“He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again,” Pashka announced instead of “Good evening!” And without further ado, he marched towards the kitchen unpacking some sweets along the way. Gingerbread. I think, Serbian ones.
“Just think of it!” I said to myself. “Solomon himself came knocking!”
In anticipation of another dose of wisdom, I went after him. He sat there, gawking at the teapot—definitely nothing regal in his looks, but we’ve learned to put up with it.
“Sooo…” I prompted.
“Mmm…yes,” he mumbled. “So, I put God into debt and then got it hot and strong. Hot and red up to the roots of my hair.”
Then he shared his story:
“Man’s a weak character. Some time ago, after some ugly situation, I began to feel a dreadful hostility towards our neighbors, the Finns. In Helsinki, at some café, I came across some local fascists who got nasty with me, so I began to think that all Finns are alike; and I sort of transferred my disgust for Nazism over to the whole nation. And that despite the fact I knew quite well that there are some really worthy people, even disciples of St. Paisios—but at the time, blind malice was more powerful than common sense. I’d turn away from them anytime I chanced upon them, snorting angrily: Why should I, an Orthodox Christian, deal with these people? Recently, God put me in my place.”
“You know, I have to travel a lot because of work, it’s a fact. So, I happened to be in Belgrade on business. I was in my hotel, suited and booted, so to speak. It was early morning. Next, a guy shows up there in the hallway, totally bashed up. His head in wraps, blood stains on his sleeves, like, after a nice walk around the city, man. I told him to go and wash himself up to at least rinse off the blood, and then made him sit down at my table just to keep him from freaking out anyone else who might see him. So he sat with me, trying to hold a cup of coffee steady in his shaky hands. Then, he began to wail:
“ ‘A-a-a-a… Yesterday I went for a walk around town and happened to wander into a rough section.’
“ ‘I see you weren’t received too graciously’.”
“I was robbed, beaten up, they took everything. I was lying half-conscious for half the night—and after I regained consciousness I shuffled off back to the hotel. Policemen stopped me twice on my way back, they kept asking what happened, but I don’t know the language to a-a-a-nswer them! And what can I tell them? That I took a wrong turn and got beaten up?”
They were speaking in English, but Pashka caught a slight accent. Sure enough, Finnish.
“Aren’t you,” he asked, “from Finland by any chance? Maybe from my beloved Helsingfors?”
“Uh-huh! From Helsink-i-i-i!”
Beaten up and mugged, a guy who’s got no money, thousands of kilometers away from home—it was a pitiful sight!
“There is justice in this world,” my friend was just about to think, but then he came to his senses; gloating over the misfortunes of others is a disgrace through and through! A beaten up and mugged guy with no money, thousands of kilometers away from home—it was a pitiful sight! He suggested a solution to him:
“Why don’t you call home for money, poor guy. Use your phone. While you’re waiting for it to arrive, here’s fifty euros for you (this made me feel sad for a moment—those lousy sanctions also apply in Serbia!) for medicine, food and all that. Belgrade is not on the cheap side, I know it!”
Then he thought: Fifty euros converts to about five thousand rubles. Oh, never mind, I’ll survive today without lunch, a tour and supper, and I’ll walk to my business meeting. I’ll manage. “Next, for good measure, a selfish thought popped up—why don’t I have God owe me a debt? I was so good today, I didn’t retaliate, I’m just remarkable!”
The beaten man bent double accepted the banknote with gratitude and trepidation, called home, described his sticky situation, asked them send him money, and then went to find a first-aid station and pharmacy.
Pashka sat self-righteously in the hotel café and humbly observed the sinful reality of life around him. God is now indebted to him!
His phone beeped. A message announced the arrival of fifty thousand on his bank card, marked, “Donation.” Pashka’s eyes open large as saucers to the point that an obliging “konobar” (waiter) began to get concerned—they had had enough trouble with one unconventional visitor that morning, and now this one has lost it. He asked him if he needed anything.
“Water,” Pashka breathed. “And, um, where is the nearest church?”
In the church nearest to his Belgrade hotel, Pashka reread letter by letter the Parable of the Good Samaritan, understanding all too well that he was light years away from that kind fellow. Deeply distressed, he even forgave all Finns together. He thought of the disciples of St. Paisios.
“Christ has some interesting math, doesn’t He?” he says. “Even when we do our miserly, sinful acts of mercy, spiced with a good dose of vanity, He answers in such measure—good, pressed down, shaken together, and running over (cf. Luke 6:38). True, there are also the terms of the contract: Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven: Give, and it shall be given unto you (Lk 6:37). Hard, eh? Sometimes you have to travel a couple thousand kilometers just to get it. But it’s worth it.”
