Gregori

Gregori sat upright on the humble wooden chair, seeking some reassurance in the eyes of the two monks across the oak table in the dimly light room of the Monastery.

The Monastery, nearly seven hundred years old, was perched on a mountain in northern Greece. It was hewn from the surrounding stone and, at a distance, was indistinguishable from its surroundings.

Having been summoned to the Monastery through a network of village priests and peasants, Gregori made every effort to hide his confusion and anxiety. His feet were bare, his eyes were sunken, his clothes were ragged and his entire earthly possessions were contained in a sheepskin bag from a sheep that had long since departed this world.

He looked carefully at both monks. Both were dressed in dark, formal wear and maintained long, gnarled beards. Gregori first took in the elderly monk, Hector, who had a kind, paternal face. He then turned his attention to the second monk, Anatole. Anatole presented an entirely different picture. He was ruddy-faced, middle-aged and had the build of someone who worked in the fields. Gregori studiously avoided Anatole’s intense, wolfish glare, preferring Hector’s weathered smile.

“Welcome Gregori”, said Hector, with noticeable concern. “You look exhausted”.

“You look like death, my boy”, said Anatole.

“Come now, Anatole,” Hector responded, “our guest has travelled a great distance. Surely we can offer him some water and bread?”

Anatole agreed and gently pushed a water jug, mug and a loaf of bread towards Gregori.

“Hector is right”, Anatole said, maintaining the air concern from this colleague. “You must eat, man. You looked starved.”

“Thank you, Brothers, I am not worthy of this generosity.”

“Please Gregori,” said Hector, “a man can live according to the word, but he can’t eat books.” Hector smiled, allowing Gregori a moment of relaxation.

“Holy Brothers,” said Gregori taking a few nibbles of bread but consuming his mug of water in one gulp, ”I understand you seek to discuss a matter with me. I hope I have not displeased you”.

The two Monks looked at each other, briefly. Both drew a noticeable breathe, but it was Hector that spoke. “First, Gregori,” he said, quietly, “tell us, what brought you down the path you have chosen?”

Gregori sat back as a smile showed through his bearded face, pleased at the chance to discuss his views. “Holy Brother," he said, “everywhere I look, every person I encounter, every plant and animal nourishes me and speaks to me of a universal grace. But I will tell you a story of a pear tree.”

Hector and Anatole both looked at each other, confused but interested in the analogy.

“While wandering through the Southern Ural mountains of Russia,” Gregori continued, “I was tired, lost and near death. Through the woods, I spotted a pear tree that I can only assume was wild for there were no other signs of life. Standing small and alone amongst the larger pines and oaks, this little tree could not have been more humble. But, it was this humble pear tree that saved me. Without it’s fruit, I do not believe I would have survived the journey. In that moment, Brothers,” Gregor said, permitting himself to look directly at Anatole, “I realized that I, too, could be a pear tree to others. I, too, could provide humble sustenance to those in need of grace”.

After a moment of silence, Hector said, “that is a beautiful story, truly.”

“Thank you, Brother,” said Gregori, “but I will admit I am still a little confused. Surely you did not ask me here to simply discuss my travels.”

Anatole looked expectantly at Hector. Hector detected the concern from his colleague. He looked towards the ceiling and began to talk. “So it was the pear tree, humble and small against the much larger trees, which provided your nourishment. That was the source of your salvation.” Looking down, Hector turned his quizzical eyes on Gregori. “But tell me, Gregori, did the pear tree seek to influence the oaks and pines? You would agree that it did not seek to convince the other trees to give it space. It acted, quietly, with grace and humility. Did it not?”

“Brother, I am confused,” said Gregori.

“What my companion is saying, gently as his way,” said Anatole, smiling at his companion but speaking in a less conciliatory tone, “is that a pear tree is passive. It does not, for example,” he leaned over the table and fixed Gregori with the eyes of a man that was not used to argument, “travel to St. Petersburg, seeking to counsel the powerful, including the Tsar himself. Your analogy would be more beautiful if the speaker himself showed the same humility.”

Gregori sat, stunned. He felt anger boiling within him. He prepared himself to challenge the monks and leave the monastery if necessary. But then, taking a calming breathe, he sat back and spoke. “Holy Brothers, when I sat, near starvation, on the road,” he asked, “do you know why I chose the pear tree?”

“I assume,” said Anatole, “it is was the one with the fruit.”

“And do you know why I knew it had fruit?”

“This behavior is impudent,” said Anatole, his already powerful voice rising. He turned to Hector, “is this fool saying we don’t know what a pear tree looks like?” Hector laid his hand on Anatole’s arm. Anatole, who could never say no to his mentor, was immediately placated.

“I knew it was a pear tree,” Gregori continued, “because it’s bright yellow fruit with orange cheeks shone through the forest, like a beacon. The fruit looked like happy children playing through a dense forest of cynical old men.” Gregori tried and failed to avoid a smirk. “It knew it would save me because it called to me. How then can I save others if I do not let grace shine through me like the fruit of a pear tree?”

”But Gregori,” said Hector, “by going to St. Petersburgh, you are not simply tending to the weak and innocent, are you? You will consort with the powerful, those who care little for their flock.”

“People who willingly send others to their death, Gregori,” said Anatole, his brusque demeanor returning. “Do you want you, your ministry, or our reputation to be tarnished with blood?”

“Brother, are you concerned about me or about your reputation?”

Anatole began to rise from his seat but Hector placed his hand on Anatole, this time applying pressure.

“Can’t you see,” said Hector, “that we are simply worried for you? Your devotion is laudable, you reputation…exceptional. But you must understand that to seek to influence those in power will put you in danger. The powerful only seek counsel to see their self-reflection in the eyes of others. Please, Gregori, do not leave the path of humility and righteousness.”

Gregori nodded his head and said, “I thank you for your wise counsel, and for the bread and water. May I be permitted to leave?”

“Have you listened to a word from this man, whose counsel is sought by all, you insolent little…” Anatole rose but this time was interrupted by Hector’s calm voice. “Of course you may leave,” Hector said, smiling politely but formally.

Gregori bowed and left, as quickly as he could without appearing to flee. Anatole, perplexed, turned towards Hector, “why did you stop me?”

“He is headstrong and, in my experience, some can only learn by their own mistakes.” Hector sat back in his chair.

“He is headstrong, ambitious and naïve,” replied Anatole. “They are bad combinations. His pear tree story was beautiful, but I see a man that is blind to his inner self. You are right, dear Hector, the pear tree is passive. Our Gregori is active in the world. He sees himself as a pear tree. I see a fox.”

“Mmm,” said Hector, nodding in agreement, “lets see what Mister Gregori Rasputin makes of himself, perhaps he will surprise you, Anatole.”