Christmas With The Monks
A friend recently said to me:
“A 25-year old doesn’t have anything interesting to say. How can you attempt to share valuable opinions when you yourself are still trying to develop your own?”
If everyone lived by that principle, I’m afraid no one, not even by the age of 80, would have an opinion worth sharing, let alone worth listening to.
One becomes fit by working out. One becomes articulate by articulating.
The risk, of course, is that I act the fool.
I’m a construction worker with a set of calloused mitts trying to perform a delicate surgery. The patient could die—that is, the thought once articulated, could turn out to be as useful as a bike without wheels.
Nevertheless, it is much preferable to have a bike without wheels than to never have the bike at all. For at least in the first case, you have something to sit on, or even cast aside, which makes you more than a mere spectator waiting around for someone to hand you the perfect bike.
That is why I write.
Not because I’m unaware of my dull pencil and wits, but because I’m hyper-aware of them.
Sometimes though, I’m afraid to put the pen to paper.
It is one thing to experience something profound and quite another to communicate it. The way you write a story is the way it lives in your head. It’s a delicate matter. If you don’t capture the essence just right, you could spoil it.
The story I am about to share is the one I’ve been most afraid of spoiling. It’s a story about living with monks. It was an experience that changed my life, and the memory of it has stuck in my head like a splinter ever since.
It is only after recently revisiting the monasteries, exactly two years later on Christmas, that I think I’ve found the tweezers to pull it out.
If these calloused mitts can keep steady, maybe you’ll find some value in what follows (and my friend will too).
***
For a good portion of my adult life, I was stuck in the gulag.
This was a metaphorical gulag built by the modern self-development industry. Books, podcasts, and motivational speakers acted as the guards, enforcing the rules that kept me in line. But the warden, the one orchestrating this prison built on pride that inevitably led to a deep pitted sense of self-loathing, was yours truly.
I believed that if I just forced more self-help slop down my throat, that maybe my soul would be nourished, and I would finally become the man that I always wanted to be.
The harder I tried, the worse off I became. Outwardly, I looked fine: trim, capable, confident. Inwardly, I was a wreck, unable to look at myself in the mirror. The gap between who I was and who I wanted to be was devastating.
But in vain, I persisted.
I continued to search the corners of the gulag for answers, for the truth, and in my stubbornness, I became even more of a prisoner.
Then, on one breezy winter day overlooking the Aegean, someone tapped me on the shoulder and handed me the keys.
***
Monk on Mt. Athos by Mauricio Lima
"If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world”.
–C.S. Lewis
Mount Athos is a peninsula in the north of Greece.
Before you start imagining white sand beaches softly blending into hues of blue, let me stop you.
Instead of sandy beaches, there are rocks and mountains. Instead of quaint bars painted white and blue, there are towering fortresses built into the side of jagged cliffs. And instead of cute girls in bikinis, there are monks clad in black with long twisting beards.
Mount Athos, also known as the Holy Mountain, is one of the most sacred sites in the Christian world. It has served as a pillar of monastic tradition for over a thousand years. Currently, about 2,000 monks reside there. Most belong to monasteries, others to sketes (smaller monasteries, consisting of a handful of brothers), and a few to hermitages (caves and such).
No matter where they live, their purpose remains the same: theosis, the process of becoming united with God. According to Orthodox tradition, this is the ultimate aim not only for monks, but for all humans: to restore the likeness of God which was tarnished by sin.
***
"Pray without ceasing."
–1 Thessalonians 5:17
“Have you learned to pray unceasingly?”
It was a cheeky question I asked the novice monk.
He was about 27, thin and tall with a sprouting black beard. He was of Syrian descent, and said he’d been on Mount Athos for three years in hopes of becoming a monk. Recently, he’d been helping translate Arabic and Ottoman scripts into Greek.
When he heard my questions he smiled.
“Prayer cannot be learned.”
***
“Here’s my secret,” said the fox. “It’s very simple: you can only see clearly with your heart. What’s essential is invisible to the eye.”
“What’s essential is invisible to the eye,” the little prince repeated, so that he would remember.
–Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,
The Little Prince
There’s nothing more attractive to a Western mind than order.
Where do you live? Where did you go to school? What do you do for work?
We don’t usually ask these questions out of curiosity; we ask them out of a deep-rooted desire to organize the social hierarchy. The same can be observed in the traveling world:
How old are you? How long have you been traveling? How many countries have you visited?
A craving to organize the world (and our place in it) drives us to quantify everything. For without numerical values attached to items, experiences, art, and even people, it would be much harder to rank their importance in our mind.
This process is logical and reasonable. Humans must move forward or we suffer and die. To move forward, we must make decisions. To make decisions, we rely on a value hierarchy that prioritizes one thing over another.
The question then is, what happens when we encounter a reality that transcends logic and reason? Would you continue to use the hierarchy that worked to understand the profane to then understand the sacred?
To approach such a reality with the tools of logic alone is to risk misunderstanding its essence entirely. Logic and reason are valuable tools, but in the end, they are only that: tools, each limited by its design.
Can you study the stars with a microscope? Or explore the ocean’s depths with a magnifying glass?
For years, I studied Christianity the same way I studied math: with intellect. There were many books, videos, teachers, all which were theoretical, none of which were practical.
I’d nod my head in agreement, saying ‘Yes, that is the way. That makes sense.’ then close the book and do the exact opposite. It was much easier to debate about religion, than it was to be religious. My head was full of answers, but my body acted against those answers, causing my soul to starve.
Studying God the same way you study math is like learning to ride a bike from books on how to ride a bike.
This is what the young novice was teaching me. While God can be studied, and should be, to truly know Him one must experience Him.
All that theologizing can only go so far. Take it from a guy who papermunched for years; it’s a dead end. Not because the path was blocked, but because I was trying to push forward on a bike without wheels, or more specifically, a bike with only one wheel.
***
"The nous is the first and highest faculty of man, through which he knows God and the inner essences of created things by means of direct apprehension or spiritual perception.”
–St. Gregory Palamas, The Triads, I.2.6.
The ancient Greeks and Christians taught of two minds: the rational (logos) and the nous.
The nous is the spiritual faculty of the soul; the eye of the soul. It perceives and contemplates divine realities, while the logos processes and analyzes worldly knowledge. Both are necessary to form a complete understanding of our dual-natured world.
A monk explained it to me like this:
If you haven’t cleaned your glasses in years, it will be hard to see through them. Similarly, if the nous hasn’t been purified through prayer, fasting, repentance, and participation in the sacraments, your ability to comprehend God will be muddled and poor.
This means our libraries could be filled with all the right books, but with dirty glasses, their contents will remain hidden.
Once again, this is what the young novice was telling me when he said, “Prayer cannot be learned.” He knew that I was asking from an intellectual stance, which meant I was still only using my rational mind to understand God, and hadn’t yet exercised, let alone discovered, the nous (the second wheel of the bike).
I’m not sure if this is theologically accurate, but I think of the nous in the same way I think of intuition: an internal processing system that operates on a different level than the brain.
When I’m sorting through problems, both my brain and my intuition will offer answers. Sometimes, those answers differ. Every time I’ve trusted my brain brain over my intuition brain, I’ve regretted it. And just like my intuition speaks louder while I’m in solitude, my nous sees clearer in proportion to how free I am from worldly desires.
As I said, I’m not sure if this is theologically accurate. I hope you understand that I am an infant in this realm, and that I am not qualified to write on religious teachings as my glasses are about as clear as the Danube itself (Europe’s 2nd longest river, referred to fondly as the sewer line of Europe).
The only reason I’m writing about this now is because my intuition hasn’t left me alone about it for two long years. It’s very cumbersome to try and write about other things when your mind keeps returning to one thing. So despite all the logical reasons for delaying this, I must proceed with the operation and pull this splinter out!
***
Monk with Semantron by Ger Dommerholt (1963)
3 AM.
The rhythmic sounds of a mallet clicking against a long plank of chestnut bounce and ricochet off ancient monastery walls and into my cell. It’s time to get up.
The semantron is a percussion instrument used in Orthodox monasteries as a call to prayer.
While bells became the primary call to prayer in the 7th and 8th centuries, the monks of Mount Athos continue to use the semantron as a reminder of the Ottoman restrictions on bells, which lasted for about 400 years.
I don’t feel tired at all. It’s strange. I’ve been averaging 5-6 hours of sleep, which probably is more than everyone else here. Certainly more than Brother Markos.
“Brother Markos, how much do you sleep?”
“Too much.”
“How much is too much?”
“I sleep 4-5 hours a night, but once a week I usually oversleep. Then I get closer to 7.”
He shook his head and looked at the ground.
“I don’t need that extra sleep. It’s the devil.”
Before becoming a monk, Brother Markos was a successful businessman in the States. This is so often the story with monks. Some of us think they are misfits, weirdos, and outcasts who could only find refuge in a monastery.
In some sense, that is true. Monks and nuns probably wouldn't denounce the world if they could truly find refuge in it. But it would be a mistake to imagine them as social outcasts, who after finding no success in the world, half-heartedly resorted to the only place that would offer them shelter and a bowl of soup.
Most of the ones I’ve met were businessmen, doctors, professors, philosophers, and engineers who at some point in their career decided to quietly walk away from it all. At places like Mount Athos, most speak at least two languages. It’s not uncommon to meet one who speaks three or four (Greek, English, Russian being the most widely spoken).
I often wonder who I might be if I didn’t let myself become so distracted. How would my mind operate if it weren’t constantly drowning in waves of meaningless content churned out by the modern world? News, social media, trendy music, classical ideas diluted for mass consumption. What would life be like without the noise?
Who would I become if, instead of wasting time on nonsense, I dedicated myself fully to the pursuit of virtues? Real virtues. Not the modern ones largely aimed at self-promotion and societal status, but the ancient ones—love, humility, honesty—that focus on aligning the soul with the highest good. Imagine a life of books, deep conversations, silence, and prayer practiced daily. What would change if I did that for a summer, a year, two years, thirty years?
It’s sobering to meet people who have done what you wish you would’ve. You realize that all your crazy ideals weren’t so crazy after all.
Living simply, humbly, and in pursuit of your fullest potential isn’t just possible, it’s being done by others, and done well. Meanwhile, I continue to scroll mindlessly through videos of sports highlights and celebrities doing whatever it is celebrities do.
I’d like to tell you that when I see others living the way I want to, a wave of inspiration sweeps over me, and I turn my crooked ways around to begin anew! While that wouldn’t be entirely false, it wouldn’t be entirely true either.
Inspiration has sparked change in my life, but in this technological age where endless comparisons with the best in the world are amplified, it’s often despair–not inspiration–that takes hold of me.
Keep thy mind in Hell and despair not.
These were the words given to Saint Silouan from God that helped free him from his struggles with the adversary.
Keep thy mind in Hell.
I mourn the time I’ve wasted and contemplate my transgressions, but I don’t look at monks and think “Would’ve been nice. Too late now!” No. That’s not a beneficial thought. It’s harmful, and clearly aimed at pulling me off the path.
Despair not.
Trust in God’s unbounded love for man. Move forward. Never stop fighting the good fight.
This was one of many lessons that Brother Markos shared with us pilgrims. We would always gather outside the monastery’s walls and converse under a thick olive tree that looked to be a few hundred years old.
I’ll share another lesson I learned under the big olive tree.
“We have two options,” Brother Markos said. “We can either water the weeds, or water the flowers. Whatever we water will grow; whatever we don’t will die.”
He paused, contemplating an olive that had fallen from the branch above.
“In this way, we don’t fight evil head-on. We do not try to pull out all the weeds. Instead, we simply focus on watering the flowers.”
I stared down the hill and into the hues of the deep blue Aegean. A slight breeze drifted across the water’s surface, creating little waves of movement here and there. It looked as though someone were gently gliding an invisible paint brush over the entire sea.
This seemed elementary, I thought. Yet, it wasn’t the approach I had been taking in my own life. So much of my time in the gulag revolved around anger—anger and discontent directed both at the world and at myself. That had been the driving force pushing me to be better. It wasn’t working, though. In fact, instead of becoming better, I had noticed myself becoming bitter. The more weeds I pulled, the more I found. It was never-ending. It was tiring. There were so many weeds…
“Zane?” someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
My gaze shifted from the moving Aegean to the smiling face of Brother Markos.
“Sorry. I was lost in thought.” I relaxed my brows and took a breath.
Was the root of my suffering so obvious all along? Could I escape from the gulag simply by focusing on the light coming from the small window more than the dark shadows cast by iron bars?
“Thank you, Brother Markos!” one of the pilgrims said eagerly.
“Thank God.”
That was how he always replied.
Brother Markos was about 45, though it was very hard to tell. The ascetic struggle had a physical tax, that much was evident. While he moved quickly, I could see he was fighting pains. Probably in his back and knees. His hands were boney, the joints being wider than the flesh itself. Sunken cheeks peeked through his wiry beard now peppered with grey, and his face was starting to show wrinkles in every place that a stressed face would have wrinkles.
But his eyes. His eyes were wondrous and bright, like a child’s. And at the same time, they were compassionate, like a mother’s.
We like to think of monasteries being peaceful. And they are, to an extent. Monasteries are a place for healing. That is why they are referred to hospitals for the soul. But as Saint Paisios of Mount Athos once said:
“The devil does not hunt for those who are lost; he hunts after those who are aware, those who are close to God.”
Monasteries, then, are not only hospitals for the injured, but also the front line of a great spiritual war. Perhaps this explains why I feel both serenity and severity here.
On one hand, I’m enveloped in a deep sense of calmness and joy. On the other, there’s a growing awareness of how serious life is, and how far off I am from the goal.
***
There’s one last story I will share to bring these thoughts to an end. It’s not about monks. It’s about my friend who writes letters to prisoners.
She’s enrolled in a program that matches her with inmates who have no one to call or write to. The first time she told me about this, I was very intrigued. What could these correspondences be like?
My friend had been doing this for nearly a decade, so she had quite a few stories to share. The one that sticks out, is a story about a prisoner named Jack.
Jack had been charged with a serious crime when he was 20 and was sentenced to 25 years. They had been penpals for the last five years of his sentence. In his last letter before being released, he wrote to her:
“Next month, I will be released. I have spent more of my life behind bars than outside of them. I’m not ready to leave.”
“Institutionalization” is a term that means growing accustomed to or reliant on the structure and systems of an organization. Sometimes it’s used to describe long-term inmates like Jack, who after so many years, prefer the confines of their cell rather than the free world.
When she told me this story, I thought it was absurd. Absurd up until the very point I was faced with the same decision of leaving my cell.
***
I told you someone gave me the keys to escape the gulag.
That much is true.
I also told you I’d be able to share this story in the right way, that is, in its entirety and fullness.
That was untrue.
I tried. And I wouldn’t have unless I thought there was a good shot at articulating what I learned after spending Christmas with the monks (twice). But it seems these calloused mitts couldn’t quite craft what my mind had envisioned after all.
Perhaps my friend was right. Maybe I should’ve waited until both my pencil and wits were sharper. Then again, that would mean I never would’ve had this bike without wheels!
And a bike without wheels is much better than no bike at all. For it serves as a starting point. A place to sit. A place to sit and think. Sit and think about how you’re going to get a set of wheels.
Because as everyone knows, you can’t learn to ride a bike from the books.
Le Petit Prince