Κόρη μου, Εὐρώπη,
σοῦ μιλῶ ὅπως ἡ μήτρα ποὺ σὲ γέννησε.
Δὲν σοῦ μιλῶ γιὰ νὰ σὲ κατηγορήσω.
Σοῦ ἔδωσα γλῶσσα·
χωρὶς αὐτήν, θὰ ἤσουν σιωπηλή.
Σοῦ ἔδωσα λόγο·
χωρὶς αὐτόν, δὲν θὰ μποροῦσες νὰ στοχαστεῖς.
Σοῦ ἔδωσα νόμον, δικαιοσύνη, ἐπιστῆμες, φιλοσοφία·
χωρὶς αὐτά, θὰ ἤσουν ἄμορφη.
Σοῦ ἔδωσα φῶς·
χωρὶς αὐτό, θὰ ἤσουν στὸ σκοτάδι.
Σοῦ ἔδωσα ὄνομα ΕΥΡΩΠΗ.
Καὶ ἐσύ, κόρη μου, πίστεψες ὅτι μπορεῖς νὰ ζήσεις χωρὶς ἐμένα.
Κάθε Πληγὴ τῆς Κόρης.
Ἀπὸ τὸν 8ο αἰῶνα, ὅταν οἱ βόρειοι κατακτητὲς σου (Φράγκοι καὶ ἄλλοι) σήκωσαν τὰ χέρια τους πάνω σου, ἐσύ, κόρη μου, δὲν ἀντέδρασες.
Ἀντίθετα, ἐπέτρεψες νὰ ὑποδουλωθεῖς.
Ἀφέθηκες στὴν πλήρη ὑποδούλωση καὶ ἀλλοτρίωσή σου, μέχρι σήμερα.
Ὁ Ἄσωτος Υἱὸς ὑποδουλώθηκε—
κι ὅμως ἐπέστρεψε.
Ἐσὺ τί ἔκανες;
Τὸ 1054 μ.Χ., σχίσμα:
ἀποκοπὴ ἐκκλησιολογική.
Ἐσὺ, σιωπῶντας, ἄφησες τὸν δεσμὸ νὰ σπάσει.
Τὸ 1204, Λεηλατεῖς τὸ φῶς ποὺ πῆρες, τὶς ἀξίες ποὺ σού δόθηκαν, τὸ γάλα ποὺ βύζαξες γιὰ νὰ μεγαλώσεις καὶ μ’ αὐτό ζεῖς καὶ πορεύεσαι μέχρι σήμερα:
διότι ἐσύ σήκωσες χέρι ἐναντίον τῆς μήτρας σου.
Μίλησες γιὰ Ἀναγέννηση·
μήπως εἶναι τὸ γάλα ποὺ σὲ τάϊσα γιὰ νὰ μεγαλώσεις πνευματικά καὶ ὑλικά;
Μίλησες γιὰ Διαφωτισμό· φώτιση ἀπὸ ποιά ρίζα;
Μὴν ξεχνᾶς τὸ φῶς τὸ ἀληθινὸ ποὺ ἀποκαλύφθηκε στὶς Οἰκουμενικὲς Συνόδους, ὅπου ἡ ἀλήθεια τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἀντιφάσκει στὴν πλάνη καὶ φωτίζει τὰ ἔθνη.
ἀπὸ τὴν ἴδια μήτρα ποὺ σοῦ ἔδωσε γλῶσσα, νόμο, ἐπιστῆμες καὶ μέτρο;
Ὁ Πρῶτος κυβερνήτης τῆς μητέρας σου κατά τὴν παλιγγενεσία της δὲν εἶναι αὐτός ποὺ, ὡς ὑπουργὸς τῶν ἐξωτερικῶν τῆς Ρωσίας, σοῦ χάρισε Σύνταγμα; (βλέπε Ἑλβετία)·
μήπως δὲν εἶναι αὐτός ποὺ σὲ δίδαξε ἀξίες καὶ ἐνότητα;
Θυμήσου τὴν Γαλλία·
οἱ κατακτητὲς σου Φράγκοι ἤθελαν νὰ τὴν διαμελίσουν,
ἀλλὰ αὐτὸς σού δίδαξε πῶς ἡ ἐνότητα καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη εἶναι οἱ ἀληθινές ἀξίες,
καὶ ἡ Γαλλία εἶναι ἐνωμένη χάρις σ’ αὐτόν.
Ἐσὺ, ὅμως, τὸν πρόδωσες καὶ μεθόδευσες τὴν δολοφονία του.
Θυμήσου ἔπειτα τὶς πράξεις σου ἐναντίον τῆς Μῆτρας σου:
Μικρὰ Ἀσία, Βαλκανικοὶ Πόλεμοι,
Α΄ καὶ Β΄ Παγκόσμιοι,
καὶ, μὲ κορωνίδα, τὸν Ἐμφύλιο ποὺ μεθόδευσες μέσα στὴν καρδιά τῆς μήτρας σου·
τὰ αἵματα ποὺ χύθηκαν εἶναι πληγές σου πρὸς ἐμένα.
Θυμήσου τὶς οἰκονομικὲς καταστροφές ποὺ μεθόδευσες διαχρονικά, μὲ κορωνίδα τὰ ἔσχατα μνημόνια γιὰ νὰ σώσεις τὶς δικές σου τράπεζες·
βλέπε δηλώσεις Ὀμπάμα.
Ἐσύ, κόρη μου, προσπαθεῖς πάνω ἀπὸ 1200 χρόνια νὰ μὲ πολεμᾶς καὶ νὰ μὲ ταπεινώνεις.
Κάθε φορὰ ποὺ στρέφεσαι ἐναντίον τῆς μήτρας ποὺ σὲ γέννησε,
κάθε φορὰ ποὺ ὑψώνεις χέρι ἀντὶ καρδιάς, ἀφήνεις πληγή.
Κάθε φορὰ ποὺ ἡ ἀχαριστία σου ὑπερβαίνει τὴν ἀγάπη,
κάθε φορὰ ποὺ ξεχνᾶς τὴν πηγή σου—
γίνεσαι φοβερά ἀχάριστη ἀπέναντι στὴ μητέρα σου.
Ἀλλὰ ἡ μητέρα δὲν σταματᾶ νὰ ἀγαπᾶ τὰ παιδιὰ της·
Ἡ μητέρα δὲν μισεῖ·
Ἡ μητέρα περιμένει.
Ὡς ὁ Ἄσωτος Υἱός·
Ναὶ, κόρη μου, ἔτσι καὶ ἐσύ:
Χάθηκες στὶς φιλοδοξίες σου.
Πίστεψες ὅτι ἡ αὐτάρκεια εἶναι ζωή.
Ἀποκόπηκες ἀπὸ τὴν μήτρα ποὺ σὲ γέννησε.
Κι ὅμως, μὴν ξεχνᾶς· ἡ ἐπιστροφὴ δὲν εἶναι τιμωρία·
Ἡ ἐπιστροφὴ εἶναι ζωή·
Ἡ μετάνοια ἀνασταίνει.
Καὶ ὅπως φώναξε ὁ Πατὴρ τοῦ Ἀσώτου Υἱοῦ:
«Σφάξτε τὸν μόσχο τὸν σιτευτόν»
—
Ἔτσι καὶ ἡ μητέρα σου θὰ φωνάξει:
«Σφάξτε τὸν μόσχο τὸν σιτευτόν,
ἡ κόρη μου νεκρὴ ἦτο καὶ ἀνέζησε.»
Ἡ μητέρα σου σε περιμένει·
Ὄχι γιὰ νὰ σε κατηγορήσει,
ἀλλὰ γιὰ νὰ σε δει νὰ ζεῖς ἀληθινά.
Ἡ ΑΓΑΠΗ ΠΟΥ ΜΕΝΕΙ
Κόρη μου,
ὅλες οἱ πληγές ποὺ σοῦ ὑπενθυμίζω, δὲν εἶναι γιὰ νὰ σε καταδικάσω· εἶναι γιὰ νὰ δεις πόσο βαθειά σὲ ἀγαπῶ.
Ἡ ἀγάπη μου δὲν φοβᾶται τὴν ἀλήθεια· δὲν φοβᾶται τὴν μνήμη·
δὲν φοβᾶται τὶς ἀχαριστίες σου.
Ἀλλὰ ἂς τὸ καταλάβεις τώρα·
ὅσο περισσότερο θυμᾶσαι τὶς πληγές ποὺ ἔπραξες,
τόσο πιο κοντὰ εἶσαι στὴ μετάνοια,
τόσο πιὸ πλήρης γίνεται ἡ ἐπιστροφή σου.
Ἡ ἀγκαλιά μου εἶναι ἀνοιχτή·
Ἡ φωνή μου δὲν φεύγει·
Ἡ ὑπομονή μου εἶναι ἄπειρη.
Κόρη μου, Εὐρώπη·
Μὴν ἀφήνεις ἄλλες πληγές·
Μὴν ἀφήνεις ἄλλο σκοτάδι·
Μὴν ζεῖς ἄλλο ὡς τὸν ἄσωτο υἱό χωρὶς μέτρο.
Ἡ ζωή εἶναι δῶρο·
Ἡ ἀλήθεια εἶναι δῶρο·
Ἡ ἐπιστροφὴ εἶναι δῶρο·
καὶ ἐγώ, ὡς μητέρα, σὲ περιμένω νὰ τὸ δεχτεῖς.
THE MOTHER AND THE DAUGHTER
THE TRUTH OF THE MOTHER
THE MOTHER WHO GIVES BIRTH
My daughter, Europe,
I speak to you as the mother who gave you life.
I do not speak to accuse you.
I speak so that you may remember who you are, where you come from, and what I gave you.
I gave you language;
without it, you would be silent.
I gave you reason;
without it, you could not reflect.
I gave you law, justice, sciences, philosophy;
without them, you would be shapeless.
I gave you light;
without it, you would be in darkness.
I gave you a name: EUROPE.
And you, my daughter, believed you could live without me.
Every Wound of the Daughter.
Since the 8th century, when your northern conquerors (Franks and others) raised their hands against you, you, my daughter, did not resist.
Instead, you allowed yourself to be enslaved.
You surrendered to complete subjugation and alienation, up to this day.
The Prodigal Son was enslaved—
and yet he returned.
What did you do?
In 1054 AD, the Schism:
an ecclesial rupture.
You, in silence, allowed the bond to break.
In 1204, you plundered the light you had received, the values that were given to you, the milk you nursed to grow, and with it you live and move forward even today:
because you raised your hand against your mother.
You spoke of the Renaissance—
was it not the milk I fed you to grow spiritually and materially?
You spoke of Enlightenment; light from what root?
Do not forget the true light revealed in the Ecumenical Councils, where the truth of Christ confronts error and illuminates the nations.
From the same mother who gave you language, law, sciences, and measure?
The first ruler of your mother during her rebirth—is he not the one who, as minister of foreign affairs of Russia, granted you a Constitution? (See Switzerland)
Was he not the one who taught you values and unity?
Remember France:
your conquerors, the Franks, wished to divide it,
yet he taught you how unity and love are the true values,
and France remains united thanks to this.
Yet you betrayed him and orchestrated his murder.
Then remember your actions against your Mother:
Asia Minor, Balkan Wars,
World War I and II,
and, with a crown, the Civil War you plotted in the heart of your mother;
the blood shed are your wounds against me.
Remember the economic destructions you orchestrated over time, culminating in the final memoranda, to save your own banks;
see Obama’s statements.
You, my daughter, have tried for over 1,200 years to fight me and humiliate me.
Every time you turn against the mother who gave you life,
every time you raise a hand instead of a heart,
you leave a wound.
Every time ingratitude overcomes love,
every time you forget your source—
you become grievously ungrateful to your mother.
Yet the mother does not cease to love her children;
The mother does not hate;
The mother waits.
As the Prodigal Son:
Yes, my daughter, so it is with you:
You have been lost in your ambitions.
You believed self-sufficiency was life.
You cut yourself off from the mother who gave you life.
And yet, do not forget—the return is not punishment;
The return is life;
Repentance resurrects.
And as the father of the Prodigal Son cried:
“Prepare the fattened calf”—
So will your mother cry:
“Prepare the fattened calf,
my daughter was dead and has come back to life.”
Your mother waits for you;
Not to accuse you,
But to see you live truly.
THE LOVE THAT REMAINS
My daughter,
all the wounds I remind you of,
are not to condemn you;
they are so you may see how deeply I love you.
My love fears not the truth;
fears not memory;
fears not your ingratitude.
But understand this now:
the more you recall the wounds you inflicted,
the closer you are to repentance,
the fuller your return becomes.
My embrace is open;
My voice does not fade;
My patience is infinite.
My daughter, Europe:
Do not leave further wounds;
Do not leave more darkness;
Do not live again like the Prodigal Son without measure.
Life is a gift;
Truth is a gift;
Return is a gift;
And I, as your mother, wait for you to accept it.
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