A Scene From Our Work in Greece
The first thing I noticed was the stench. It hit me like an avalanche as soon as the van door opened, filling every empty space and fouling the air as it streamed in from somewhere in the darkness ahead. I stepped out into the night with my team, disoriented by the ammonia laden air, and peered into the gloom. The harsh yellow-blue glare of camper-stove flames pierced the black like angry stars and cast shadows on the trembling, huddled forms who crouched around them – hands and shoulders aglow in the pale light, all else shrouded in night and shadow.
“That’s meth,” Erin, one of my teammates, said. “Can you smell it?”
Yes, but until then I couldn’t recognize its aroma.
Another van pulled forward, ahead of where ours had parked, and in its headlights dark masses seethed and rushed toward it – men and women with sunken eyes and sore pocked faces, clothes soiled or else shredded, wheeling this way and that as they shambled forward, some babbling nonsense, some laughing hysterically, others stony silent with downcast gazes. They surged toward the van as Greek praise music began blaring from an unseen speaker and the back doors were thrown open to reveal a bounty of bread and hot tea. Somehow in the ensuing chaos, Gideon, my 6 ft 11 Dutch, mma fighting, prayer-warrior friend was able to make a beeline for the back of the van and assist in distributing food and drink to the starving crowds.
Behind them, dire as the feasting few seemed, lay a darker scene. By day, it was a simple Athenian monument, young and unimpressive relative to the Acropolis and other ruins – silent and solitary on the edge of Ommonia Square. By night, it was the Mount Olympus of fear and madness. Circular terraced steps rose to a point at an Obelisk adorned with some bronze scene of Grecian past. About its base shuffled the undead – men and women hopelessly lost in the depths of meth, heroin, and cocaine trips, minds lightyears away from here, souls numbed for the moment to everything that lets them know they’re living, but free from pain of the moment at least. Others stood or sprawled over the steps in groups, staring out in fear and suspicion, waiting for something or someone as others among them lolled at their feet, dead to the world or soon getting there. Despite a thorough search, I couldn’t find the sign that read “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” Nonetheless I was sure – this was it. We had entered hell on earth.
For a moment I stood back, unsure of how to proceed. What could I do? Most of them were mentally impaired to the point that communication was spotty at best. On top of that, if any spoke English it was at best a 2nd or 3rd language for them. My Greek is limited and my Farsi is non-existent.
As the unruly ones stumbled closer I planted myself in front of some of the women in our team and diverted traffic away from them as best I could. I watched the faces of the crowd that came for bread. Some were old and worn, some disfigured by the effects of long term drug abuse, most were at least in their 30s and older. But some were young, oh so young. And where the light had fled the eyes of the rest, in the fresh-faced teens you could see the sparks of anger and of fear – of frustration borne of having done everything possible to seek a better life, of having summoned the courage flee their home-country and plunge into the unknown in hopes of finding a place less prone to genocide and war, and then finding themselves stuck for months without hope of moving forward or prospects of getting a job. And then starving. Yes, light still flickered in their eyes, and hope was ebbing from them.
Tightness knotted in my chest and time seemed to slow a degree as I took it all in. This was a degree of pain and fear I had never witnessed – darkness in a form I had only before glimpsed in the rundown areas of Waco, TX and in the possible futures of those I knew who dealt and abused drugs. I’ve glanced at it in the hopeless places of cities – neighborhoods and streets where people do nothing but stand or sit all day on porches and street corners, because hope for a better life, hope for improvement, left them. But here I was now, staring it full in the face. What could I do for the people who are living it?
Every action in this place was motivated by fear and a desire to escape intolerable pain. The man smoking meth out of a broken lightbulb and the woman snorting cocaine on the steps of the monument do so to numb themselves to the pain of starvation, to the chill of the night that the rest of us block out with four walls and a roof, to isolation, and to the creeping dread that waits at the edge of sobriety to make them fully aware of how miserable their lives are and the shame of how much they have erred in their paths. Even the drug dealer who approached me, swearing at me and my team and yelling that “drugs were not the problem, drugs fix the problem. God can’t fix problems. there are new ones every day.” was, I think, motivated by fear – fear that the hope we have within us would lessen his hold on the people there and eat away at the tenuous foundation upon which he had built his “empire.” Fear that the message we bear would somehow break the sense of security he had fought and clawed to build and maintain in such wretched surroundings. Fear that his cobbled confidence was misplaced and misshapen.
So again, what could one do in a place ruled by such fear? Sometimes, breaking the grip of fear is as simple as taking a deep breath, walking toward the crowd, and sitting at the edge for a moment of silence, waiting on God to move. Of course, sitting at the base of this monument with my back toward a crowd of nervous drug addicts and dealers with a penchant for erratic behavior was, by some estimations, crazy. But when God gives you a 6 ft 11 Dutch mma fighter friend to watch your back, moments like this become infinitely safer. Did I mention he also weighs over 300 lbs? So, as Gideon kept a keen eye on the crowd at my back, I waited patiently for God to move. And move He did.
He broke through Farid’s fear and made him, one of the nightly frequenters of the monument, curious enough to come ask me if I wanted something. The man was a go-between who set up deals between the denizens of that place and the dealers. When I told him I wanted nothing, that piqued his curiosity enough for him to stick around and talk with me. Everybody wanted something in that place. There, needs were never met for long.
So I sat on the steps and he stood on the needle littered ground and we talked. He was from Afghanistan, and while most of the others had only been here four to six months, he had been here 6 years. His English was very good. He told me about the frustrations of the refugees, the stagnant life brought by closed borders, and slow starvation that began to set in because there were no available jobs. He asked why we were here, and I told him we were here to help – to offer food and drinks, rehabilitation and lodging to those who wanted it, and to show the love of Christ to people. I didn’t get the chance to pray with him. He was called away, and we both said we’d pray for each other.
I didn’t see a miraculous healing that night. I didn’t see anyone moved to tears or see someone decide to go to our rehab center or put their faith in Christ.
I saw God break through the barrier of fear and help people connect in a genuine and warm way, if only for a few brief moments. I saw Him remind people of hope and bring understanding. I saw people realize that even in a place of such darkness and selfish seeking, genuine care does exist in the hearts of some and that it is worth pressing through fear to engage with such kindness. So yes, I did see an overt act of God – in my conversations with Farid, and later with Saeed, Ahmed, and Muhammed from Syria, and in my teammates’ prayers with an old, injured, drug stupefied woman. I saw it in the faces of the crowd that changed from fear and suspicion to wonder and curiosity. I saw it in the eyes of the woman whose sad smile and look of appreciation for the simple conversation and prayer she shared with my teammates were powerful enough to give me pause. I saw it in the way that woman valued such conversation and affection more than the food being passed around her.
Tempted as I was to feel frustrated that I could affect no overt change in the people’s lives at that monument, I remembered that you never can know what God is doing beneath the surface of people’s hearts through simple acts of love and the meeting of immediate needs. But if the way He broke through the darkness of fear and madness that night to create human connections was any indication, I’d bet His work beneath the surface was mighty indeed. Don’t underestimate His power in the simple gestures we can offer to others. Who knows what fruit it will bear in the future? He’s the Lord of the Harvest after all, and His fields yield many surprises when tended.
So what could I do in that place? Nothing but pray and be present, willing, and loving. The Lord takes care of the rest.
