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I hate it when it gets like this: a situation which demonstrates the utter independence of offspring and the complete inability of Dad to do…well, anything, actually.
Today was a travel day for Olga. Actually yesterday began it, when she took a bus from the town where her aunt lives into London. There she had booked a room at the hip and happening Globetrotter Inn, a hostel of some sort. The plan, already wince inducing in its format, was this: up at 4:00 a.m., onto the subway at 5:00 a.m., ride to Gatwick, catch a 7:30 am flight to Sofia. Nobody’s subway at 5:00 a.m. makes a Dad happy, but that was the plan.
Olga called us last night as we were going to bed, fairly irritable. It was 4:00 a.m. in London, time to get up, but as it turned out she had never gotten to sleep. The hostel was full of teenagers who were shrieking up and down the halls, helpfully precluding sleep for anybody else. On top of that, contrary to what the website said, the hostel did not offer towels. Nothing is grumpier than a young woman with no sleep and an inability to take a shower. One of her friends suggested an air spin dry after a shower, but Olga was in no mood for spin drying.
So there we left it. She should be in Sofia by now — as I write this, it should be shortly after 4:00 pm there. But until I hear word, the Dad instinct keeps me pacing. So, if you have young kids, watch out! The anxiety never ends.
Olga, if you read this send up a flare or something.
On the bright side, my wife and I celebrated our wedding anniversary last night. Now comfortably into our third decade of marriage, I’m happy to report that it just keeps getting better. A surprising report to make in this day and age, but a very true one.
Which is to say, of course, me. Olga discovered yesterday that she has been accepted in an amazingly competitive study abroad program in Bulgaria through Cornell University, with a partial scholarship even. This is good news on many levels. For a classics major, this is a feather in her cap, and will look very nice on her grad school applications, nestled between her recommendations and her essay on Helen of Troy. It also is fun to spend the summer somewhere intriguing, and what word describes Bulgaria better than intriguing? And finally, the vagaries of the airline industry means it will be cheaper to pack her off several weeks early, so she will end up spending several weeks in England with her aunt before heading for Eastern Europe. I’m very, very proud of her, but not so proud of myself: I’ll admit that I am utterly envious.
Of course, being a dad, I was genetically required to put a damper on things, so I forwarded to her a frightening State Department link, warning travelers to Bulgaria of the dangers posed by swarthy eastern European mobsters who drive expensive sedans and SUVS, and have an unfortunate habit of shooting and bombing each other in turf wars; affairs in which an occasional unfortunate tourist has been an unwilling observer. Olga did not appreciate the link, and rightfully so. She is a smart girl, who has shown herself to be capable of wandering around Europe. But what else can a dad do?
I call her a smart girl, but it is also true that as of today, the girl part of the title no longer applies. On St. Patrick’s Day, Olga turns 21. A fitting birthday, since her celtic looks, complete with copper hair, give her the look of the Irish. It is a big day for a young person, and to her I can only say that I love her — and am proud of her — more than I can ever possibly express. I hope the milestone birthday is a very fine one.
Here is the funny thing. When the children were younger, I often thought that the only good part about their growing up would be that we would not have to worry about them any more. Yet now that they are grown up — her little sister turns 18 next month — I find that I still worry incessantly about them. My only excuse is simply that I’m a dad. I think I understand now that I will never stop worrying about them. Doubtless, that will irritate them mightily as they make their own way through life. I hope they can get to the point where they just take it in the spirit in which it is intended.
So, the only emotion left to confront is envy. I want to go to Bulgaria. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. But I know that in Bulgaria they have churches and monasteries, and really good yogurt from what I hear. I know I could find a great number of ways in which to amuse myself. Calgon, take me away!
Posting the link from Olga caused me to remember something she wrote while I was in San Francisco several weeks ago. She had discovered that only blocks from my hotel was a Lush store — a kind of body care and potion place. She posted this on her blog, and I meant to put it up myself, but she and I became engrossed in a bitter dispute over tuna fish salad and whether one should listen to monks in that regard, so the time passed. I ran across it again today, however, and thought I would put it up, mostly as a lesson that even in this day and age, fairy tales and fables indeed linger on:
And the Father said, “Behold, my children, I am taking leave of my household and firm for the period of seven days, for I will journey to the coast of the west to see the grand cathedrals and relics of the city which is known as San Francisco. Do not pout nor give me the look of young puppy dogs, for one ticket is all I have, and I have one ticket.”
And the Eldest Daughter said, “Father, you are cruel to travel alone and not take me, for I much desire the chance to travel to the coast of the west, though I am too much of an Irish lass to appreciate the wide stretches of sand and surf. Willst thou reconsider?”
And the Father said, “Neener.”
And the Eldest Daughter, who was fair and virtuous, grieved to hear him say such. “Then, oh sorrowful One, I entreat thee with many punches and pokes to taketh thou this list, which is precious to me, and enter within the sacred building on Powell Street, for as you make your pilgrimage, I would wish for you to make one for me. Therefore, enter the Sacred Lush, and stray not from this list, nor forget to ask for samples from the Wise Ones.”
And the Father said, “Expect not treasures, nor set your hopes upon the castles of the sky, for I am not made of money.”
And the Eldest Daughter pulled forth her greatest weapon, the Look of the Abused Puppy, and the Father did laugh until without breath, and the Daughter knew that while the precious list would not be fulfilled, it would be considered and, with love, grow smaller by the use of the Revered Paternal Credit Card.
“Ahh!” the Eldest Daughter warned, “Let not the containers explode, nor melt into one solid mass, lest you wish to maketh me your enemy. For I am meticulous in the ways of Lush, and you are an easy target for poking.”
And so the Father departed for the coast of the west with the precious list, and the Daughter waited, and sharpened her nails.
A rather frightening tale, at least for the hapless father, so I’ll reveal the ending. In prosaic terms, I indeed found the Lush shop and stumbled inside. I was immediately accosted by a terrifyingly perky salesgirl, who asked “Can I help you, dude?”
I immediately went into brain freeze, and all I could think of was to thrust the list at her and say, in my best Dan Ackroyd style, “I’m on a mission from God.” She wasn’t fazed in the least, and immediately started gathering the goods. But consider Olga’s version:
And yea, when the Father didst enter into the Sacred Lush, a Wise One DID bound up toward him, and DID say, “Dude, what can I do for you?”
And the Father, in the timeless style of the Brothers of Blue, didst say, “I’m on a mission from God,” and thrust the List into her hand.
And yea, the Daughter didst rejoice, and the Father remained unpummelled.
A close call. I am fearful to say that her younger sister is not only as clever in her writing, but even fiercer in her pummeling. Keep me, the dutiful father, in your prayers.
I’m finally back home, after wandering about slack jawed around parts of California. It was a very fine trip. I’m happy that I managed to maintain my focus, more or less. If I wasn’t out strolling about, I steadfastly kept the television off, and spent my spare time reading. I was, of course, utterly shameless in that department. I returned with so many books that the airplane almost did not get off the ground. The economy of San Francisco took a major boost from my visit, I’m here to tell you.
I could post all of my pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge, but I suspect everyone already has a few of those. But I did get some nice pictures of St. Herman’s Monastery near Platina. Even accounting for the plywood and foam eggcrate beds, I wish I had another day or two to spend up there. The monks were serious yet personable. Seeing my frantic gulping of coffee after five hours in services, Father Nicodemus slid down the bench to sit next to me and whispered that he sympathized entirely, that he had been drinking coffee since he was eleven. the Abbot, Father Gerasim, took time out of a very busy day to sit and talk with me and later, after the evening meal, we took a walk down the road.
At the present time, there seemed to be eight monks at the monastery. They have another four on Spruce Island off the Alaska coast, and have a skete for nuns, St. Xenia, about eight miles away from St. Herman. For those unfamiliar with these monastics, their avowed purpose is to live a desert life. By that, they mean that they are following in the footsteps of the first great monastic movement, in the deserts of Egypt in the fourth century. This tradition has continued in the Orthodox Church ever since, the latest significant flowering being in the vast wilderness of Northern Russia from the 17th century until the Revolution. As such, there is no electricity, no telephone, no modern conveniences to speak of at Platina or at St. Xenia’s. The surrounding woods are home to rattlesnakes, bear, mountain lions and the odd scorpion. The cells are tiny, consisting of little more than a board bed, a desk and an icon corner. They are up for services starting at 4:30 a.m. and then are more or less constantly active, either with physical labor, obediences or prayer, until compline ends around 8:30 p.m. While I was there, it was brutally hot, probably close to 100 degrees there on top of the mountain. The monks, wearing cassocks and cowls, were suffering terribly, but without complaint. They are, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.
In any event, these are some pictures from the monastery.
Entrance to St. Herman’s Monastery
Some of the original buildings. The part with the high roof was all that was there when the first monastics moved on the property, and it was nothing more than a hunter’s lean to. The other parts were built on over the years, including the small chapel dedicated to the Royal Martyrs of Russia, which is the portion to the right of the original building.
The interior of the Chapel of the Royal Martyrs.
The exterior of the main church and the refectory, glimpsed through the woods. They are fairly impressive structures, and were built by the monks.
The interior of the main church. It is very beautiful inside.
The interior of what the monks call the winter chapel. It is below the main church, and is partly underground. It is very small, and easier to warm in the cold of winter.
I am really embarrassed to say this, but I felt obliged today to do something touristy. I mean, I’m an unabashed spiritual tourist, but it struck me that I could not reasonably visit a city like San Francisco and not go and at least look at what everybody else was doing. With that end in mind, I strolled out of the hotel and walked to Powell Street, where I climbed aboard a picturesque sardine car…er, make that cable car. It was absolutely packed with people, and I spent the journey looking at the hair of the woman in front of me. Nice hair, but I’ve seen better. Finally, the conducter type person announced that we were at Fisherman’s Wharf. We all disengaged, like you have to do after playing Twister, and I followed the crowd down to the waterfront.
A short digression. Near where I live, the town of Cherokee opens its arms to tourists from all over the country. You can buy anything you want there, as long as it is either plastic or a t-shirt, and assuming you have a fondness for inexpensive goods from Hong Kong. Tomahawks, war bonnets (although the Cherokee never wore war bonnets), snow globes, knick knacks…you name it. In addition, you can get your picture taken with a hungover Indian Chief (wearing a war bonnet) or a morose bear.
Here is what I discovered today: Fisherman’s Wharf is just like Cherokee, minus the Indian theme and the Indian chief. Oh, and the bear. But otherwise it was enough to drive me to homesickness, or some kind of sickness. I did invest in a boat ride around the bay, remembering what a great time my wife and I had riding a ferry in Quebec City. It was OK, but as soon as we docked, I skedaddled out of the area and down the waterfront to the Embarcadero (spelling highly suspect). It was quieter there, at least, and I eventually caught the subway back to that great outdoor entertainment known as the Powell Street station.
I don’t want to give it away, so if my daughters are reading, don’t read this. This is a secret. I got them both t-shirts that say: “My Minor Clergy Dad went to San Francisco, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”.
I can hear the shrieks of joy even now.
I did find a job I decided I wanted to have. I thrust my way into a record store, and discovered a girl sitting in the elevator on a folding chair. She was reading a magazine and had a CD player at her feet. You got on the elevator, told her what floor you wanted, and without looking up from her magazine, she reached out and punched the button! It was mind boggling. “Where,” I thought, “can I go to school to learn to do that?” But I had this awful feeling that having a middle aged guy sitting in the elevator, reading a magazine and punching buttons would not offer the customers the same cachet. Very sad.
Anyway, tomorrow morning I’ll wander down to the new Cathedral for liturgy, and then pick up a car and head north. After Fisherman’s Wharf, I feel prepared — nay, anxious — to reach the monastery.
I am in my hotel room in San Francisco, and as I write this, the icon of St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco is staring at me. Well, not so much staring as looking intently at me, as though he sees something that he thinks I should know about. St. John, you see, is why I am 3000 miles away from home, sitting above Union Square. I came here specifically to visit St. John, and his spiritual child, Father Seraphim. The fact that St. John has been dead for almost 40 years, and Father Seraphim for about 25, means nothing to me. In Orthodoxy, the veil between the living and those who are technically dead but alive in Christ is but paper thin.
I have been trying to prepare for this trip for a while now, which at least partially explains my lack of postings. Although I am the clumsiest of pilgrims, a trip like this is a pilgrimage and such a journey requires preparation. Some extra prayer, some additional reading of scripture and the Fathers — generally an effort to align one’s spirit with that of the Church to as great an extent as possible. I am not particularly good about that. The things of the world hold powerful sway over me, but I wanted to make as much of an effort as I could.
The genesis of this trip is unusual. About a year ago, I was bumped off of a flight and received a voucher for a free ticket. I tried to use it for my monthly trip for school, but United didn’t want to take me to Pittsburgh. Time was running out on claiming the ticket. Where should I go?
Because my wife had gone to England earlier this year, she was not going to go on this trip. It felt odd to think about going off on my own, so I had to think about what I hoped for out of the journey. There was no question in my mind that I wanted it to be primarily spiritual in nature. I considered going to St. Anthony’s monastery in Arizona, but was skittish because of the heat. Even though I’m a southerner, I don’t mix well with heat. I thought about going to New York, to visit the great number of churches in that part of the country.
In the end, though, it was no contest. San Francisco not only has a significant Orthodox heritage, it also has the relics of St. John, a man who was glorified only a little over ten years ago when his body was found to be incorrupt. For my non-Orthodox readers, that means that he had not decayed. While that is not the only mark of sanctity of a saint, it is a significant one, and all over the world one finds such relics kept in churches and monasteries. St. John is in his former Cathedral, Holy Virgin, on Geary Street. In addition, several hours north of San Francisco one finds St. Herman’s monastery, now under the Serbian Church. Father Seraphim Rose, an American convert to the Faith, labored there for many years. Father Seraphim has not officially been declared a saint, and to be honest, he is a controversial figure among Orthodox. Some of his writings were vehemently criticized by others, including Archbishop Lazar Puluho, who I wrote about a month or so ago. Still, whether he was right or wrong or some combination thereof is beside the point. He is still an extraordinary figure, and I wanted to pray at his grave.
So I arose at 4:00 a.m. Atlanta time on Saturday morning, hied myself to the airport and landed in San Francisco at about 9:30. A short BART ride into town and I was at the hotel. I’ll confess that my first impression was decidedly mixed. It seemed to me that every crazy person on the planet must be in the vicinity of the Powell Street BART station, carrying signs, panhandling, or simply yelling at the top of their lungs. My rural roots had not yet adjusted to urban realities.
Still, I knew I couldn’t hide in the hotel room all week, so I dashed back out through the crowd and took a muni train out to the Sunset district to an Orthodox bookstore I had heard of, Archangels Bookstore. We don’t have such things where I come from, except for the one at Ascension Monastery, and I knew I couldn’t miss it. It was both good and bad. The bad was that I did what I thought I would do and spent way too much money. The good is that I struck up a conversation with Alexandra, who was running the store yesterday.
Alexandra, put there by angels, has turned this trip into an extraordinary event. First, she got on the phone to find out when I could get into the Cathedral to venerate St. John’s relics. She discovered that at 5:30 Saturday evening, a molieben was being served to the saint. That was excellent information for a clueless pilgrim to have. I then mentioned that I wanted to visit the old cathedral on Fulton Street. She laughed. “That’s where I go!” she exclaimed. She then not only told me what time they started (9:00 a.m.), but also volunteered to contact the priest, Father James, and see if he would conduct a molieben for me.
All of this was like blessings dropping, one after another, from heaven. Stunned by the turn of events, I took the train back to the hotel, rested a bit, and then jumped on a bus going out Geary Avenue. There, I arrived in time to attend the molieben to the saint.
A molieben is a short service of prayer and supplication. It can be adapted to any number of purposes — for those who are traveling, for those just generally in need of prayer (and aren’t we all?) or for supplication to a saint, such as St. John Maximovitch. The Cathedral is beautiful — very lovely iconography, and at that time of day, the sun shone through a stained glass window directly onto Saint John.
For my non-Orthodox readers, a short word on relics. This is one of the difficult things for Protestants, in particular, to wrap themselves around. It is not that we worship the Saints, or their relics, as some sort of substitute for Christ. Yet what saints show us is the way that God works in man (and woman), that the Holy Spirit can so fill a person that they become truly holy, truly righteous. By way of analogy, consider a person who stays in the sun for a very long time. They will become sunburned — the power and action of the sun has changed that person. In the same way, saints, being people who have strived for the Holy Spirit and put aside all other passions, all other desires, are able to enter the Uncreated Light, the presence of God. They are changed by that Light, and become sanctified. One sign of that is frequently found in their remains, which do not decompose.
St. John is in a glass case in the Cathedral. His hands are the most visible part of him. They are dark in color, but perfectly whole, as is the rest of him. He is far from the only example of this. A couple of years ago, at Simonos Petra on Mount Athos, I kissed the hand of Mary Magdalene. It was dark brown, soft and pliable and, after 2000 years, still warm to the touch. As we like to sing from the Psalms “God is wonderful in His Saints.”
So, I managed to venerate the relics of St. John and pray in the Cathedral. It was an amazing experience. As I left to return to my room, I thought that nothing after this would compare. I was, of course, wrong.
This morning I went to the old Cathedral, located on Fulton Street. It was originally an Episcopalian Church, built around 1870 out of redwood. It has a very high arched ceiling, and the walls are covered with icons. It is a beautiful church. As one of the parishioners, Barbara, pointed out to me, the church itself was a convert to Orthodoxy, just like so many of the rest of us. In a sense, the atmosphere there was at least as impressive as in the new Cathedral. St. John served there for many years, and it is the first Orthodox Church that Father Seraphim, then known as Eugene Rose, ever walked into. More than that, though, I found that I had stumbled into a building which housed a congregation as sweet, and a priest as wise, as any I have ever seen.
The Liturgy was beautiful, and afterwards I stayed for trapeza, the communal meal after the service. The priest, Father James, talked to us about monasticism (he is a priest-monk), and the meal was delightful. I cannot say enough about the people: Father, Alexandra, Barbara, Samantha and many others were warm and welcoming to this stranger.
Afterwards, we went back into the church, and Father served a molieben. It was extremely moving. Afterwards, I stayed and talked with Father for a while. It was a long and very wonderful day. Let’s just say that if I actually lived in San Francisco, I would make the old Cathedral my parish home.
It is hard to imagine that this trip can continue at the same high level. We’ll see. A day at a time is the watchword for the trip. On Tuesday, I will drive north to Platina. I’ll return here on Thursday, and fly out on Friday. For now, I sit in my room, and look back at St. John. If nothing else at all happens on this pilgrimage, I am content and happy.
Time for my monthly visit to Johnstown. In all honesty, getting ready for this one has been difficult. Part of it was what I wrote about the other day, the difficulties I had writing about St. Gregory Palamas. In many ways it is deeper than that though. Some of it has been the onset of Lent, which has preoccupied me to some extent. I got an e-mail about a week ago from a classmate suggesting he was in the same predicament.
Part of it is also the absence of my wife for the last couple of weeks. On the one hand, I have enjoyed the time alone. The quiet is nice, the relatively small number of dirty dishes — one person as opposed to three — is nice. Being alone has some positive aspects. But it has also grown wearisome. I am looking forward to seeing my wife and younger daughter. I depend on my wife for a lot of things: for conversation, counsel, affection, spooning. I miss all of that. I’m ready for her to come home.
Of course, she may have other thoughts. She’ll be in London this weekend, wild and crazy. She may decide to stay. I hope not though. I hope she is as ready to come home as I am to have her.
So the day after I get back from Pittsburgh, I’ll go back to the airport in Atlanta and join the crowd of hopeful people watching the escalators where returning passengers emerge, near the baggage claim area. Whenever I go through the airport, I see that crowd. Dozens, hundreds of people, all looking hopefully toward the top of the escalators. You pass the reunions, people holding on to each other for dear life, kids jumping up and down begging to be lifted up, husbands and wives caressing each other’s face. When my older daughter came back from her liturgical music school last summer, we stood there holding a placard reading “OLGA”, just in case she had forgotten what we look like. A couple of weeks just outside a Russian monastery will do that to a person. I assume London might too. Just in case, honey, I’ll be the one with the rose clutched between my teeth, anxiously searching the crowds.
Come home, baby. Your cat misses you, Pascha is in only two weeks, the pink eye was nipped in the bud, your home is calling you. But more — much more — than all that, I miss you. Hurry home, sweetheart.
A whirlwind weekend. Atlanta, Pittsburgh, Johnstown, back to Atlanta, and finally home, dragging through the door. A snowstorm in Johnstown made for mild excitement, but the weekend was fun. On the way back, however, my suitcase decided to take a solo trip. It likes to do that. A couple of years ago, it wandered off to Zurich, and just last summer it went to Los Angeles. When I got it back several days later, it was tanned and buff, but a little sheepish. I don’t know where it went this time, but when I went back to the airport this afternoon, I found it looking a little bleary. Chicago? Vancouver? San Francisco? Where was it and what was it doing? It wasn’t saying, but I had a talk with it on the way home. I can understand how going back and forth from Pittsburgh to Atlanta would get old after a while, but it has got to stop running off all the time. The suitcase didn’t say anything; it just sat mutely in the back seat. But I understand. We all get that urge sometimes. I told it if it behaved itself I might send it to London with my wife in a couple of weeks. I think that helped. I just had to forgive the travel stained, frayed old friend.
Forgiveness was the theme of the whole weekend, in fact. In Johnstown, my classmates, the monks, our professor and the Metropolitan all exchanged the kiss of peace. Not that anybody has done anything I need to forgive them for (although I can’t be so confident about the opposite), but it reminds us that we are dependent on each other, that our salvation is a community journey, and that we are not free agents in the quest for theosis. It was a pleasure to embrace my fellow cassock wearers. It was also more than a bit intimidating to embrace the Bishop. “Forgive me”, he said. “God forgives”, I reply, but I can’t imagine that he needs to ask. But the bishop knows better than the rest of us that we must genuinely love and forgive, or our Christianity is in vain.
It was because of that fact that I was particularly anxious to be in my own parish this morning. Aside from my immediate family, these are the people I love. None of them has offended me in the least, and whether I’ve managed to offend them or not, I want to look in their eyes and ask for forgiveness, and gratefully receive it. So after Liturgy is completed, everyone stays in the Church. Father starts it, standing next to the icon of Christ, and as each parish member finishes with him, they stand in a line next to him, so that eventually every person in the parish passes by you. Three kisses — right cheek, left cheek, back to the right. We embrace.
“Forgive me, Father.” A request, not a demand.
“God forgives,” he replies. “Forgive me.”
“God forgives,” I reply.
So many people, so much love. Father. Pani (the priest’s wife). My fellow minor clergy, who is still getting over the fact that I told him with a straight face that the required reading for the last class was St. Ignatius’ Epistle to the Marietteans.
K., an alto with the voice of an angel and a spirit to match. “Forgive me,” I say. She smiles and replies, and we hug.
B., my colleague in the bass section. Like the rest of us in the choir, he must have been a class clown as a kid. But behind his jokes is so much joy. “God forgives.”
Quasi, our choir director and my pal. She, of all people, could hesitate on this forgiveness business — we give her a very hard time. Well, more accurately, I give her a very hard time, but she never loses her sweetness. “Forgive me,” I say as we embrace.
A., a little four year old girl, who will come into the choir to be held sometimes during Liturgy. She cannot know how much happiness it gives me to pick her up, when my own girls are now so far past that stage. I kiss her and she giggles. Her brother, also about four, will get in my lap sometimes during coffee hour and pull on my whiskers. He likes to call me Mr. Walrus. “I know you are,” I fire back with great originality, “but what am I?” “Forgive me, Mr. Walrus,” he says. “Forgive me, Mr. Walrus,” I reply, and tousle his hair.
My younger daughter. “Forgive me,” she says. It chokes me up. “God forgives,” I say, “forgive me.” “God forgives,” she answers.
My wife. The one who bears the brunt of my moods and my frustrations. “Forgive me,” I say, and while I know how she will answer, I hang on the words when it comes. We hold each other until the line makes us move on.
So many people. So much love. Smiles and laughter and tears. As a ritual, it sounds like it could be perfunctory, and it probably could. Yet I have never seen it not be moving, not be important, whether in the parish or in the kitchen at the seminary. All of us know that when the sun sets, the Great Fast begins, and the next seven weeks are hard ones. We need each other. Together, we are with Christ. Together, we confront our individual fears and sins. Together, we work out our salvation in fear and trembling. And together, on the night of Great and Holy Saturday, we will gather for the beginning of that great feast, the most joyous of seasons, Pascha. We will sing “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.” And we will know in our spirits exactly what that means.
As I finish writing this, the sun is setting outside my window. In a few minutes, Great Lent, that terrible and joyous journey of the soul, will begin. For my Orthodox readers, may your Lent be a blessed one.
And for all who read me, forgive me. Consider yourself both forgiven and kissed. Right, left, right. God forgives.
It’s Christmas Eve, and we are about to go to the first of the services. It was probably inevitable that today the memory of last Christmas Eve is still sharp in my mind. Last year at this time, we were in Greece. On Sunday, December 21, I had gone on a pilgrimage to Mt. Athos, the spiritual center of the Orthodox world, leaving my wife and kids in Thessaloniki. I was supposed to return on December 23, but for reasons you’ll find below, I did not get back until after dark on Christmas Eve. While we were in Greece, we kept a Livejournal blog for everybody back at home. What follows is (with some additions in italics and a few pictures added) what I wrote that Christmas Eve in a smoky internet cafe in Thessaloniki, my family by my side:
“It’s J, and yes, I’m back in Thessaloniki after a wild ride from Simonopetra. Just to lay the background, on Sunday I traveled to Mount Athos and stayed that night at the Russian monastery of St. Panteleimon.
St. Panteleimon is a very large and very beautiful monastery. At one time, it held over 1000 monks, but after the Revolution of 1917, the population dwindled to virtually nothing, since men were not allowed to leave Russia and become monastics. After the fall of the Iron Curtain, however, a stream of men started coming here. Today, there are probably about 70 monks, and there are over 5000 men in Russia who have asked for permission to come and be monks. The monastery is extraordinarily beautiful. When I arrived, they showed me through the complex, and then gave me a cell. Even though I had awakened early that morning to catch the 5:00 a.m. bus out of the city, I was so excited that I had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t helped by the sound of the surf on the shingle beach just outside my window. As it happened, I had only been asleep for a little while when at 12:30 in the morning, a monk walked down the corridor ringing a bell, calling us to the Church. Services continued until after dawn, a daily routine. Here, as at the next monastery, I was undoubtedly the most clueless pilgrim they had ever seen. I speak no Russian and very little Greek. But all of the monks were very kind, and at both monasteries English speaking monks were present, who took me under their wing.
Simonopetra is a very old monastery. It was founded by a hermit, Simon, who was living in a cave nearby. One Christmas Eve as he prayed, he had three visions. The first was of a brilliant star shining just above the top of a huge rock across the ravine from his cave. The second was of the Virgin, Joseph and the Christ Child on top of the rock, under the star. The last vision added angels, the shepherds and the Magi. Taking that as a command, he began building the monastery in top of the rock, hence Simonopetra — Simon’s Rock. I visited his cave, which is kept as a shrine. Inside are a few icons and nothing else. Simon slept on a rock ledge. I had to stay bent over in the cave. This is the place where St. Simon lived and worked out his salvation for many years. It was very humbling to imagine living there alone, in such a wild place.
On Monday, I took the ferry down the coast to Simonopetra, and climbed the 1000 feet to the monastery, which is built on top of a cliff above the Aegean Sea. Tuesday morning, I awoke at 3:00 a.m. for Divine Liturgy, and found that during the night a vicious wind had arisen. It literally screamed up the mountain, and even found its way through the thick monastery walls into the church, where it blew oil lamps back and forth. Although the monks seemed unperturbed, I was concerned, especially when the sun came up, and I could see the ocean. Enormous swells, the entire horizon just boiling. It was no surprise, although a disappointment, to learn that the ferry would not run that day, which was the day I was to return to Thessaloniki to meet my wife and the girls.
That night, I had tea with a new found friend, Father Iacovus (from Boston yet!), and I fretted about getting back to my family for Christmas. The wind was still howling outside as we talked. He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps we will see that the Panagia will open the way for you,” he said mildly, and we went to our cells.
I awoke this morning, and found that the wind had disappeared, although it was still raining. The sea was relatively calm. The monastery gave me a ride to the port of Daphni, where I caught the ferry for the fishing village of Ouranopoulis. During the two hour journey, the wind again picked up, and by the time we reached port, the sea was again extremely rough. It was so wild that the ferry missed its first attempt at docking, and came around for a second try. It missed the pier it was supposed to land at, but came up against another pier. The deckhands were screaming (in Greek) “Jump, Jump for the wharf!”, so that’s what we all did. I thought the monks among us had an unfair advantage, as their robes caught the wind and gave them that extra impetus. Flying monks, indeed.
Mildly exciting journey on sea at an end, my next task was to find the bus to Thessaloniki. I did not know where I would catch it, but as I walked up the hill from the pier, there were two buses waiting. I got on one, and we headed for the city. My next challenge would be to find a taxi in Thessaloniki to get to the hotel. I already knew that getting a taxi to stop in that city is next to impossible. But I got off the bus, grabbed my back pack and….literally walked into a taxi. I got in, along with a monk, the driver and two other people. As we drove off, I was thinking to myself how strange it was to be in Thessaloniki as darkness fell on Christmas Eve, in a taxi cab with these people, and then the radio started playing REM’s “This One Goes Out to the One I Love.” A wonderful end to a bizarre and divinely protected journey.
S told me that she had asked for prayers for my return. I thank you all, as well as Father Iocavus for his pipeline to the Theotokos.
Having related that, let me say that Mount Athos is everything you have heard. Only the three people now sitting around me could have brought me back from the Holy Mountain. I am still trying to gather my impressions. For now, suffice it to say that I have never been anyplace remotely like it, nor, on this earth, will I ever.
Tomorrow, up at 4:30 for Divine Liturgy at the church our friends attend. Christmas among the faithful.
May you all have as Merry and Blessed a Christmas as we are having now.”
Sometimes I dream of Mt. Athos. May God bless all of the monks and nuns who pray, day in and day out, for all of us in the world. May each of you reading this have a truly blessed Feast of the Nativity. And remember, the twelve day party starts tomorrow!
Ancient Church 