Leadership rarely begins on a national stage. More often, it begins in places like Lynn.
In May 1978, I was thirteen when Archbishop Iakovos came to St. George Church for its long-delayed consecration. The parish had waited decades. Generations had built toward that day. Our grandfather and uncles had helped build the original church. It mattered.
Iakovos, “the Archbishop,” as we all called him, was then the head of the Greek Orthodox Church in North and South America, born Demetrios Coucouzis on the island of Imvros under Ottoman rule. History traveled with him. What stood before us was responsibility.
His crown caught the light. The dragons atop his staff seemed to watch. Then he lifted it and struck the church doors three times with its base. The sound echoed through the nave. The doors opened. Authority had crossed the threshold.
We altar boys stood in white and gold robes, red belts cinched tight in the May heat. It did not matter. We were vested. We had to bear it. Father Charles Mihos had been teaching us that long before the doors were struck.
On the altar, Mihos was exact, every movement measured. Outside, he carried warmth, sometimes punctuated by a distinctive giggle that parishioners knew well. His chanting voice was steady and strong. Buildings are dedicated in a day. A parish is formed over time.
Near the close of the service, which ran more than six hours, the archbishop tonsured the entire altar boy crew as readers. We had stumbled through the Creed. We were young. Imperfect. He entrusted us anyway.
That was the lesson. Leadership does not wait for polish. It calls. It expects. It forms.
Later that evening, in our parish gymnasium, Archbishop Iakovos asked plainly for support to sustain the church. There was expectation, yes. Institutions endure when people participate. My brothers and I stepped forward to offer modest sums. The meaning was not modest.
And then, in that same gymnasium, he led us in singing “God Bless America.” He sang it fully, not as ceremony but as conviction. For a man born under Ottoman rule, the words carried weight. He valued being an American. He meant it.
Years later, as part of a college orchestra performing at Carnegie Hall, I wrote to him inviting his support. He responded with a full-page letter and a $250 check. He thanked me for remembering him. He encouraged the effort.
Leadership remembers.
On a Good Friday in New York, I saw him again at Holy Trinity Cathedral. He led the Great Lamentations and read from the prophet Ezekiel’s “Valley of the Dry Bones” in a deep baritone that filled the nave. Years earlier he had visited my aunt and uncle in Cambridge for tea and conversation. When I mentioned her name, he said, “Please remember me to her.”
Leadership remembers where it came from.
When he marched in Selma in March 1965 with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the image circled the country. But to those of us who saw him in Lynn in May 1978, it was not a departure. It was consistency. The same steadiness. The same willingness to stand publicly for conviction.
Looking back now, I do not remember pageantry. I remember pattern.
A parish that waited patiently. A priest who formed generations. A bishop who expected participation and answered when called upon.
Leadership is not spectacle. It is presence. It is repetition. It is showing up until others learn to do the same.
In Lynn, leadership was visible. It asked something of you. It trusted you before you trusted yourself.
Some places give you opportunity. Lynn gave us examples.
And examples endure.
Peter J. Eliopoulos was born in Lynn and serves as a Governor of the Addison Gallery of American Art in Andover. He lives outside New York City with his wife.
