Father Roman Braga. A legend of universal Orthodoxy
In the instructions that Fr. Roman gave for his death and burial, he made it clear that he did not want to be eulogised. But as one of his many spiritual sons who loved so much to hear his word at the end of the Holy Mass, I would like to offer, with humility, love and deep gratitude, my observations as one of his doctors, to bear witness to the last word the Lord offered us as his end approached.
Father Roman always encouraged us to think of prayer as a constant dialogue with God; nothing, no activity, however trivial it may seem, is outside God’s providence, love and care for His creatures.
And so it was in the long, final stage of his journey to the Kingdom. His path to death was one of unceasing prayer. Always present, like a beacon to light his way during those many months of physical decline and suffering, was the precept formulated by his youthful confessor, Father Cleopas of Sihăstria: “Patience, patience, patience!”. He was literally an icon of Christ’s admonition recorded in the Gospel: “By your patience possess your souls.” (Luke 21:19).
In the same Gospel, our Lord also says: “Blessed are you poor,…” (Luke 6:20). As a monk, Father Roman had already voluntarily embraced holy poverty, but in these last two years of his life he received the grace to experience the absolute poverty of the dying, a very slow kenosis, a total self-emptying, like his crucified Lord.
He did not hesitate, he did not resist, he did not try to bargain, he totally accepted whatever happened, whatever uncertainty and suffering. On his 93rd birthday, a few weeks before his death, he was asked whether the traditional “Happy Birthday” should be sung to him. His reply captured the essence of Orthodox Christian life: “No! I have finally begun to learn how to die”.
When asked politely how he was feeling, he often replied with a smile, “I am waiting”. This simple phrase – “I am waiting” – must be seen in the context of his disciplined dedication to his daily practice, which sustained him and helped him through the long trials of his. Indeed, it is unlikely that he would have lived so long, literally consumed by his illness, without the discipline of his prayer life. Not only did he live in constant dialogue with God, but he made communion and the sacramental life of the Church the centre of this healing relationship with God. Armed with constant prayer, he coped with gradual losses, first the loss of the ability to stand and serve as a priest at the altar, then the loss of the ability to attend the Holy Mass sitting in a wheelchair, and finally the loss of even the ability to get out of bed to say his daily prayers. And yet, while bedridden, he continued to pray the quintessential prayer of the Christian penitent: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. When he finally lost the power of speech, he silently made the sign of the cross, because he had silently appropriated the language of paradise.
Out of his constant concern for others and as a perfect teacher, he would sometimes stop and teach us, despite the hard trials he was going through. No deed, no small act of kindness escaped his attention. Even when he seemed to be asleep from exhaustion or deep in prayer, he would always say “thank you”, which his caregivers always marvelled at and secretly cherished with great gratitude. When he could no longer move, instead of complaining, he would simply say: “I can’t use my legs any more, so I have to leave myself more to God”. As for the interruption of his monastic vows, which he had kept for so long, he said: “I just can’t do it anymore. The Lord must continue. It is very annoying to die. Towards the end of his long decline, Father Roman expressed this reality by saying: “Dying is very difficult”. But he overcame this difficulty by mastering the monastic discipline of joyfully accepting the most mundane things. He fought the boredom, pain and frustration of his progressive suffering by embracing small joys. None of us who witnessed his childlike delight in eating ice cream will think of that dessert again without recalling Father’s words that “monks are children with beards”.
It is an immense grace to witness the suffering of a dying person, especially when they radiate the love of God. It creates a desire to follow the loved one to the end, but in the end every death is a lonely experience. With great gentleness, Father Roman allowed us to journey with him and witness his suffering through death to true life. The paradox of suffering is that we suffer both alone and together. It is love that bridges the gap between us. Thank God that this man, who suffered so much at the beginning of his life, was surrounded by a loving community at the end of his earthly time.
Fr. Roman’s slow decline over the last two years was a kind of second part of the Holy Mass, the Mass of the faithful, in which, according to his own spiritual rhythm, his communion with God was perfected in suffering, or, as St. Paul said, the power of the Lord was made perfect in his weakness. His spiritual health and final healing were marked by his profound humility and devotion to the Eucharist, to which he said: “I am not worthy to come near you, Lord, but I cannot live without you”.
Father Roman once made the profound observation that “suffering is the source of culture”. The way we Christians suffer can either enrich or diminish the essence or soul of our culture. So we look to the saints of old times and to contemporary witnesses like Father Roman as models and guides in our own suffering.
Thank you, Father Roman, for teaching us to the end. Please continue to pray for your spiritual sons and for the whole Church.
(Dr. Dan Hinshaw, “Father Roman Braga. A Legend of Universal Orthodoxy” in World of Monks Magazine no. 95, May 2015, pp. 33-35)