Marko Vilotić
One of the phenomena characterizing the contemporary world dominated by social networks seems particularly distasteful to me. Namely, when someone prominent and great passes away, people rush to post their photos with them to emphasize their closeness to the deceased, thus taking advantage of participating in their glory, at least for a moment. Truth be told, in such situations, it is tough to find the right balance. What, in what manner, and how much to say, or rather “reveal,” from a personal relationship with someone famous so that it honors the deceased and serves the purpose of uncovering their additional qualities and positive aspects that might not have been visible from afar, but deserve mention and attention, without slipping at the same time into hidden self-praise due to (real or, more often, imaginary) closeness to them?
Without having a completely clear answer to this question and being fully aware of the risk I am taking, I feel the need to write down and share with others a few details from my memories of encounters with Metropolitan John Zizioulas, which, it seems to me, shed some more light on his greatness than I could recognize before I met him.
Much about Metropolitan’s personality could already be gleaned from our very first encounter. Since he was in Serbia in 2013 on the occasion of the celebration of 1700 years since the signing of the Edict of Milan, two senior professors who had known him for decades wanted to honor me and another friend, both young teaching assistants and Ph.D. students, by introducing us to him. At first, we were not overly enthusiastic about this idea. On the one hand—of course, it is a great honor, but those days were hectic, and many distinguished guests from all over the world were present in our country. “As if Zizioulas now has time for us,” we thought.
We expected that everything would come down to a brief, courteous greeting and that he would quite naturally forget within a minute that he had ever met us. Furthermore, we thought we were already “mature” theologians; we are no longer kids to be fascinated by meeting someone famous in person, like teenagers when they see a rock star up close, for example. It is “just” Zizioulas, whom we have read a long time ago and—hats down to him, but over time we have also seen that not everything is just as he writes... Nevertheless, to avoid complicating the situation or offending anyone, we decided to briefly stop at the agreed-upon place, ask the Metropolitan for his blessing and then continue on our way to a tavern, as we planned. A very wrongly anticipated meeting, it would turn out.
Right from the first moment, our attention was captured by his lively and penetrating gaze, which you feel is looking at you for real and not just for the sake of courtesy. He asked who we were, what we did and invited us to sit with him. This we did not expect. Someone initiated a conversation on theological topics, which the Metropolitan dealt with the most. Oh no, I was thinking (which will turn out to be yet another misjudgment of mine): This evening is not going to be reduced to a performance where all of us are supposed to recite Zizioulas’ well-known views and admire and praise him for them, is it?! Well, that’s out of the question! You will see, now that you have already invited us, if only we get the opportunity—we will tell that gentleman, with all due respect, everything that we really think about his theology, not only what is worthy of praise but also what remains vague and unclear, where we think he is not quite right, and where maybe even not at all... And that is precisely what we did.
Probably because we were new to him, on several occasions, the Metropolitan wanted to hear exactly what we thought. And we talked honestly and extensively, criticized (him) and asked questions. And he? Not once did any sign of anger or displeasure appear on his face or in his voice. On the contrary, he concentrated intensely, making an effort to grasp the core of each critique and attempting to modify his views in a way that would respond to our observations with tremendous and genuine humility, as if roles were reversed as if we were some great teachers and he a student. Then he would ask again, “Is it alright now?” Again, not only did he not get angry, he even burst into laughter several times when we’d respond with something like, “It still does not sound quite right.” The conversation lasted for five hours, well into the night. Ultimately, he hugged and kissed us and asked us to visit him in Athens and help him finish his new book by critiquing the ideas he would share with us.
Thus, this initial meeting shattered all prejudices and laid the foundation for further encounters that would unfold in the years to come, mainly in Athens. We were taken aback and at the same time delighted by the fact that the Metropolitan exhibited no trace of shortcomings often observed in well-known thinkers, and regrettably all too often among bishops as well: remaining closed in their own system of ideas and beliefs, which is defended at all costs as a life’s work that must be fully embraced and (often uncritically) praised, while each criticism is perceived too personally and as ill-intentioned, or its meaning gets completely misunderstood, since there is no desire or possibility to understand the starting point from which an interlocutor is approaching, i.e., criticizing particular views. On the contrary, he who for decades had first been attacked gradually became “mainstream” and was at the moment the most esteemed or, to say the least, the most famous Orthodox systematic theologian in the world—listened for hours to the young people he had just met for the first time and even begged them for further “attacks.”
Subsequent encounters only confirmed and deepened these initial impressions. As mentioned above, they usually occurred in Athens, which is inherently full of symbolism and a very suitable “stage” for gatherings like ours. Indeed, I often felt privileged to experience the kind of studying and discipleship one encounters when reading old philosophical dialogues and treatises: in informal and pleasant contexts, often over lunch or a symposium. The Metropolitan never kept a distance from us but allowed and even invited and encouraged us to enter his everyday life. We met at his apartment, in charming taverns he loved in his neighborhood, and at his friends’ homes. Spontaneously, from a living relationship and experience, rather than from his or other people’s stories, we learned that the Metropolitan leads a simple, modest life surrounded by books and friends, often eminent intellectuals, doctors, scientists, and artists. SHARE With all of them, he always found a way to discuss theology, which had permeated his entire life, but he was also very open to listening to their reflections from various perspectives and fields they were engaged in.
He behaved ascetically but unpretentiously, without emphasizing it or intentionally drawing anyone’s attention to himself and his efforts. Strict towards himself, but not towards others. I never felt any kind of pressure in his presence, that I “had to” do, think, or say anything, that any form must be insisted upon. I felt the freedom to be who I am and defend in front of him what I think and believe is right. He was interested in essence in the people, not their form. Paradoxically, precisely because he never “suffocated” us nor forcefully imposed anything, he managed to “nudge” me, by positive example, to want to try at least to follow him in things I recognized as good. Such an unpretentious way of teaching by example has always been my favorite and has always seemed to me most similar to the way Christ himself practiced. In that sense, here are a few more things I noticed in him and wished to adopt from him, something I believe wouldn’t be detrimental to others either.
He loved theology and was so passionately engaged in it that he was practically tireless. We would often discuss the most complex doctrinal topics in English, which is not the native language for either us or him, for six or seven hours. There were times when my brain turned to mush, I’d get nervous, and I couldn’t sit any longer... He never had a problem like that: he remained focused and willing to engage in discussions with the same intensity in the seventh hour as he did in the first. And even though we tried to hide our fatigue (“If he can handle it at his age, surely we can as well!”)—most often, he would expose and dismiss us with words like, “Let’s call it a night, I can see you’re exhausted.” Not a single meeting ended with him “surrendering” it was always us.
Great minds are always more than what we can extract from their texts. Although it was precisely due to his writings that I initially fell in love with theology, and I knew some of them almost by heart, only the living encounter with him revealed that his viewpoints are actually far broader and more complex than the simplified “definitions” to which we often tend to reduce both him and others. More than once, it happened that we confronted him with “Zizioulas’ positions,” as they, in a simplified form, had practically become part of the Tradition, at least in our local Church. As a rule, he was highly dissatisfied with these “viewpoints of his,” asserting that he could never agree with such statements and that reality is much more intricate than simplified binary oppositions (“ontology rather than ethics,” etc.). Indeed, we do not often have the opportunity to meet and converse with people whose works we read personally. Still, his example shows us that, I believe, we are obliged to always read and interpret their works in the best possible light, to assume, as long as it’s possible, that they are broader and brighter than they may seem to us, instead of simplifying them for our convenience.
For Metropolitan Zizioulas, there were no taboo topics, nor did he dismiss any question as unimportant in advance. He was open to listening and grounded enough in his faith and the Tradition not to fear engaging in polemics, even on fields and subjects he hadn’t pondered particularly before, as long as you could convince him that this particular theological question was relevant. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he didn’t have all the answers ready up his sleeve nor to seek them devotedly. I will try to briefly cite an example that has remained a cherished memory for me. On one occasion many years ago, we touched upon the question of the creation of humans, of death, and its entrance into the world. At that point, I posed a question that had been troubling me for some time, formulating it in what at first glance seemed like a surprising way: “Why did the dinosaurs die out then?” The Metropolitan was initially puzzled, but I explained to him that the question boils down to the meaning of suffering/death of creation before humans. He understood the point, and a lengthy discussion ensued where we genuinely tried our best to find an answer to this question, which, by the way, I still don’t have to this day. At one point, our mutual friend “pityingly” interjected on behalf of Metropolitan, saying something like, “Alright, Marko, enough with the dinosaurs, let the man be, let’s move on to another topic!” I could practically agree entirely with this statement and call. However, the? Metropolitan responded briskly, “It’s not enough! I want the dinosaurs!” This example is so dear to me precisely because it clearly demonstrates his intellectual curiosity and willingness to dedicate hours to discussing things like dinosaurs, which he hadn’t thought about nor planned to discuss, just because it was essential to a young man and he himself understood that the question held theological relevance.
The most important thing I’ve learned from Zizioulas, based on everything said above, is not his theological views, although there are excellent, profound, and existentially significant moments in his teachings, particularly regarding his doctrine of personhood. My most valuable insight was realizing that a person of such reputation and knowledge was simultaneously unforced, humble, open, modest, and brimming with love for theology, which burned with undiminished fervor throughout his whole (by no means short) life. And no, I do not belong to the circle of his closest and most important friends or disciples. That is precisely why I believe it holds even more incredible value that he dedicated so much time, in such a beneficial way, to someone like me. I am convinced many others can offer much richer and more beautiful testimonies of their interactions with the Metropolitan than this one of mine. Lastly, paraphrasing Paul the apostle (compare Hebrews 7:26), I think we can rightly say, “This is the kind of teacher we need(ed).” I’m confident that such figures will continue to be essential in the future if we want our theology to remain relevant in the time and the world we live in.
May God grant him his Heavenly Kingdom, and thanks for everything!
