The Horse of Christ

Whenever I imagine my father, I see him with a yoke around his neck, the yoke of his priestly stole. I see him yoked as a horse, a horse for Jesus Christ. I see him running from one end of his parish to the other, thirty mountainous kilometers, something he had to do sometimes twice a day. He was always weary, ready to collapse from fatigue, as every being that is yoked and subjugated.  It never stopped.

My father would then leave, without delay, following the man who had come to see him. He’d go out of the presbytery before the man had time to knock on the door.  Without fail, it was always something urgent; somewhere a human being awaited God. And my father was always in a hurry. He’d walk beside the man up to the gate. Once outside the stone wall of the fence from the holy place, the man who had come to ask my father climbed up on his horse. My father would walk behind the horse.

A priest never mounts a horse; this is the tradition of our mountain region. Thus my father carried his sack in which he kept the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, the cross, and his stole; he’d walk behind the man on his horse. My poor father always walked, although he was so fragile, so weak, and so skinny.  He walked like a horse, behind the man. He followed the horse’s hooves without falling behind at all.

Sometimes, not very often, he’d smile and tell all the kids that, “I’m Jesus Christ’s horse.  God sits on my back, like on a horse…and he told the truth, because this is not so funny as we took it to be when we were young.  My father was transporting the Body and Blood of Christ, just like a horse transports its rider.  Everywhere.  Day and night.  God climbed up on my father’s shoulders every time he went to the depths of the dark pine forests and to the silent core of rugged mountains.

I would tell him that his sons and daughters in Christ don’t love him, as I saw him returning, dead tired.  “You’ve only just returned to the presbytery and already they’ve come to call on you.  You’re trying to lie down a little and they’ve come to see you.  They wake you up.  They force you to go out any time of the day, no matter what the weather, and you walk for hours and hours behind them, while they sit on their horses.  They drag you out without stopping, in the night, in the rain, in mud and snow.  The faithful love you even less than they love their own animals.  They’d never ask their animals to do what you do, as their priest.  Why don’t they feel sorry for you?  Why have they never had mercy on you?”

“Mercy befits people, animals, things, but not the priesthood,” my father would answer.  “It would be silly, inane and irreverent for men to feel sorry for a priest.  Every Christian who knocks on a priest’s door is in reality knocking on God’s door.  This is because a priest is ‘made like unto the Son of God’ (Heb. 7: 3).  No Christian can have the irreverent idea that God is tired, that God wants to sleep, that His feet hurt.  Anyone can ask anything of God and at any time.  I protested:  “But a priest is also a man,” I said.  “No,” replied my father.  “A priest is not a man, but the sacrifice of a man, which is added to God’s sacrifice.  That is what the priesthood is.”

This was a beautiful reply.  I turned red, but added:  “Still, you should rest for a few hours.”  “No,” he repeated.  A priest is not like farmer, a worker or a craftsman.  No man becomes a priest so that he can have many free hours and days off.  He is always a priest without breaks, without vacations, without pause, day and night.

In the same way that men can address God at any time, any hour of the day or night and for any reason, without fear of disturbing or annoying Him, so can men come to the home of a priest whenever and for any reason. Of course, we don’t have priests who don’t sleep, who don’t eat and whose feet don’t hurt. This, however, is an imperfection that we are obliged to accept, because the priesthood is an image or shadow of heavenly realities, as was revealed to Moses, when he was to make the tabernacle. See, he was admonished, that you make all things according to the pattern shown to you on the mountain (Heb. 8: 5).

The priesthood, mirroring the priesthood of Christ, eradicates the taking of any leave.  It remains permanently and for eternity (Heb. 5: 6).  Even natural death does not end the priesthood.  If this is so, how can hunger, fatigue or desire for sleep keep a priest from performing his duties?

“So is he a priest even after death?” I asked him the first time that he told this to me.  “Yes,” he said, a priest is a priest for eternity, Assimilatus filio dei, manet sacerdos in aeternum. ‘Made like unto the Son of God; abideth a priest continually.’ (Heb 7: 3)

Since a priest has been made like unto the Son of God, he cannot die.  He remains a priest within death and despite death, unto eternity.  For this reason a priest is buried in the vestments that he wears when celebrating the Divine Liturgy.  A priest is buried wearing his cross, his stole, his Felonion, Stichar, Epimanikia…everything as if he is dressed for the most splendid church service.  In death, a priest liturgizes in the true and heavenly Church with his bishop, Christ.  For every priest death is a promotion.  He passes from the earthly chapel in which he served on to the heavenly Cathedral in order to serve in the eternal liturgy near Christ.  Thus, the death of a priest must never be mourned, because he never dies, but is rather promoted upon natural death.

For the reason that a priest remains a priest after death, when he is placed in the tomb, he is dressed in the same garments that he performs the Liturgy.  His face is covered with the Aer, the cloth which covers the Holy Cup of Communion, which contains the Body and Blood of Christ.  The Air symbolizes the stone that sealed Christ’s tomb.  This same stone that sealed Christ’s tomb also seals the grave of every priest, because every priest is like unto the Son of God.

Hearing this, I let the tears roll down upon my father’s holy hand, which I bent down and kissed reverently.  I understood the old saying that if one meets an angel and a priest on the road walking beside each other, he must kneel in front of the priest and kiss his hand first, and then kneel to the angel and greet him.  This is because angels are lower than priests in that they cannot make bread and wine into the Body and Blood of God and priests can.

Despite the incomparable happiness that my father felt in being a servant of the Most High, my father lived his life in unimaginable hardship and suffering. Every year that went by, my father lost more and more weight, became more fleshless and immaterial.  At thirty years of age, my father’s hair was white.  At thirty years of age, my father was an old man.  His was losing his teeth, because of misery, malnutrition, and toil.

In contrast to this, his gaze became more and more beautiful, bright, radiant and intense so that his head seemed to be illumined by a halo.  I noticed an unusual fact:  when my father looked at something, it seemed to shine as if it were lighted by secret searchlights.  Seeing this I felt for the first time that when a holy person sees the world, they illuminate and sanctify it.

“What are you looking at?” my father asks, seeing me deep in thought.  “You are bright like an icon,” I said, turning beet red.  Father laughed.  He was neither prideful nor humble, because in order to feel pride or humility a person must be humanly.  But father was less and less human.  He smiled because my voice reached his ear and that made him happy.  My father didn’t smile very often.  When someone is very tired, he cannot smile.  This time however, he did smile and when my father smiled, one could see that he’d lost almost all of his teeth.  My heart sunk.  I felt so sorry for his wretchedness that I could not hold back my tears.  That’s when I decided that if one day our Lord Jesus Christ decided to allow his priest, Constantine Georgiou, to have all the food that he wanted for the rest of his life, my proletarian father, my revered father would continue—despite the miracle of food at his table–to always be hungry as in the past.  This is because even if he had something to eat, he could not, because he no longer had any teeth…



From Experiences During the Divine Liturgy

Blessed Menas, a charismatic priest, lived at a monastery in Roumania. Every day, after the Divine Liturgy, went out to the forest outside the monastery and he chanted and glorified God with spiritual hymns.
All the birds of the forest would gather around him then, on his head, his shoulders, his arms, and he lovingly petted them. Many times, while Father Menas was chanting, the birds would stop chirping and listen to him quietly.
Since the daily services at the monastery started late at night and continued on until dawn, by the time the good priest finished consuming the Holy Gifts and disrobing himself, the sun was already shining and he would go out into the forest and delight in nature and the presence of the birds. The forest creatures and the priest together glorified the Lord this way.
Many people observed that near the end of his life, when there was a feast day and the Liturgy lasted a bit longer, the birds would gather on the roof of the church!
During the part of the Liturgy when prayers are said for the changing of the Holy Gifts into the body and blood of Christ, and the priest said, “Thine of Thine Own ,” the birds would get quiet! And when the priest ended those prayers by exclaiming, “Especially for the All-Holy, Spotless…”, and the choir chanted, “It is truly meet…,” the birds would once again begin to chirp!