The Death of a Priest

I sat, but mostly stood, in the echo chamber of that cave-like Orthodox cathedral, listening to the many priests chant a great man’s funeral hymn in perfect harmony. The words were a familiar mother tongue even if I didn’t always understand them.

He had died on the eighth day of the eighth month. And without even thinking about it, I had cried for eight straight days afterward.

He was called “the face of Christ,” a welcoming shepherd, a humble servant — everything a priest who preaches the supposed religion of love should be. Without strings, without judgment. With the unique ability to make everyone in the room feel like they were celebrated above all others just for showing up.

In a way, he wasn’t the same type of human tainted with the dogma that’s fueled many a religious business endeavor. He lived well beyond it, among the people, singing in his deep rich voice, sometimes in Greek and then sometimes in American English songs.

Love, love, love, love, Christians, this is your calling…

In his lifetime, Father Tom had somehow convinced my grandfather — an old, stubborn Greek man who was deeply spiritual but had found fault with man-made religion — to come back to the church. After years of sending critical letters throughout the ranks of the Orthodox leadership, my grandfather had returned at last to sit in the cathedral and sob just before the cancer took him. I’m pretty sure we were cut from the same cloth, my grandfather and I. Because he never spoke a word of this doubt to me when he lived, but I learned later we’d come to similar conclusions. And sadness.

We have to be the face of Christ. People have to see Christ in us — that’s you and me. When you love like you love me, and you forgive like you’ve forgiven me; when you accept my frailties and I accept yours; when you bring your strengths to offset my weaknesses, I think we’re being the face of Christ.

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The Beloved Heathen Child

During the ceremony, flashes of things I thought I’d forgotten filled my mind — the songs at camp, the morning prayers. The confession in the woods at the edge of a cliff overlooking the earth. I was ten and felt so alone as the only child who didn’t truly believe, and I told him that if God were real, either way, I was angry at Him for taking my grandfather and my dog in the same year. And why did he make Grandma forget who I was when I needed her most?

After giving my confession, I thought Father Tom might scold me — a little heathen girl in the midst of his camp for aspiring priests and presbyteras. Instead, his voice rumbled with warmth and understanding into the open sky of nature.

“How you believe does not always look the same as how everyone else believes, sweetheart,” he had said, before speaking of God’s love for me.

Tears streamed down my face. For all my anger and doubt, I had been deeply saddened by that very anger and doubt. Maybe children who are born with an overpowering, somewhat sixth sense of love from God feel at odds with the worldly depiction of Him and end up believing nothing at all. Only so many adults are gifted enough to telegraph this unconditional love. I realized how he was able to change my grandfather’s mind.

The Pregnant Teen Turned Away

Father Tom retired when I was a teen, not long before I became pregnant. Terrified but reflective of my life and future, I attended a different Orthodox church led by another priest and stood in line for communion.

Would I raise my child here? Would I make this part of their life?

I felt the spirit of my grandfather’s warmth hug me as I stood alone and waited for the priest to spoon feed me the body and blood of Christ (dense bread floating in red wine). But when it was my turn, the priest quietly told me I was not allowed to take communion as a pregnant unwed teenager who had not confessed to her sins. A lump grew in my throat. Beet red, I nodded and turned to walk down the aisle of staring faces.

I understand the technical reason why the priest had denied me. But as a frightened pregnant child, who was seeking comfort in a dark time, I believe Jesus would have embraced me — not humiliated me, not turned me away because I hadn’t followed the proper “rules” to prepare for the Eucharist.

I never took communion again after that. It’s been 18 years.

Grieving in My Own Way

In the cathedral, people dabbed their tears as the organ and choir resonated from the loft above. I thought I, too, would cry when it was my turn to approach the open casket. But when I arrived at the edge of the altar as far as women are allowed, all I saw was a skeleton coated with skin in a burial casket. It wasn’t him, the lionheart of the man who had led our church for 50 years. Instead, I was stoic and numb, as fire flickered in the candle jars and incense smoke rose in straight lines before dispersing like ghosts to perfume the sniffling room.

To escape the stuffiness and remove my mask, I went to the bathroom. It was located in another building. The fresh air washed over me. I was alone at last. I walked into the reception hall on my way to the ladies’ room when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“We have to be the face of Christ. People have to see Christ in us — that’s you and me. When you love like you love me, and you forgive like you’ve forgiven me; when you accept my frailties and I accept yours; when you bring your strengths to offset my weaknesses, I think we’re being the face of Christ.”

I whirled around and saw Father Tom’s glowing smile and gasped. While everyone else was inside the cathedral, someone had set up a projector in the gym and left a video playing of him telling his life story just before he retired. His deep, bellowing laughter filled the empty gym. I smiled and burst into tears.

Here he is. This is who he was, not that corpse resting in a satin-lined coffin.

I felt like Father Tom had pulled me aside and said, “How you grieve does not always look the same as how everyone else grieves, sweetheart.”

In that moment, all I felt was pure spirit and emotion wash over me.

I may never return fully to the church that told me to leave. I don’t think I need to anymore. I no longer believe the doctrines that kept the masses obedient when they were largely uneducated. I don’t think God truly cares whether girls and women cross a designated males-only point on the altar, or how many times we repeat certain phrases, or that our icons are golden and plentiful. It’s all pretentious rules and religious pageantry that have become more important than serving the least of these or being someone who shows others the face of Christ.

But I know this. I believe God is much more like the version of God that Father Tom shared with the world — filled with love no matter the person, their orientation, color or faith (or sports team).

Father Tom was the face of the Christ that everyone who needs love deserves to know. On the way home from the funeral, I listened to the CD someone made of him singing during various liturgy services. It’s the only CD I own now. Sometimes, I accidentally turn it on, and Father Tom’s voice fills my car.

“May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God the Father, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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