause any fading of the texts. (Digital photography obviates any such need, provided that normal light sources are available.) 3. Full credit lines will be added to all photo collections and in all publications thereof. 4. A complete set of the resulting photographs will be deposited at all libraries and archives kind enough to permit such photography. 5. All commentary accompanying the collections involved will first be checked with the authorities at each location prior to publication.
Archbishop Christodoulos II studied the list and then excused himself to show it to the general secretary of the archdiocese in another office.
Jon smiled nervously at Shannon as they waited for what seemed like an hour but was probably only a few minutes. What if they couldn’t pass even first base on their venture? Should they have done more preliminary correspondence first? Yes, they whispered to one another, they probably should have. Would have, in fact, had the translation crisis not commandeered all of their time.
Christodoulos reappeared with another document in his hand. “Please to forgive me, honored friends, for making you wait,” he explained. “Our general secretary called in several other advisers, and a debate followed. And wouldn’t you expect that of Eastern Orthodox theologians?”
“Of course,” Jon chuckled, relieved to learn what had caused the delay. He was well aware that even in the ancient church, it was the eastern half of it-the Greek-speaking East-that always loved to split theological hairs in debates that could rage on for decades, even centuries, compared to the more practical Latin church in the West that quickly came up with reasonable solutions.
Now the archbishop’s smile faded into a frown. “Unfortunately, we cannot approve your list as it now stands.”
Jon shot a glance at Shannon that said, Well, our worst fears are nicely confirmed.
“But there will be no problem,” the archbishop added, a twinkle in his eye, “if you will add a sixth condition, which we have written out. It is similar to provision five, but stronger.” He handed Jon and Shannon the second document. 6. Except in the case of heretical writings, if upon reading the ancient texts in the photographs, a word, phrase, or paragraph appears that seems in any way to contradict, threaten, or imperil the holy, ecumenical beliefs of Eastern Orthodoxy,
the text or translation editor(s) must report this immediately to the offices of the archbishop of Athens rather than making that text public. Nor shall they in any way publicize this text but instead promise to keep this information absolutely confidential until it is released by the archbishop.
When Jon frowned a bit while reading, Christodoulos commented, “Please understand, dear friends, that this is not intended as censorship, but rather as a measure that will alert us to give a proper answer for such an item, should it arise.”
Jon brightened. “In that sense, we can certainly sympathize with your concerns, Your Beatitude, since worthless reinterpretations of Jesus and the church that he founded are all the rage in the print and electronic media today. Our sensationalist novelists and theologians would just love to twist some obscure line in an ancient source to discredit Christianity. We’ll gladly accept stipulation six.”
“Fine, then. We shall be happy to write your letter of introduction with the stipulations listed and send it by courier to… Where are you staying?”
“At the Grande Bretagne.”
“Excellent. It will be done.”
As they were standing to leave, Jon, in a carefully rehearsed afterthought, asked, “By the way, Your Beatitude, among the many fine textual scholars in the Church of Greece, who, in your estimation, is the foremost authority on early Greek orthography?”
“Classical Greek or koine?”
“ Koine. I should have specified that.”
“Ah, the language of the New Testament and the early church fathers. Well, this question is very easy to answer. Our outstanding authority here is Father Miltiades Papandriou at Oros Agiou.”
Jon concurred with a smile. “Had you replied with any other name, I would have asked you, ‘Why not Papandriou at Mount Athos?’”
“So then, you were only ‘testing me,’ as it were?” he asked. If Christodoulos had been frowning, it would have been a sure sign that Jon had stepped over the line. But the genial archbishop had a broad smile.
“No, it was just a case of reconfirmation. Father Miltiades is famed the world over for his ability to scan Greek lettering and slot it accurately into the nearest half century.”
“Probably the nearest quarter century or even decade!” the archbishop chuckled. “Do you plan to consult with Father Miltiades?”
Shannon quickly replied, “We’d be delighted to do that, Your Beatitude, if that were possible.”
Christodoulos shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, Madame Weber, that is not possible. Not possible… for you,” he emphasized, then smiled. “But I can easily arrange it for your husband.”
“Oh, that’s right; do pardon my error!” she replied. “No female can enter the monastery enclave on Mount Athos!”
“Quite right, Madame Weber. Perhaps someday that will change, but that someday has not yet arrived. Shall I prepare a letter of introduction also for Father Miltiades, Professor Weber?”
“I would then be doubly grateful to you, Your Beatitude. We would also like his evaluation of a Greek text my wife found at Pella in Jordan some months ago.” The words were out before Jon quite realized what he was saying. What if the archbishop wanted to know more about that text? At least, thank God, he had not used the term manuscript.
“Kalos,” Christodoulos replied. “I shall do so and send the letter along with the other material.”
Jon breathed a sigh of relief and asked, “Do you think Father Miltiades will be amenable to my visit?”
The archbishop chuckled. “ Amenable? He will be grateful to me for sending him an internationally known scholar on the life of Christ, though he will not know he was denied a visit by this very lovely archaeologist who wished to accompany him.”
“You are very generous, Your Beatitude,” Shannon said with a shade of blush, “and we are deeply in your debt. Ef charisto.”
“ Parakalo, my friends. Parakalo.”
After a week in Athens getting approval for subsequent teams to photograph biblical manuscripts at the National Library and the University of Athens, Jon and Shannon revived the tourist aspect of their journey by renting a car and driving northward on Greece’s National Road 1 toward Thessalonica and Mount Athos. The “Holy Mountain” indeed, Athos had more monasteries per square mile than any place on earth.
While Shannon snoozed, Jon was ruminating to himself on the why of monasticism in almost every creed in the world, especially including Christianity. In the Old Testament, Elijah, Elisha, and the other great prophets each seemed to have had a desert experience-either alone or with like-minded followers. In the New, where did John the Baptist, the forerunner of Jesus, hold forth? In the wilds of Judea, of course, though near the Jordan for his baptisms. And Jesus himself? Forty days in the wilderness at the start of his ministry, the background for his famous temptation by Satan. St. Paul? Same story. Following his celebrated conversion on the Damascus Road, he spent almost the next three years in the Arabian desert, gearing up for his ministry.
The lure of the solitary tracts, the wilderness, the wastelands. And not just in Judeo-Christianity. Five centuries before the birth of Christ, an Indian prince named Siddhartha Gautama had left his wife and nine-year-old son for meditation in the forest to explore the meaning of life. And what was a forest, in terms of solitude, but a desert with many trees? He was there for seven years until he finally found the answer while sitting under the Bodhi tree and became the first “Buddha,” or “Enlightened One.” Zarathustra had had his wilderness experience as well, and the list went on and on.
Clearly, you couldn’t be a self-respecting religious luminary unless a desert experience was in your resume, Jon reflected. But why? Probably it was a case of clearer communication with God when one was in the wilds and far from the blandishments and seductions of life in the everyday world. Jon doubted that God spoke more loudly in the desert; it was just easier to hear him there.
Yet early Christianity was very outgoing and social, and for a time it had even seemed that it might be the first world religion without monks. Then, in the third century, a holy man by the name of Anthony fled into the Egyptian desert for a life of solitary contemplation, until the tour buses full of pilgrims, so to speak, arrived from Alexandria to see the holy hermit and the cave where he lived. Others, similarly inclined, sought out caves nearby and eventually monastic communities were born.
Except for anchorites like St. Simeon Stylites, who climbed atop a pole in Syria and sat there for the next thirty-plus years, monasteries were the rule thereafter. It remained only for St. Benedict, in the sixth century, to provide his famous threefold vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience to guide monasticism thenceforth.
But the monastic to whom Jon and his colleagues owed an incalculable debt was Cassiodorus, the sixth-century monk who had suggested that monasteries not only worship the Lord seven times a day and grow their own groceries, but also recopy ancient manuscripts so that priceless information from antiquity would not be lost. And so it was that monks in the medieval world preserved so much of the past tense of Western civilization.
Now they neared Kalambaka on the plains of Thessaly, beyond the halfway point to Thessalonica, where Jon left the main roads for an inevitable visit to Meteora. They had to take in Meteora, of course, and its series of monasteries that were perched precariously atop huge towers of rock. Quite aside from their role as tourist magnets, the monasteries were second in importance only to Mount Athos itself.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” Jon said as he parked the car at a vista observation point. “You’re about to see something that’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before!”
Shannon opened her eyes and gasped. Before them was a sight that came directly out of a fairy tale or fantasy novel. Or was it the most outlandish panorama that Disney artists or Steven Spielberg or George Lucas could ever have contrived? It was as if some colossal device in the earth’s crust had extruded broad, thousand-foot columns of sheer rock that loomed so dizzily over the plains below th
at the Greeks had named the place Meteora, meaning “things hanging in midair.” And, impossible to believe, atop each of these gargantuan sandstone pinnacles was perched a monastery complex.
“When the Ottoman Turks invaded the Balkans,” Jon explained, “hermit monks sought refuge atop these gigantic rock piles, which were quite inaccessible to the Muslim occupiers.”
“How could they ever have built those structures way up there? Wasn’t that in the Middle Ages?”
“Yes, thirteenth, fourteenth century. The story goes that St. Athanasios, founder of the first monastery, was carried to the top by an eagle.”
They both chuckled.
“Well, truth to tell,” Jon went on, “they scaled some of the cliffs by cutting steps into the rock, though often they used long, rickety ladders lashed together.”
“Horrifying!” observed Shannon, who admitted to a touch of acrophobia.
“There used to be more than twenty monasteries here. Now there are six, and only four are still active. As in all branches of Christianity, monasticism is not exactly overrun with applicants.”
“It’s an incredible view,” Shannon said appreciatively. “Which one are we headed for?”
“Our appointment is with Father Simonides, the abbot of the second-largest monastery up there to the right: Varlaam.” Jon pointed up to structures that seemed to belong to the heavens rather than terra firma. Varlaam was perched atop a cliff towering nearly twelve hundred feet above the valley below. “With any luck, he’ll give us permission to inventory and photograph their most ancient manuscripts, and maybe he will even persuade his fellow abbots to do the same.”
As they walked to the base of the enormous butte below Varlaam monastery, Jon pulled out his cell phone to announce their arrival. After many nods of the head and choruses of “Nai… nai… nai,” Jon pocketed the phone and said, “Bad news and good news, Shannon. Which do you want first?”
“The bad, of course.”
Jon was grinning, so even the “bad” news couldn’t be all that devastating. “Well, we were going to drive up to the mesa opposite Varlaam and take the bridge to the monastery, but cracks were discovered at one of the bases of the bridge and it’s closed for inspection.”
