SUNDAY, APRIL 25—BUCHAREST, ROAAANIA
Vladimir entered the sacristy alone. Even now, after thirty-four years as a priest, he liked to linger after vespers. It was the last prayer of the evening and the first prayer of the new day, a quiet celebration of the end and an- other beginning, as if they were one, a promise that existed be- yond the confines of mortality.
Vladimir extinguished the last candle. He took deep breaths as the scent of smoke mingled with the aroma of incense. He listened to the silence until it became a prayer, a meditation.
No, this was a respite. He would not think about the Romanian senate’s decision to allow a cathedral designed a hundred years ago to finally be built. He would not consider the financial con- cerns involved. He would not ponder the reports of miracles bestowed by the Virgin of Germany, when her icon visited the
Romanian church in Berlin. Many had come in pilgrimage to their Theotokos—their Mother. Many had touched the drops of myrrh that flowed from her image. Vladimir believed that the most meaningful healing was that of the soul. He knew that for many, the certainty of physical healing would be as fleeting as the religious fervor awakened by Her visit. He also knew that for those few, there would indeed be a miracle. But now there were more immediate concerns.
Tomorrow he would meet with Josef yet again to discuss this visit to Canada and the United States. Meetings had been arranged with Bishop Petre in Michigan and Archbishop Gabriel in
Illinois. What remained to be decided were which churches and missions he would visit. This was a tedious task for Josef. These were decisions rife with political implications for Vladimir. Balance, Josef kept saying, balance. Peace, Vladimir thought, peace. This was not just about the unification of all Orthodox Romanians. This was not another attempt to clarify ecclesiastical relationships. If peace and unity and a charity that exceeded justice could not flourish within the Church, then where in this universe could it even begin to grow roots?
Vladimir massaged the dull throb stirring at his temples, then bowed low to the image of the Christ. Not a crucified Christ, not a risen Christ, but the battered, beaten, broken body of the Christ who died for the sins of the world. He looked at this Jesus until all other thoughts faded and a quiet joy and gratitude began filling his heart. Now, in these moments of prayer, he was not Vladimir, Archbishop of Bucharest, Metropolitan of Ungro-Wallachia, patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox Church. He was just Vladimir, the servant of God.