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So let your light shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father Who is in heaven. I think of these words of Jesus, Your Grace, fellow priests, communicants, and friends of St. Demetrios, and my mind reverts to an era about fifty years ago, when I first met Father Homer at Pomfret, Connecticut, our seminary's location then. I picture the two of us among other young men, all together to prepare for the priesthood under the inspirational, stimulating, and challenging guidance of our venerable and multi-talented Dean, Bishop Athenagoras Kavadas. Those were our days of youthful dreams and missionary zeal, of unbounded desire to serve the Lord and His Church. Now, fifty years later, Father Homer is in repose, and my mind and heart call on me to reminisce, hopeful that my personal memories of him will strike a chord of unanimity among us with regard to his character and priesthood. I remember his arrival at Los Angeles with his young bride. He was tall, robust, and handsome in appearance. He was prepared to undertake his responsibilities seriously. He was concerned about propriety at Liturgy, so we spent some time in church, in the office, in the car as we drove home or to some appointments, chanting together to cultivate better tonality and a keener ear for two-part and anticipated three-part harmony. I remember the countless hours he spent counseling individuals, confessing parishioners, reaching out to people of all ages, particularly the youth, in his inimitable, deliberate way, often promptly me to remark, "How come you're so late?" I still visualize him responding to me with that arched eyebrow, that stare, that high-pitched chuckle, that enigmatic smile. "Padre," he would say, "hold your horses. Are you in a hurry to catch a train?" I remember his devoted wife, Presvytera Artemis, a talented, dignified woman of appropriate discretion, whose concern for him often caused her to remind him to eat at regular intervals and arrange his appointments with a sense of balance in the expenditure of his energy. It was characteristic of him in those days to forget time when absorbed by the need of a person or group to be served. I imagine that this tendency persisted even here at St. Demetrios. Then I remember the time of pain. Long after I had left St. Sophia to undertake the pastorate of Holy Trinity in San Francisco, he experienced unspeakable anxiety. Just a very few individuals of miscalculated and myopic perspective regarding personnel changes brought him to personal crisis. "Why don't they understand," he would say, as most parishioners even asked, "that all I wish to do is remain here and continue to serve? Why don't they see the facts in the issues at hand? Where is the concept of justice?" Oh, he fought hard for his principles. He fought hard for the truth as he saw it. His pain was deep. In his unaffected interpretation of right-mindedness, he could not bring himself to fathom that there would be no just solution to an unjust set of circumstances. His attachment to the flock was unwavering. It was total. Yet, he had to confront the relentless force of human inequities, agonizing over this reality, confounded by the wrenching dilemma: "Should I continue to stand up for what I feel is right or should I leave?" He exhausted every option available to remain in the parish because he could not bear to abandon the people he had served, the parish family which genuinely respected and loved him. His crisis prompted Father Pentikis and me to meet him half way between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It was our "summit meeting," arranged privately and confidentially. We could not continue to tolerate his mental and emotional torment. We had to determine accurately how he felt and gauge his dilemma objectively. Three priests, standing on a sandy stretch of land not too far from the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean, analyzing every aspect of the problem he faced. The Gordian knot of indecision had to be untied for his own well-being. We talked for a long time. We were there to make suggestions for him, for his own priesthood, about his family, about his future. Not too long after that meeting Father Homer arrived at the realization that, for the sake of the parish healing and peace, his time had come to distance himself from the flock he had loved and served so faithfully. When he subsequently passed through San Francisco on his way to Seattle, still with heavy heart, I sought to encourage him. I reminded him of what Jesus says in the gospel of Luke: "No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God." Someday, "I added, "you will understand that you have made the right move." Why have I mentioned this episode in his life? To offer you, the grief-stricken communicants and friends of St. Demetrios, meaningful consolation. To assure you, as he assured me after he had been with you for a while, that he realized he had made the right decision to be with you. You deserve to know and believe how profoundly you helped him overcome his lingering anguish. You respected him, you embraced him, you loved him. You soothed his heart. He never forgot the flock at St. Sophia, but he felt fulfilled being among you as your spiritual leader, your shepherd. Now he is silent, invisibly with us in soul. His Presvytera and children are here to escort him with us to his physical place of rest. What a mystery when his death occurred. His two sons and daughter, all in the medical field, separated by distance owing to their respective professional duties, found it difficult to vacation together with their parents. Somehow, they managed to find the way to be with their parents this time. Was this Divine Providence at work? Only God knows. They were there when death struck him down. They were there in a vigorous attempt to revive him. They were there with their mother to face the stark reality of his passing. His spouse and children, who loved him so much and he them so deeply, there, by his side, in his final moments on the earth. Death had confronted this family unit and won, but death was cheated from taking him without his family present. Death was cheated from stopping his family from offering him their own anxious breath and prayer for life. Death was cheated from attacking him all alone. The outpouring of emotion this week, and the impressive number of priests who have come from near and far, tell it all. We have come to honor and have prayed for a true priest. A priest dedicated to serving others. A priest of undiminished capacity for kindness. A priest who gave the best in him to Jesus our Lord and his people, and to society at large. A priest who understood that being misunderstood sometimes as a human being was a reflection of those who crucified even our Lord and Savior. A priest who accepted his limitations, as we all must, yet one who earnestly tried to reach beyond them, believing truly that he was meant to comfort, meant to enlighten, meant to teach, meant to encourage, meant to inspire, meant to understand the groping mind and the confused or shattered heart. Before the stillness of death, before the quiescence of physical finality, before the contemplation of the soul's transition, we feel humbled and ask the Lord to sustain the departed we love. Let us ponder the fragile nature of our humanness. Let us look at our Lord to find the true meaning for our existence. Let us acknowledge our dependence upon our Lord's power for life now and life beyond the grave. Let us perceive the temporariness of earthly pursuits. Let us, especially, who are privileged to be priests hear the call of our Lord loudly and clearly: "So let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father Who is in heaven." Athelfe ke Sylitourghe, Pater Omire, iselthe is tin haran tou Kiriou. Amin. |