I’ve been trying to write an account of my summer travels for some months now, but everything I’ve written has been too personal to post on a public website. Here is something that I hope is suitable. Now that it is written, perhaps I will be less derelict with this blog:

Dear Friends,

It’s been a long while since I’ve sent you greetings. As some of you may know, I am now in California, home with my family. I decided not to continue my studies at St. Tikhon’s. I didn’t go there for ordination, but for an education. While I was in Cyprus this summer, I started thinking that it would be better to postpone my studies until I had settled some other things in my life. Perhaps in five or ten years the priesthood will make more sense, and I will have more reason for being at St. Tikhon’s.

I had a wonderful time in Greece and Cyprus this summer. It was an experience I will remember always. I’ve posted my pictures of Athos and Cyprus. I was on Athos for about two weeks with Dr. B, his fifteen-year-old son M, and some seminary friends, K, G, and Dn. D. We also spent some days at either end in Thessaloniki. I have written an account of my travels, based partially on a letter I sent many of you from Cyprus:

Θεσσαλονίκι

We met Dr. B in ’Saloniki, where he took his Ph.D. in theology. He showed us his old haunts, from the ancient church of St. Demetrios to the nightlife of Aristotle Square. Our hotel was just a few blocks away from Ἅγιος Δημήτριος, and we often attended services there. In the back of the church, to the right, are stairs leading to the saint’s ancient crypt. The priest gave us permission to take some of the oil from the single oil lamp hanging there.

(In Greece, a κανδήλι is a hanging oil lamp, which in English we usually call a lampada, whereas a λαμπάδα is a candle! This was very confusing for a while. The modern words seem to follow ancient usage, more or less, so I wonder how their English derivatives wound up reversed.)

West of our hotel was Παναγία Χάλκεον, the church were Dr. B was married:

We visited the bazaar, where narrow streets are crowded with shops selling food, cloth, and other wares.


We stopped for some Greek coffee at a shop along the water.


One night we visited a jazz club along this stretch. And of course we spent some time in Aristotle Square. Here is a statue of The Philosopher:

We tried to get into Ἅγιος Γρηγόριος church, but it was closed:

Every now and then I jotted down a Greek word in my pocket notebook. K and I agreed that Thessaloniki would be a great place to earn a Ph.D.

Ἄθως

But the purpose of our journey was Mount Athos. The mountain stands nearby Thessaloniki on a long peninsula. So many monks once came into the city on business, it was called “Black-robed Thessaloniki.” Today, as then, Athos has 20 big monasteries, with hundreds of dependencies and hermitages. There are a few sketes as large as villages, crawling up a cliff face from the sea, and there are other walled sketes as big as the monasteries.

Today, you must reach Mount Athos by boat. Most travelers catch the ferry at Οὐρανόπολις.

This boat passes several monasteries, including the gigantic Russian monastery of Ἁγίου Παντελείμονος:

After about an hour, the boat puts in at Δάφνη, the main port of Athos. From there, travelers catch a bus to Καρυές, a small town in the island’s center that serves as capital and waypoint. A small center of shops is surrounded with homes for the workers.

We rode a bus from Καρυές to Ἰβήρων, where we stayed two weeks.

Dr. B comes to Ἰβήρων every summer. When we arrived, he had already been there about a month. Ἰβήρων is home to the most famous icon on Mount Athos, the Πορταΐτισσα (Por-ta-I-tis-sa).

The monks miraculously retrieved this icon of the Theotokos from the sea and tried to put it in their main church. But the icon kept moving to just inside the monastery gate. Eventually the monks built a chapel around it. They believe that as long as the icon remains there, the island has Panagia’s protection.

At Ἰβήρων I met another visitor from the U.S., J, who is studying classics in Pennsylvania. He is friends with my friend M from St. Tikhon’s. He was staying all summer, and already he’d made great strides in learning modern Greek. He inspired me to keep putting words in my notebook, and he loaned me a little book so I could learn grammar.

J was very good friends with his namesake Fr. J. Fr. J worked in the bookstore. He was an older monk who enjoyed acting the curmudgeon. I believe he came from an aristocratic family and spent many years in Paris. One day we were all in the bookstore and a reporter from France came in to ask some questions. He is putting together a photography book of Athos. When he left, Fr. J told us that he comes to Athos often and is a journalist for the Vatican. Fr. J calls him the Vatican spy.

Our life at Ἰβήρων was fast-paced. We rose to bells every morning at 2:30, and church began an hour later. After liturgy, guests ate a breakfast of hard bread, softened in a cup of sweet chamomile tea. Then people usually slept a few hours until lunch at 11. In the afternoons we often took walks with Dr. B or one of the monks. Vespers, dinner, and compline were in the evening, and somehow we found time most days for a διακόνημα: shelling ἀρακάς (peas), extracting artichoke hearts, hauling firewood, setting tables. Fr. Π, a very strict monk and one of the guest masters, make sure we never missed our διακόνημα.

The monk in charge of the τράπεζα spoke excellent French, but not much English. One time he asked me to set out knives and forks, but not spoons. I put out the knives, and I did about half the forks, when he said, “No, forks,” and starting picking them up again. I looked confused, so he said, “No spoons.” Then, pointing to the buckets of silverware, “Forks!” I had just learned the Greek for fork and spoon a day before. “θέλεις κουτάλι?” I asked. “Ναί.” I laughed. “Fork σημαίνει πηρούνι!” “Oh, my mistake!” he said. After that, I could never forget πηρούνι and κουτάλι.

K & I both tried to keep a journal and read a little from the Bible each day. I hoped to read the Synoptic Gospels in Greek, starting with Matthew. We helped each other stick to it—or I should say he helped me—and we spent many late nights together in the sitting room.

One of our first trips was to the monastery just up the beach, Σταυρονικήτα. The former abbot of Ἰβήρων, Γέροντας Βασίλειος, was the abbot of Σταυρονικήτα before the Ἰβήρων monks asked him to come and help them convert from an idiorhythmic monastery to a cenobitic. All us students went, and M led the way. The journey was about an hour, and we passed several structures.



At the ἀρχονταρίκι (guest house), we met a novice from Australia. He led us all around the monastery.






The novice wanted us to stay for vespers and dinner, but since Ἰβήρων was expecting us, we sadly declined. As it was, we stayed longer than we should have, and we practically jogged back, arriving just in time for vespers.

Another day we all climbed to the κέλλιον (hermitage) of Γέροντας Παΐσιος: Παναγούδα. It was a gray, leaky sort of day, so the hike was pleasant. Γ. Παΐσιος was quite famous by the time he came here. Out of hospitality, he set out stumps before his house for visitors to rest on. Dr. B told us how he used to visit him here when he was studying theology.

One time some college students came. They said they did not believe, but they would if he showed them a miracle. First Γ. Παΐσιος fetched them some snacks and water. He also brought his woodcutting axe. When they had eaten, he said, “Here is the miracle: you put your heads on these stumps. I’ll cut them off and swap their bodies. Then you’ll believe.” The students didn’t like this idea, but they understood that miracles come from faith, not faith from miracles.

A few days into our stay, it was Pentecost. The vigil began Saturday evening at 8:30. It was glorious. Many Ἰβήρων monks who live up in the hills came down, including the former abbot, Γέροντας Βασίλειος, who is famous for rejuvenating this place and Σταυρονικήτα. I think that monks are spiritual party animals. Nothing shows better that the liturgy is a glorious, solemn party like swinging the chandelier during the polyeleos. We worshipped until past 2, but I was never tired or bored. We finished with First Hour, then everyone slept a little and came back for liturgy at 6:30.

Fr. Θ was eager to take us traveling, so he led us on dayhikes on the afternoons of Pentecost and the following day. We saw another κέλλιον where Γ. Παΐσιος lived, and we visited a zealot skete up the foothills from Ἰβήρων.




We went to Φιλοθέου, where the ἀρχοντάρης was very kind to us. This is the monastery of Elder Ephraim, and they have a special devotion to him and Elder Joseph the Hesychast. We saw a painting of Elder Joseph in the style of an icon—as K said, “just waiting for the halo.” Everywhere we went, people asked if we knew Elder Ephraim. He is much revered on Athos.

On the way down to the sea we stopped briefly in Καρακάλλου, one of the smaller monasteries.

We all wanted to climb “the mountain” (Athos, from which the peninsula takes its name) and visit some more distant monasteries, and after Pentecost we had our chance. Two of the monks, Fr. A and Fr. Π, were going on their annual post-Pentecost hike, and they agreed to get us started. Another summer visitor, an Australian named B, came along, too. We would all drive to Μέγιστη Λαύρα together. From there, Fr. A & Π and B would hike around the mountain visiting old friends. We would go with them for a little ways, then turn up the mountain to the peak. We planned to descend later that afternoon and sleep at the Skete of Ἁγία Ἄννα. Then we would visit monasteries along the coast opposite Ἰβήρων and gradually make our way home. We had hoped to spend a night at Σίμωνας Πέτρας, but when we called a few days before the trip, they said no, we needed reservations several months in advance. The other monasteries are not as strict, though, so we figured we’d play the rest by ear.

Early in the morning we drove to Μέγιστη Λαύρα, but the weather was rainy with thunder and lightning. Shortly after we arrived, a downpour began. We sheltered at Μέγιστη Λαύρα for a while. Dr. B and two students decided to turn back, but the monks were set on going, and K, B, and I followed.

The weather didn’t permit us to climb the peak that day, but we followed the monks to the Romanian Skete of St. John the Forerunner. This side of the mountain is known as “the desert.” The vegetation is lower and the climate more arid. I saw bushes that looked like manzanita. And the terrain is much steeper. We saw homes built into caves on cliffs hundreds of feet above the sea. Saint Athanasios the Athonite dwelt in a cave here.

We rested a couple hours at St. John, and while we were viewing the cliffs there, we collected snails. The monks eat them. You put them in a basket full of flower or macaroni for two weeks, so they clean out their insides, and then you cook them. Just make sure you cover the basket, Fr. A said, or you’ll find them crawling all over your kitchen. The snails were everywhere because of the recent rain. Once we had enough for a meal, we carried them with us in handkerchiefs.

In the afternoon we continued our climb. We visited the ancient homes of St. Peter the Athonite and St. Neilos, some of the first known monks here. We didn’t climb the mountain, and K and I didn’t even make it to Ἁγία Ἄννα, but we figured perhaps we could climb the mountain the next day. We spent that night with the fathers in Σκήτη Καυσοκαλυβίων, one of the village-like sketes that sprawls up the mountainside from the sea. All the monks live in separate homes, but there is a central church where they gather on Sundays. There was one monk in charge of guests, and he fixed us dinner and gave us rooms for the night. Fr. Π & A turned over the snails for his enjoyment.

Following the fathers was a great privilege. Fr. A told us many stories about the island. Fr. Π spoke no English, and I only knew a few words of Greek by then. But somehow we communicated, largely by the help of Fr. A, and Fr. Π seemed delighted trying to make us understand. Despite his age, he was in the lead most of the trip, especially on the steepest climbs, and sometimes he left us far behind.

The next morning was still rainy. We stayed in Καυσοκαλύβια for a while, visiting a couple different houses where the fathers knew people. The sky stayed gray, but eventually we shouldered our packs and returned to the trail. It was clear we wouldn’t be climbing the peak today, either.

Since the mountain was enveloped in cloud, K & I followed the fathers again. We climbed a different peak where there were once pagan sacrifices. We could still see a basin carved into the rock with a drain drilled into the bottom to let out the blood. The monks have built a chapel on this peak to Prophet Elijah, the great opponent of idolatry who once called down fire on a mountaintop before the priests of Baal.

Late in the day we separated from the fathers. We left them at the Skete of the Danilae Brotherhood, a group of monks devoted to iconography. We were invited to see the icon studio and meet the abbot. Then K and I set out on our own.

We went on another hour, passing Ἁγία Ἄννα Μικρά and going on to Ἁγία Ἄννα, where we slept. Both these sketes are like Καυσοκαλύβια, a collection of hermitages spreading up the steep mountainside.

In the morning we had liturgy, and the monks let us venerate the relics of Saint Anne and see her icon, where many people pray for children. K wanted to find some prints of this icon, so he went into the bookstore and left me chatting with one of the monks. K came back disappointed, but the monk wanted to give us some parting gifts. He handed us each a stack of cards with the wonder-working icon.

That day our goal was to reach Γρηγορίου. The trail followed the coast, crossing one ridge after another as they ran down to the sea. In between the ridges were Ἁγίου Παύλου and Διονυσίου.

It was still early morning when we came to Saint Paul. Outside the monastery gate we found a couple dozen monks loading into pickup trucks. There was an American monk there, Πάτηρ Ἰγνάτιος, who said the whole monastery was going inland to pick cherries. He pointed out a house down on the beach where Father Sophrony stayed. Another monk, Fr. George, also stayed nearby, and one day during World War II as he was walking along the beach, a British submarine emerged from the waters. They offered him gold if he would spy on the Germans. He refused the gold, but he agreed to spy. Eventually the Germans discovered him and imprisoned him in Thessaloniki. He was there some time, and then one day Panagia appeared to him and said, “Today you may go home.” So he walked out of prison and down the Athos Peninsula, and he met no challenge. Father Sophrony hid him in a house up the hill and brought him communion.

Soon the monks were off, and Saint Paul’s was deserted. We couldn’t find the ἀρχονταρίκι, and the church was locked. But a small side door was open just a crack, so we slipped in. There were a couple workers inside repairing a broken floor tile near the bishop’s chair. We venerated the icons, and as we were leaving, an older, stooping monk led in a group of four young Greek men. I heard one of the men say they were from Cyprus. We followed them back into the church and hung around as the monk set up a table and began laying out relics. There were the gifts of the Magi; there the leg and slipper of St. Gregory the Theologian; there a relic of St. Basil the Great; there a piece of the True Cross. We got in line and venerated the relics after the four Cypriots. As they were leaving, the young men chanted a magnificent troparion, and then they were gone. We stayed behind to speak with the monk, who understood a little English, and when we left, we saw the Cypriots far below us on the trail to the beach.

Scaling another ridge or two brought us to Διονυσίου. Somewhere along the way we found a bug.

In the ἀρχονταρίκι there was a large group from Greece. While we were waiting, three Germans came in. The ἀρχοντάρης took us and the Germans to the church to venerate. The hand of Saint John the Baptist was there. We saw the four Cypriots, who were just leaving. On their way out they chanted another couple troparia.

We went upstairs to pick up our bags, but since we had almost run out of food, we decided to beg some bread from the ἀρχονταρίκι. The large Greek group was there, and they offered us bread sticks, halloumi, and another Cypriot cheese called ἀνθότυρο (flower cheese). So we stayed and lunched on cheese, breadsticks, and coffee. One of the Greeks, George, spoke English. He and his companions, he explained, were a police band from Athens. I never figured out exactly what they do, but I am pretty sure the police department employs them to sing at various state functions.

Once we were well-rested, we continued on our trail. Two or three more ridges lay between us and Γρηγορίου. Soon we were urging ourselves on with words from the novice at Σταυρονικήτα: although most visitors nowadays drive, it is better to walk, he said, because when you reach the monastery, you feel with all your heart the joy of arrival. Wearied by the hardships of the journey, you feel gratitude as you enter the ἀρχονταρίκι and receive the warm greetings of a monk bearing a tray of λουκούμι and ῥάκι. You feel wonder as you enter the dim, cool quiet of the church to thank Christ and the saints.

We reached Γρηγορίου in the late afternoon. Indeed, we were very glad to have arrived. We chatted with a British monk there a long time. He did most of the talking. He had lots of conspiracy theories, bound up with European anti-Americanism and the Book of Revelation. It sounded like a cross between our dispensationalists and our rabid left. Listening to this monk I recalled the advice of a priest: in monasteries you find the world’s sanest people and the world’s nuttiest. There was a young Italian Catholic who sat with us as we talked. He worked in a radio station rebroadcasting syndicated news reports. He got the worst of it, being Catholic and part of the media, a double conspirator. Both K and I felt for him, and we talked a bit afterwards. I hope he was able to glean something of the Orthodox faith from this strange discussion.

This same monk told us about some of the current excavations on Athos, and other monks later confirmed his news. A pagan temple was discovered at Ἰβήρων, below the chapel to St. John. It had been converted to a church around the fifth century. And at Βατοπαιδίου a foundation was found among some graves, also dating back to the fifth century. Although Athonite tradition claims that monks have lived here even before St. Peter came in the 700s, historians date the monastic beginnings to the 10th or 11th century. These findings corroborate the monks’ tradition. One archeologist said, “I’m sure it’s fifth century; I just don’t understand what it’s doing here.”

When we visited the church to venerate the relics, we met, once again, the four Cypriot chanters, and again they sang some troparia before they left. Finally after dinner I saw them sitting on the beach, and I went down and talked with them. It turns out they are brothers: four of the seven sons of a priest from Λευκοσία. One was still in college; the other three were older. They seemed to be very fine young men. I would have liked to meet their parents!

By now our feet were blistered and weary, so we decided it was time to go home. But Ἰβήρων was on the peninsula’s opposite shore, and we didn’t have strength for the two-day climb over the ridge. So in the morning we caught a boat to Δάφνη, just up the beach from Γρηγορίου. On board we saw everyone we’d met the last few days, including the police band, some other travelers, Fr. Π, Fr. A, and B. The Vatican spy was there, too.

Our boat passed under Σίμωνας Πέτρας. Everyone wants to go there, because it rests on the edge of a sheer cliff. But it was not as impressive as I’d imagined—not compared to Σταυροβούνη in Cyprus. Once ashore, we rode a bus to Καρυές, the capital. From there, Fr. Π & A and B drove down to Ἰβήρων, and K & I walked.

First we visited St. Andrew’s, a big Russian skete that would be called a monastery if the island permitted more than 20. It is recovering right now from a major fire.


We also visited the tiny church of Ἄξιον Ἐστίν, named after the famous icon housed inside. The church is undergoing restoration. Since it is in Καρυές, it is the central church of Mount Athos.

We got lost trying to find the path from Καρυές down to Ἰβήρων. I insisted on following a trail uphill from town, and though K knew better, I wouldn’t listen to him. So we struggled up a road in the afternoon sun, tired, dirty, hungry, gazing down on Ἰβήρων and wondering if we shouldn’t have ridden with the others. Finally I consented to turning around, and we walked back to Καρυές. When we drew near St. Andrew’s we took a shortcut down a narrow street, and on our left was a field full of bee hives. As we walked along, bees swarmed all around us. Somehow we passed unstung. Once we were clear, we looked at each other in wonder at what we had just done.

Back in town, K stopped to use a restroom. While I was waiting outside, I heard a very drunk man berating K about Bush and America. Then he learned that K was Orthodox, and he exclaimed, “Love Bush! Love America!” They came out together as bosom friends.

A little further on we asked a priest for directions. “Κάτω, καὶ δεξιά,” he said: down and to the right. He said it very slowly, and it was one of the first complete Greek sentences I understood. I was very encouraged!

We came to the gate of Κουτλουμουσίου and almost got lost again. The trail went past the monastery, but a priest and pilgrim who happened by at that moment told us we should go through the monastery and out the other side. We did, and soon we recognized the trail from our earlier hike up to Παναγούδα. We spied a snake on the way down. I was hopeful it would turn out to be a viper, but I haven’t been able to identify it yet.

When we returned, Fr. Π shouted, “Τιμόθεος!” and patted me on the back. I treasure the honor of having his affection. That evening we shelled ἀρακάς. We learned that G and Dn. D had spent a night at Βατοπαιδίου and had enjoyed themselves very much. Then they left to visit Ἁγίου Παντελείμονος.

The Apostles Fast began a day or two later. Father J whispered to J during Orthros the first day, “I am feeling weak. All this fasting!” That was about three hours into the Fast.

I was relieved to spend a couple days at Ἰβήρων not going anywhere. We did our διακόνημα, attended services, and talked with the monks. My notebook started filling up with words, and I began learning modern verb conjugations.

But it would have been sad to miss Βατοπαιδίου, so K and I made plans to visit it ourselves, along with J. We took a boat one morning and arrived in the early afternoon. We walked around a bit. The place was deserted. We sat outside the main church looking at the icons of the final judgment. J and I tried to make out some of the flaking Greek. We were all tired, so after a while we went back to our room and napped until vespers. Liturgy in the morning was beautiful. I liked the chanting there very much: clear, melodic, and slow. It didn’t feel rushed as at some other monasteries, but it felt like prayer.

By the time we returned from Βατοπαιδίου, our two weeks were at an end. Of all the places we visited, I liked the monks of Ἰβήρων best. I told one of them that they were the most level-headed, but he didn’t know that word. I was trying to explain, and he said, “Normal?” Yes. And steady. It seemed like a place I could go to stay. Although looking back over my journal now, I see that I was already having doubts about whether the monastic life was for me. If I grew old in a monastery and looked back over my life, what would it amount to? Would I be satisified? I find myself embarrassed to ask if a monk could die unsatisfied, provided he live a life of prayer and true striving for God. Yet I wondered.

On our return we spent a couple more days in Thessaloniki. I found a Greek version of Scrabble, something I’ve tried to buy for years. My house rules will be: bring your own dictionary from any period of Greek literature, and if it’s got your word, you can play it. I’ll provide dictionaries for Homeric, Attic, Koine, and Patristic Greek. At the time I was relishing some of the hopefully strong opponents at St. Tikhon’s, but now that I’m in California, I haven’t found anyone to play with. On the other hand, I have found a chess partner.

The night before we left Thessaloniki, we attended vespers at St. Christopher’s church. Dr. B took us there to meet his old teacher, Dr. Cessalopoulos, a charming gentleman and an accomplished chanter. St. Christopher once carried the child Jesus across a river, so it seemed fitting to be there the night before we all flew across the sea. The others went home, and I went to Cyprus.

Κύπρος

I stayed a few days with M & C, the friends I met last year who showed us around the island. On Sunday they brought me to Μαχαιράς, my home for the rest of the summer. Dn. J and I spent a night at this monastery last year, and I fell in love with it. The abbot invited me to come again for a couple months, so there I was. If there were anywhere I’d want to be a monk, it would be here. I arrived a few days before the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, and I stayed past the Feast of the Dormition. It was a wonderful visit.

I was given a room inside the monastery walls, unusual for a visitor, but since I was investigating the monastic life, they wanted me to be as much a member of the community as possible. They were short on rooms, so I wound up with a κέλλιον usually reserved for priests or bishops. I think this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but I stayed in that room all summer. I spent many evenings reading at its desk.

My room was so nice, it had this plaque above the door:

That reads, “This cell today is mine, tomorrow another’s, never anyone’s.”

On Mount Athos, we were pilgrims and often tourists. We traveled a lot. But at Μαχαιράς I hardly ever left the monastery walls. I came to know the community, and I grew used to the daily rhythm. I drew strength from the order and repetition. The services were beautiful. The schedule was the best I’ve seen: in the morning, work; in the afternoon, rest; in the evening, prayer and study—all with church and meals in between. With nighttime and the afternoon nap, there was plenty of rest. The time alone was greater and more contiguous than anywhere else I know. The monks seemed the happiest and kindest I’ve met. For my morning work, I either helped in the kitchen or with the guest rooms. I filled my notebook with words—although to the end I had trouble with the thick Cyprus accent. Most people there spoke English, but I tried to use Greek whenever I could. I continued reading a chapter a day from the Gospels, or more on a “day off,” and my prayer rule was the best it’s ever been. I have never passed a happier summer.

The monks showed me boundless generosity. They gave me a copy of the Συνέκδημος, a thick little service book with every one of the services, including both Παράκλησις canons and the Akathist, a partial menaion, and all the special services from Lent, Holy Week, and Pascha until Pentecost. I brought that book to every service and followed along as best I could. It wasn’t much use during Orthros, when the church was dark, but that service is mostly variable anyway. My favorite use was to follow the 103rd Psalm from Vespers.

The monks had communion four days a week: Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. When I arrived, I asked one of the monks if I could see the abbot to get permission to receive communion. He said yes, but laughed, saying, “We have to get permission not to receive communion!” I was allowed to follow the monks’ schedule, taking communion four times a week and making a weekly confession. I was given a daily διακόνημα in the morning, along the lines of what the fathers do, either helping in the τράπεζα or assisting Πατ. Δ with his duties as ἀρχοντάρης: cleaning the ἀρχονταρίκι, doing laundry, changing sheets.

The monastery celebrated a feast with ἀγρυπνία (all-night vigil) about once every other week. My first vigil was for the Apostles’ Feast. It was even more glorious than Pentecost on Athos, and we didn’t finish until three in the morning. The next week was an ἀγρυπνία for Ἅγιος Ἀθανάσιος, the patron of the monastery’s spiritual father, Bishop Athanasios. Several abbots visited, along with dozens of nuns from all the monasteries he has revived. We finished around four, and the Bishop handed out sweets and icons. The end came earlier than usual, the monks said, because the Bishop had an important meeting in a few hours!

If there is no festal ἀγρυπνία during the week, most of the monks celebrate a “small vigil” on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday night. They use the chapels scattered around the monastery, and only a few monks are there. I was invited to many of these vigils, but after the first few I stopped going. because I preferred the worship in the main church, and the vigils left me with less time for reading. But it was a delight to attend such intimate services.

The summer passed all too quickly. The monks became dear friends. I felt like part of their community. I tried not to leave the monastery if I could help it. I liked the regularity of the days, the reliability of my routine. I read a lot, mostly from the Gospels. All the monks were eager to help me learn Greek, but after the first couple weeks, I stopped building my modern vocabulary and just focused on ancient words from Scripture and the services. I spent a lot of time talking with Πατ. Δ, discussing prayer, the monastic vocation, marriage, how to choose. I was very happy.

And yet, my thoughts there were full of children. I pictured home schooling, family dinners, running my own business, bringing home flowers, bringing home riddles, reading the Bible after meals, teaching Greek and math. I have often imagined raising sons, but in the monastery my head was full of daughters. I’ve always daydreamed about raising children, and losing them felt like a heavy sadness. I knew setting them aside for the monastery would be hard. But at Μαχαιράς it felt more and more like a great cost indeed.

Were these thoughts a temptation? Jesus said, “Whoever leaves children for My sake will receive them a hundredfold in this time—and in the age to come, eternal life.” But I think I would always find it strange to be called “father” and be childless. The monk’s hood is a reminder that “no one who puts hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” The monk must always look ahead to Jesus. Could I do that? The question was often in my prayers.

I came to Cyprus to learn if monastic life was for me. My opinion had long been that considering the costs, monastic life had better be pretty good. But for a couple years I’d taken it as my goal, to see how it wore. At Μαχαιράς I swung back and forth. Some days I was eager to promise my life to Christ alone and swear to Panagia to know no woman. One day I was sad to think that as a monk I would never again taste a cold beer. I didn’t expect to miss that! I thought about many projects I would like to pursue. I thought about the companionship of a wife. Eventually I perceived that on the days I leaned toward monasticism, I was straining myself to want it, but on the days I leaned toward marriage, I was drawn naturally. Thinking about leaving the world gave me a tight feeling in my stomach.

The loss I was least prepared for was children. I suppose every man, when he contemplates the monastic life, thinks first of losing a wife. That’s what I thought about, anyway. I was pretty sure I could live unmarried. Giving up marriage in the abstract was not hard; it’s when you have a person that it becomes difficult. I’d always told myself that I wouldn’t want to marry for the sake of marriage, but for whom I was marrying. I’d told myself that a man who needs to marry would make a poor husband. But the more real a monastic future became, the more anxious I became. I started asking some of the saints for help, especially Mary and St. Anne, who also gave up a child. I asked that if I were to marry, I would find a woman with the virtue I was looking for.

Compounding these thoughts was my difficulty with the language. Greek is hard enough, let alone tackling ancient and modern together. And then to that add the Cypriot dialect. I guess it can be done—there is a Russian monk there who came when he was seventeen and knew not a word of Greek—but it is very difficult. He said that understanding the services took him three years. Several people, including the abbot, advised me that if I wanted to be a monk, I should find a monastery in the U.S. That was a disappointment, since there is no monastery here I love—but deep in my heart I was not displeased to receive another reason to seek marriage.

I came to Cyprus with a couple aims. First was to pray and repent. Second was to try out the monastic life. I figured that focusing on the former would tell me a lot about the latter. Everything there is arranged to help you pray and repent: the freedom from cares, the consistent schedule, the brotherhood’s singleness of purpose, the long hours in church, the regular confession and Holy Communion. I’ve never made such good use of my time. I think I would be happy as either a monk or a husband, but I would rather be a husband. That conclusion was nascent in Cyprus, and it has grown in the months since. If I have children, I hope someday I can bring them to Μαχαιράς and let them see such a fine place.

Redlands

Near the beginning of August, I started questioning whether I should return to St. Tikhon’s. I had wondered the same thing over Christmas break. I went back then because I didn’t want to give up too easily. But in Cyprus, the more I thought about it, the more going home seemed the right decision. I’m twenty-nine, so I was jealous for my next two years, and I knew I would find neither bride nor monastery while I stayed in seminary. The education wasn’t what I had hoped for, and I figured if the priesthood were to become a possibility, I could always go back.

My plan was to start a computer company. I would have done this a couple years ago, had I not had plans to attend seminary. I had a few software ideas, a few other business ideas, and I could work as a freelance programmer, splitting my time between enterprise projects and website/database applications for small businesses. I also knew that Banta would hire me as a contractor, since I had been telecommuting for them a few hours a week even in seminary. I hadn’t lived near my family for ten years—since I left for college. I wanted them nearby. I thought it would be healthier than living alone, and if I could stay with my parents, I could save more to buy a house. I also knew there was an excellent church in the area, in Riverside. In fact, one of the fathers at Μαχαιράς spent some time at that church. I consulted some of the monks, including the abbot, and they all agreed (to my surprise) that my plan sounded good. My parents thought so, too. When I came home, I talked with a few others and decided that indeed I would leave seminary.

I already had a one-way plane ticket, purchased last spring, from California to Pennsylvania. Since my car and belongings were at St. Tikhon’s, I took the flight, said goodbye to the few students who were already in town, loaded up my car, and drove home. I was very sad to leave. The thing that impressed me most at St. Tikhon’s was the camaraderie. I’ve never known such a good community, and I dearly love the students there and their families. The thing that saddened me most was not saying goodbye to many of them.

On the way home, I mostly just drove. The first evening I happened to pull off the highway at Sound Bend, Indiana, and I realized I was at Notre Dame. After checking into a motel, I still had a few hours of daylight, so I drove over to the campus and walked around. I saw the church and the grotto behind it. The campus was beautiful: neo-gothic brick buildings, surprisingly consistent for a place that large. I walked past the priests’ residence, where they were sitting on a porch in rocking chairs, smoking pipes in the declining twilight.

Another day I took a small detour to visit Arches National Park. I drove the loop and took a few pictures:

Then I was home. I’ve been contracting 30 hours a week for my old company in Boston and devoting the rest of my time to starting a company of my own. I haven’t spent much time seeking clients, just following the opportunities that come, because I’ve been working on a book proposal for a software development tool. I wish I had time for all the projects I have in mind. I’ve been attending church at St. Andrew’s. It is a wonderful parish, with a very good priest. I feel welcomed and challenged there, and I’m starting to build some friendships.

Raleigh, Jersey, Boston, South Canaan

Then at the end of October I took another big trip. I still had a lot of books and things in storage in Boston, plus a few more boxes at St. Tikhon’s. I wanted to retrieve them before winter hit. In addition, a friend from seminary was scheduled to be ordained in Raleigh, and I wanted to be there. So I decided to combine the two trips. I took a red-eye flight to Raleigh, and Dn. A arranged for a parish family to put me up for the weekend. Several other students came down, so it was like a reunion. I was overjoyed to see them again.

After the ordination I rented a small moving van. It was a third of the cost to pick it up in Raleigh instead of Boston, and getting it there saved me the cost of a rental car. I went first to New Jersey and spent a couple days with another seminary friend who graduated last spring. I got to see him hand out Halloween candy as Obiwan Kenobi. Then I went to Boston. Sadly I wasn’t there long—just over a day—but I managed to clean out my storage unit. And then I drove to St. Tikhon’s. This time I was able to see lots of people I’d missed before, both students and faculty. I had planned to spend only Friday night there, but I wound up staying all day Saturday and most of the day Sunday. I was a great joy to see people.

On my way out, I stopped to take my last readerboard picture:

I didn’t get far driving late Sunday afternoon, but I made up for it the next few days, and arrived home mid-week. I didn’t see any national parks this time.

I’ve driven across country almost ten times by now: a few times in my childhood, and about a half-dozen since college. It sure is a beautiful country. Here were a few of the sights this time:

Now that I’ve moved all my things, I am feeling very settled here. I’m living in Redlands, where I grew up, with my parents. One complication is this: they want to sell the house, retire, and move to Colorado! They put the house on the market the same week I returned from Cyprus. What were they thinking? So far only three people have looked at it. That’s okay with me; I’m not eager for them to leave.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford to buy a house in Southern California. I would like to. Raleigh is much more affordable, and it’s beautiful and charming, and it is part of the “tech triangle”: the Silicon Valley of the Southeast. When Bishop Antoun spoke at the ordination banquet, he said, “They call this the country, but it is the most civilized place I’ve visited.” There is a good parish there. But there is a great parish here, and I would sure like to put down roots. Redlands is what I know, and it is even more beautiful and charming than Raleigh. So as appealing as Raleigh is, I don’t plan on going anywhere. I want to be a part of the church here, build some friendships, build my business, and if God permits, start a family. Please keep me in your prayers.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 11th, 2007 at 4:32 pm and is filed under Pistis, Nostoi.
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