Athos, the Holy Mountain

Mount Athos. The beating spiritual heart of the Eastern Orthodox world.

There's no summarizing. I'll just tell the story, and make some observations at the end.

Going to Mount Athos requires getting a permit up to six months ahead of time, which I did back in November. I then had to contact the monasteries by fax and telephone, getting up in the early hours of the morning (3 or 4am), in order to reserve stays at these prestigious monasteries. And thanks to the one day delay in Istanbul, I had to call the Pilgrim's Bureau in Thessaloniki and scramble to rearrange the three nights and four days during which I, one of eight non-Orthodox pilgrims admitted per day (compared to a full hundred Orthodox pilgrims), could go to the Holy Mountain. I spent a good deal of time worrying whether I had actually properly reserved my stays, and whether I would get into the monastery on the third, unanticipated day. When will I learn that providence and hospitality are a combination that overpowers even our deepest existential anxieties?

I arrived at Thessaloniki around 10am after a decent night's sleep on the train (better than I'd expected, despite wake-up calls from both Turkish and Greek border officials). Thessaloniki can be seen in a full day, but you've got to start earlier than 10. Nevertheless, I got around to Agious Dimitirous (above) and Hagia Sophia (right) churches; the former is the largest church in Greece and the site of the martyrdom of St. Demetrius, and the latter is a miniature copy of the eponymous church in 'Constantinopolis.'

There are also a number of third century ruins from the time when Galerius, a 'Caesar' (subbordinate to an 'Augustus') of the Eastern Roman Empire made Thessaloniki his capital. Among these are a Roman forum, the palace of Galerius, his rotunda which was eventually (and inevitably) a church and a mosque in turn, and an arch that was one bit of a colonnaded walkway between the rotunda and his palace. These aren't of any biblical interest, but they're something to see in a city that is largely gyro stands, icon stores, and next to those, well, 'erotik shops.' There's also something called the White Tower (left) which is somehow Thessaloniki's iconic symbol, but I won't bore you with that. I also managed to squeeze in a couple minutes each in the Museum of Byzantine Culture and the Archaeological Museum, which closed inexplicably (like everything in this silly country) at 3pm. Ah, well, that was Thessaloniki.

But forget that city. I woke up the next morning and caught a taxi to the bus station for a 6:15am departure for Ouranopolis. From here, all pilgrims (and monks) to the Athos peninsula have to catch a ferry that takes them along the coast to the autonomous monastic enclave farther down the coast. I'm lucky (or loved), because I fell asleep on the bus and woke up just in time to get off at the Ouranopolis gas station, just around the corner from the Pilgrim's Bureau. Here I picked up my diamonitirion, the permit that allowed me to entry Athos and stay at the monasteries. From there, pilgrims catch a ferry that runs down the southwestern coast of the peninsula to the port of Daphni, an illustrious seaside cluster of three shops and a meatless restaurant.

Well, I caught the 9:45am ferry and spend the next two hours watching the coast go by. About an hour in I started seeing minor settlements come into view. Before the monasteries were a number of sketes, which are monastic-like complexes where the monks have considerably more quiet- and solitary-time. They're more like the earliest monks of the desert, like St. Paul of Thebes and St. Anthony. There were also a few isolated cabins where monks from the monasteries go on retreats in order to be away from the clamour of the monasteries. All this was explained to me by a helpful fellow from Greece, pointing out things along the way.

Along the I got to see the monasteries of Dochariou, Xenophontos, and the Russian monastery of Padeleimonos, before docking at Daphni. From there I transferred onto another boat that runs farther along the south-western coast to my first night's stay: Simonopetras.

Simonopetras is, without a doubt, the most-photographed monastery of the holy mountain, and you can see why. It hangs on the side of a cliff near the top of a mountain ridge. From the dock where I hopped off the ferry, it was almost an hour-long walk straight uphill to the entrance. I had no idea what to expect, other than that I had my diamonitirion in hand and would need to present it to the archontariki (hospitality receptionist, a monk) upon arrival.

Oddly enough, the first persons I saw were not monks, but Greek construction workers. Thanks to the boom of interest in monasticism and the two-decades-and-counting spiritual revival on Athos, the monasteries are all undergoing renovation from various fires, Turkish and pirate raids (way back in the day), and normal wear-and-tear. So I asked the workers where I could find the guesthouse, and they pointed me in the right direction.

Remember the scary, paranoid Orthodox monks of Mar Saba, in the Judean desert? Nothing like that.

I opened with the standard Easter-season greeting, "Christos anesti!" (Christ is risen) to which the friendly monk replied "Alithos anesti!" (Truly, he is risen!). He then asked me where I was from- in English. Apparently my accent on just two Greek words was that bad.

Well, he showed me to my room, and noted that Vespers was at 5pm (and that I was welcome to attend, though not, of course, commune), dinner would follow immediately thereafter, and that Matins would be at 5am with the Divine Liturgy following seamlessly at 7.

He also served me the standard welcome meal: Greek coffee, hard liquor, and Turkish delight. When I sipped the liquor, not having a great taste for it, he laughed at me! I've had many odd experiences in my travels, but who would except a full-bearded, black-dressed Greek Orthodox monk in Simonapetra on Mount Athos to laugh at someone for being a lightweight? Fantastic.

More to the point, though, we chatted for a bit about my vocational direction: the ministry and academia. He told me there was an American monk about, Father Maximos, who was always up for a chat. So after dinner he introduced us, and I talked with this ethnic Greek native New Yorker for about two hours. He had some great words of wisdom today about the perils and promise of doing theology and biblical studies within the academy (more peril than promise, to be honest). We sat up on the gazebo higher on the mountainside, so I had a great view of the monastery from above- something he admitted that he'd thought of for my sake when picking out a place for a chat.

A word about dinner. Dinner in the monasteries means eating with the monks, sharing their diet, and following their rules. In the first case, there's no meat. They're not vegans (except during Lent), but they abstain from meat as a 'little thing' as they strive to be entrusted with the greater things (cf. Luke 16:10). More significantly, though, they take their meals in silence while a reader chants out a passage of the Scriptures (or perhaps the Church Fathers; it's in Greek, so I never could tell). And when the bell rings and the reading begins, you've got to start stuffing yourself, because whether that reading is two or twenty minutes, the second bell means the meal is over. I didn't finish the first night; you can bet I finished each other meal.

I'm happy to say that I was the first non-monk to arrive at 5am for the Matins. The Greeks and Russians filed in over the next two and a half hours, right up till the distribution of Holy Communion. From what little Greek I've had (during my months in St. Louis at Concordia, and my own studies since then) I caught only the barest fragments of the liturgy. It didn't matter; their chant and their song is some of the most beautiful worship music I've ever heard, especially at Simonapetras. I was perfectly content to pray to God in my thoughts and silently with moving lips as I worked my way round and round the Orthodox prayer rope, the chotki, ritually repeating "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner." For three hours. It went surprisingly fast.

After being served coffee and hard bread for breakfast I took a short nap before heading out. Rather than going straight to the port in order to take the ferry to the next monastery, I walked along the mountainside for an hour or so down to the seaside monastery of Ouiso Grigoriou. I'd considering staying there back when I was faxing monasteries in November, so I thought I'd check it out. Like all the monasteries, it's architecturally impressive; but what struck me most was the flora all around the entrance and within the central courtyard.

I must have looked tired and hungry, because the monks who greeted me there (with Greek coffee, Turkish delight, and Ouzo, the Greek liquor of choice) insisted on feeding me lunch. That turned out great, not only because of the food, but because it gave me the chance to take a leisurely look at their refectory (dining hall). The fresco icons were, as elsewhere, extraordinary; but here, being a seaside monastery, they were open to raids by Muslim pirates who, according to their religious sensibilities, scratched out the faces of the figures depicted. Some wonderful restoration has been done, but the marks of ill-founded piety are still visible.

From there I caught the ferry to Dionysiou. Dionysiou Monastery is another cliff-hung monastery like Simonpetra, except right off the seashore. At Simonpetra I'd hiked up alone to the monastery, as all the other pilgrims had caught a complementary bus provided by the great monastery from Daphni; here, I got off with about thirty other pilgrims, all Greeks, Russians, and Cypriots. As a result, I got to experience the full welcome, which, of course, included the obligatory Greek coffee, Turkish delight, and Ouzo.

After a nap, I was (courteously) awakened by my roommates for Vespers, where I had an unexpected experience. Orthodox churches are not designed quite like the western model. In the first case, there is the division between the katholikon, or the area where the laity stands and worships much like the nave of western churches, and the sanctuary, the area where the altar is and where the priests do their thing. Between these is the iconostasis, a wall with doors covered in icons. However, there is often a double narthex which serves as a worship center as well, rather than as the 'lobby' it's used in western churches. The exonarthex is the vestibule, the lobby, where people simply pass through into the church and where announcements and such are posted (not, of course, in the monastic churches of Athos). The endonarthex is actually a worship area just as large as the katholikon, where worshipers stand along the walls if the wall-space (or the chairs) are taken up in the katholikon.

Why do I go into such boring (interesting!) architectural detail? Because what I didn't know was that the katholikon is only for Orthodox.

They never said anything at Simonapetras, but they sure did at Dionysiou. About twenty minutes into Vespers a scary black-bearded monk took me by the arm and asked me whether I was Orthodox. He apparently had been told by the archontiriki, who'd seen my diamonitirion and thus knew that I was 'Katholikos' (meaning Christian, but not Orthodox). I responded truthfully, and was escorted a few feet outside the katholikon to the endonarthex.

I won't pretend that I wasn't a bit hurt by it- after all, it's not like I was going to take communion- but I understand where they're coming from. The hardest thing was continuing to pray the Prayer of the Heart, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner" through the knots of the chotki, in order to ask God that he calm my heart and make me tender and graceful, rather than bitter. After an hour of this ritual, repetitive prayer, it finally worked, and God allowed the coldness to pass out of me. What would I do without this repetitive ritual, which takes so long but rewards so much?

On a far more humorous note, my roommates at Dionysiou were hilarious. They were all from Cyprus, so two of them spoke passable English. One of the older guys with them was a fat fellow who slept in the bed next to me and snored louder than anyone I've ever heard. I got in bed around 9pm, fell asleep around 11pm...

..and woke up at 1am to the noise of the other Cypriots beating the fat man with sticks!

"He's snoring too loud!"

"Do you even know him?!"

"He's our spiritual leader!"

What?!

Remind me never to be a pastor in Cyprus, because apparently it means you get beaten with sticks if you snore too loudly. I was even handed a stick and encouraged to join in the fun.

Well, I skipped most of the liturgy the next morning, and just came in for the last hour. That meant I got breakfast- Greek coffee and cold bread again- before going on my merry way.

I took the boat back to Daphni, since my final monastery, Xenophontos (right), was between Daphni and Ouranopolis. After doing a bit of shopping there (I picked up some lovely icons), I caught the boat to Xenophontos, without a reservation (I'd reserved it for two nights earlier, but was delayed by the ash cloud). Here, I got off the ferry with just two other fellows. Yet I was welcomed openly by the very friendly monks there.

I'd heard good things about Xenophontos from several people I met over Easter in Jerusalem. I fact, I was told to say 'hi' to some of the monks there; unfortunately, the monk in question was away on business for the monastery, so I don't suppose I'll ever know if the message I left will reach him.

After the obligatory Ouzo, Greek coffee, and Turkish delight (I think the purpose is to get you drunk, caffeinated and on a sugar high so that you can have a more mystical worship experience), I met up with two great Slovak guys in their early twenties. Their names were Peter and Lubosh, although I was told to call the latter Bubo for some inexplicable reason. I'd been told by that friendly Greek man on the boat from the first day that I could take my afternoon at Xenophontos to walk to Padeleimonos Monastery, and it turned out they were doing the same thing.
So we hiked to Padeleimonos(right), the great Russian monastery complex of Mount Athos. Some of the Greek monks call it Putingrad, because it's undergoing construction work (not just restoration, but new construction) thanks to the personal bankrolling of Vladimir Putin.

Oh, and a note: Greek Orthodox aren't the Amish. They use electricity, drive cars, operate machinery. Indeed, as Father Maximos lamented, the monks of Ouiso Grigariou are blasting a road with freaking dynamite up Mount Athos itself in order to have ready access to their site there. So the construction workers and Putingrad? Take no note.

Well, it was a very nice walk, and the monks at Pandeleimonos offered us... tea? The Russians just aren't terribly interested in non-Russian visitors.

In any case, my night at Xenophontos was wonderful. I was even personally invited to go into the katholikon after the service was over, even though I was non-Orthodox. I think they were just pleased that a non-Orthodox person, let alone the only American around, was so interested in their spirituality.

And the next morning I headed back to Ouranopolis, and then back to Thessaloniki for a night train to Athens.

My time on Mount Athos was naturally engaging, but what did I take away from it?

In many ways, it simply clarified my relationship to Orthodoxy. It confirmed the many reasons I'm attracted to Eastern Christianity; it equally confirmed the many reasons I'm not and can't be Orthodox.

In the first case, the spirituality is unbelievably profound. The sound of the liturgy, the feel of the chotki, the smell of incense, the veneration of icons- these engage all the senses of the worshiper in the truest spirit of the incarnation of Christ our Lord (climaxing, of course, in his incarnate presence in the Eucharist).

But aside from the theological reasons why I cannot be Orthodox- and I'll post about them later- the ecclesiastical culture of Orthodoxy is something that I feel has certain serious faults. The weakest criticism is that for a Western Christian, schooled in the shape of the liturgy as it is found in the Catholic, Lutheran, and Anglican churches, the liturgy of Orthodoxy is impenetrable. It simply doesn't follow the format around which my worship has been guided for the better part of a decade. I say it's a weak criticism, because that's mostly my own personal relationship to the Orthodox liturgy; the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, their primary weakly order of worship, is very ancient and venerable. It just isn't the liturgy that has evolved in the west and matches more thoroughly our culture and traditions.

More severely, however, the role of the laity in the worship of Orthodoxy falls under the same criticism I offer against the para-liturgical worship of Protestantism. It simply doesn't engage the laity. It's performance, not participation. Granted, Orthodoxy and Protestantism fall under the faults in very different ways. Protestant worship is shaped by the culture of Western European and American understandings of courtesy; one doesn't mill about during a performance at the theater, or talk on a cell phone, but watches attentively. However, it is largely watching; in Protestantism, there isn't the sort of ritual responsorial reading, chanting of the ordinary and propers, and movement of body (and thus soul) that one finds in Catholicism, Anglicanism, and Lutheranism. The 'worship service' is to be politely and attentively observed, not actively engaged.

In Orthodoxy, the performance vs. participation dialectic weighs against it in a very different way. It's much more like the pre-Tridentine Catholic Church that Luther so vehemently criticized in his works on the receiving of the sacrament in both kinds (that is, both the bread and the wine) and the importance of congregational singing. There are responsive readings, antiphonal chants, and the like in Orthodox worship; however, the movement and engagement is between choirs of priests, not between clergy and laity. The laity just stands around, observing the participatory worship in which the priests are engaged. This, I believe, is wholly improper and a distortion of the rich liturgical heritage of Orthodoxy. I'm sure it's partly cultural and less theological, but that doesn't make it any less harmful to the spirit of the liturgy.

That isn't to highlight the negative. It was wonderful to be in a place where incense, chant, and icons could be employed without some label of 'high church' being applied, as if that were just one option at the end of an equally valid spectrum. Mount Athos itself is a testament to the deepest traditions of Christian worship in Eastern Europe, an enclave of the thirteenth century where the Hagia Sophia has fallen to the Turks and Athens has fallen to the atheists.

And so I left Athos, spiritually refreshed and ready to take on my final weeks.