“For eucharist—thanksgiving and praise—is the very form and content of the new life that God granted us when in Christ He reconciled us with Himself. The reconciliation, the forgiveness, the power of life—all this has its purpose and fulfillment in this new state of being, this new style of life which is Eucharist, the only real life of creation with God and in God, the only true relationship between God and the world.”
Alexander Schmeman (1921-1983)
Influential Orthodox author and priest
Taught at schools in Paris and New York
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| Moni Agiou Nikolaou |
I’ve come to these rocks for renewal and prayer. I’m tired in a soul-ful kind of way, a deeper exhaustion than I’ve known before, and I’ve heard that the monasteries of Meteora offer solace and peace. I’ve come on the first leg of a two-month sabbatical, hoping for inspiration, trusting in God’s grace, toting a bunch of good books. As I rise from a deep sleep, on the first day of my visit, I can already feel the deep, dark wonder of these rocks; and I sense that many mysteries await on their green paths and steep steps.
The narrow stony road out of Kastraki quickly yields to a suddenly steep trail through forested steppes. Before long, I’m drenched in sweat and humbled by the terrain. I don’t hike much these days, and I live a pretty ordinary and sedentary life in California. Grabbing at branches now, watching my step, pulling my 240 pounds up the mountain, I’m aware of my age and my health and my weary self.
Just the same, I’m already grateful. I’m already grateful for the sweat, and for the aches, and for the chance to climb and climb and feel my body for what it is. Weary, but very much awake.
My host at the guesthouse has recommended this trail and suggested that I turn off the main path to find a hidden and infrequently visited cave. Of course, there’s a secondary trail to the cave, and this trail is even steeper and more demanding than the first. It follows the massive face of an enormous obelisk, up and up and up. The sweat has soaked my shirt through completely; I can feel hamstrings I’d forgotten I had. And I’m huffing and puffing all the way up.
Strangely, all this huffing and puffing reveals a kind of mantra. I can feel a river of sweat running down my back, and my faded Red Sox cap is soaked completely through. But all that sweat, all that exertion give way to an unexpected prayer:
HOLY SOPHIA
BROTHER LORD JESUS
MAKER OF HEAVEN AND EARTH
It’s almost as if the steep trail, the broad face of the rock before me, calls the prayer forth, calls it out of me. I can’t do any more than step and pull and pray, step and pull and pray. And somehow Sophia and Jesus and God, the three-in-one, are stepping and pulling and praying in me.
And soon I discover the little cave-church, a small enclosure populated by icons: Jesus raising his hand in blessing, Mary holding the little Child of Love, Sophia with arms stretched out, inclusive and gracious. I sit there for a while, in the cool of the cave, my eyes open to the icons, the presence of the Holy One. Bathed in sweat, no longer weary. This is my faith, my calling, even my baptism. I'm damp with it.
HOLY SOPHIA
BROTHER LORD JESUS
MAKER OF HEAVEN AND EARTH
I retrace my steps then, and find the original trail, bound for Moni Agias Varvaras Rousanou, one of the six monasteries still open to hikers and other tourists. Today, Rousanou is home to an order of 15 nuns; and I’ve heard that frescoes of the Resurrection and Transfiguration are impressive, every bit worth the effort. The trail leads down into a wooded meadow, across a field of wildflowers, and then up again to the stunningly built monastery.
Strangely, my guidebook is misguided: and Rousanou is closed today, and every Wednesday. Only at its gate, camera in hand and ready for a breather, do I discover this. I turn back down the road, knowing that another, smaller monastery is just a mile that way (Nikalaou). Before setting out, I look around: there are unimaginable obelisks in every direction, carved by the heavy fingers of God, speaking a language only God knows for sure. I’m tired, but not weary. I’m bathed in my own sweat, but more importantly soaked in my own gratitude.
Just beyond a driveway into Rousanou, on my way back, I’m moved almost to blushing by a gathering of red wildflowers. They’re something like our California poppies, but bright red, almost blood red. As I take a couple of pictures, I’m reminded of my first Greek lesson, in a small café just days ago. There, a kind waitress had taught me to say ‘thank you.’ “EF-HA-RIS-TO.” The modern word for ‘thanks’ bears a very obvious and stunning resemblance to the Ancient Greek word “EUCHARIST” or ‘thanksgiving.’ As I kneel to take the pictures of these blood red wildflowers, I’m moved by the many ways of “EUCHARIST”—by the communion I share with these flowers, with these hills, with the sweat running unstoppably down my 51-year-old back. “EF-HA-RIS-TO!” I am a child of this. A child of this creation and all creation. A brother to the one whose spirit calls to monks and nuns in these hills. A brother to the tourists looking out from the huge buses passing by. A brother loved into wholeness by Hagia Sophia and Lord Jesus. “EF-HA-RIS-TO!” THANK YOU.
TEMPLE OF THE HOLY
“Do not worry about your life, what you eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”
Matthew 6:25-29
“Consider the lilies,” Jesus said on another hillside, not so far from here. Consider the One who knows what you need, and who you are, and how your heart is fed and nurtured. After a day on the trail, a day in the fields, I’m struck by this odd truth. What exhausts me isn’t hard work. What wearies my soul isn’t hours ‘in the trenches.’ What exhausts and wearies me is fear. I’m afraid of being ineffective, perhaps, in my work and in my most important relationships. I’m afraid of being irrelevant, as a person of faith in a culture sprinting hard and fast in the other direction. I’m afraid of situations—those that challenge my core beliefs and those that question my wisdom and competence. Fear wears me out.
If I’m completely honest, I’m exhausted by all this anxiety, by all this worry. And today, for a few hours anyway, I heard the voice of Jesus say: “Don’t worry about your life.” “Look at the birds of the air.” “Consider the lilies of the field.” “Seek first the kingdom, the kin-dom, the beloved communion of God.” “All the rest will be added unto you.” "Don't worry."
And in place of anxiety, at least for today, I discover the one and only temple that matters. Eucharist, praise, thanksgiving. “Eucharist,” wrote the great Orthodox theologian, “[is] the only real life of creation with God and in God, the only true relationship between God and the world.” And tonight, I give thanks. Tonight, I say and I sigh, “EF-HA-RIS-TO!”
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| Moni Rousanou |
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| Moni Agiou Nikolaou |
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| Moni Rousanou |
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| Rock of the Holy Spirit: Path up to cave-church! |
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| Final ascent to cave-church (on right, top) |
