Disciples of All Nations

This morning, I took the metro to Syntagma Square in downtown Athens and walked down the street to St. Paul’s Anglican Church. (Don’t even ask me how to pronounce “Syntagma.” All I can tell you is sin-tog-ma is not correct).

The church itself is small—at least in terms of seating area. Actually, it’s quite tall, which emphasizes the petite nature of the sitting space. At first, I had a slight feeling that I’d walked onto the set of a BBC drama. There were so many little British ladies that if Judi Dench or Maggie Smith had plopped down next to me, I wouldn't have been very surprised. (Actually, the more surprising thing would have been if they had plopped—those women have probably never plopped anywhere in their lives, plopping being such an unrefined action). The service was supposed to start at ten-fifteen, but as all things in Greece, it didn't start until a good bit later. In the interim between my arrival and the commencement of the opening hymn, Fr. Malcolm came over and greeted me (of course, he also had British accent). On a whole, the congregation was a mixture of families from Africa and retired expats from England.

The service started with the singing of “All Creatures of Our God and King.” A few elements of the service struck me at first. One, it was a bit more somber than I am used to. Two, the liturgy was slightly different. Three, it was a bit less high church than what I would consider usual (no genuflecting and a little less making the sign of the cross).  And of course, the combination of British and African accents made some of the congregational prayers sound unique to my American ears.

On the other hand, there was much the same as the Anglican services in America. We read the Old Testament and the New, a psalm, and the Gospel. The smallness of the church truly made it feel as though Fr. Malcolm was among the people while reading.

In the middle of the Gospel reading, it struck me anew how simple and beautiful the teachings of Christ are. The readings today were a mixture of texts about pride, humility, and wisdom.  The Gospel reading was from Luke 14, a parable about choosing the lowest place at a banquet, rather than the place of honor.  During the sermon, Fr. Malcolm spoke about the calling out of wisdom, and the difference between wisdom and knowledge. He ended by using the example of Pope Francis and his transformation—while working with the poor—to focusing on pastoral care rather than on dogma. The sermon ended with the story of Pope Francis’ personal prayer habits (two hours every morning). Fr. Malcolm concluded by saying that this habit was to seek wisdom in the person of Christ.

“ For Jesus,” he ended, “is wisdom.”

Later this afternoon, after eating lunch and taking a nap, I found myself reflecting on the experience. Was it precisely the same as the way I like to worship in the States? No. But that didn't seem to matter so much. In fact, it was a lovely thing to stand and recite the Nicene Creed with believers in Athens. They were different from me, certainly, but we loved the same Lord.

Perhaps it is pride to say that I know precisely the right way to worship, or to hold theological particulars above love between members of the body of Christ. God doesn't ask much from us—mainly, he asks for humility, the kind of humility that says, “I do not know all things. But I know the person of Christ, and in him is wisdom.”

So in the end, it doesn't matter if my Christian family in Greece uses a different liturgy, or if they sing more slowly, or don’t cross themselves the way I do. What matters is Christ, for in him we are all disciples. Disciples from different nations? Certainly. But the highest place at the wedding feast of God’s people does not belong to those who follow American traditions or Greek traditions or British traditions. My nation—or any nation— does not possess wisdom.  

For it is Jesus who is wisdom, and it is He who possess us.

St. Paul's Anglican Church in Athens