I was cleaning a drain at the home of Mrs. Karas back in the early ’90s (I regret that I’ve lost her first name) and I began asking her questions about the Greek language. I had accumulated probably twenty-seven semester hours of Greek by then, reading both the New Testament and the church fathers, (I say probably because it was in a previous life which I haven’t revisited for a long time), and I had a keen interest in the subject. She showed me her modern language Greek New Testament and spoke glowingly of “Father Vieron’s Greek Class,” a fifteen-week course he offered once per year. I kept it in my mind, saw it advertised one day in the newspaper, and decided that I would look into it.
I was quite busy already, working for Roto-Rooter full time (and more) and fulfilling PhD study requirements to the tune of twenty hours per week. But thirty years ago I was thirty years younger, and so I figured that I’d just work it in somehow.
After some delay, I eventually pulled into the Annunciation parking lot, found my way to the office, and was greeted by the secretary and Father Vieron himself, who was standing there talking to her about something. I announced my desire to sign up for the class and he told me with no small regret that all of the available seats were taken already.
I persisted in my request. I could tell that he really hated to turn me away. “I could sit on the floor. I’m a plumber, I’m down there most of the time anyway.” Oh, how sorry he was that he just didn’t have the room. “Well, then, I could sit out in the hall and listen; I have several academic degrees and I know how to learn.”
He was in agony. “Oh, please, don’t do this to me, you’re making me feel so bad. I just can’t take another student.”
Then I told him that I loved the Greek language because I was a minister and had studied it in seminary. He now thought that he had found his escape! “Oh, then, this wouldn’t be for you anyway. This is for beginners. You already know all of this.”
I responded quite honestly with my main reason for wanting to take the course: “But they don’t teach Greek as a language. They teach it as a code. It’s as if the English Bible had been put into a code and we are taught how to decode it and get it back into English!”
He was well familiar with what I was talking about. “Oh, that is such a travesty! Its not a code! It’s a beautiful, wonderful . . . oh! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it! Sign him up! Sign him up!” and he gestured toward the papers on the secretary’s desk with a tone of surrender and abject defeat. His dramatic ability was superb. So she signed me up.
That course was a milestone in my life. I’d be studying at the seminary library each Tuesday night, I’d break away to attend Greek class, then return to seminary or, perhaps, home. It was fascinating to watch this master teacher hold the class in the palm of his hand and teach us about Greek history and culture and worship and language. As I had hoped, it opened up a whole dimension to the language which I’d never seen before.
He was lavish in his praise. One of the goals he set before us was to be able to recite the Lord’s Prayer in Greek. One night I raised my hand and volunteered to take my turn. I did my best to imitate his pronunciation and accent and to offer the prayer sincerely. When I finished, he said solemnly and hesitatingly, as though searching for the right words, “What I heard just then was the voice of a metropolitan bishop in a patriarchal cathedral and the faith of a little child at his bedside. No one could have recited it better. Thank you.”
He gave us a tour of the church sanctuary one evening, explaining the distinctives of Orthodox worship and somehow he made reference to a little memorial of some kind, commemorating one of his parishioners. He began to say, almost as an aside, “When you minister to one community for thirty five years . . .” and then his voice cracked and his eyes moistened. He never finished the sentence.
Some years later I was conversing with a customer about some Memphis topic or another and, wanting to introduce an anecdote (which I’ve now forgotten), I asked “Do you know Father Vieron?” She answered me with a patronizing, “Everybody knows Father Vieron.” It was nearly true. He was a great guy, loved people, and made it a point to go around meeting new ones. He lived like that in Memphis for 65 years.
Well he died this morning just short of 95 years old. I encountered several news stories about him on Internet, TV, and radio as I went about my work today. Everybody knew him. All men spoke well of him.
He made a difference in my life. His class set me on a path of study and appreciation for Orthodoxy which enhanced my scholarship palpably. In the forty years he taught that course, I wonder just how many students might have focused on the material more intently that I did. Few, I’d expect, because my background had given me a big mental storeroom with hooks lining the walls where I could take what he was offering and save it in an orderly way. Although he met thousands of Memphians, I still count myself lucky to be one of them.
A few weeks after the course ended, I attended the midnight Easter service and I managed to greet him during the meal that followed. He didn’t recognize me at first (I was dressed differently, to be sure). “Do you remember me?” He managed recall enough to say, “Yes, you were my best student.” His dramatic ability was superb.