My Greek Odyssey

60 Minutes Visits Mt. Athos

Fathers and Sons

The first light of a new day flowed through the small window I was sitting next to on my transatlantic flight to Athens.  Eight months had passed since I last spoke to my son Nick. Behind me I left a grieving family still trying to make sense of their loss. Ahead of me was a son who despite his human failings and weaknesses, loved God more than anyone or anything in the world--more than the life we helped shape him for, more than his automobile, more than the school he attended, more than his family.  What was I going to say when I got to the monastery?   How would he receive me?  What would I find there? The questions swirled around in my head.

Since our trip to Mt. Athos I had wrestled with my son's decision, trying to reconcile my faith with my doubts.  Was I, even now, still endevearing to replace God with myself in his affections.  Immersed in my worldliness, had I forgotten that the Lord Jesus Christ calls all of His followers to separate themselves from the world?

ὁ Ἰησοῦς εἶπεν τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ· Εἴ τις θέλει ὀπίσω μου ἐλθεῖν, ἀπαρνησάσθω ἑαυτὸν καὶ ἀράτω τὸν σταυρὸν αὐτοῦ καὶ ἀκολουθείτω μοι. (Then said Jesus to his disciples, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.)  

This is the clarion call of Monasticism. 

Eight long months had passed and except for a visit from his yiayia and uncle to the monastery, there had been no contact with Niko.  He had spent an entire winter at the monastery high up in the mountains under arduous and austere conditions.  If he was having second thoughts, now would be the time to find out.  If  I succeeded in bringing him home, would I be making my child unhappy or if I failed, would my family be able to heal the hurt they felt at losing him? We felt estranged from Niko's life and my wife Anna, deeply mourned the son she had been so close to and the grandchildren she would not have. As parents we had spent a good portion of our lives supporting our two precious sons, emotionally and financially, and preparing them to be successful in the world. Now after all these years of effort and anxiety, one of them wanted no part of it.  He had left the seminary one year short of earning his bachelor's degree. In so doing, rejecting the world and the life that we envisioned for him. Every member of his extended family lived with the gnawing feeling that he was rejecting us as well. Had we failed him?

The lack of communication in particular had a devastating effect on all of us. We blamed everyone for our predicament, especially ourselves.  Niko had become the main topic of conversation.  We all wanted to understand, why did he do this? We said he was avoiding responsibility, his spiritual father was making all his decisions,  he was running away instead of working to improve society, he was egocentric and selfish, he was dividing and ruining our family, not to mention condemning himself to a life of misery and insecurity. It ate away at us. His brother Chris, especially felt unloved and cast aside by his brother though he kept his disappointment well hidden.
We wanted him to conform to the world, to do what everybody else does, yet he had chosen another path. The path he had chosen however, brought into sharp focus our own attachment to the world.  An attachment that, in fact, runs contrary to our Orthodox faith.  It is a faith that requires us to surrender our ego, to become other-wordly.  Even those who live in the world, who have children and hold jobs, are required to keep themselves in some sense apart from the world. There can be no compromise. God was confronting us with this uncomfortable truth. The world is not and cannot be our home.  Whether we choose to marry Christ or an earthly spouse, we can in no sense marry the world. Orthodoxy teaches that children are not the possession of their mothers and fathers: they are not playthings of their parents' imaginations. Children are given by God for a time that they may be raised up in the knowledge of Him, and after that He summons them as He will. The duty of parents is not to prepare children to settle comfortably in the world, but to shepherd their souls, to prepare them to battle against the fallen anti-Christian world we live in. 

As my plane touched down at Eleftherios Venizelos airport I was thinking about the journey my grandfather had started over a hundred years ago when he arrived in America. We had come full circle as a family now that his great grandson had returned to live in Greece.  Now a new generation was to experience the loss and separation of children living far away.  Greece was in the throes of economic crisis.   The heady days of  unbridled spending and easy living had collapsed like a house of cards.  Athens now reflected the difficult times Greeks were living in;  it was somber, decaying, cold and gray.  My brother-in-law Thano picked me up at the airport and drove me to the humble little walk up apartment my mother-in-law Maria had spent her entire adult life in. She was visibly happy to see me and we hugged each other.  Maria was the only parent I had left in the world and I valued her wise counsel.  Always one to take care of her children, the table was laid out with food to welcome us.  The photos of her family are ever present and surround her. Her youngest brother of had died of cancer two months ago, his photo joining those of her older brother and husband on a small table. She had aged, dressed as she was in the black clothing of mourning.  No stranger to adversity, a child of the German occupation and subsequent civil war, she had known poverty and starvation.  I could sense that she deeply felt her daughter's pain but was stoic, even in the face of another family crisis.  

The next day, I walked to Thano's new apartment a few blocks from his mother's home to see his family.  It was a sunny day and we decided to take his two year old son to the park.  For a short period, I was able to experience once again the happiness of a young child at play. We laughed at his antics with the other children there.  He reminded me of my own children at that age in what was now a very distant time and place that I could only return to in my fading memory. Thano and I left early the following morning for the monastery, a three hour trip north.  Along the way we bantered back and forth, sometimes talking about Nick but mostly about other subjects.  It was apparent that the things were bleak in Greece and bound to get worse. Thano considered himself one of the lucky ones, he still had a good paying job in the private sector.  Listening to him, however, I could tell that he was uneasy about his job, his wife's job and the future his son was heir to.  The snow capped peaks on our route up were in sharp contrast with the greenery in the valleys beginning to sprout up everywhere. It was the middle of Lent, a time of spiritual renewal and rebirth, as was the beginning of Spring, now upon us, the tumultuous times notwithstanding.

As we began to veer off the main highway toward the winding road that made its way through the mountains, the talking stopped.  The butterflies in my stomach fluttered uncontrollably as I said a silent prayer.  The morning Orthos service was still going on when we pulled up. Thano lit a cigarette and stretched his legs while I walked into the four hundred year old Church through the short front doorway, bending over as I entered in humility.  I lit a candle, kissed the icons and entered a packed church. Only a few rays of light coming through the small narrow windows lit its dark interior. There were a number of pilgrims and I strained to get a glimpse of my son. Our eyes finally met. I could tell that he was surprised as well as apprehensive. He smiled.

When the service was over he came up to me and after hesitating for a moment we embraced. We walked out together into the sunlight. Niko had been tonsured as a novice three days previously, his hair had been cut short. The pony tail was gone and the beard was only now just starting to grow again. "Dad I can't believe you are really here. You missed my tonsure by only three days." He looked gaunt, though energetic and happy.  He wore the black cossack known as rassa and a black hat. His boots were caked with the mud created by the melting snow that survived here and there.  We spent some time with Thano before his departure for Athens.  "Your yiayia sends you her love, let us know if you need anything, Nikolaki" he said as he got into his car. We watched until his car disappeared down the hill.

The acting Abbott gave his blessing for me to stay at the monastery with Father Panteleimon, formerly known as Niko to his friends and family, in his cell. It was heated by a stone fireplace which we fed with wood at night to ward off the night-time chill.  For the next five days I adjusted myself to the monastery routine, helping my son with his duties when I could, like lighting the oil lamps in the Katholikon in the early morning hours.  We went to services three times a day and the two communal meals at 10 AM and 6 PM.  The rest of the day was devoted to the many chores that must be performed to keep things going like cooking and cleaning including manual labor.  It had been many years since I had led such a Spartan existence and it reminded a little of my days as a young Marine when life seemed so carefree and adventure was a daily occurrence.   The monastery dogs, Teratoula (the little beast) and Blackie, became my companions when they realized that I was good for the occasional treat. They soon guarded our doorway  lest anyone infringe on their access to such an easy mark.

Living in such close proximity with my son I think both of us began to see each other differently. Father Panteleimon had changed in fundamental ways.  He had matured, seemed more relaxed and always had a gleem in his eyes. He was truly happy and comfortable with who he was.  There was no regret. He was no longer the young man chaffing at his father's frequent advice nor worried about the future.  Then again, Nick had never been a kid afraid to venture out into the cold, cruel world beyond. His first day of school was instructive. My wife, Anna, the quintessential Greek mommy dressed him in new school clothes, cute little shoes, with a backpack and a lunch box  filled with a nutritious balanced meal for three kids.  She planned to chauffeur him to school and help him negotiate his first uncertain moments at school. Unbeknownst to her, the big yellow school bus unexpectedly pulled up right in front of our home. Nick took one look, immediately grabbed his trash, kicked the door open, and ran directly to the waiting bus. He looked back, waved and yelled:  "Bye Momma, Bye  Daddy,"  just as the door of the school bus closed shut behind him. All we could do was wave and smile bravely as the bus drove away, the tears streaming down Anna's face.

Perhaps I had changed too and he sensed this. I had been chastened and humbled by the events of the last year. Having understood my sadness he went out of his way to look after the lost old man in his midst.  He would heap extra wool blankets on me at night and wake up early before the crack of dawn to stoke the fire so the room was not cold when I woke up. At night he would make me a cup of tea and worry when I skipped a meal.  "Have something to nibble on Baba, tsimbise kati," he'd say with a smile. It was enough to make my heart break.  We talked about his Mom, his brother and everyone we knew and he read the pile of letters I delivered.

The days passed quickly. It was the little things that I will remember about this time, like being in a cold, darkened church as we went from oil lamp to oil lamp, filling them with oil and lighting each one.  The illumined faces of Christ, the Theotokos and the Saints that surrounded and looked down on us. The church was a time capsule of sorts, hardly changed over the centuries. In the silence, one felt the presence of all the sinners like me who had worshiped there.  You could almost hear their whispered prayers in the midst of the turmoil of their own lives of hardship, poverty and war. The evening meal was a simple soup made of tahini with crusty bread and olives.  As we listened to the reading I watched him eat as if he was some alien being I was observing for the first time, trying to memorize the details of his features.  

On my last morning I decided to get up early to take a walk.  It was quiet except for the chirping of the birds heralding the arrival of Spring.  I surveyed the surrounding mountains dressed in a distant mist, the meadows decked out in sprouting wild flowers while the tree branches budding new leaves swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze. The monastery began to stir and the light brightened.   At Orthos I listened to my son chant with the other monks and felt strangely at peace, the peace that comes with acceptance.  At one point he left briefly to take care of something, as he brushed past me he must have noticed that I was lost in my thoughts and playfully but unobtrusively nudged me. He did the same upon his return, assuming his previous position where he looked so very much at ease. He was a man now, yet the little boy peeked out smiling, to reassure me.   Before I left I prostrated myself three times before the wonder-working icon of the Panagia tenderly holding the Christ Child while praying that she look after my son, knowing that she well understood how a parent feels.

He drove me to the bus station down the winding mountain road into the bustling town, where we waited together. "I am going to miss you," I said after a palpable silence.  He gave me a forlorn look, "Baba, I already miss you and you haven't even left yet."  We talked about his mother and brother. "I'll give them your letters," I promised.  The bus driver had opened the door of the bus now while passengers were lining up with their tickets to board.  I finally gave him my blessing and asked him to pray for his family, living and dead.  We embraced each other.  "I love you, son,"  holding him close.  "I love you too, Dad."  Wiping a tear away, I got on the bus without looking back.

07 Talanto

12 What shall we render unto the Lord

CHRIST IS RISEN! ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ ΑΝΕΣΤΗ - ΑΛΙΘΟΣ Ο ΚΥΡΙΟΣ

My very best wishes to all my MGO friends and their families on this blessed Pascha.

"Now upon the first day of the week, very early in the morning, they came unto the sepulchre, bringing the spices which they had prepared, and certain others with them. And they found the stone rolled away from the sepulchre. And they entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus. And it came to pass, as they were much perplexed thereabout, behold, two men stood by them in shining garments: And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen."   LUKE 24: 5-8

"Take part in this fair and radiant festival. Let no one be fearful of death, for the death of the Savior has set us free . . . O Death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is Thy victory? Christ is Risen and Thou art overthrown. To Him be glory and power from all ages to all ages."

                              From the Paschal Sermon of Saint John Chrysostom

     

12 Christ Is Risen

 

Easter Oration of St. Gregory the Thelogian

Yesterday I was crucified with Christ;
Today I am glorified with Him.
Yesterday I died with Him,
Today I am made alive with Him.
Yesterday I was buried with Him,
Today I am raised with Him.
Let us become like Christ,
Since Christ became like us.
Let us become divine for His sake,
Since for us He became man.
He assumed the worse,
That He might give us the better.
He became poor, that by His poverty
We might become rich.
He accepted the form of a servant,
That we might win back our freedom,
He came down that we might be lifted up.
He was tempted, that through Him
We might conquer.
He was dishonored, that He might glorify us.
He died, that He might save us.
He ascended, that He might draw to Himself us,
Who lie prostrate, having fallen into sin.
Let us give all, offer all, to Him who gave Himself;
A ransom and reconciliation for us.

_I Zoi en tafo_ by Fairuz

 

The Virgin's Pain - Nikos Xylouris

ΟΙ ΠΟΝΟΙ ΤΗΣ ΠΑΝΑΓΙΑΣ

Πού να σε κρύψω γιόκα μου
να μη σε φτάνουν οι κακοί
σε ποιο νησί του ωκεανού
σε πια κορφή ερημική.

Δε θα σε μάθω να μιλάς
και τ' άδικο φωνάξεις
ξέρω πως θα χεις την καρδιά
τόσο καλή τόσο γλυκή
που μες τα βρόχια της οργής
ταχειά, ταχειά θε να σπαράξεις.

Συ θα'χεις μάτια γαλανά
θα 'χεις κορμάκι τρυφερό
θα σε φυλάω από ματιά κακή
και από κακό καιρό

Από το πρώτο ξάφνιασμα
της ξυπνημένης νιότης
δεν είσαι συ για μάχητες
δεν είσαι συ για το σταυρό
εσύ νοικοκερόπουλο
όχι σκλάβος, όχι σκλάβος ή προδότης

Κι αν κάποτε τα φρένα σου
το δίκιο φως της αστραπής
κι αν η αλήθεια σου ζητήσουνε
παιδάκι μου να μην τα πεις

Θεριά οι ανθρώποι δεν μπορούν
το φως να το σηκώσουν
δεν είναι η αλήθεια πιο χρυσή
απ' την αλήθεια της σιωπής
χίλιες φορές να γεννηθείς
τόσες, τόσες θα σε σταυρώσουν

THE VIRGIN"S PAIN

Where shall I hide you my son
out of reach of the evil ones
on what island in the ocean
on what high deserted peak.

I won't teach you how to speak
and shout against injustice
I know your heart
so good, so sweet
Caught in the rain of anger,
quick and rapid heartbeats

You will have eyes of blue
a tender body
I will protect you against the evil eye
and bad seasons

From the first fright
of youth awakened
you are not a fighter 
nor are you for the cross
You are a child of home
not a slave, nor a traitor

And if one day in your restraint
in the flash of a just light
they seek the truth from you
my child don't  tell them

Beastly people cannot
bear the light
Is not truth more precious
than the truth of silence ?
May you be born a thousand times
they will crucify you as many.


                      translated by Stavros

Pilgrimage to Athos Part II

The dirt road to the Skete of St. Anna offered breathtaking views of the sea and surrounding mountains. Little did I realize as I walked that the my life was about to change in a major way and that God would test my faith.  The skete belongs to the Holy Monastery of the Great Lavra. It is the largest and oldest skete of Mount Athos. It is located at an altitude of 340 m in a rugged but fertile region close to the Athos cape. It was founded the last decades of the 17th century in order to honor St. Anna.

It is a Greek idiorrhythmic skete, consisting of fifty one kalyvae inhabited by approximately 85 monks. Idiorrthymic monasticism is the oldest form of monastic life. Unlike cenobetic monasticism which emphasizes communal worship, strict discipline and manual work, monks at St. Anna's skete live a more isolated and independent life. Some are occupied with fishing and gardening, whereas others practice hagiography, wood carving, the production of incense and miniature art.

As we entered a small gate which marked the boundary of the skete we decided to rest awhile. Sipping some water I looked up surveying the high ground where the central chapel was located and where the monks often gathered to worship on feast days.  The church built in 1764, preserves a relic of St Anna, her left foot and also houses her wonder-working icon. That icon is festooned with hundreds of photos of children born to childless couples. I wiped the sweat from my brow and told Nick that I wanted to venerate the Icon and relic on his mother's behalf since St. Anna is her patron Saint and namesake.  I had hardly finished my sentence when a monk rounded the corner carrying the relic in a silver box. Nick and I looked at each other.  He greeted us and realizing we weren't quite sure how to get to our destination offered to lead us. It seems he was returning the relic after taking it to the kalyvi of a sick monk.   

As we walked to church, he informed us that the primary mission of the skete was to help childless couples to concieve through the help of prayer. Almost daily they send holy water, antidiron and instructions for prayer through the mails to those that seek their help and in return recieve hundreds of photos every month of the children born to those couples. Such is the power of faith and prayer.  At St Anna's we met Father Cheruvim, a Greek American who is a graduate of Holy Cross seminary in Boston. When he realized we were from America and that Nick was a seminarian he invited us to stay at his kalyvi. There were two other monks there, both iconographers who paint icons in a small workshop overlooking the blue Aegean Sea. One of them, Father Theophilos, sat down to share coffee with us, while the younger monk prepared a mid-day meal.  Fr. Theophilos talked about the Greek immigrant communities overseas and confided that they were his country's last great hope. We were in his daily prayers, even though the much respected geronta whose spiritual children now inhabit the kalyvi we found ourselves in often described America as a modern Sodom and Gomorah.  Now long gone his photo hung  in the simple cell that was his home for most of his life. Each kalyvi has its own chapel, and the monks who live there hold regular services. This particular one was dedicated to the entry of the Holy Theotokos into the Temple which is celebrated on the 21st of November each year and is coincidently my birthday.  The Virgin Mary's parents, Joachim and Anna, who had been childless, received a heavenly message that they would bear a child despite their advanced age. In thanksgiving for the gift of their daughter, they brought her, when still a child, to the Temple of Jerusalem to consecrate her to God. Mary remained in the Temple until puberty.

We ate the evening meal in a small kitchen with Father Cheruvim and Father Theophilos. A very different experience than the communal dining at the monasteries. We talked about home, mutual acquaintances and life on Athos. Nick revealed our plans to climb to the summit of Athos the next day and both monks encouraged us to do so. "You must get an early start," advised Fr. Cheruvim and promised to have some food ready to take along to sustain us on the arduous journey we were to make. That evening Niko and I sat on a terrace watching the sun go down. He looked pensive and I asked him if anything was wrong.  He looked at me and said "I want to become a monk.  I have been wanting to tell you this for over a year but haven't had the courage to do it."   I was too stunned to reply for awhile. Nick had spent  a few weeks at a monastery in Central Greece the previous year and had returned twice.  I hadn't given it much thought, thinking it was good way for him to develop spiritually since he wanted to become a priest and had completed his third year as a seminarian.  God wanted my child and unlike Abraham I wasn't about to give him up so easily. "Niko, you are on Athos, of course, the monastic life looks attractive right now, however, you are way too young to make such an important decision, finish school first."  Nick had a pained expression on his face, before he could say anything I got up and said, "lets get some shut eye, we have a long climb ahead of us."  

It was still dark when we left the next day using flashlights to light our way.  The climb became steeper as we progressed. Much of the initial climb is up stone steps that have been hewn into the rocks. Two hours into our trek I was beginning to breathe heavily and feel exhausted, we had a long way to go. Nick slowed his pace so I could keep up and often looked back at his old man, visibly worried. "Keep going" I said, jokingly, "I'll let you know if I'm going to have a heart attack."  The first light of the new day began to reveal the beautiful forest that we were in. The shade of the trees protecting us from the sun's increasingly powerful rays. Now and then, we stopped to rest, took our packs off and drank water which seemed to taste better the longer we walked. We were alone with our personal thoughts, neither of us wanting to upset the other by talking about the pain each of us kept hidden. Nick saddened by my reaction to the direction he had chosen for his life and my terror at losing the future I had envisioned for my son.  As we continued our climb I began to pray. I was mad at God: why me, why my son? I was ready to negotiate, to strike a deal with God himself, surely he would listen here of all places. He would let me keep my son and I would give myself up to him as a sacrificial lamb.  Have mercy on me, a sinner.  

The sun began to get hotter and brighter as we broke through the tree line.  We could see the rocky summit in the far distance since the trees were very much diminished in the higher altitudes.  I began to think of the Ladder of Divine Ascent, an icon that I had often contemplated. The terrain began to level off and in the distance we could make out the church of the Panagia.  We had climbed 1500 meters. We met some other climbers who had been resting before there final ascent.  There were also a few Albanian stonemasons who had just arrived with a caravan of mules after having delievered bags of cement to the summit.  Construction there of the Church of the Transfiguation is nearing completion.  We filled our water bottles from the cistern and pulled some crusty bread and olives out of our packs to eat.  As we surveyed the summit towering above us, another 500 meter trek, I realized I was in no shape to continue on.  Nick tried to talk me into trying for the top but I was spent and we both knew it. He joined the climbers leaving for the summit and I watched them move up the trail until I lost sight of them.  Sitting there I thought again of that troublesome icon. It depicts many people climbing a ladder; at the top is Christ the Pantokrater, prepared to receive the climbers with open arms into Heaven. Also shown are angels helping the climbers, and demons attempting to shoot with arrows or drag down the climbers, no matter how high up the ladder they may be. Most versions of the icon show at least one person falling. I said a silent prayer for my son, my family and for myself.

The Albanians were sleeping now and the mules had gathered around a bone dry watering container. One of them kept staring at me, obviously wondering if I was going to get up and fill the container with water.  I began pulling water up from the cistern and filling up the water container as the mules fought for their turn at it. They gulped down bucketful after bucketful occasionally kicking line jumpers behind them until they all had their turn.  I looked back up to see Nick and the others but they were no longer visible.  I found some shade and fell asleep oblivious to the bugs buzzing around my face.  A few hours later, I could see climbers descending, and eventually could make out my son Nick with them.  I walked out to meet him, he was visibly tired but elated to have reached the summit.  He was very talkative. I sat back and enjoyed listening to the youthful enthusiasm in his voice while relating his adventure.

After resting, Nick and I began our descent hoping to arrive before dark. Descending is always easier, though it felt like it took longer than our ascent.  By the time we returned to the kalyvi it was dark and the monks prepared a hot meal for us which we gobbled down. That night I had difficulty sleeping, not because I wasn't tired but rather because I was troubled by the thought of losing my son. Christ had beckoned to him and he was ready and willing to follow, was I to stand in his way or should I step aside?  I tossed and turned until sleep in its mercy embraced me.  

We said our goodbyes and left the next day, catching the morning boat back to Ouranoupolis, returning to the world with all its noise, pleasures and temptations.  After a few more days together, Nick and I set out on our respective ways. I was returning home to Maine and Niko was returning to the monastery in the mountains of central Greece which would be his new home. Against my advice, he had dug in his heels and refused to change his mind. Forty years earlier, I had in similar fashion joined the Marines despite the wishes of my own father. My combat service had visibly aged Dad over the years until his death, always living with the fear of losing his son.  The relationship between a father and son is a difficult one.  The son always has his father's love, yet he must also earn his father's respect and admiration.  It is by leaving home and fighting his own battles that the son is able to achieve this. Now it was my turn to put on a brave face and wish him well. I would not see him again for another eight months.  Over the years I had learned that what happens in my life is not always under my control.  Once again, I had to put my son, my family and myself in God's hands and trust in his mercy and love.

 

14 Di' Efhon Ton Agion (Melos Arheon)

 

Pilgrimage to Athos

 
On the Holy Mountain days turn into years and years turn into centuries. Time has no meaning nor the world which sits at its doorstep. The door to Athos is the port town of Ouranoupolis. It was the beginning of a journey that my 22 year old son Nicholas and I would make together. Both of us had been drawn to Athos by a combination of curiosity and a genuine thirst to get in touch with a purer form of our Orthodox faith. In the process we would discover more about our relationship and about ourselves.  We arrived in Ouranoupolis after a tiring eight hour drive in the early morning hours. The town was just starting to come to life and a line had already started to form at the Pilgrim's bureau. Carrying small backpacks we joined the others there to wait patiently for the paper that would allow us entry into the peninsula where twenty men's monasteries are situated. The early morning was already heating up as the shops and cafes came to life and the cacophony of life in a tourist town. With our papers in hand we sat down and ordered coffee guaranteed to wake us up.  Two men argued, arms flailing and swearing at each other. Scantily clad bathers were already headed for the nearby beach. As we waited for the ferry that would transport us to the next stop I watched my son Nick, there was no trace of the boy I once knew. Before me stood a man with a beard who was seeing the world through his own eyes now. I longed for the boy he had once been even though I was  proud of who he had become. We tarried there for awhile, awakened by the strong black coffee as each of each became lost in his own thoughts.

The ferry sailed at nine, it was full. We scurried up to the top deck where we found a bit of shade from the sun which was already making us sweat with its powerful rays.  I looked around at my fellow travellers, men both young and old, some spoke Greek, others spoke Russian or English. There were a few Germans and Frenchmen, obviously not Orthodox.  Surprisingly there were more than a few boys accompanied by their fathers. As the ferry boat lumbered along the western shore of the peninsula we left the world behind and between the small talk and excitement stood transfixed by the lush landscape emerging before us including the monasteries of Docharoiu, Xenophontos and the Russian Monastery of St Panteleimon.  Our first stop was the port of Dafni; it is the bustling administrative capital of Athos, A waystation to the monasteries filled with pilgrims and monks on their way to various destinations. A strange place because it might be mistaken for any small port town in Greece with the exception that it is totally devoid of women. Our first stop was the monastery of Simonpetra. After making inquiries we found out that there was a small van going there  and we rushed to find it in the bowels of the town. The monk driving the van had just finishing loading it. We inquired if there were any seats left.  He looked up, smiled and nodded affirmatively. "By now the van is usually full, the Panagia has opened the road for you, may it blessed," he said, smiling.

Athos is considered the Garden of the Panagia. According to tradition, the Virgin Mary with John the Evangelist, were on  their way to visit Lazarus in Cyprus, when they encountered a stormy sea that forced them to temporarily seek refuge in the port which is now the Holy Monastery of Ivira. The Virgin Mary, admiring the wild beauty of the place, asked God to give her the mountain as a present. Then the voice of our Lord was heard saying: "Let this place be your lot, your garden and your paradise, as well as a salvation, a haven for those who seek salvation."  At key times during our short stay it would feel that the Panagia would again intervene on our behalf. We hurriedly got in and the van began its precarious ascent up a narrow dirt road that climbed every higher toward the monastery perched on a cliff. I sat by the window and looked down the outer edge of the road that dropped precipitously into the rocks and blue sea below.  I closed my eyes and began reciting the Jesus Prayer: "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me a sinner." Something I would find myself increasingly doing throughout our trip. 

When you first see Simonopetra it appears like some distant Shangri-La, almost like an apparition that cannot be real.  How it was built in the 13th century with the existing technology of the time and how the materials used were transported up such rocky inaccessible terrain is a miracle in and of itself.  The monastery was founded by Simon the Athonite. While dwelling in a nearby cave, which is accesible today by a short path, he saw a dream in which the Theotokos instructed him to build a monastery on top of the rock, promising him that she would protect and provide for him and the monastery.

During the mid 20th century the brotherhood was greatly thinned out due to great reduction in the influx of new monks. The current thriving brotherhood originates from the Holy Monastery of the Great Meteoron in Meteora as in 1973 the Athonite community decided to repopulate the almost abandoned monastery under the leadership of Elder Aimilianos. Simonopetra has thrived in the intervening years and its renewal is evident in the faces of the monks that inhabit it. They come from all walks of life, one is a former Harvard professor, and they are united in one thing, a longing to be closer to God.  

Upon arrival we were ushered to the the archondariki, the guest house, where we were offered loukomi, water and small glasses of tsipouro, home brewed liquor. Our papers were examined and eventually we were escorted to the dining area to eat lunch which consisted of roast potatoes, kalamari, crusty bread and olives.  From there we were taken to our rooms where a clean bed awaited us and an opportunity to wash.  We had an opportunity to rest awhile. In the late afternoon we walked around and took in the magnificent views of the sea below.  Nearby is a small cemetery and the reliquary where the bones of all the fathers find there final resting place.

In the evening, we marched into the dining area, where we ate a simple but delicious meal. The Abbott sat at the head table while one of the monks read from a holy book while we ate silently and listened. At the end we filed out past the Abbott who blessed each of us. Vespers lasted late into the evening in a packed katholikon.  The iconostasion was painted gold and its brilliant luniensence  lit up the church while two choirs of monks located on opposite sides took turns chanting.  A huge chandlier hovering over us began to sway rythmically in a circle propelled by one of the monks. It was a sublime evening but as it wore on into the late evening the summer heat and dehydration caught up with me as waves of nausea engulfed me. I alternated between the service and the breezy courtyard repeating the Jesus prayer once again.  Eventually I retired to my bed and slept until awakened for the morning service.  I ate nothing for most of the day, we decided to press on, pack our few belongings and spent some time with Father Iakovos, a Greek American like ourselves who spoke to us at length.  We were regaled with the decriptions of the huge, devout crowds encountered in Russia when the monks brough the relics of St Magdalene there.  Father Iakovos sensing my discomfiture asked if there was anything he could offer me, he recommended some fresh appricots which were not only refreshing but seemed to settle my stomach.  We exchanged thanks and proceeded to walk down to a small pier at the foot of the cliff where the monastery is located in order to catch the next boat to St Paul's monastery.  The long walk down to the coastline was deceptively difficult in the heat and humidity of the day, within a short period of time we were drenched in sweat and wondering how long it would take to get to the pier where we could catch the boat to St Paul's monastery, our next stop.  We arrived in time to see a boat passing by. Was this our boat?  Had it failed to stop?  The pier was empty except for the two of us. Already exhausted we sat down in the shade and decided to wait.  Once again the Panagia smiled on us, or at least I'd like to think so, and another boat soon arrived docking at the pier.  

The short boat ride brought us to St Paul's Monastery which looked resplendent in the distance. A distance that appeared short but would prove to be very diificult in the soaring midday heat and sun. I began reciting the Jesus Prayer as we walked on the dirt road to the monastery. My son glancing worriedly at the old man by his side.  We stopped often to rest and talk in the shade of the few trees along the way.   Among the various treasures and very precious relics which are preserved with much piety in the Holy Monastery of St. Paul on the Holy Mountain, without a doubt among the foremost are the Precious Gifts which the three Magi from the East offered to the baby Jesus. These gifts, as is known, were gold, frankincense and myrrh.  As we ascended we could see a location known as the kathisma, marked by a cross.  It was here after the fall of Constantinople that Maro, the Christian wife of the sultan Mourat II (1421-1451) and stepmother of Mohamed II, brought them in person to the Holy Monastery of St. Paul of the Holy Mountain. This Monastery was known to her father George Brangovitch, despot of Serbia, who built the Katholikon of the Monastery in honor of the Holy Great Martyr George the Trophy-bearer.

According to Athonite tradition, as Maro approached from the port of the Monastery, the Lady Theotokos prevented her in a supernatural way from reaching the Monastery and thus preserving the non-entrance of any woman but the Theotokos to her garden. This she obeyed and humbly delivered the Precious Gifts to the pious monks and fathers. The document from the sultan with the relevant information surrounding the delivery of the Precious Gifts is preserved in the library of the Monastery of St. Paul.

As we continued our climb I began thinking about the last time I had made a hike in this type of heat with a pack on my back as a young Marine during desert training at Twenty Nine Palms, Caifornia. Thirty years later I was clearly no longer the same person and the Panagia in her infinite mercy sent a small pickup truck with a cloud of dust in its wake to pick us up and deposit us at the entrance to the monastery.  As we entered the monastery I was struck by the cool temperature, the shade and the hundreds of nesting swallows that joyfully flew over us chirping their welcome.  We wandered about the courtyard surrounded by the monks apartment-like living quarters. In the center was the great Katholikon and as we entered to worship we were dazzled by it immense size. It is built of marble and stone and imposing to say the least.

 
We eventually made our way to the archontikon where we again went through the usual rite of hospitality. Then we were assigned to our sleeping quarters with a wonderful view of the sea below us.  In the evening we were called to vespers by the sound of the talando, a wooden board that is rapped repeatedly with a wooden mallet that signals the start of services.  We quietly entered the Katholikon with the other pilgrims and monks.  I stood there lost in the darkness which was punctuated by the light of the candles that flickered in the cavernous interior while the sweetness of the burning incense and chanting swept over me. Almost instinctively I found myself in prayer and reflection as I have seldom been in any other place. As I repeated the Jesus prayer again and again I began to think about the death of my parents and the transitory nature of my own life which seemed to be moving so fast. The memories of my childhood were as if they had occurred yesterday and the faces of my past were still fresh and real to me. Yet, so much time had passsed as if in a twinkling of an eye. Standing before God in His house one cannot help but think about his own impending death and the judgement he must face but also the prospect of a new homeland devoid of all the sorrow and cares of this world. It is a humbling experience to think of all one's sins, all the things we are ashamed of and wish mightily to atone for. I continued my silent prayer for the departed and for the living.  At the end of the service, the monks filed out and the pilgrims stayed to venerate the monasteries relics that were brought out for us. As we prostated ourselves and kissed each one, I was mindful that the Saints were flesh and blood people just like us. They too had their own human weaknesses to contend with and yet they persevered, ultimately overcoming those weaknesses, becoming Christlike thus earning a heavenly crown.   I handed the small crucifix around my neck to the caretaker so he could sweep it over each relic, replacing it eventually around my neck. We walked out into the fading light to watch the  sun setting over the vast blue sea of God's creation that stood before us. 

In the early morning we left St Paul's and began the long walk to walked to St Anna's. It wasn't long before the temperature began to rise and our clothes began to stick to our bodies wet with perspiration.  We stopped now and then to rest and drink water while we took in the beautiful scenery before us.  Along the way we passed Albanian stonemason's working on various projects, the entire peninsula has being the reciepient of EU finds dedicated to preserving it as a cultural treasure. Although welcome the influx of monies has detracted I think in part from its major mission which is of course prayer, prayer for those us struggling in the world. It is a double edge sword, at once providing more access to Athos for pilgrims like myself who genuinely benefit from the experience while bringing the outside world ever closer.  By so doing we detract from the singular focus of the monks there on another world, the heavenly kingdom of God.  A world that is ultimately irreconcilable with our own earthly obsessions. 

 PART II of this post will be appear next week.

03 Aineitai ton Kurio 

08 Asate to Kurio asma kaino