The Pathfinder
The enemy is plundering Armenia—one village after another. The smoke of burning ruins sorrowfully rises to the sky. The wind carries the cries of children. Over the corpses of the dead, the living are driven into slavery. Some throw themselves into the abyss to avoid enslavement. Behind them lies death. Ahead—blood and tears.Mesrop's heart is breaking with grief. He rubs his hot forehead with his palms. He will not sleep peacefully tonight, nor tomorrow—not for the rest of his life, until he finds a way to help the defenseless. Nor does his friend Marcos sleep.
"The sorrow of one village does not touch the others. Few rush to help in times of trouble. Our people are callous," Marcos says with a sigh.
"Not callous," Mesrop objects. "People are divided by mountains, faith, and dialects. We must unite them. Ignite them with a single thought. But where is the path to unity? Where is it, Marcos?!"
"What if we build a temple in our village? People from all the villages will come to pray. They will stop avoiding their neighbors, stop judging each other's customs and habits... What do you say, Mesrop?"
"A brilliant idea!" Mesrop exclaims with joy. "Yes, this is exactly what everyone needs!" he says, growing excited, and rushes out into the darkness.
He returns at dawn:
"It's a good idea, Marcos, but we cannot build the temple on the plain. What is easily accessible does not become sacred. We will build it on the summit. And not for prayers—let this be the first temple where people come not to shed tears, but to draw wisdom from one another. Enough mourning."
"There is no path to the summit," Marcos objects.
"True. But we cannot build it in the village either—the temple will lose its power as a banner. It will not become a shield of defense or a sword of resistance. And we need the height. As people ascend, they will leave behind the familiar, detach from their worries, and cleanse themselves of the unnecessary. This will make it easier for them to embrace the new. From the summit, people will see not just one village. Before the homeland revealed to their eyes, the petty will be forgotten. But not everyone will conquer these cliffs, Marcos. That is why we must first carve a path to the summit."
"But we do not have enough life to build such a road! Have you thought about that?"
"I have, Marcos. Others will finish it."
"Mesrop, the people need a temple, and I will start with it."
"First, we need the path..."
The friends part, displeased with each other. Marcos begins building the temple in his native village. Mesrop begins carving the road in the mountains. Over several years, he cuts so many steps into the cliffs that a child could climb them without losing breath. Meanwhile, Marcos completes the temple. The villagers praise him, but, apart from a few old women, no one comes to the temple. Marcos waves his hand in frustration—ignorant people.
Year after year, Mesrop climbs higher, making slow progress. His name is showered with ridicule. Marcos, deciding to reason with his friend, comes to him:
"Mesrop, you were known as wise, but you have turned into a child. There are no roads even between villages, and you are scaling the mountains. For centuries, no one before us has attempted such a thing. Why are you freezing, starving, and losing sleep here? Do not shame the world, do not disgrace your father's name. Your own home is falling apart."
"Marcos!" Mesrop turns to him in anger. "You are no better than the princes who protect only their own courtyards. Who are you? A sectarian, leading people astray? Or a bard, singing praises to the people but failing to show them the way in their hour of need? Go and pray instead."
Time raced like a swift steed, giving birth to some and sweeping others from the path. The graying Mesrop hurried, fearing he would not finish in time. The summit drew closer—his strength waned. Finally, the day came... From the summit, the gray-haired Mesrop looked back. Like years, the stone steps descended to the people.
"My steps are only a few miles long. But these miles can now be walked in an hour. A life—in an hour—is that too little?" For the first time in many years, old Mesrop smiled, rejoicing that the paths of the scattered villages would converge at the temple.
From that day on, the unreachable mountain became accessible. People climbed to the summit. They built a temple there. And they named it after Mesrop Mashtots, the creator of the Armenian alphabet.
Holy Father Mesrop, we pray to you, intercede with God for us!
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