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
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