Until now, whenever we wanted to talk about the work of Archbishop Anastasios, we pointed to buildings—schools, a university, a hospital, nursing homes, hydroelectric plants, stunning churches… the magnificent cathedral. Projects that most of us probably (certainly, in fact) wouldn’t even be able to sketch on paper, let alone bring to life.
And yet, this objectively and universally acknowledged massive body of work, which he accomplished during the three decades he served the Church of Albania as its Primate, was not his greatest achievement. Not even close.
In fact, it would be a great injustice to this man if we were to measure his contribution by buildings. Square meters and construction lists are not the proper units to calculate the magnitude of what he offered.
There is a different unit by which to measure Anastasios’ work. That unit is souls.
Close your eyes for a moment and try to picture Tirana at the time when the Ecumenical Patriarchate handed Anastasios the key to the tomb of the Church of Albania, along with the mission to resurrect it. Because—let’s be honest—that’s exactly what happened.
A country emerging from a harsh and peculiar regime. A people divided by ethnicity, politics, and religion. An economy in ruins, a society barely held together, and a nation that saw Greece as an enemy and its Greek minority in the South as a “problem.” That was his starting point.
And when he arrived, to Albanian nationalists he was the Greek, to unbelievers and non-Christians he was the Orthodox, and to quite a few of us here in Greece he was the “Organosiakos” (member of a missionary organization). Albanian extremists feared he would make the Church Greek; overzealous Greek patriots feared he wouldn’t make it Greek enough—or worse, that he might make it Albanian. Everyone, of course, had an opinion.
If Anastasios weren’t a man, he’d surely be a trout—because every time he needed to lay the “eggs” of his work, he had to swim against a thousand opposing currents.
Even now, today, when his spiritual children have dressed him for the last time in his archbishop’s vestments, there are people on both sides of the border holding figurative scales in their hands, trying to measure how Greek or how Albanian his successor will be.
But unfortunately for them, Anastasios built neither a Greek nor an Albanian Church. Anastasios resurrected the Orthodox Church of Albania. This deeply ecumenical man left behind not Greeks or Albanians—but Orthodox Christians.
These days, Greeks and Albanians prayed side by side for him to pull through this final trial. And on Thursday, in the Resurrection Cathedral and every other church where prayers will be chanted for his soul, Albanians and Greeks will cry together. Alongside them will be others—those who aren’t Orthodox, those who aren’t even Christian.
Because as I told you, Anastasios can only be measured by souls. Souls he calmed. Souls he taught to live in harmony. Souls that today feel orphaned.
All these years, Anastasios gave life to the Church of Albania. Now that he is gone, we will finally see his greatest legacy: its soul—its people.
