Once — many years ago— when I happened to
celebrate Easter and the Resurrection in a little mountain village of the
Peloponnese, I had noticed an old villager who was holding a lit Easter candle
with his arm outstretched upwards, towards the stars that adorned the skies of
that Resurrection night, and, as though addressing me, I heard him gently
murmur:
“The Heavens, my child, were tamed on this
night….”
In those few words, that innocent villager had
succinctly enclosed the most profound meaning of the Christian miracle. “The
Heavens were tamed”.
Without the supreme Christian miracle of the
Resurrection, the heavens would have continued (for the cowardly soul of the
simple person and for every human soul generally) to be the abode of a dreaded
God; a fair judge, but also one without leniency, and a merciless vindicator.
Such were the gods of all other religions. They reigned supreme over their
creations, instilling fear in them. They were omnipotent tyrants, who remained at
a great distance from their peoples; they had never acquainted themselves with
their worshippers’ weaknesses, they had never suffered the pain that their
believers suffered and had never been tormented by their believers’ torments.
They had never mourned like their believers mourned. They were incapable of
compassion, of sympathy or forgiveness. How could the heavens that are
inhabited by such gods not be perceived as “savage”, in the eyes of awe-struck
mortals?
In that calm spring night, as the old villager’s
lit candle was lifted to the heavens like a greeting towards the twinkling,
resurrected stars, the heavens indeed seemed tamer. They were no longer the
abode of a God estranged from His people, seated far, far away “up there” on
His terrible throne. There now resided a lovable God; one Who had savored all
the sufferings that mankind suffered: He had acquainted Himself with all the
injustices of the world, He had undergone every kind of scorn, He had paid for
every single kind of ingratitude. He was abused, laughed at, spat on, dragged
through the streets in bonds as though He were the worst of criminals, and was
crucified. He had hungered, thirsted, and had beheld the horror of death. For a
moment, He had even seen Himself as forgotten by God Himself, who was His
Father: “My God, my God, why have You abandoned me?” There was no pain that He
had not become acquainted with; no heartache that He had not felt; no misery
whose poison He had not tasted. He drank every kind of bitter drink that a
person could ever drink in this world. And, on a night like tonight, this
suffering and tortured person had risen to the heavens and had seated Himself,
all-powerful, at God’s Throne, to govern the entire world. How could the
Heavens not become “tamed”? An infinite goodness had now engulfed the
Firmament.
“Why should any sinner tremble in fear from then
on?” the old man must have thought to himself. “He who had forgiven the whore,
the robber - and even those who had crucified Him - is now “up there” and He
can see the sinner’s tears of repentance and forgive him. Why should any sick
person feel desperation? He who had healed the blind and the paralyzed is now
“up there” and can heal him also. Why should the poor and the wronged feel
resentment? He, who had hungered and thirsted is now “up there” and is fully
understanding of his misery too. Why should any mother worry anxiously about
her child? Up there, in the Heavens, is a caring Mother who has also endured
maternal suffering and who will beseech (on that mother’s behalf) Her Son, who
governs the entire world, to bestow His mercy on her. And why should any
white-haired elder tremble during his hour of death? For him - as for every
soul – there awaits a resurrection…”
The Heavens were indeed tamer on that spring
evening. And the old man’s candle had indeed been raised as a greeting – and as
a thanksgiving – towards those ‘resurrected’ stars.
—“Christ is risen, grandpa”.
—“He is God; He is the Lord, my child”.
______________________________________________
Κάποτε —ἐδῶ καὶ πολλὰ χρόνια— ποὺ μοὔτυχε νὰ κάνω Ἀνάσταση σὲ κάποιο ὀρεινὸ
χωριὸ τῆς Ρούμελης, ἕνας γέρος χωριάτης, ὑψώνοντας τὴ λαμπριάτικη λαμπάδα του,
σὰ χαιρετισμό, πρὸς τ' ἀναστάσιμα ἄστρα, μοῦ εἶπε σὰ νὰ μιλοῦσε μὲ τὸν ἑαυτό
του :
—Ἡμέρεψαν ἀπόψε, παιδί μου, τὰ Οὐράνια.
Στὰ δυὸ αὐτὰ λόγια ὁ ἀθῶος χωριάτης εἶχε κλείσει, ἐπιγραμματικά, τὸ βαθύτερο
νόημα τοῦ χριστιανικοῦ θαύματος. «Ἡμέρεψαν τὰ Οὐράνια». Ὁ οὐρανός, χωρὶς τὸ
μεγάλο χριστιανικὸ θαῦμα, θὰ ἐξακολουθοῦσε νὰ εἶναι γιὰ τὴν περίφοβη ψυχὴ τοῦ ἁπλοϊκοῦ
ἀνθρώπου —γιὰ κάθε ἀνθρώπινη ψυχὴ— τὸ κατοικητήριο ἑνὸς Θεοῦ τρομεροῦ,
δικαιοκρίτη χωρὶς ἐπιείκεια καὶ τιμωροῦ χωρὶς ἔλεος. Τέτοιοι στάθηκαν οἱ θεοὶ ὅλων
τῶν θρησκειῶν. Κυβερνοῦσαν τὰ πλάσματά τους μὲ τὸν τρόμο. Τύραννοι
παντοδύναμοι, μακρυσμένοι ἀπ' τὸ λαό τους, δὲν εἶχαν γνωρίσει ποτὲ τὶς ἀδυναμίες
του, δὲν εἶχαν πονέσει ποτὲ τὸν πόνο του, δὲν εἶχαν βασανισθεῖ ποτὲ ἀπ' τὰ
βάσανά του, δὲν εἶχαν κλάψει ποτὲ τὰ δάκρυά του. Ἀνίκανοι νὰ συμπονέσουν, νὰ
λυπηθοῦν καὶ νὰ συχωρέσουν. Πῶς νὰ μὴν εἶναι «ἄγρια» — ὅπως τάβλεπε τὸ μάτι τοῦ
φοβισμένου ἀνθρώπου —τὰ οὐράνια, τὰ κατοικημένα ἀπὸ τέτοιους θεοὺς;
Καὶ μέσα στὴν ἀνοιξιάτικη ἐκείνη νύχτα, ποὺ ἡ λαμπάδα τοῦ γέρου χωριάτη εἶχε ὑψωθῆ
σὰ χαιρετισμὸς πρὸς τὰ λαμπρά, ἀναστάσιμα ἄστρα, τὰ οὐράνια εἶχαν ἡμερέψει. Δὲν
κατοικοῦσε πιὰ ἐκεῖ ἀπάνω ὑψωμένος στὸν τρομερὸ του θρόνο, ἕνας θεὸς ξένος γιὰ
τοὺς ἀνθρώπους. Κατοικοῦσε ἕνας γλυκύτατος θεός, ποὺ εἶχε πονέσει ὅλους τους
πόνους τῶν ἀνθρώπων, ποὺ εἶχε γνωρίσει ὅλες τὶς ἀδικίες τῆς γῆς, ποὺ εἶχε
τραβήξει ὅλες τὶς καταφρόνιες, ποὺ εἶχε πληρώσει ὅλες τὶς ἀχαριστίες. Τὸν ἔβρισαν,
τὸν ἀναγέλασαν, τὸν ἔφτυσαν, τὸν ἔσυραν δεμένο στοὺς δρόμους, σὰν τὸ τελευταῖο
κακοῦργο, τὸν σταύρωσαν. Ἐπείνασε, ἐδίψασε, κουράστηκε, ἀντίκρυσε τὴ φρίκη τοῦ
θανάτου. Γιὰ μιὰ στιγμὴ εἶδε τὸν ἑαυτό του λησμονημένο κι' ἀπ' τὸν ἴδιο τὸ Θεό,
ποὺ ἦταν πατέρας του. «Θεέ μου, θεέ μου, ἵνα τί μὲ ἐγκατέλιπες;» Δὲ στάθηκε
πόνος, ποὺ νὰ μὴν τὸν γνώρισε, καρδιοσωμός, ποὺ νὰ μὴν τὸν ἔννοιωσε, δυστυχία,
ποὺ νὰ μὴ γεύθηκε τὸ φαρμάκι της. Ἤπιε ὅλα τὰ φαρμάκια, ποὺ μπορεῖ νὰ πιῆ ἄνθρωπος
σ' αὐτὸν τὸν κόσμο. Καί, τὴ νύχτα ἐκείνη, ὁ πονεμένος καὶ βασανισμένος αὐτὸς ἄνθρωπος
εἶχε ἀνέβη στοὺς Οὐρανοὺς καὶ εἶχε καθήσει παντοδύναμος στὸ θρόνο τοῦ θεοῦ, νὰ
κυβερνήση τὸν κόσμο. Πῶς νὰ μὴν «ἡμερέψουν τὰ Οὐράνια»; Μιὰ ἀπέραντη καλωσύνη εἶχε
πλημμυρίσει τὸ στερέωμα.
Γιατὶ νὰ τρέμη πιὰ ὁ ἁμαρτωλός; θὰ συλλογιζότανε ὁ γέρος. Ἐκεῖνος ποὺ συχώρεσε
τὴν πόρνη, τὸ ληστὴ κι ἐκείνους ἀκόμα ποὺ τὸν σταύρωσαν, εἶναι τώρα ἐκεῖ ἀπάνω,
γιὰ νὰ ἰδῆ τὰ δάκρυα τοῦ μετανοιωμοῦ του καὶ νὰ τὸν συχώρεση. Γιατί ν’ ἀπελπίζεται
ὁ ἄρρωστος; Ἐκεῖνος ποὺ γιάτρεψε τὸν τυφλὸ καὶ τὸν παράλυτο, εἶναι τώρα ἐκεῖ ἀπάνω
γιὰ νὰ τὸν γιατρέψη. Γιατί νὰ βαρυγκομάη ὁ φτωχὸς καὶ ὁ ἀδικημένος; Ἐκεῖνος, ποὺ
πείνασε καὶ δίψασε, εἶναι τώρα ἐκεῖ ἀπάνω καὶ καταλαβαίνει τὴ δυστυχία του.
Γιατὶ νὰ λαχταράη ἡ μάννα γιὰ τὸ παιδί της; Ἐκεῖ ἀπάνω στοὺς Οὐρανοὺς εἶναι μιὰ
Μαννούλα, ποὺ δοκίμασε τὸν πόνο της, γιὰ νὰ παρακάλεση τὸ παιδί της, ποὺ
κυβερνάει τὸν κόσμο, νὰ τὴν ἐλεήσῃ. Καὶ γιατὶ νὰ τρέμη ὁ ἀσπρομάλλης ὁ γέρος τὴν
ὥρα τοῦ θανάτου; Εἶναι καὶ γι' αὐτόν, εἶναι γιὰ κάθε ψυχή, μιὰ ἀνάσταση.
Τὰ Οὐράνια εἶχαν ἡμερέψει, ἀλήθεια, ἐκείνη τὴν ἀνοιξιάτικη νύχτα. Καὶ ἡ λαμπάδα
τοῦ γέρου εἶχε ὑψωθῆ σὰ χαιρετισμὸς καὶ σὰν εὐχαριστία, πρὸς τὰ ἀναστάσιμα ἄστρα.
—Χριστὸς ἀνέστη, παπποῦ.
—Ὁ Θεός, ὁ Κύριος, παιδί μου.
