Kostas Busbouras
Between the lips and the voice
something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird,
something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth…
Pablo Neruda
To put into words the essence of a person you’ve cherished and shared decades of life with, continually nurturing and deepening your relationship, is akin to explaining the vastness of the ocean to those who have never glimpsed it in the distance or felt its touch with a mere net, upon which, as the saying goes, “my toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.”
It’s comparable to conveying the fragrance of a rose to those who have never smelled it. Yet, for those who share this experience, you can evoke their memories. The following lines are directed to them, offering glimpses of the radiant Master we knew, much like how Andreas revealed the Christ to others or Philip introduced Nathanael to Him, capturing moments from the years we spent alongside him.
In his own words, he was a “horizontal man.” During one of the first divine services we attended after meeting him, I was with Luke, and we found ourselves in awe of him. It was the same, identical service we had witnessed many times before, yet his presence, demeanor, movements, attire—everything about him—left us deeply affected. We couldn’t tear our gaze away from him. But he, too, would occasionally fix us with a look that couldn’t be described as controlling (though it did quiet our chatter), curious, or even communicative. It was a mysterious, inexplicable, profound, and unfathomable look. It was still very early in our acquaintance. After the “dismissal” and the distribution of the “antidoron” (a substitute for the Eucharistic gift) by him to the entire congregation, he playfully, teasingly inquired, “What were you two mumbling all the time?” I responded, “You! But you weren’t retreating either—you were paying attention to us, observing us...”. His response, however, will forever remain etched in my memory: “I cannot commune with God ‘vertically,’ in the absence of people. I only encounter God through others; I thirst for people. I am a horizontal person...”
In that gaze, we truly existed as individuals who loved him, and he reciprocated that love, living alongside him for decades, in harmonious concert with him. One memory that will forever stay with me is George’s revelation after meeting him face to face several times. He confided in me, profoundly moved, saying, “For the first time in my life, in that look, I felt that someone truly sees me, that I exist for someone.” Through that gaze, he listened to us when we poured our hearts and thoughts out to him—whether about the trivial or significant, the personal or ecclesiastical, the scientific or the humorous. He possessed a playful spirit, offering humor at the most fitting moments and revealing his inner child.
During another Liturgy on a summer day at Katafygion, precisely on August 15th, I had the privilege of entering the sanctuary after the “two wishes.” I beheld him slowly disrobing, an act he performed with a certain grandeur, akin to the attire of the high priest during the Orthros. He chose to do this not within the confines of the sanctuary, behind closed doors, but rather in the main temple, before the congregation of God’s people. Perhaps there was a hint of reluctance or subtle melancholy in this choice. He remarked, “Liturgy... here... WE ARE! I wish it would never end! To continue... to proceed to the true, definitive Liturgy... of the last days...” He was a man marked by a fiery expectation of the Eschaton!
During another memorable Liturgy at Katafygion, he delivered a sermon centered on the multiplication of loaves. In a single moment, he uttered words that had the power to jolt you from your contemplation and remain etched in your memory forever: “What matters, my brothers, is not the details of the events, but the spirit that produces them, the message that comes through them. And the message here is that what is not shared never reaches us, while what is shared is blessed by God and thus reaches and super-surpluses.” I stood there, utterly astounded, like a dry tree, as they say. Approaching him, I couldn’t help but ask, “How do you come up with these insights? What sets your sermons apart from those of so many others? Where does this unique perspective on events come from?” There was a moment of silence, filled with anticipation. “I would love to have that view too,” I said. Then, he replied, “You would need to feel a lot of pain... you have to hurt deeply...” His response was gentle, contemplative, and marked by a hint of hesitation. We fell into silence once more, the two of us. Perhaps an imperceptible tear glistened in our eyes, a drop of moisture that barely formed but did not fall. And in that moment, I glimpsed that look in his eyes.
That same look would appear in the moments of our parting, at the airport, in the elevator of the apartment building, in the narrow gap of the front door that is on the verge of closing. Yet, if you were to turn around, you would discover with surprise that it hasn’t shut completely. Those thirsty eyes were waiting for something. They longed for one more meeting with your gaze, unwilling to relinquish your presence. They yearned to prolong that presence until the inevitable separation imposed by the constraints of space and time of the Fall, a final protest against absence, a poignant reminder of what constitutes our essence and the defining characteristic of personhood. And in the aftermath, there lingered the taste of that preceding presence, which endured for days and nights, etching its memory upon us.
These moments serve as the indelible imprint of our connection with the Master. They cannot be fully conveyed to those who haven’t lived through them, except as subtle intellectual understanding, as mere information, devoid of the profound essence they carry. Nevertheless, even in this form, they leave behind a trace—a sign, an indicator, a testimony—much like the “drops that tremble on the nets” of words...
We crossed paths by what some might call chance, sometime before 1990. Chance? Don’t be fooled. During a period when I was hurtling toward a form of moderate atheism, filled with a desire to satirize the Church’s decline and Christian pietist associations, and deeply pained by the deterioration and death of personal connections among Christians I knew—with my determined deletion from the School of Theology, with a clear aim now to turn to Medicine—I received word that “Zizioulas gives the most challenging exams. If you pass, you’re fortunate, and with a five—thank God!” It was a challenge. I decided to read his Dogmatics out of sheer stubbornness, initially, and started studying it. From the very first pages, something within me began to stir. I found myself laughing, pondering, calling others, and eventually getting overwhelmed. I was falling headlong into it, no longer able to restrain myself.
I also delved into “From Mask to Personhood” from the theological journal Epopteia and “Christology and Existence” from the journal Synaxi. I took my exams (both the 6th and 8th semesters together) and discovered that I hadn’t just passed, not with just an “Excellent,” but that he was asking about me, that he wanted to meet me... “Go for it, you rascal,” my friends, theology professors themselves, said. So, I went. “Do you speak English?” “Yes!” “If you ever need a letter of recommendation for studies abroad, let me know.” “Thank you, but... I’m on the verge of quitting... I’m practically an atheist.” It was a challenge, or maybe more accurately, desperation. He recognized it. After all, someone else was the “rascal.” “What does being an atheist mean, anyway?! Do you know how many people consider themselves believers, claim to be, but are actually atheists?” The gaze. He wasn’t rushing; he was waiting. “You know, there are plenty of folks who profess to be atheists, but deep down, they live like Christians... But anyway, I really enjoyed your writing; you understood me, grasped what I was saying. And you know, as a university professor, the first thing I care about isn’t whether someone agrees with me, but that they genuinely, deeply understand my message. After that, they can criticize me, and I actually welcome that, but with sound arguments, not mere slogans... I’m eager for a genuine discussion, you see.” His tone subtly shifted. He appeared a bit more at ease, a touch more personal. “Maybe we could meet and chat outside of school... How does that sound?”
“But... (momentary confusion, uncertainty, hesitation). But... um... of course, I’d love to, yes, I’m honored... I’ll be very happy... I’m already thrilled about it...” And that look, tender and vast like an ocean.
“Great! Here, jot down my phone number and home address, and if you ever find yourself in Athens, give me a call, and we’ll meet up.” “Yes, yes, I go to Athens regularly!” “But, you know, it’s hard to find me. My real address is the airports, to be honest. I travel frequently, I’m constantly on the move... I live with a suitcase in my hand... I have numerous commitments, particularly with the Patriarchate. It’s my cross to bear... You’ll need to shoulder a cross as well if you want to engage with me...”
The initial acquaintance, the inception, had taken place. The seed had been sown. However, the subsequent nurturing, growth, blossoming, and bearing fruit of our relationship encompassed an entire web of human connections, not just a bilateral relationship between two individuals—him and me. It is evident in retrospect that our personal relationship wouldn’t exist without this intricate network. In the interpersonal relationship he taught and championed, uniqueness, liberated from exclusivity to the greatest extent possible, could not have unfolded any other way.
Thus, a sequence of unimaginable coincidences, both preceding and ongoing, wove this intricate tapestry of personal relationships, with him soon emerging as its focal point—coincidences that, collectively, are rarer than one in a trillion.
So, shortly after our initial encounter, armed with a bouquet of fragrant kaiser lilies, we ventured to his home with Andreas. Upon arrival, we bid farewell to Andreas, and I ascended alone, timidly presenting him with the bouquet. I muttered almost bashfully, "As a simple symbol... of friendship... the beauty and fragrance of flowers..." His response, the first profound truth that passed his lips, left an indelible mark: "Simple? In this world, truth can only be expressed through symbols..." He then tenderly caressed the flowers, savoring their fragrance, seemingly engaging in a silent conversation with them as he arranged them in a vase. Our discussions ensued for hours on end, delving into topics such as atheism, sin, the soul, and the body, “flesh” and “spirit,” Plato and Christ, spiritual paternity and confession, and the state of the Church versus the spirit of pietistic organizations. These conversations were ceaseless, always incomplete, and filled with the anticipation of our next encounter, leaving both of us perpetually unsatisfied yet eager for more.
Andreas patiently waited for me for hours, loitering on Harilaou Trikoupi street and Sarantaporou. When I finally returned, he eagerly inquired about our meeting and its outcome. “Andreas, I must tell you something: you need to meet him as soon as possible.” With that, Andreas promptly assumed the role of superintendent or “paedonomos,” as the Bishop affectionately referred to him. He became the one who added punctuation to our long and never-ending conversations.
It was indeed a companionship. His writings were not just the result of solitary reading and tormenting thought but also the outcome of our discussions and sharing, often extending into the early hours of the morning. The first chapter of “Communion and Otherness,” for instance, emerged not only from his rigorous thinking and study but also from our endless conversations. I can’t forget the time on Katina’s balcony when he was grappling with our questions, striving to articulate something he was thinking deeply. Suddenly, I noticed the brilliant full moon rising behind Pieria and ecstatic I exclaimed, “Wow, look at the moon!” The response was immediate, like lightning: “Here we are, all seeking truth, and you’re diverting us to nature, betraying and undermining everything at this moment! Come on, let’s find the thread again...” And so we did, with everyone sensing and understanding. It was almost akin to the moment when Christ told Peter, “Get behind me, Satan.”
In these gatherings, he had a strong aversion to idle chit-chat. When someone spoke, everyone else listened attentively. This was the norm during our evenings at large dinners in Katafygi, at Olga and Laki’s tavern, or on Katina’s balcony. The same held true for meals at “Koutouki” in Kifisia, “Katsarina,” afternoon coffee in Politeia, or on his own balcony. Even if there were larger groups of 30 or 40 fellow students, everyone would remain focused on the speaker. Engaging in frivolous small talk was discouraged, as his penetrating gaze had a way of redirecting the conversation, ensuring that nothing escaped his notice. Those who knew him were aware that they remained within his field of vision even when he wasn’t looking directly at them.
However, the gatherings led by this horizontal man were unlike typical social gatherings in this world. This group was not about casual camaraderie and playful games. There was something deeper, an underlying theological truth that you could feel but couldn’t fully grasp, even if it were explained in a single word. We came to understand this truth over the years, through numerous experiences. It was the truth of hierarchy. But not the kind of hierarchy most people think of—vertical hierarchies based on factors like nature, age, social status, wealth, education, power, or anything else. It was the hierarchy of personal otherness, the kind that arises in love relationships that are not physical but deeply personal.
These relationships, in their authenticity, possessed a radical asymmetry not rooted in any physical differences. They weren’t established through agreements; instead, one person issued the call, and the other responded with a resounding “yes.” A personal relationship, as an expression of love and freedom, was more than just a feeling—it was a summons and a corresponding answer. In this dynamic, all were reborn and subsisted through the call and the response, creating a new reality.
“I’m not just interested in each of you individually as an individual; I’m equally interested in your relationships,” he would often say. Through decades of living together, we came to deeply understand the profound meaning of his words. In another moment of symbolic bouquet of flowers, he told me, “You are part of my eschatological identity.”
I must also mention a moment of his stern gaze when I nervously approached him to protect him (!) from something I had heard being discussed about him at the School. He interrupted me and said, “Let it go and don’t be troubled. Know that the presence of God does not trouble the heart; it’s the devil that does. Elder Sophronios reminded me of this regularly, and it was a criterion in my difficult decisions. But there’s something else: when you narrate something bad, you... give it new existence!” It left me in shock.
“All those who talk about humility, how much egoism, how much self-love, how much hypocrisy they can hide behind the words about humility. Why, what is humility, after all, but to feel deeply that we are all in God’s merciful judgment?” He rarely spoke of humility. However, I remember a moment when Mania, in front of the company, told him, “how proud the mother and father who gave birth to you must be in heaven, who brought such a man into the world...” I recall that he bowed his head with emotion and said, “Mrs. Mania, I don’t know if they are proud, but I hope at least they won’t be ashamed of me.” Then followed a silence, and all of us, for a few moments, remained silent as well. He knew, like true musicians, the power of pauses and how to let silences speak between the words. Both his words and his silences were surprising and revealing. Few can achieve this.
And so, gradually, quietly, like fruit ripening on a tree, through our conversations and, more importantly, through our life with him—some of us more closely, others more loosely, but all firmly—we became participants in his thoughts, perceptions, criteria, and mindset. His thought was characterized by synthesis. By default, his approach and quest were about how to synthesize what appeared to be opposites and incompatibles—not disjunction, not either/or, but synthesis, both/and, creation. In order to reach separation and then exclusion and rejection, he would diligently examine all possible objections, extensions, and possibilities, not based on temporal criteria but under the light of eschatological truth, as expressed in the Liturgy, the Gospel, the spirit (not the letter) of the Fathers, and the relational sensitivity and thirst of people. This was how he approached every text, striving to uncover the author’s central thought, to grasp their spirit, their central idea, their axis, the “key to their thought,” as he liked to put it. From Levinas to the newspaper—and I recall the ritual of unpacking the Sunday newspapers after Liturgy until lunch, how eagerly we read Evgenios Aranitsis’ “Paradoxes.” He really wanted to give Evgenios a copy of “Communion and Otherness” with a dedication, but he asked himself shyly, “Would he be interested?”
A thirsty curiosity for what the thoughts and sensibilities of others had to offer, a curiosity that absorbed knowledge like a sponge. When Harari’s first book, “Sapiens,” was published, he promptly requested it, and we read and extensively discussed it. He was aware of individuals who began criticizing parts of the book without thoroughly reading it. “I never approach a writer to discover where they are wrong! What captivates me is what this individual has to offer through their research, what knowledge they possess that I lack, what I can glean from it—why should I waste time on the rest?”
His capacity for absorption, his ability to synthesize thoughts, and his creativity were truly remarkable when faced with dilemmas. I had heard many people cite him to support their positions, claiming that “Zizioulas says that fasting should be abolished or reduced in our time,” while others argued that “Zizioulas says that fasting in our time should be made more rigorous." I decided to ask him directly. “I have never made such statements, neither one nor the other. I have simply stated that the Church provides you with a rope and allows you to stretch it yourself, exercising discernment, as far as you can.” This exemplified his wisdom in rightly dividing and discernment.
"Is intelligence necessary to do theology? Isn’t holiness enough, as many argue?"
– Intelligence is indeed necessary, but primarily in a negative sense.
– Negatively? What do you mean?
– Well, it's a necessary condition to prevent you from uttering nonsense, from drifting into slogans.
– And the positive condition?
– The positive condition is to possess a deep sensitivity to matters of relationships, personal relationships.
There it is! Always the person! The person is the key to everything, to his thinking and to all of theology. But how can one truly understand it? Simply through reading? Certainly not. It’s not about describing and intellectually grasping it. You truly "understand" the person existentially only when you engage in personal relationships – real, deeply personal relationships with all the joys and enormous risks they entail. And through betrayals, losses, tensions, and deaths, you come to understand that the person is genuine as an orientation towards its eschatological fulfillment, and that its anticipation is tragic here and now, in the fallen world where evil and death still hold sway.
And the time came when my father passed away, tragically due to a medical error. My mother suffering from dementia, who had been cared for by my father with faith, devotion, self-denial, and self-sacrifice for years, found herself at a crossroads, deciding between being placed in an institution and coming to live with me. Amidst various voices, including those of close relatives and friends, urging the choice of an institution, his [Zizioulas’] words served as a catalyst: “If your mom were in your place, would she put you in an institution?” That settled it. Some close relatives continued to insist, emphasizing my future, personal life, youth, and self-fulfillment, but the die was cast. In every phone call after that, at least twice a week, his first question was, “How is your mom doing?” followed by, “And you? Can you handle it?” He was always there, always providing a sense of togetherness despite the physical distance between us. However, dark clouds gathered, and a terrible storm raged within me. “Why? How can a God the Father bear to see His creature suffer like this, gasping for breath, rolling their eyes, contorting their body, speechless, not knowing if they are in pain, cold, or ... millions of His creatures, tens of thousands of years? Why doesn’t this all end? Why doesn’t He take the one who is suffering at least?” He responded, “Kostas, I understand you” (yes, I felt that he truly understood me), “but in previous years, you didn’t express these feelings with such intensity. Now, you see them through your own experience of evil...”
“Yes, now I see them more clearly, painfully vivid, but I protest on behalf of all humanity... If there is a God, if I see Him, I will ask Him how He could bear to witness all of this, nothing else, how could He bear it... as a father...”
“Look, Kostas, I empathize with you... In your pain, you’re projecting a human concept of God as a father; this is anthropomorphism. However, the issue goes deeper. You can’t grasp the problem of Evil with logic alone; it surpasses our human understanding. Right now, it’s hitting you hard because of your love for your mother and your relationship with her. If you attempt to solve this logically, you’ll either go mad, become an atheist, or, beyond all reason, acknowledge the existence of a loving Being and place your trust in His care... I don’t see any other solution.”
The storm began to subside, and after a few days, I found more clarity within myself.
“Your Eminence, yesterday, I only saw one ‘I’ within myself, but today I see two different ‘I’s within me, in conflict, each with its own opposing desires. The first ‘I,’ the one from yesterday, is noisy, shouting, and complaining as it did yesterday, and its desire—how can I articulate it—is for my mother to pass away, for both her and me to be liberated. The other ‘I’ stands somewhat aside, silent, sad, deeply pained... But I now understand something, I see it clearly: the first ‘I,’ if my mother dies, will disappear along with its desire for liberation from all that I’m going through. But the other ‘I,’ the small and weak one, the silent one, will continue to exist even after my mother’s death. And this ‘I,’ if it is defeated while my mother is alive, will later mourn, remember, and feel remorse that it couldn’t prevail. It will take charge of my existence, my relationship with my mother. However, if it prevails now, it will experience the pain of loss in a completely different way, without regrets, with peace of mind. My true self is this silent, weak, and ailing ‘I’...”
“Kostas, you were in a lot of pain, but now you have experienced it. You know it through your own experience that, in the end, evil is non-existent; it does not endure, despite all the terrible disturbances it causes... And now you understand more deeply what ‘when I am weak, then I am strong’ means—to willingly embrace all this human frailty...”
Yes, I had forgotten! Decades ago, when I read “Human Capacity and Human Incapacity,” I encountered this idea and was astonished even then, but without the depth of experience. I had mentioned it to him over the phone, and I could hear his eloquent silence on the other end: “You move me a lot, Kostas. You know, this article came out of the furnace of my own existence...” And after years, that initial intellectual understanding went through the furnace for me as well, with his assistance. It led to identification and a deep comprehension beyond words, which are helpful and guide, but can never fully match the depth of experience.
The pandemic and the quarantines arrived, and he felt melancholic. He was surprised that no official ecclesiastical figure, apart from Bishop Maxim, sought his opinion on matters such as the closure of churches and the conduct of liturgy under these conditions. He expressed, “I miss people, their presence, engaging in close conversations, seeing their faces... I can no longer write; I’ve lost my appetite, and I can’t think like before. My source is communion with people. I yearn to talk, to discuss, but not just over the phone. I want to see their eyes, to see them in person, to feel their physical presence...” He also said, “Kostas, you too are bound to your mother, captive to your love, and we will never meet again... So, we will part... without seeing each other again...”
I didn’t want to hear such things, and I denied them, but he said calmly, “Don't turn your gaze away from the tragedy of our existence. This too will happen; you will be in a lot of pain, and then, slowly, the wound will close. The sweet memory of what we lived and the expectation of the resurrection will remain. You know, Tsiropoulos [his close friend] used to say that man should not have friends because the time of separation, of death, will come, and the pain then is unbearable. But despite all the pain, it’s better to focus on what we experienced and thank God for what He gave us, for the relationships we developed. How many people experienced such love, how many tasted personal relationships for so many years, how many quenched this thirst... Let’s praise God for His gifts. We were very lucky, very blessed... Let’s also accept the pain...”
In one of our last conversations, in the midst of suffering and illness, we talked about the book he had been preparing for years, “Remembering the Future,” on the great subject of biblical and Christian eschatology. We discussed his ideas, his concerns, but you could already hear the resignation, the “bending,” the sadness in his voice. “I won’t see it, I won’t catch up... I’d rather see the reactions, will there be a discussion?” “It will be great,” I told him, excited by what we were saying and reading, “it will be the last word, the most complete book on Dogmatics and not only that.” “What do you say, no one can achieve this. Anyone who thinks they can have the last word has not understood what Truth is. He thinks there is an object to be described... No, truth cannot be objectified! It is like a horizon that the more you open up to it, the more truth it brings into view. No matter what you say, no matter how strong it is, the next day it has overtaken you. But, thank God for what we have seen and experienced, let us always end there, in His thanksgiving and glorification!” It was one of his last words to me...
This is how we walked the path of this magnificent friendship—some of us closer and more regularly engaged, while others were more relaxed and less frequent in their interactions. Yet, it was always within the atmosphere that he created, taught us, and infused us with; the ambiance of his unique love in freedom, his unparalleled style and ethos, and his singular gaze. Until the day came when the Giant, the Despot of our hearts, succumbed to our shared fate of mortality, where we all eventually find ourselves.
We anticipated, along with Andreas, what would happen on January 30th. The situation was already critical; he hung by a thread, intubated since the previous morning. It struck me to think that one day he might be proclaimed as the Fourth Great Hierarch. Yet, he departed on the day of the Meeting of the Lord! Was it mere chance? Nothing happens by accident. Immediately, I recalled a liturgy on the day of Hypapanti. “What does today’s celebration signify? What do you believe we are celebrating today?” His gaze was profound, contemplative, and after a few moments, he spoke, “You cannot fathom how deeply this feast day moves me. We celebrate the boundless tenderness of a God who answers humanity’s most profound longing—to cradle Him in their human arms, just as they hold their frail infants, to embrace God with their arms...!” On this very day of the Divine embrace, He received him into His own arms.
Our Master, our father, our friend, extinguished his earthly existence on the day of the Meeting of the Lord, at least in physical form. The light of his soul, the light that radiated from his eyes and his lips, which was nothing other than the Light of Christ whom he adored, will shine forever and ever through his work. Our thanksgiving to the Lord, who made us worthy to experience him up close, will last a lifetime. Now opens before us the “presence-in-absence,” about which he often spoke to us, beyond what he wrote.
One last thing. What is all this? It’s a kind of public confession, sharing thoughts, feelings, and memories, but not only or primarily that. In all of this, there is a living testimony, my own personal testimony. Yet, for it to be true, the testimony of all those who lived closely with him, who also knew him as a person, in love and freedom, is necessary.
I hope that Lukas, Andreas, Katina and Stergios, Rodi and Emilia, Anna, Giannis and Mania, Iakovos, George and Sophia, the other George, Nikos, Alexander, Dionysis and his parents, Stavros, Anestis, Fr. Maximos, Fr. Dimitrios, Kostas and Lydia, and finally Antonis-Benjamin, the last and youngest of our group, all recognize the fragrance, beauty, and truth of what I have tried to recall, as I said at the beginning. I hope they do not deny and that they verify what “our eyes have seen, our ears have heard, and our hands have touched,” that which the hearts of all of us lived with astonishment.
Infinite lines lead from one point, but only one leads from two points, defining a single direction. This encapsulates the essence of testimony and tradition: the alignment of the experiences we all shared in his presence. Even those who have studied him discover the true meaning of their readings through his direct, wise guidance and by relating to him in life. This is how “tradition” is formed—a continuity that maintains the unquenchable flame ignited at the first Parousia of Christ. “Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire,” as Gustav Mahler once said. We are all like torches, eventually extinguished, yet the flame endures and is passed down from one person to another, from generation to generation, until the end of days. He was the man who revealed to us the Person, not as a mere concept, but as a living hypostasis. Yes, it comes with its tragic moments in our fallen history, but it also carries the profound, burning expectation of its eschatological fulfillment. Behind all these personal experiences, he revealed to us the face of Christ, the true vine from which all personal relationships originate and ultimately find their culmination.
Those who did not know Him may find inspiration in the stories of the witnesses. Depending on their sensitivity and existential thirst, some seeds may be sown, bearing fruit in Christ, their own lives, and their personal relationships.
May your memory be eternal, our great, Unique Teacher, Father, Beloved Friend, the late Angel of the church of God in Pergamum. You were the supreme gift of God in our lives, and you will remain so forever.
Rest in peace in the tents of the righteous, in the arms of Him whom your soul loved.
Until our blessed next encounter.
Translated from Greek by Maxim Vasiljevic
Source: FREAR
