peripety (noun) | pe·rip·e·ty [pə-ˈri-pə-tē]
plural of peripeteia: a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances, especially in a voyage.
The Friday before Pentecost holds a unique significance in the liturgical calendar — one that many Byzantine Catholics likely miss. We read the longest epistle reading of the year: a sprawling 44 verses from the Acts of the Apostles. If you’ve never experienced it before, a proper recitation can take a good five to eight minutes, and the sheer length may surprise you, catching you off guard.
I remember as a teenager, when lectoring this passage in my home church, people sighed in wonder if I did not miss the ending, reading it for so long. The epistle recounts St. Paul’s voyage — his shipwreck, his assurance to his companions that none would perish, it lists all details of geography and winds familiar to first-century naval navigators. I can see why some find it tedious. Unlike other epistles, brimming with either miracles, or spiritual encouragement, or moral exhortation, this one reads like a travelogue.
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Yet it was here in the U.S. that this passage first time spoke to me personally. Two, perhaps three years into my ministry, I sat at the back of the sanctuary during the Divine Liturgy, listening. Then I caught myself scoffing inwardly: “St. Paul, what was the point of all this peripety?”
The question made me grin. It was the same one my good friend, Fr. Matúš, had asked me years earlier, just before our departure for America. We were at the baptism of my newborn goddaughter Lucia. Her mother, Lucia — wife of Fr. Marek, another dearest friend and fellow seminarian — could not hold back her tears. The luncheon afterward was thick with emotion; our farewell was less than a week away. I had assured everyone we were only going for three years — to complete my psychology studies, to help with the priest shortage in the Eparchy of Parma, and to find a better work-life balance while studying, since I would be assigned to a small parish rather than the larger ones where I had previously served as an assistant priest.
And then Fr. Matúš, with a trace of anger and disappointment that he retains up until today, had asked, “What’s the point of all this peripety?” Now, here I was, directing the same question at St. Paul — and I couldn’t help but smile. What’s the point of all this peripety?!
The answer came as quickly as the question: That’s how the Holy Spirit leads His Church. That realization helped me then (this epistle has held special meaning for me ever since) and it helps me now. I trust in the same truth that struck me years ago in that lengthy epistle: The Holy Spirit leads His Church, often in ways we’d never predict — despite all the peripety.
A happy feast of Pentecost to everyone! May the Spirit, who descended on the apostles in a manner of fiery tongues (and many other times in a manner of wind and storm and other times in a manner of peace and tranquility), guide each of us as surely as He guided St. Paul’s voyage and the mission of the early Church.
