I know it says something holy, something wondrous. I sit at my window and I stare at the pages. They are written in a language I cannot read and I cannot understand. I am in awe of it and I am tempted to have the entire thing encased in crystal as a gift to posterity.
This past weekend, my Serbian friend Alex gave me a small booklet, worn and well used that he said is an Akathist to the Mother of God that has never been translated into English or any other language. In my hands I hold this holy, holy, holy thing that I cannot read, cannot understand. And I want to so badly that I cannot explain my feelings. I finally know what it is to be a 1st century Christian. Never mind all that I have learned, and all that I have struggled to understand.
Although I live in the modern age, and although I have had every advantage, I cannot fathom the depth of this little booklet because I cannot read it. I cannot simply have it translated. It is in Serbian and it is a language of suffering, of holy martyrdom, of great and indescribable love. It is a mystery to me, and I am humbled by the lack of my own education, my own failings, and my own short comings.
I hold in my hands this wonderous thing, this holy thing, this glorious thing that I am not worthy to hold, much less to read. And yet, it has been given to me as a great Gift. An act of selflessness that knows no boundaries, and I am asked to trust that my possession of it is enough. I hold in my hands the Truth that is Jesus Christ who is the Saviour who came to save sinners like me. Although I cannot read it, I can feel the holiness that radiates from it, and I know that I am unworthy to touch it. But He does not strike me dead because he is “merciful and the only lover of mankind.”
Alex gave me a Cyrillic alphabet graph and he says I can learn to read it. But I am truly unworthy and I am truly not a learned person. I can only pray that God will give me enough grace to say “Lord, have mercy!”