In Greece, there is a sacred mountain high above one of three peninsulas jutting out into the sea, not far from the land of Alexander the Great’s homeland of Macedonia. This historical place extends toward the South and very deeply into the Aegean Sea. It is here that a monastic order began the life of the Athonite Monks on what is called the “Holy Mountain”. Or as we say in Greek, “Agion Oros”. It is the oldest surviving monastic community in the world. It dates back more than a thousand years to Byzantine times.
The mountain is home to over 20 Orthodox monasteries. I’ve always been fascinated and moved by monasteries, exploring those sacred places of silence, where steeples surge into the sky, where a singular life separates men’s souls from the mundane. Those burning candles whose light reflects the thoughts of man, and where every stone a pilgrim walks on breathes prayers. So one day I rang my journalist friend of many years in Athens, Alkinoos Bounias, and had a lengthy discussion on how great it would be if we could experience this spiritual adventure together, a memory we heard from those before us, was life-changing.
It was New Year’s Eve and I was boarding a flight to Greece. For years, I’ve wanted to go to the Christian Orthodoxy’s most sacred place in the world. When the clock struck at midnight, I was fast asleep and thankfully no hugging or kissing strangers. My first stop was Athens.
Alkinoos and I connected, and the next day we flew to Thessaloniki. From there, we met with our driver, Eugene, and we traveled for two-and-a-half hours to Ouranopolis on the Aegean Coast. We were both excited about the reality that a new world was finally before us, an ancient world where our footprints and prayers would be forever part of this mystical landscape.
Our first sight was the rugged, sea-battered peninsula over 150 miles long, and then the magical Russian monastery named St. Panteleimon appeared, massive and beautiful. Finally, Alkinoos and I arrived. As we stepped off the boat, we were now walking on holy ground.
The Xenophondos Monastery
Pater Iosif and his wonderful and enthusiastic monk in the making, Dimitris, embraced both of us. He confessed that he left his family and three grown children behind, wanting to live the rest of his life serving God. It takes approximately three years of apprenticeship before those black robes would rightfully be his. He was in the middle of that school of becoming and seemed to love embracing a life of service. We all stopped by our first Greek Monastery, Xenophondos to light a candle to bless our way through.
We began climbing the rugged terrain in a Ford pick-up when after 30 minutes, we arrived at Pater Iosif’s humble residence high above the sea surrounded by Mary’s Garden. There was no electricity, just candlelight. We were shown our rooms but didn’t unpack as we were there only for an evening before heading down to the magnificent Vatopedi Monastery as guests of the Abbot Ephraim. I wanted to take a shower after that long journey only to find out there was no hot water just the natural icy spring. We were in the middle of winter and it was freezing. That was the quickest wash on record. Another friendly monk named Modesto dropped by. He lived in a tiny house below. He was such a kindhearted man but behind his grey bearded face was an enormous struggle. Without ego and much gentleness he sat down next to me, curious to know my history. His kindness put me at ease and once again I found my purpose. He made me realize we were all searching for truth and everyone finds it at their rightful time depending on the tools they possess. I saw a lot of pain in his face, which had to do with loneliness. The next morning, before going to Vatopedi Monastery we were to drop by and see Modesto’s humble abode. Breakfast was simple with juice and toast and some tea and chocolate. I was elated. When we arrived, our dear monk was waiting for us outside his door. He was happy to see us and took me aside mentioning how he had a restless night. I forgot to mention that when he asked my age, he could not believe how much older I was than he. How did I do it? “Discipline,” I said, “and nothing in excess.” He moved me so. For me, he possessed more heart than any of us. And when I eventually left it was Modesto that I will remember the most.
Russian Monastery
St. Panteleimon
We made our way to Vatopedi Monastery when word reached us that a snowstorm was headed in our direction. No one knew then that it was to become the biggest storm on Mt. Athos in 30 years.
En route, we stopped at the Russian monastery. It was so imposing. There were a few pilgrims as we entered the main church. The service had already started. I remembered that when you enter or stand in a church, never appear with your hands behind your back like a tourist, but in front, giving the appearance of humility. And so it was. As the Russian monks passed by us reciting Orthodox scripture while carrying their scepters, their serious faces expressed more like we were attending a funeral.
Entrance To
Vatopedi Monastery
The sky began to darken as we entered the monastery of Vatopedi. Alkinoos and I were taken to the main quarters, where over a hundred pilgrims were waiting to be escorted to their quarters. A man from Holland introduced himself as a fan of DAYS OF OUR LIVES. It was so unexpected in Mary’s Garden.
Dark clouds began descending over our heads. By 5 p.m. that afternoon, the snow pelted down. It was 3 below zero, a heavy wind blowing across the sea; the ice was now sticking to everything and why not? It was a dramatic Greek Christmas not seen in decades. And all was appropriately white outside. We went down to the refectory before accepting our invitation to join the monks in the main church for vespers. What a beautiful room it was. A few monks were busy preparing that night’s supper, surrounded by ancient icons whose memories contained much of what had been before.
Refectory Of
Vatopedi Monastery
The iconic artwork from the 12th century situated above those ancient marble tables reveal the beauty in the thoughts and life of the Byzantine Age. We entered the stunning church, where the sounds of prayers read from the ancient text, filled with pilgrims and illuminated by hundreds of candles, embraced the ceremony. Without my glasses and the dim lighting, it took me a while to adjust to my surroundings.
When the service was over, everyone made their way to the refectory. Everyone was feeling celebratory as Christmas was nearing and the beautiful white snow, 3 feet deep, was God’s gift for all of us. There had been a terrible drought. They looked upon our arrival as a blessing.
The meal was simple compared to the feast of tomorrow on Christmas Day, but everything served had been grown by the hands and humble spirit of these devoted monks, even their wine. The menu was bread, olive oil, olives and goat cheese, apples and oranges.
The next morning and afternoon gave contrast to what was looming that night. Another snowstorm, worse than the last, was on its way. The big ceremony leading into Christmas was upon us. I kissed the Holy Ornaments and tried to perceive in my mind how these treasures survived the greed of those who passed them by. You cannot help but be moved; it’s a feeling within you of having been embraced by something unexplainable.
I said my last prayers and thanked our monks inside the magnificent Vatopedi. A boat from Ouranoupolis was coming to pick us up in the dark, as it was not permitted to cross the Aegean at that late hour. So the monastery requested help for us. Did I say I was freezing? We crossed the turbulent sea safely, frozen to the bone.
As we sped off, I began to reminisce about what we were leaving behind, all those beautiful monks who crossed our path with their God-given generosity. Theirs was truly a life of service and making sure you were leaving better for having been there.
Yes, it’s true: This magical place does change you.
Did I step into the light? Time will tell.
I will go back as many have before me. Never knowing enough, I’ll listen more for a change. Silence does that.
