An Encounter with Elder Ioannikios at Panagia Prousiotissa
Panagia Prousiotissa — Part III of Our Pilgrimage
Some encounters remain with us long after a pilgrimage has ended. Not because anything extraordinary happened outwardly, but because we found ourselves in the presence of someone whose faith and love seemed to overflow.
Such was our encounter with Elder Ioannikios, Abbot of the Monastery of Panagia Prousiotissa.
We had arrived before dawn on Sunday morning and spent the hours of Matins and the Divine Liturgy before the miraculous icon of the Mother of God. Afterwards, we gathered in the monastery’s archontariki, its traditional reception room for pilgrims, where the Abbot welcomed us and spoke to us.
We had already experienced the beauty of the monastery, its centuries of prayer, and the extraordinary story of its beloved icon. But what awaited us in that gathering was something altogether more personal.
Elder Ioannikios with some of the pilgrims in the monastery’s archontariki, following the Divine Liturgy. The room had been filled with pilgrims. Several later remarked on the gentle play of light between the icon of the Mother of God and the Elder.
A Return to the Beginning
Archimandrite Ioannikios Varvarelis was born in Almyros, Greece, in 1956. In 1975, at the age of nineteen, he became a monk at Panagia Prousiotissa under the guidance of Elder Gregory Zoumis, who later moved with his brotherhood to the Monastery of Docheiariou on Mount Athos.
His subsequent ministry took him to the Monastery of Panagia Xenia, where he served alongside the future Archbishop Christodoulos of Athens, and later to America, where he learned English and established connections with the Greek Orthodox community. Over the following decades, he served in various pastoral and administrative positions in Thessaly, restoring churches, developing parish life, and ministering to countless people.
On 17 October 2021, he was formally enthroned as Abbot of Panagia Prousiotissa.
He had returned to the monastery where his monastic journey had begun forty-six years earlier.
At his enthronement, he spoke movingly of this return. His past and future, he said, were bound to the same sacred place. Here he had offered the hopes of his youth to God; here he was now entrusting the years ahead to the Mother of God.
And he described what he believed his new ministry should be: to welcome pilgrims, embrace them with compassion, share their suffering, and lead them to the Lady of this holy place, who would present them as her beloved children to her Son.
Five years later, we were to witness something of what those words meant in practice.
The Tears of a Spiritual Father
What struck us most deeply was the Elder’s extraordinary zeal and love for the Mother of God.
Whenever he spoke of the Panagia, of her grace, her miracles, and her presence in the monastery, his voice trembled, and tears filled his eyes.
Again and again, he wept.
I do not remember ever hearing a spiritual talk quite like this one. His tears were not an occasional moment of emotion. They accompanied his words almost continuously whenever he spoke of the Mother of God.
He told us that this place was Paradise — not because of its breathtaking natural beauty, though that alone is remarkable, but because the grace of the Panagia had made it so.
For him, Paradise did not seem merely a distant promise. Something of its light was already present here, in these mountains, beneath the protection of the Mother of God.
I found myself remembering the words of the Apostle Paul, who spoke of caring for those entrusted to him, “night and day,” and “with tears” (Acts 20:31). There are tears born of sorrow, but also tears born of a love too deep for words. Watching Elder Ioannikios speak of the Mother of God, I wondered whether we were witnessing something of that same love.
Words can hardly convey the tenderness, spiritual fervour and deep love for the Mother of God with which Elder Ioannikios speaks. The following video offers a precious glimpse of his ministry in his own voice, with English subtitles for those who do not understand Greek.
And yet, moving as this video is, it hardly does him justice. No recording can quite capture what it was like to be there: to hear his voice trembling, to see the tears continually welling up in his eyes whenever he spoke of the Mother of God, to experience the extraordinary warmth and intensity of his presence. It was far more moving than any camera could convey.
The Lamp That Has Never Gone Out
The Elder spoke of the many miracles attributed to Panagia Prousiotissa, miracles which, he told us, continue to take place in the lives of people from all over the world.
Again and again, however, he returned to one remarkable tradition.
When the shepherds first discovered the miraculous icon in its mountain cave, they found a lamp already burning beside it. According to the Elder, this was a sign that an angel had been tending the lamp.
And from that first discovery until our own day, he told us, the lamp before the Panagia has remained unextinguished for some twelve hundred years.
He compared this ancient tradition with the lamp of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, speaking of the extraordinary continuity of prayer and worship in these two sacred places.
We had spent the entire Divine Liturgy before the icon. Now, listening to him, the little flame seemed to take on another meaning: a visible sign of the prayers of generations, offered before the same beloved face.
Where the Saints Once Stood
The Elder also spoke of the saints who had prayed and worshipped within these walls, from St Kosmas of Aetolia to St Porphyrios in our own times.
And then he showed us the very stasidion — the wooden choir stall — where St Porphyrios had stood.
It was immediately beside the place where I had been standing throughout the Divine Liturgy!
It is one thing to read about the saints in books. It is quite another to discover, unexpectedly, that one has been praying only a few steps from a place associated with their own prayer.
The Elder also encouraged us to become benefactors of monasteries and churches, reminding us of the spiritual significance of supporting places of worship and of having our names remembered in their prayers through the generations.
There was a sense throughout his talk that the Church was not simply an institution stretching across centuries, but a living communion of prayer, in which the departed and the living remain bound together before God.
The Lady of the House
Among the many miracles Elder Ioannikios recounted, one story particularly stayed with us.
A woman who had visited the monastery years earlier had purchased a large copy of the miraculous icon of Panagia Prousiotissa. She placed it in the most prominent position in her living room, where everyone entering the house would see it.
And she made a rather extraordinary declaration to the Mother of God:
“From now on, You are the Lady of this house. You are in charge!”
Years passed. The woman had children, and then, quite suddenly, she was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of cancer.
In her anguish, she took the icon down from the wall, placed it opposite her chair, and began to scold the Panagia.
“Didn’t we agree that You would be the Lady of this house? Look what has happened! How am I supposed to raise my children now? You must do something about this!”
At that very moment, the Elder told us, a flash of light came from the icon.
The woman understood it as an answer from the Mother of God. She returned the icon to its place on the wall and continued to pray.
According to the Elder’s account, when she returned to her doctors the following morning, they found no trace of the cancer.
What moved me particularly in this story was the extraordinary intimacy of the woman’s relationship with the Panagia. She had entrusted her home to her, and when everything seemed to collapse, she turned to her with the desperate familiarity of a child appealing to its mother.
Even her protest was an expression of trust.
The Pilgrims Who Walk Through the Night(s)
The Elder also told us of the thousands of pilgrims who undertake long and arduous journeys on foot to reach the monastery.
Some walk for fourteen hours. Others for twenty, forty-eight, even fifty hours, depending on where they begin.
Through the mountains, up the steep ascents, often without stopping, they come to ask the Panagia for help or to thank her for prayers answered.
And there, in the archontariki with us, were two young women who had walked for fourteen hours.
Only fourteen!
Their presence gave the Elder’s words a wonderful immediacy. These were not merely stories from another age. The ancient tradition of pilgrimage, sacrifice, and thanksgiving was alive before our eyes.
One by One
Perhaps the most revealing part of our encounter came after the Elder had finished speaking.
Those who wished to seek his counsel approached him individually, in a quiet corner of the room. He listened to their personal concerns, offered spiritual guidance, and took their names, promising to commemorate them at forty Divine Liturgies.
Afterwards, everyone spoke of his remarkable spiritual discernment, his sound judgement, and, above all, the tenderness and love with which he had received them.
It was not merely that he had spoken so movingly to a room full of pilgrims. He had made himself available to each person, one by one.
And all this in a monastery served by a brotherhood of just four monks, including the Abbot himself. One could only wonder at the demands placed upon so few, and at the generosity with which Elder Ioannikios continued to give his time, his prayers, and his heart to each pilgrim.
The Apostle Paul once wrote of giving others not only the Gospel of God, but “our own selves” (1 Thessalonians 2:8). Perhaps this is one of the quietest and most demanding forms of spiritual fatherhood: not merely to offer words of wisdom, but to give one’s time, attention, prayer, and something of one’s very heart, without counting the cost.
I remembered the words of his enthronement, when he had spoken of welcoming pilgrims, embracing them with compassion, and sharing their suffering.
We had seen those words become a living ministry.
A Ministry of Love
Looking back on that Sunday morning, I remember many things: the darkness before dawn, the beauty of the monastery, the miraculous icon, the ancient lamp, the stories of the saints, and the pilgrims who had walked through the night.
But above all, I remember the Elder’s tears.
Tears whenever he spoke of the Panagia. A voice trembling with love. And then, when his talk was over, the same love expressed quietly and practically, in the time he gave to those who needed him.
Perhaps this is what stayed with us most deeply.
A spiritual father who, having spoken to everyone about the Mother of God, turned to listen to each person individually.
And in that small corner of the monastery’s reception room, his ministry of love continued.
In the first part of our pilgrimage to Panagia Prousiotissa, we arrived before dawn, while Matins was already being celebrated, and stood before the miraculous icon of the Mother of God throughout the Divine Liturgy.
But how did this sacred icon come to rest in such a remote place, among the precipitous mountains of Roumeli?
According to a tradition cherished for nearly twelve centuries, the story begins far away, in Asia Minor, during one of the most troubled periods in the history of the Byzantine Church.
The miraculous icon of Panagia Prousiotissa is traditionally attributed to St Luke the Evangelist himself, who is revered as the first iconographer of the Mother of God. This tradition, together with the account of the icon’s journey from Prusa in Asia Minor, is preserved in the monastery’s own manuscript tradition (Manuscript No. 3).
An Icon Saved from the Flames
The year was AD 829, during the reign of the Byzantine Emperor Theophilos, a fierce supporter of Iconoclasm — the movement that opposed the veneration of holy icons and led to their destruction.
In the city of Prusa, present-day Bursa in Turkey, there was a much-venerated icon of the Mother of God, traditionally attributed to the hand of St Luke the Evangelist.
A young nobleman, the son of a high-ranking official of the imperial court, was deeply devoted to the icon. He had witnessed, or heard of, the miracles associated with it and could not bear the thought of its destruction.
Rather than surrender it to the iconoclast authorities, he resolved to take it away from Asia Minor and carry it to safety in Greece.
He could not have imagined where his journey would end.
The Icon That Disappeared
The young man travelled westwards, carrying his precious treasure.
But when he reached Thrace, something inexplicable happened.
The icon disappeared.
Despite his efforts, he could not find it. Grieved by the loss, he continued his journey and eventually settled in Ypati, near Lamia, where he built a small chapel and tried to find consolation in prayer.
Yet the icon had not been lost.
Or rather, according to the sacred tradition, it had already reached the place where the Mother of God wished it to remain.
A Light Between Earth and Heaven
Far away, in the mountains of Evrytania, a young shepherd was tending his father’s goats.
One night, while he slept among the other shepherds, he was awakened by something extraordinary.
He heard singing.
Not the familiar voices of his companions, but sweet, gentle hymns coming from somewhere in the darkness.
Startled, he looked around and saw a great column of light rising from a cave towards the heavens.
The following morning, accompanied by his father and other shepherds, he went to investigate.
There, within the cave, they discovered the holy icon of the Mother of God, shining with an extraordinary radiance.
The news spread through the surrounding villages and eventually reached the young man who had brought the icon from Prusa.
He hurried to Evrytania.
When he saw the icon, he recognised it immediately. Falling to the ground, he venerated it with tears.
The treasure he believed he had lost had been found again — but in a place he himself would never have chosen.
Where She Wished to Remain
The young man understood the discovery as a revelation of the will of the Mother of God.
He had wished to save her icon and carry it to a place of safety. Yet she had led him, by a path he could neither foresee nor understand, to this secluded cave among the mountains.
He remained there and became a monk, taking the name Dionysios. His companion also embraced the monastic life, receiving the name Timotheos.
Thus, according to the monastery’s tradition, began the monastic community that would grow into the great sanctuary of Panagia Prousiotissa.
And so the icon, which had begun its journey in Prusa, gave its name to the monastery and to the Mother of God herself: Panagia Prousiotissa — Our Lady of Prusa.
The discovery is commemorated on 23 August, the Leavetaking of the Dormition of the Theotokos, when the monastery celebrates its principal feast.
The Footprints of the Mother of God
There is another remarkable tradition associated with the journey of the Panagia to her chosen dwelling place.
On the road leading towards the monastery, at a location known as Typoma (the Imprint), pilgrims can see what are called the Footprints of the Panagia — Ta Patimata tis Panagias.
These are seven differently coloured markings on a steep rock face which, according to local sacred tradition, were left by the Mother of God as she passed through the mountains.
The footprints have become another cherished part of the pilgrimage, a reminder of the belief that the Mother of God herself came to these mountains and chose them as her dwelling place.
The One Who Chooses, and the Ones Who Follow
There is something particularly moving about this story.
A young man sets out to save an icon. He makes his plans, chooses his destination and undertakes a difficult journey. Then, suddenly, everything is taken out of his hands.
The icon disappears. His plans come to nothing.
Only later does he discover that what seemed to be a loss had become the beginning of something far greater.
The Mother of God had not abandoned him. She had led him somewhere he had never intended to go.
Perhaps this is why the story has spoken to so many generations of pilgrims. We too make our plans, and sometimes find ourselves led along paths we would never have chosen.
And sometimes, only much later, do we begin to understand.
For nearly twelve centuries, pilgrims have made their way to this remote sanctuary, bringing their sorrows, their gratitude, their fears and their hopes before the Mother of God.
The icon remains where, according to tradition, she chose to dwell.
And the pilgrims continue to come.
The story of Panagia Prousiotissa, however, is not confined to the distant past. Her presence is still felt in the life of the monastery, and perhaps nowhere more tenderly than in the loving ministry of its Abbot, Elder Ioannikios. In the third part of our pilgrimage, we shall return to our unforgettable encounter with him and listen to his own words.
In Part III, we shall turn to some of the extraordinary accounts of the protection of Panagia Prousiotissa through war, fire and pestilence — from the Greek War of Independence to the destruction of the monastery in 1944, and the terrible influenza epidemic of 1918.
Panagia Prousiotissa: Twelve Centuries of Unceasing Prayer
Our pilgrimage to the wonderworking icons of the Mother of God in Central Greece continued with a second, extraordinary destination: the Monastery of Panagia Prousiotissa, the beloved Lady of Roumeli. Panagia Prousiotissa is widely regarded as one of Greece’s foremost Theotokos pilgrimage shrines, often described as second only to Panagia Evangelistria on the island of Tinos, the third one being Panagia Soumela.
Panagia Prousiotissa — A Pilgrimage in Four Parts
Our pilgrimage to Panagia Prousiotissa unfolds in four parts: from our arrival in the darkness before dawn to the extraordinary journey of the miraculous icon and the holy footprints of the Mother of God; from our unforgettable encounter with Elder Ioannikios and his ministry of love to the stories of faith and divine protection that have sustained generations through war, fire and pestilence. Four glimpses into one sacred place, where the prayers of centuries are still alive.
Part I: From Darkness into Light
We arrived at the Monastery of Panagia Prousiotissa before dawn on Sunday morning, while Matins was already being celebrated. The mountains of Evrytania, in Central Greece, were still wrapped in darkness, and the monastery, nestled among towering cliffs, glowed softly beneath the deep blue of the early morning sky.
I spent the entire service — Matins and the Divine Liturgy — standing before the miraculous icon of the Mother of God. For those precious hours, there was no need to go anywhere else.
“Beneath thy compassion we take refuge, O Theotokos; do not despise our supplications in time of trouble, but deliver us from dangers, O only pure, only blessed one.”
These ancient words of prayer seemed to express everything that needed to be said. Before her icon, surrounded by the prayers of so many generations, one could simply stand, entrusting everything and everyone to her intercessions.
Only afterwards, over morning coffee in the monastery’s archontariki (guest reception room), did we have the blessing of meeting Elder Ioannikios, the Abbot, and listening to him.
His warmth, his words, and above all the love with which he received each pilgrim deserve a story of their own. God willing, we shall return to this encounter in the third part of our pilgrimage series.
And then, as daylight spread across the mountains, we went out to discover the extraordinary beauty of the place itself.
A Monastery Between Heaven and Earth
The Holy Monastery of Panagia Prousiotissa stands in one of the most dramatic landscapes of mainland Greece, approximately 35 kilometres from Karpenisi, among the mountains of Chelidona, Kaliakouda and the Panaitoliko range.
Surrounded by dense forests and steep, rocky precipices, its stone buildings seem almost to emerge from the mountainside itself. From a distance, the monastery appears suspended above the valley.
It is little wonder that generations of pilgrims have called it the House of the Mother of God, and the Panagia herself the Lady of Roumeli.
In daylight, the full beauty of the setting becomes apparent: the wooded slopes, the narrow ravines, the great walls of rock and the monastery buildings gathered beneath them.
According to sacred tradition, the monastery’s origins date back to AD 829, during the period of Byzantine Iconoclasm, when the miraculous icon of the Theotokos arrived from Prusa (Bursa) in Asia Minor.
The tradition tells of two young men, later known as the monks Dionysios and Timotheos, whose lives became inseparably connected with the icon and the foundation of the monastery.
The full story of the icon’s extraordinary journey, its disappearance and miraculous discovery will be the subject of Part II.
During our conversation in the monastery’s archontariki, Elder Ioannikios emphasised something truly remarkable: according to the monastery’s tradition, its life of prayer has continued without interruption for some 1,200 years, ever since its foundation in AD 829.
Even during the darkest periods of its history, when only a single monk remained, the lamp before the miraculous icon of the Mother of God was never extinguished.
The Elder described this continuity as unique in the world, drawing a comparison with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, whose sacred history (2000 years) reaches back to the time of Christ.
Twelve centuries of prayer. Twelve centuries of tears, petitions, thanksgiving and hope. And through it all, the lamp before the Mother of God still burning.
A Sanctuary Through the Centuries
Over the centuries, the monastery became not only a place of prayer and pilgrimage but also a refuge for those suffering through the upheavals of Greek history.
During Ottoman rule, it offered shelter and spiritual support to the surrounding population. It was also closely associated with the Greek War of Independence and the celebrated revolutionary commander Georgios Karaiskakis, who stayed here while suffering from illness.
Above the monastery stand the famous Karaoulia, two stone watchtowers associated with the revolutionary period, reminders of the days when these mountains were both a sanctuary and a stronghold.
Stone, Silence and Living History
The monastery’s principal church, or katholikon, incorporates a remarkable sanctuary associated with the original cave where the miraculous icon was discovered.
The present church dates substantially from the eighteenth century, while surviving frescoes bear witness to earlier periods of its history.
Around it, the monastic buildings, courtyards, arches and passageways form an architectural whole that seems to belong naturally to the rocky landscape.
The monastery also preserves important ecclesiastical treasures, relics and historical objects, including items associated with Karaiskakis. Its collections recall the close relationship between Orthodox monasticism, education and the history of Roumeli.
IIn 1944, during the German occupation of Greece, the monastery suffered devastating destruction. Yet, amid the flames and devastation, one place remained untouched: the chapel housing the wonderworking icon of the Mother of God. The monastery was reduced to ruins, but the sanctuary of the Panagia was spared. Yet it rose again, and its centuries-old life of worship and hospitality continued.
Today, pilgrims still arrive from Greece and abroad to venerate the miraculous icon, attend the Divine Liturgy and seek the intercessions of the Mother of God.
The monastery celebrates its principal feast on 23 August, the Leavetaking of the Dormition of the Theotokos.
The Mountains in the Morning Light
By the time we had finished our visit, the mountains were no longer hidden in darkness.
The cliffs, forests and stone buildings stood revealed in the morning light. The place that had welcomed us before dawn with the sound of prayer now opened before us in all its astonishing natural beauty.
Yet what remains most vividly with me is not the grandeur of the mountains, nor even the beauty of the monastery.
It is those early hours before the miraculous icon of the Mother of God, while Matins gave way to the Divine Liturgy.
The mountains were still in darkness when we arrived. But within the monastery, the day had already begun in prayer.
In Part II, we shall follow the extraordinary journey of the miraculous icon of Panagia Prousiotissa, from Asia Minor to the mountains of Roumeli, and discover why, according to sacred tradition, the Mother of God chose this remote sanctuary as her dwelling place.
“Born in 1923 into a Church of England family, I grew up in the 1930s in a firmly Protestant environment, in which there was sharp antipathy to anything which seemed to have even the slightest whiff of “catholic”, not excluding personal piety. The main services in my local parish church, and many others, were strongly Book of Common Prayer, sung matins plus hymns and sermon at 10.30 am, and similarly evensong at 6.30 pm. There was a said Holy Communion at eight am, but this was quite outside my experience until I was prepared for confirmation in 1938 at the age of fourteen.
When I returned from the war in the mid-1940s, changes were developing, as gradually the Parish Communion at nine am became the main service, and sacramental religion came into my life. I had grown up with an understanding of heaven as some strange, distant, ethereal and uncertain place somewhere beyond the outermost reaches of space. It was a long time before I saw a new understand ing of “… in Remembrance of Me”, that remembrance was not the mental recall ing of a past event but a present living reality, and God was not the superior, spiritual, moralistic (almost) “Father Christmas” figure I had imagined. Of course it was stated to be essential to believe in the Holy Trinity, but little insight into the supernatural was given, and it remained remote, the preserve of the theologically educated…
My developing spirituality was driven onto the rocks with the publication of “Honest To God”, a book written by a bishop of the Church of England in 1963, the burden of which is “our image of God must go, God is dead and to go on worshipping and believing as our forefathers is an obstacle to man’s progress and development”: naked humanism. As this spread throughout the church I lived the next thirty years struggling to remain faithful to what I had been taught, not least that the Church of England was one of three “branches” of the One, True, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church, alongside Rome and Orthodoxy, neither of whom, of course, subscribe to the “branch” theory of the Church. I found many obstacles in my path, but here I mention just a few, very briefly.
Distressed, I approached my parish priest, not long returned to the diocese (Blackburn) after some years on the staff of Canterbury Cathedral. He said to me, “Well, perhaps we should give a bit more thought to Christ’s Divinity”, and walked away. In 1986 the Durham Affair caused a storm of controversy, when Canon David Jenkins was named as the next Bishop of Durham. He was an academic theologian with a considerable reputation, and traditional believers were outraged. For this purpose I simply quote one of his publicised beliefs, “There is nothing certain in the New Testament which is of any importance”, in an attack on its historic events, particularly the Virgin Birth. All history is unreliable. At a local deanery discussion group the clergyman taking part asserted, and not as devil’s advocate, “Ah! But you must remember (!) that Christ could have been mistaken about himself, about Who He was”. And so on and so on.
In 1993, six months after the vote in the General Synod in favour of ordaining women in the priesthood, following long years of strife in the Church, I encountered Fr J., and that is how I came to join the Pilgrimage to Orthodoxy, and two years later I was received into the Orthodox Church of Antioch. I learned Truth such as I had only glimpsed in the Church of England, and especially that in the Divine Liturgy we are truly worshipping with the whole Body of Christ in the very courts of heaven. I was free of the individualism – my prayers, my communion, my life, my understanding of truth, every man his own theologian – rife in the Protestant religion, and I became much more at ease, no longer in a defensive state of mind and spirit, in my God-given individuality. Heaven is not somewhere “out there”. I am persuaded that those who refuse to venerate the Mother of God (that truly would be a leap too far towards Rome!) are often found not to unshakably believe in the Incarnation and the real and actual bridge it gives between earth and heaven.”
+Barnabas D.
***
“Dear Friends in Christ, Christ is Risen! Today, on behalf of our God-blessed Orthodox Community, I drove to the little graveyard at Coppul to say the Memorial Prayers at the grave of our much beloved Barnabas. As I walked into the cemetery, the autumn sun came out from behind the clouds and lit up Barnabas’s grave.
It is difficult to think that he was taken to be with the Lord four years ago, on 10th October 2017. We miss him still; but at the same time the Living Memory of the Church, the Holy Spirit, makes him ever present in our minds, hearts and souls. Of course, as a co-founder of our Church, he will be remembered at every Holy Liturgy, but those who knew him have been granted a special honour. There are some people who touch our lives so deeply and whose lives are a testimony to faith, that they never really leave us. One such is Barnabas.
He combined those rare qualities of humility and humour. His humour was joyful and ever childlike; his humility, as well as his faith, was serious and saintly. I see him now recounting to non-Orthodox visitors who came to our Church how he became Orthodox and inviting them to taste the spiritual depths too- indeed, one of our present parishioners did just that.
As a soldier and bold ambassador of Christ, Barnabas was on the front line. Like his saintly patron, he was a good man, full of the Holy Spirit, bearing witness in that little martyrdom which is Orthodoxy in the West. He was our treasurer and held posts in the formation of our Deanery- the precursor to our Archdiocese. Ever reliable, ever ready to serve, his youthful enthusiasm poured itself out in helpfulness to others.
In the later years, when he was confined to his home, a group of us from Church used to visit him and take him the Holy Mysteries. Even when he was frail, his hospitality overtook his bodily weakness; he wanted to minister to us, not us to him: “Can I make you a cup of tea? Would you like a biscuit?”
At his departing, God granted to those from our Community who were gathered at his bedside the vision of angels – a confirmation, as if we needed it, that this man lived a holy life and was going to his heavenly reward.
May your memory be eternal, our dearly beloved brother. Christ is Risen! I hear Barnabas now replying in full volume, ” He is Risen indeed !” Amen.”
Fr. J.H.
***
“Adding to your wonderful words, I remember how energetic Barnabas was during baptisms. One thing in particular I still can hear in my ears: he used to say with a very firm and loud voice, “Seal”, when you have been anointing people with the Holy Chrism. When I now take part in baptisms, I remember this, and following Barnabas, I respond in a firm and loud voice. … What a blessed soul and what a blessing to have known him!
I too remember his loud affirmation “Seal!” during chrismation in baptisms.”
D.
***
“He once told me how he spent especially the last years of his life: in unceasing prayer! Praying for all he had known, alive and departed: in gratitude and thanksgiving for all who had helped him in The Way and for forgiveness for all he had disappointed.
May your memory be eternal, dear Barnabas, and may we follow your example, just as you followed Our Lord, bearing His Cross!”
***
C.
*** a chrismatory—a container for the Holy Chrism (Άγιο Μύρο) used in Chrismation
A Pilgrimage from Disappointment, Doubt, Discouragement, and Despair to Hope
The tone of our pilgrimage through mountainous Halkidiki was set from the very beginning. On the minibus, we listened to a homily about the remembrance of death and the extraordinary faith of a bereaved mother.
As the preacher recounted it, she had watched all eight of her children perish before her eyes when their boat sank. She arrived as a refugee from Asia Minor entirely alone: a widow, now without her children. Yet she continued to thank the Lord. Her joy rested in the hope of being reunited with them in the life to come. They had been His children before they were hers, and she trusted that He knew best what was good for them.
We could only approach such suffering with reverence. Her thanksgiving did not diminish her loss; it revealed her trust in the Resurrection. Through her story, the remembrance of death became inseparable from the hope of eternal life. This testimony accompanied us to a monastery whose very name speaks of consolation.
On our way there, I also had the blessing to sit next to a lady 90 years old, yet radiant with joy, thanksgiving and unceasing tears for all mankind! She was another widow, from a very young age, left alone with her children for 30 years in a foreign land, yet she never complained once and always thanked Him for His Providence. “He certainly knew better than me what was best for our salvation”, she reassured me!
When we arrived, we were struck by the beauty of all the surrounding nature and that of the monastery buildings!Even the monastery animals greeted us with joy and love!
“The Monastic House of the Virgin Mary”, “The Joy of All Who Sorrow” stands at the edge of Palaiochori, near Arnaia, beside the road towards Megali Panagia. Founded in 1999 by Archimandrite Ignatios and his brotherhood, this men’s monastery grew around an existing chapel dedicated to Saint Athanasius of Athos, whose feast it celebrates on 5 July.
The Monastery and Its Icons
Three icons of the Mother of God are treasured here as wonderworking: the ‘main’ two icons are the Joy of All Who Sorrow and the Inexhaustible Cup. Their local celebrations take place on the Sunday of the Myrrh-Bearers, with a vigil, and on 18 May respectively. Bright Friday brings the Divine Liturgy, a procession with the icon, and the blessing of the gardens. And there is a third one of the Theotokos that is always fragrant and wonderworking too.
Joy of All Who SorrowVirgin Mary “The Inexhaustible Chalice” (Greek: Παναγία «το Ακένωτον Ποτήριον»)
In the traditional iconography of The Joy of All Who Sorrow, the Mother of God is surrounded by people in distress, with angels ministering among them. Having stood beside her Son’s Cross, she knows the suffering of love. Her title invites us to bring our grief to her, even before we can find words to explain it. Consolation can begin with the knowledge that our sorrow has been heard and that we are held in prayer.
The Inexhaustible Cup depicts the Mother of God with her hands raised in prayer and the Christ Child standing in a chalice before her. Its Eucharistic imagery directs us to Christ, who gives Himself for the life of the world. Particularly associated with prayers for those suffering from addiction and their families, it also speaks to everyone whose strength is exhausted. Our resources may fail; His mercy does not run dry.Above the icon in the monastery, a glass-fronted cabinet held cigarette packets, bottles, and syringes, etc., left by people who had found freedom from addiction. Offered in thanksgiving to the Mother of God, these tamata—votive offerings—bore witness to their healing.
The Four Ds
Coffee was served, and the monastery Gerondas welcomed us. We were particularly struck by his words urging us to never cease saying the Jesus prayer all the time and cautioning us against the 4 Ds! 4 D-named dangers to the heart: Disappointment, Doubt, Discouragement, and Despair. How Disappointment wounds our hopes; Doubt questions whether God hears or cares; Discouragement weakens our willingness to persevere; and Despair persuades us that no hope remains.
The two icons offered a quiet answer. Before The Joy of All Who Sorrow, we were invited to bring our wounded expectations into prayer. Before The Inexhaustible Cup, we were reminded that Christ’s help remains available when our courage has failed. We can ask again, accept support, and take the next small step in trust.
The mother in the morning homily returned to mind. We cannot know the hidden course of her grief. What we heard was that she continued to give thanks, entrusting her children to God and hoping to meet them again. Her testimony gave profound expression to the hope towards which the abbot’s words directed us.
Time for Each Soul
But this spiritual father’s love and compassion were without measure. He made time to speak privately with each of us who felt the need, allowing us to share our problems and seek his prayers and guidance.
We left long lists of names, both living and departed. Father asked us to underline those in particular need—a small, tender gesture of attention to the people whose burdens we had brought with us. Alongside those written requests, there was space for personal conversation, for concerns we could only share quietly.
His willingness to listen gave tangible expression to the monastery’s welcome. Disappointment, doubt, discouragement, and despair can isolate us. Being received with compassion and knowing that someone will pray for us can help us persevere.
Our lists also brought us back to the opening homily: we, too, were entrusting those we love to God, holding together our concern for the living and our hope for the departed.
Carrying Hope Home
We returned to our daily lives with their unanswered questions and familiar difficulties, but also with the memory of being heard and the knowledge that others were praying with us.
From the minibus to the monastery, the pilgrimage had directed our hearts towards the Resurrection. The bereaved mother’s faith, the two icons, the abbot’s warning, and his personal care all invited us to entrust ourselves and those we love to Christ.
Mother of God, Joy of All Who Sorrow, bring our grief before your Son.
Mother of God, Inexhaustible Cup, pray for us when our strength runs dry.
We may reach the limits of our strength. Even there, we can turn towards Christ—and find His Mother already praying.
+Gerondissa Euphemia, St. Paisios in the middle and +Gerondas Gregorios, St John the Forerunner monastery, Metamorfosi, Chalkidiki
On the Priest Who Carries Us Until We Find Our Way Home
A Meditation on Priesthood with Father Lev Gillet and Elder Gregorios Papasotiriou, through Memories from My Own Life and Family
“I live for you. I belong to you, because I belong to Jesus Christ. I recognise your right to place your hand on me and to consider me as your servant. Whoever you may be, you who need me in this moment, you are, in the very instant you speak to me, the soul more important to me than any other. You have a right to my entire capacity for devotion and love. I consecrate myself to you”. (Lev Gillet, “Be My Priest,” in Serve the Lord with Gladness: Basic Reflections on the Eucharist and the Priesthood)
*
There are many ways of speaking about priesthood. We can begin with what a priest does: he celebrates the Divine Liturgy, hears confessions, teaches, baptizes, comforts the suffering, visits the sick and accompanies the dying.
Father Lev Gillet begins somewhere deeper.
InBe My Priest, his meditation on priesthood, the priest is understood first in relation to Christ. Christ is the source and model of priesthood, and the priest is called, in Him and through Him, to become what Gillet calls “a priest for all.”
This leads to three movements which seem to contain much of Gillet’s vision:
Belonging to Christ. Emptying oneself. Belonging to everyone.
They are not three independent virtues. One leads into the next. The priest belongs to Christ; because he belongs to Christ, his life is no longer something he possesses entirely for himself; and because he has ceased to guard that life as his own possession, Christ can give it to others.
When I read Gillet now, I find myself thinking of someone I knew long before I encountered these words: the late + Elder Gregorios Papasotiriou, my spiritual father in Greece and the spiritual father and confessor of the Holy Monastery of St John the Forerunner at Metamorfosi in Halkidiki.
I do not want to write his biography here. Others knew him longer and can tell much more. I want instead to place some memories of him beside Gillet’s meditation and allow each to illuminate the other.
For I think Elder Gregorios taught me something about Gillet’s priesthood before I knew that Gillet had put it into words.
I. BELONGING TO CHRIST
Whose Are You?
Gillet takes us behind the visible activity of priesthood to a more fundamental question:
Whose are you?
“Before pastoral work, before preaching, before the offering of oneself to other people, there must be what our earlier meditation called “the fundamental surrender: I am Christ’s.”
That sounds simple until it becomes concrete.
For if I am Christ’s, Christ acquires a claim not merely upon my religious activity but upon my plans, my preferences, my future — even upon the good and holy things I might have chosen for myself.
This is where the early life of Elder Gregorios becomes important.
His own desire was for hesychia. From around 1970 he lived in a small cell at the then-ruined dependency of Dionysiou Monastery at Metamorfosi. His inclination was towards prayer, solitude and the hidden life.
There was nothing spiritually inferior in that desire. Quite the contrary.
But his spiritual father was St Paisios.
And St Paisios cut off his will.
Elder Gregorios was not simply to remain in the solitude he loved. He was to go among people. He was to become a priest and spiritual father, to hear confessions, to guide souls and to carry the burdens of others. In time, and under the direction of St Paisios, the monastic community at Metamorfosi grew around him.
He obeyed.
Gillet’s question, “Whose are you?”, therefore becomes very concrete.
If the answer isI am Christ’s, then even my preferred form of holiness cannot finally belong to me.
The issue is no longer simply:
What good thing would I like to offer God?
It becomes:
What does God wish to do with the life I have already given Him?
This is why obedience is so central here. Elder Gregorios did not surrender something sinful. He surrendered something beautiful: the hidden life of prayer he genuinely desired.
And this gives greater depth to Gillet’s understanding of belonging. To belong to Christ is not merely to believe in Him, love Him or work for Him. It is to allow Him to redirect a life.
Elder Gregorios wanted hesychia.
Christ, through obedience, gave him souls.
The life he offered to God was returned to him filled with other people.
II. EMPTYING ONESELF
“A Life of Obscurity and Silence”
The second movement follows naturally from the first.
If the first question isWhose am I?, the second is:
What happens to my life because I am His?
Gillet’s answer is kenosis — self-emptying.
One counsel associated with his meditation is strikingly austere:
“Live a life of obscurity and silence; seeking no awards.”
This is important because self-emptying can itself become romanticized. A person can secretly become attached to the image of himself as sacrificial, holy or indispensable.
Gillet strips that away.
Obscurity means that much of the priest’s real work may never be seen.
Silence means that much of what he carries cannot be spoken about.
And “seeking no awards” means that even the fruits of his labour cannot become his possession.
This is the setting in which I first came to know Elder Gregorios.
Strasbourg
I was in my first year at university.
Outwardly, everything was going extremely well. I was doing very well academically, and there seemed to be a promising future ahead.
Inwardly, things were very different.
I had become strongly influenced by existentialist philosophy. The Christianity I remembered from childhood and school had become something distant rather than a living experience of God and the Church. My actual life was far removed from the life of the Church.
And despite my outward success, I was not happy.
During that first year I travelled to Strasbourg with a university choir for an international choral festival. For about a month we worked on major choral works with choirs from around the world. Between rehearsals and performances there were meals, coffee and long conversations.
Some members of the Greek group began to realise that beneath the surface something was wrong.
Eventually they said to me:
“We don’t think you are well. When we return to Greece, we want you to meet our spiritual father. He will help you find your way.”
I have never forgotten those words.
Something else happened in Strasbourg. I even discovered a beautiful French poem about a soul which wanders away from God and eventually returns to Him!
I kept it.
I did not yet know how closely its story would come to resemble my own.
When we returned to Thessaloniki, I went to the meeting that had been arranged with Elder Gregorios at Metamorfosi.
He had before him a young woman with almost no experience of the spiritual life and very little idea of where she was going.
And he understood that.
He did not try to transform everything at once.
He proceeded with extraordinary tenderness and discernment: gradually, step by step. There was guidance and correction, but also patience. There were messages when we could not meet. Above all, there was prayer.
And there were tears.
People who had known me before Strasbourg and encountered me again during my second year at university could hardly recognise the change.
But much of what produced that change was invisible to me.
This is where Gillet’s “life of obscurity and silence” ceases to be an attractive spiritual phrase.
The spiritual child remembers the conversation.
God knows what happened afterwards.
The spiritual child leaves the monastery.
The spiritual father remains.
He prays.
He remembers the name.
He carries before God a person who may not yet know how to carry herself.
That is a hidden form of kenosis. The priest gives time, attention, prayer and often tears, without being able to guarantee what the other person will eventually do with them.
And in my case, that question would become painfully real.
III. THE FREEDOM TO LEAVE
The Prodigal Daughter
After several years, I reached a point at which Elder Gregorios’s guidance seemed too difficult.
I did not want to obey.
Eventually, I chose my own way.
And he let me go.
This is perhaps one of the most important things I can say about his spiritual fatherhood.
The man who taught us the seriousness of obedience respected my freedom enough to allow me to disobey him.
He did not pursue me in order to force me back. He did not use spiritual authority to overcome my freedom.
He let me leave.
I have often thought since then of the father in the parable of the Prodigal Son.
The father does not believe that the son is making a good choice. He does not bless the departure as though all choices were equally life-giving.
But neither does he imprison his son in the house.
He allows him to go.
This helps us understand something essential in Gillet.
If the priest is becoming “a priest for all,” that does not mean that he possesses all. The person to whom he gives himself remains free.
The earlier meditation expressed the implication starkly: the priest cannot demand a particular outcome, force gratitude, guarantee fidelity or prevent departure. “The gift remains a gift.” …
That is a severe form of self-emptying.
It is one thing to give oneself to someone who responds exactly as one hopes.
It is another to give oneself, to pray and suffer for another person — and then to allow that person to walk away.
Elder Gregorios let me go.
But he did not cease being my spiritual father.
He prayed.
He waited.
I know that he suffered.
And this distinction matters enormously. Respect for my freedom did not mean indifference to what I did with that freedom.
He would not compel my return.
But he would pray for it.
IV. THE RETURN
Eventually came what I can only describe as my own return of the prodigal.
I began to understand that my earlier repentance had not gone as deeply as I had imagined.
This time I was prepared to accept that repentance might hurt.
I returned to Elder Gregorios.
But he did not simply receive me with unqualified reassurance.
He welcomed me, certainly. Yet in a sense he also “played it tough.”
There was love underneath it, but there was gravity too.
He needed me to understand that I could not simply come back because things had become difficult, receive consolation, and then begin the same cycle again.
Something far more serious was involved.
My soul.
And here I began to understand what he meant by obedience.
He was not trying to make me obedient to Elder Gregorios.
He wanted me to become obedient to God.
That distinction changes everything.
The false spiritual father needs the other person’s obedience because it confirms his own authority.
The true spiritual father can allow the person to leave because the person does not belong to him in the first place.
This brings us back to Gillet’s first question:
Whose are you?
The answer is not:
I belong to my spiritual father.
It is:
I am Christ’s.
The task of the spiritual father is therefore not to insert himself permanently between Christ and the soul. It is to help the soul offer itself freely to Christ.
Elder Gregorios could respect my freedom when I left precisely because obedience without freedom would not have been the obedience he was trying to teach me.
And when I returned, he could be demanding for precisely the same reason.
He was not interested in winning me back for himself.
He wanted my return to God to be real.
We do not play with our souls.
The years that followed were difficult. There was suffering. But I accepted it differently because I had begun to understand that repentance was not simply regret for something that had gone wrong. It meant a reorientation of life.
And alongside the suffering there was grace.
There were also experiences which I can only describe as miracles.
The spiritual father had waited.
But the destination of the journey was never the spiritual father.
It was Christ.
V. “I BELONG TO YOU”
We now reach the third movement in Gillet’s meditation.
The priest belongs to Christ. Belonging to Christ empties him of the instinct to preserve his life entirely for himself. Therefore Christ can give him to others.
At this point Gillet becomes startlingly personal:
“I live for you. I belong to you, because I belong to Jesus Christ.”
And then comes an even more daring sentence:
“I consecrate myself to you.”
These words could easily be misunderstood.
“I belong to you” does not meanyou belong to me.
That reversal would destroy Gillet’s meaning.
The priest’s belonging moves outward. He gives himself; he does not acquire the other person.
And “I consecrate myself to you” means something stronger than professional availability. Consecration is an offering. The person Christ places before the priest becomes, at that moment, someone for whom his priesthood must be spent.
This helps me understand something Elder Gregorios used to tell us.
He would say that the spiritual father carries the sins of his spiritual children and that he will have to give an account before the Judgement Seat of the Lord for the souls entrusted to him — provided that the spiritual child, on his or her part, lives in obedience.
I did not fully understand the weight of those words when I first heard them.
I understand them better now.
The spiritual father is not merely someone from whom I obtain religious advice.
A soul has been entrusted to him.
Therefore:
I live for you.
I belong to you.
I consecrate myself to you.
Not because you have become mine.
But, in Gillet’s decisive phrase:
“because I belong to Jesus Christ.”
That final clause protects the whole relationship.
The priest belongs to the spiritual child in Christ, and therefore he must never make the spiritual child belong to himself.
VI. DISCERNMENT
This also helps explain another dimension of Elder Gregorios: his discernment.
Sometimes it appeared in very small things.
I remember once travelling to the monastery during a particularly confused and busy period. I had left without my driving licence and was driving a different car. There had been delays and complications.
When I eventually arrived, the Elder was waiting.
There was something almost amused in his manner — certainly a smile — as he challenged me about what I had done.
How could I have come without my driving licence?!
Nobody had told him.
I remember incidents like this with affection because they were not dramatic. His discernment did not always announce itself solemnly. Sometimes it came with humour.
But at other times discernment carried an enormous responsibility.
And the most powerful example I remember concerns my father.
VII. MY FATHER
My father was an excellent doctor and a deeply compassionate man. He genuinely loved his patients.
Yet precisely because he had spent his life so close to illness and suffering, he struggled with questions of faith. He found it difficult to reconcile some of what he had witnessed with belief in God. Like life after death …!
He remained outside the sacramental life of the Church.
After retirement, however, he began searching more seriously. He took up Scripture and studied it systematically, volume after volume.
Still, doubts remained.
Then, as he grew older and his health deteriorated, he began experiencing terrible recurrent nightmares.
Dark figures pursued him.
The episodes became so violent that he would wake suddenly or fall from bed and injure himself. We put mattresses and cushions around the bed to protect him.
Naturally, we looked for medical explanations.
Medication? Polypharmacy? Age? Illness?
My father was not a naturally fearful man. He had been an athlete, a champion and was courageous. Yet the experiences continued.
Nobody understood what was happening.
One day at the monastery I mentioned this to one of the older sisters, + Sister Akylina, may her memory be eternal!
By then Elder Gregorios himself was seriously ill and spent most of his time secluded in his cell. Access to him was limited; only certain sisters would disturb him when something important arose.
The sister listened to me.
Suddenly she became very serious.
“Wait here.”
She went immediately to Elder Gregorios.
A short time later she returned with his message.
The dark figures pursuing my father, the Elder said, were demons.
And then came the part that left me stunned.
My father must confess.
He must receive Holy Communion.
He must return to the sacramental life of the Church.
If he did not, Elder Gregorios warned, what he was now seeing in his dreams he would encounter after death.
I was horrified at the thought of repeating this to my father.
Not because I did not believe the Elder.
Because I knew my father.
He was a highly educated physician, accustomed to scientific reasoning, and capable of questioning far less extraordinary religious claims.
How could I tell him this?
But the sisters insisted.
They would pray.
The Elder would pray.
But I had to deliver the message.
Eventually I found the courage.
I told my father.
And something happened that I had not expected.
He did not argue.
He listened carefully …
And after a few weeks … he obeyed.
He confessed.
He received Holy Communion.
He returned to the sacramental life of the Church.
And he was immediately delivered from what had been tormenting him!
VIII. “I CONSECRATE MYSELF TO YOU”
It is here that Gillet’s words acquire, for me, their greatest weight.
“I consecrate myself to you.”
If we hear this merely as affectionate language, we miss its severity.
Consecrating oneself to another soul means that the priest cannot simply offer what is pleasant.
Sometimes he must comfort.
Sometimes he must remain silent.
Sometimes he must wait for years.
Sometimes he must allow the prodigal to leave.
But if he discerns danger, love may require him to speak.
The message sent to my father was not reassuring. It was frighteningly direct.
Yet if Elder Gregorios truly believed that a soul was in danger, what would love have required?
Silence would have been easier.
But Gillet’s “I consecrate myself to you” leaves little room for the easier response.
The person before the priest — or, in this case, the person whose suffering had been brought to the door of his cell — has become his concern.
This is what makes discernment inseparable from spiritual fatherhood.
To see is not enough.
The priest must accept responsibility for what he sees.
And this returns us to Elder Gregorios’s own conviction that the spiritual father will answer before Christ for the souls entrusted to him.
His warning to my father was therefore not, as I understand it, an exercise of spiritual power.
It was an exercise of spiritual responsibility.
IX. TENDERNESS AND SEVERITY
My own story and my father’s story might at first appear very different.
In my case, Elder Gregorios let me go.
In my father’s case, he sent an uncompromising warning.
But I think the same principle lies beneath both.
Neither of us was coerced.
I was free to leave.
My father was free to reject the message.
Both of us had to choose.
This is why tenderness and severity are not necessarily opposites in a spiritual father.
There is a tenderness that comforts.
There is also a tenderness that refuses to lie.
There is a love that waits at the door for the prodigal.
And there is a love that sees someone approaching danger and cries out.
Gillet’s words help keep these forms of love in their proper order:
“I live for you. I belong to you, because I belong to Jesus Christ.”
Not:
You belong to me.
That distinction is everything.
Elder Gregorios could not force me to return because I belonged to Christ.
He could not force my father to confess because my father belonged to Christ.
But precisely because he himself belonged to Christ, he could pray, wait, warn, correct, suffer — and refuse to treat the salvation of another person as something unimportant.
X. GIVEN TO ALL
Gillet calls the priest, with Christ and through Christ, to become “a priest for all.” The phrase sounds universal, but its meaning is intensely particular.
“Everyone” never arrives all at once.
Everyone arrives as one person at a time.
A confused university student.
A spiritual child who refuses obedience.
A prodigal who eventually comes back.
A man tormented at night.
A nun carrying an urgent message into a cell.
Another confession.
Another family.
Another person asking for prayer.
Another soul.
This is how the universal priesthood of love becomes concrete.
And this is why the movement frombelonging to Christtobelonging to everyonerequires self-emptying in between.
Without self-emptying, “belonging to everyone” could become influence, popularity or spiritual power.
Gillet means something different.
The priest belongs to everyone precisely because he has ceased to make himself the center.
His task is not to gather people around himself.
It is to give himself to them in such a way that they can belong more completely to Christ.
This, I think, is what Elder Gregorios tried to do with me.
He did not want my obedience to terminate in him.
He wanted it to pass through him towards God.
XI. THE FINAL OBEDIENCE
There is one further dimension of self-emptying.
In youth and strength, sacrifice often takes the form of activity: travelling, standing, serving, hearing confessions, keeping vigil, receiving people, losing sleep.
Old age and illness demand another kind of obedience.
They demand that the person who has spent his life being available accept that he can no longer be available in the same way.
Elder Gregorios became seriously ill.
His world contracted.
The man who had received so many people became increasingly hidden in his cell.
There is something remarkable about this when placed beside Gillet’s counsel:
“Live a life of obscurity and silence; seeking no awards.”
Early in life, Elder Gregorios had desired obscurity.
Obedience brought him out of it and gave him to people.
At the end of life, illness returned him to obscurity.
But he did not cease to belong to people.
My father’s story occurred during precisely this period.
A sister entered the cell.
She carried the suffering of someone who was not even present.
The Elder listened.
He discerned.
He sent a message.
The door closed.
There was no public ministry.
No sermon.
No recognition.
Yet somewhere outside that cell, an old man changed direction and returned to Confession and Holy Communion.
Perhaps this is what “a priest for all” finally looks like.
Not necessarily a man surrounded by crowds.
Sometimes simply an old and sick priest in a cell, still allowing one more soul to make a claim upon his prayer.
XII. A LIFE GIVEN AWAY
Looking back, I see a circle which I could not have seen when I first went to Metamorfosi.
A young Gregorios wanted hesychia.
St Paisios asked him to surrender his preference.
He obeyed.
A young university student returned from Strasbourg, not knowing where she was going.
Someone had told her:
“Our spiritual father will help you find your way.”
He did.
Then she refused his guidance and left.
He respected her freedom.
He prayed.
He waited.
She returned.
And instead of making himself the object of her obedience, he tried to teach her that obedience ultimately belongs to God.
Years later her father, nearing the end of his earthly life, received another difficult message from the same spiritual father.
He too was free.
And he too obeyed.
Now Gillet’s three movements no longer seem to me like three headings.
They describe a single life:
Belonging to Christ. Emptying oneself. Belonging to everyone.
And perhaps Gillet’s most extraordinary sentence contains all three:
“I live for you. I belong to you, because I belong to Jesus Christ.” Holy_Cross_Lev_Gillet_Meditatio…
Because I belong to Jesus Christ.
Everything depends upon those words.
Because without them,I belong to youcan become possession.
Without them, obedience can become control.
Without them, spiritual fatherhood can become attachment to a personality.
But because the priest belongs first to Christ, he can give himself without possessing.
He can guide and still leave the other person free.
He can allow the prodigal to depart and still wait for the prodigal’s return.
He can welcome without trivializing repentance.
He can warn without making another person’s soul his property.
He can carry another person before God while knowing that the person belongs to God alone.
And eventually he must surrender even the fruits of his priesthood.
The earlier meditation expressed the whole movement very simply:
Christ takes the priest to Himself, empties him of himself, and gives him back to the world. Holy_Cross_Lev_Gillet_Meditatio…
That, I think, is what I witnessed.
Elder Gregorios wanted the hidden life.
He gave that desire to God.
God gave him people.
And over the years, his time, prayer, tears, discernment, strength — and eventually even his weakness — became available to those people.
Not so that they might belong to him.
But so that, through his priesthood, they might rediscover to Whom they had always belonged.
Perhaps that is what a spiritual father finally does.
It all began quite unexpectedly. Recently, during Confession, the Abbot of a monastery on Mount Athos told me that God’s will for me now was to leave everything in the hands of the Theotokos and to begin going frequently on pilgrimages — to her shrines and to those of the Saints.
Since then, I have taken part in pilgrimages to Our Lady of Tinos, Saint Porphyrios, Saint Ephraim of Nea Makri, Panagia Malevi, Panagia Varnakova, and many more. I could not have known where that counsel would lead. But pilgrimage followed pilgrimage, and the presence of the Theotokos became increasingly — at times almost overwhelmingly — tangible. She seemed not simply to be waiting at the places toward which we travelled, but somehow to be accompanying the journey itself.
And gradually I began to notice something else: traces of the virtues we contemplate in her icons appearing, in small and very human ways, in the pilgrims travelling beside me.
A pilgrimage is a journey toward holy places, but also a journey among people. Throughout this pilgrimage, the presence of the Theotokos seemed almost overwhelming — in the monasteries, the icons, the prayers, and somehow in the journey itself. And gradually, something else became apparent: the mysteries we contemplated in her feasts seemed to find small reflections in the pilgrims walking beside us — in a word, a sacrifice, a hidden act of service, a way of enduring, believing, or praying.
The four great feasts of the Theotokos themselves seem to trace a spiritual pilgrimage: a beginning, an offering, an indwelling, and a fulfilment — images of our own journey from conversion toward theosis. Along that path, I shall also introduce some of my fellow pilgrims — real people, identified only by their initials — whose lives seemed to offer small, living reflections of that same journey.
I. AWAKENING — THE NATIVITY OF THE THEOTOKOS A Beginning Before We Know Where It Will Lead
The Nativity of the Theotokos is proclaimed by the Church as “the beginning of our salvation.” Nothing spectacular has apparently happened: a child has been born. Yet within this hidden beginning lies the preparation for the Incarnation.
It is a beautiful image of the first movement of conversion: awakening, turning, beginning again. Conversion rarely begins with spiritual fulfilment. Something enters our life — sometimes joy, sometimes suffering, sometimes simply a new awareness of God — and a road begins whose destination we cannot yet see.
M. experienced such a beginning in an extraordinarily painful way. After almost forty years of marriage, during which she raised her children and sacrificed her own career, employment, income, financial independence, security, and even the prospect of a pension to work unpaid for her husband, she suddenly found herself, at almost sixty, having to begin her life again. Divorce, loss of property, eviction, legal battles and financial hardship followed. She now lives in a small social-housing apartment and undertakes seasonal work, including caring for elderly people, at times relying upon friends and her sons for financial help. Yet she continues to work, to struggle, and above all to glorify God. What appeared to be simply the destruction of one life has gradually become the beginning of another.
P., too, has recently entered an entirely new landscape through widowhood. The loss of the person with whom one has shared one’s life creates a threshold one would never willingly choose to cross. Yet she continues forward, and her response to loss has not been withdrawal but service.
A. has also recently lost his wife, while continuing to care at home for his son, who has a disability. Although approximately of retirement age, he seems to be working more than ever, offering himself with remarkable diligence both within the Church and in wider society.
Their circumstances are very different, yet each reminds us of the mystery hidden within the Nativity: God’s new beginnings may appear precisely where we thought something had ended.
II. CONSECRATION — THE ENTRANCE OF THE THEOTOKOS INTO THE TEMPLE
Entering More Deeply into the Life of God
The Entrance of the Theotokos is not described in the canonical Gospels but belongs to the ancient tradition of the Church. The child whose birth announced a new beginning is now brought into the Temple and offered entirely to God. Beginning becomes direction. The young Mary enters the Temple and, according to the tradition of the Church, grows there in prayer, purity and communion with God.
Her Entrance can therefore express the second movement of the spiritual life: not simply turning toward God, but progressively giving one’s life to Him — through purification, obedience, prayer, service and the gradual reorientation of the whole person.
E. embodies something of this wholehearted dedication. Although she still works full-time, she participates tirelessly in one or even two pilgrimages every month, travelling throughout Greece. She readily accepts both the fatigue and the considerable financial cost involved, despite not being a person of considerable financial means. During the COVID period, while working as a nurse, she chose to follow her conscience regarding vaccination despite knowing that her decision would have serious professional consequences, and she was suspended from work. Yet her zeal is anything but disorderly. During the pilgrimage, when an elderly pilgrim suddenly developed high blood pressure and dizziness, E. immediately cared for her. She meticulously recorded names for prayer and arranged votive offerings at each monastery. Her dedication to God continually becomes practical care for others.
G., at eighty years of age (!), offers another form of consecration. A distinguished theologian with a long and eminent academic career, he remains remarkably precise in his expression of the Orthodox faith. Even at his age, he endured the extraordinary physical hardships of this demanding pilgrimage, just as he continues to participate actively in so much else. His theological precision is not merely accumulated academic knowledge; it is an ecclesial mind cultivated throughout an entire lifetime. His words rightly divide the word of truth without ambiguity or compromise, yet his firmness never becomes harshness. He treats even those of another faith, or those whose beliefs are heretical, with exceptional meekness. Truth, for him, is not simply an idea to be defended but a reality to be lived.
P. and A. reveal yet another form of offering. Both remain quietly at the side of Fr N., assisting in his many ministries: soup kitchens, hospitals, pilgrimages, and wherever else a need arises. They are precisely the kind of people one might easily fail to notice, because they are usually to be found where there is work to be done rather than where they might be seen. Like the Myrrh-bearing Women, they do not seek the central place; they are simply present whenever an offering is needed.
Thus, the Entrance marks a movement beyond the first awakening of conversion. The life that has turned toward God gradually becomes a life offered to God.
ΙII. UNION / THEOSIS — THE ANNUNCIATION God Dwelling in the Human Person
At the Annunciation, everything toward which the previous feasts have been moving reaches an unimaginable point. The Theotokos hears the word of God and freely answers: “Behold the maidservant of the Lord! Let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). And God comes to dwell within her. The Annunciation therefore reveals something at the very heart of Theosis. Human freedom is not abolished by divine grace; it opens itself to it. God acts, the human person responds, and communion becomes possible. The Christian life is no longer simply a matter of turning toward God or even offering things to Him. God Himself increasingly becomes the inner life of the human person.
Something of this mystery could be glimpsed in Fr N. As the priest accompanying more than one hundred pilgrims, he was continually surrounded by questions, conversations, confessions, practical difficulties and people seeking his attention. Yet amid this almost uninterrupted outward activity, he retained a remarkable inner stillness. And one could actually see something of its source. While speaking, listening, hearing confessions, caring for and guiding the pilgrims, his lips would repeatedly and quietly form the Jesus Prayer. Amid the visible movement of the pilgrimage there was another, almost invisible movement: the continual return of the mind and heart to Christ. Prayer was not something that began when his ministry ended. It seemed to have become the hidden inner rhythm running through everything else. His Hesychia therefore did not depend upon external silence. He carried that inner silence with him into the crowd: the gathering of mind and heart in God while remaining completely present to others.
Among the predominantly older pilgrims, M. and E.-K., two young people in their late twenties, stood out in a very different way. There was also an extraordinary coincidence in encountering them there. M. was the assistant of an electrician team working for a company of ours, while E.-K. had been a student of mine many years ago at the Experimental School of the University of Thessaloniki. Quite unexpectedly, both recognised me after all those years — each coming from an entirely different chapter of my life. What was striking in both was difficult to define: they simply seemed to shine with purity in the way they spoke, carried themselves, looked at others and related to those around them. This is not a claim about their private lives, which we cannot know, but about a visible simplicity, modesty and transparency of behaviour.
They remind us that communion with God does not erase the human person. Grace increasingly makes the person transparent to God.
What was striking in both is difficult to define: they simply seemed to shine with purity in the way they spoke, carried themselves, looked at others and related to those around them. This is not a claim about their private lives, which we cannot know, but about a visible simplicity, modesty and transparency of behaviour. They remind us that communion with God does not erase the human person. Grace increasingly makes the person transparent to God.
III. UNION / THEOSIS — FULFILMENT
THE DORMITION OF THE THEOTOKOS The Human Person Received into the Life of God
The Dormition brings the journey to its fulfilment. And here the movement of the Annunciation is beautifully reversed. At the Annunciation, the Theotokos receives Christ within herself. At the Dormition, Christ receives the Theotokos into Himself. In the icon, Christ stands beside the body of His Mother and holds her soul, represented as a small swaddled child. She who once held Him as an infant is now held by Him. The journey that began quietly with her Nativity reaches its fulfilment in complete communion with her Son.
Perhaps here all the pilgrims return…
M.’s extraordinary patience through loss, injustice and uncertainty; her obedience to the spiritual guidance of the Athonite Elder Philotheos, Abbot of the Holy Monastery of Karakallou, which helped her carry what might otherwise have become unbearable. G.’s lifelong fidelity to the truth of the Church, still vigorous at eighty despite hardship and physical exhaustion, combined with a meekness that refuses to turn theological conviction into hostility toward another human being. E.’s restless divine zeal, expressed not only in pilgrimages but in sacrifice, meticulous care and practical service. P. and A.‘s almost hidden ministry beside Fr N., quietly appearing wherever another person needs them. A.‘s self-denial in carrying his own grief and family responsibilities while continuing to carry the burdens of others. The transparent purity of the two younger pilgrims. And Fr N.’s prayer and hesychia, the Jesus Prayer continuing quietly beneath the noise and demands of a pilgrimage of more than one hundred people.
None of these is theosis by itself. Nor does the same virtue appear in every Christian in the same way. One person’s road may be patience; another’s theological truth and meekness; another’s service; another’s self-denial; another’s purity; another’s prayer. But the destination is one: communion with God.
None of these pilgrims possesses these qualities perfectly; nor does any particular virtue belong to only one person. The Theotokos remains their incomparable image and measure. Yet perhaps this was one of the quiet revelations of the pilgrimage. We travelled to monasteries and holy places, stood before her icons, celebrated her feasts and repeatedly encountered her presence. And somehow, that presence seemed almost overwhelming — not only in the churches and shrines, but throughout the journey itself and among the people travelling beside us.
The four feasts seem gradually to trace the pilgrimage of every Christian soul: At the Nativity, the Theotokos enters the world. At the Entrance, she enters the Temple. At the Annunciation, Christ enters the Theotokos. At the Dormition, the Theotokos enters the life of Christ.
Beginning. Offering. Indwelling. Fulfilment. And perhaps the pilgrimage did not really end when we returned home. Her presence, so overwhelming along the way, seems somehow to have accompanied us beyond it, into the very different paths of our ordinary lives. We set out as pilgrims to places sanctified by Her presence; perhaps ever since, She has been accompanying each of us on the personal pilgrimage of our own life. Amen
Today the Church ascends Mount Tabor. A blessed day to continue our pilgrimage*!
Prayer, Memory and Sacrifice
After the celebrations in honour of Saint Stephen the Great, our pilgrimage through Romania continued with visits to several of Iași’s most treasured holy places.
Our first stop was the Church of Saint Nektarios of Pentapolis, one of the city’s newer churches, where countless faithful gather to seek the prayers of one of the most beloved saints of the modern Orthodox world.
From there we made our way to the magnificent Church of Saint Parascheva of Epivates, the spiritual heart of Iași and the resting place of the incorrupt relics of Romania’s beloved patroness. Throughout the year, pilgrims from across Romania and far beyond come here to venerate the saint whose life of humility and holiness continues to inspire generations of Orthodox Christians.
Beneath the church lies the beautifully arranged Ecclesiastical Museum, whose collections preserve centuries of Romanian Orthodox history through manuscripts, icons, liturgical vessels, vestments and other treasures of the Church. More than a museum, it offers visitors a quiet glimpse into the rich spiritual heritage of the Romanian people.
The Church of the Holy Mandylion of Our Lord and the Holy Brâncoveanu Martyrs
Before leaving Iași, we visited one of the city’s newest Orthodox churches, the Church of the Holy Mandylion of Our Lord and the Holy Brâncoveanu Martyrs. Consecrated in 2021, it is distinguished by its magnificent mosaics, beautifully crafted stained-glass windows and harmonious architectural design.
What makes this church especially remarkable is that many of its mosaics and stained-glass windows were created on site through the dedicated work of the parish priest’s family together with volunteers from the local parish community—a beautiful expression of faith offered through craftsmanship.
The church also features an unusual architectural design. The floor slopes gently towards the sanctuary, allowing even those standing at the very back to participate fully in the Divine Services with an unobstructed view of the Holy Altar.
It is a striking example of how artistic beauty, community dedication and thoughtful pastoral care can come together in the building of a contemporary Orthodox church.
Photographs: The Church of the Holy Mandylion of Our Lord and the Holy Brâncoveanu Martyrs.
Leaving Iași behind, we travelled westward into the wooded hills of Neamț County, one of Romania’s great monastic regions. There, surrounded by forests that have sheltered generations of monks and hermits, stands the historic Secu Monastery, where prayer, history and sacrifice meet remarkably.
Nestled deep within the forests of Neamț County, Secu Monastery is one of Romania’s oldest and most beautiful monastic communities. Hidden in the quiet valley of the River Secu, it has remained a place of prayer and spiritual life for almost five centuries.
Its origins date back to the beginning of the sixteenth century, when a small group of hermits settled in this secluded valley under the guidance of Hieroschemamonk Zosima from nearby Neamț Monastery. Around 1530, they established Zosima’s Hermitage, and a few years later, the Moldavian ruler Petru Rareș built a church for the growing community. His wife, Princess Elena, later enclosed the hermitage with strong stone walls, parts of which still survive today beside the monastery cemetery.
During the following decades, the monastery steadily expanded, receiving generous support from successive rulers of Moldavia. What had begun as a tiny hermitage gradually developed into one of the most important spiritual centres of the region, preserving an unbroken tradition of Orthodox monastic life that continues to this day.
Yet Secu Monastery is remembered not only for its peaceful monastic witness, but also for one of the most moving chapters in modern Greek history.
On 3 July, a memorial service was celebrated at Secu Monastery in honour of the Greek heroes who fell here during the Greek War of Independence.
It was within these monastery walls, in September 1821, that the revolutionary leaders Georgakis Olympios and Ioannis Farmakis, together with their remaining companions, made their final stand against overwhelming Ottoman forces. Choosing death rather than surrender, they transformed the monastery into a place forever linked with both martyrdom and freedom.
The memorial service was held at the very site of their sacrifice and beside their graves. It was a deeply moving act of remembrance and gratitude towards those whose courage marked the closing chapter of the Greek struggle in the Danubian Principalities.
Standing in this quiet monastery today, it is difficult to imagine the violence that once shattered its silence. Yet perhaps that contrast itself speaks most eloquently. The same walls that once echoed with the sounds of battle now resound with prayer, reminding every pilgrim that sacrifice offered for Christ, for freedom, and for one’s neighbour is never forgotten.
Memory eternal to the heroes of Secu Monastery!
May the prayers of all the saints of Romania strengthen our own pilgrimage, until we too reach the heavenly homeland, where every earthly pilgrimage finds its true fulfilment.
May the uncreated light of the Transfigured Christ illumine our hearts, strengthen our faith, and guide us on the path of salvation. May we faithfully hear His voice, follow His Gospel, and reflect His glory in our lives. Blessed Feast of the Holy Transfiguration!
“Kali Panagia”, Καλή Παναγιά!, is a traditional Greek seasonal greeting meaning “Blessed Panagia” or “May you reach the feast of the Panagia in good health,” used in the days leading up to August 15. My love and poor prayers for all of you, and forgive the belated post.
Our pilgrimage began in Iași, where we were invited to participate in the celebrations of Saint Stephen the Great together with the fathers of the Holy Monastery of Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian. Their moving presentations on Saint Paisios the Athonite and Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian—both of whom they had personally known—gave a special spiritual character to the opening of our journey.
On this occasion, the holy relic of Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian was brought to Iași for the veneration of the faithful, while our pilgrimage also extended to the surrounding regions of Suceava, Putna and other places closely associated with the rich spiritual heritage of Moldavia.
The former abbot of the Holy Monastery of Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian, Elder Theoklitos, together with the present abbot, Elder Synesios, had been invited to Romania to participate in the celebrations of Saint Stephen the Great (Voivode), whose feast is celebrated on 2 July.
The centre of the festivities was the Holy Church of Saint Stephen the Great (Voivode) in Iași, where the Fathers took part in the festal services and the parish’s patronal celebration. At the conclusion of Great Vespers, the precious relic of Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian was solemnly brought forth for the veneration of the faithful, who gathered in great numbers to receive his blessing.
On the following afternoon, Elder Theoklitos and Elder Synesios again participated in the celebrations, which included Byzantine hymns and a joint address devoted to Saint Paisios the Athonite and Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian. Drawing upon their own personal acquaintance with Saint Paisios, they offered moving recollections of the Elder and spoke about the unique spiritual relationship between these two beloved Cappadocian saints.
The Holy Church of Saint Stephen the Great (Voivode)
The church hosting the celebrations is dedicated to Saint Stephen the Great, the most renowned ruler of medieval Moldavia and one of the greatest saints of the Romanian Orthodox Church.
According to the Chronicles of the Land of Moldavia written by Grigore Ureche, Stephen was already honoured as a saint immediately after his repose on 2 July 1504. The chronicler simply records:
“After his death, until today, he is remembered as Holy Voivode Stephen.”
This spontaneous veneration reflected the life he had lived. Throughout his reign, Stephen regarded the defence of his homeland and of the Orthodox faith as a sacred vocation. He declared that he would rather “taste death a hundred thousand times” than surrender Moldavia to its enemies.
For almost half a century he stood as one of the principal defenders of Christian Europe against Ottoman expansion. Before the great Battle of Vaslui in 1475, he wrote:
“With all the power given to us by Almighty God, we are always ready, with all our strength and with all the zeal of our hearts, to fight for Christianity.”
His victories earned him the admiration of rulers and chroniclers throughout Europe. Venetian diplomat Matteo Muriano praised his wisdom, justice and generosity, while the Polish historian Jan Długosz considered him the most worthy Christian prince of his age. Even Pope Sixtus IV commended his defence of Christendom against the Ottoman advance.
Yet Stephen himself attributed every victory not to military skill but to the grace of God. Following his famous victory at Vaslui, he ordered that no one should praise him, but only God, and according to Jan Długosz he observed a forty-day fast of bread and water in thanksgiving.
The Holy Cross remained the guiding sign of his entire reign. Churches, monasteries and stone crosses were raised in gratitude after victories, and many of the churches he founded were dedicated on the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. Above all, he believed that prayer was the true foundation of a nation’s strength.
His greatest legacy is therefore not only the victories he won on the battlefield, but the remarkable network of monasteries and churches he built throughout Moldavia. More than five centuries later, these holy places continue to draw countless pilgrims who find in Saint Stephen not merely a national hero, but a ruler whose courage was inseparable from humility, repentance and unwavering faith in Christ.
May Saint Stephen the Great and Saint Arsenios the Cappadocian intercede for all who seek to defend the Orthodox faith—not only through courage in times of trial, but through a life of prayer, humility and steadfast trust in God.
Friday the 12th, part 2. Panorama monastery is very beautiful. Set up in the hills above Thessaloniki, one can see the bay. Indeed, we can see over to the place (1) where St. Paisios rests. We venerated Elder Symeon’s tomb (2).
We had two hours of great wisdom. Followed by the blessing from the Hegumenos I. Our discussions were focused on the teachings of St. Simeon the New Theologian, sharing mystical experiences centred on humility.
The teachings of St. Simeon the New Theologian draw heavily from the Desert Fathers. Direct experience of God is something to which all Christians should aim and indeed aspire. The teachings which I read many years ago from St. Symeon the Theologian came flooding back, and the discussion made me want to revisit the books which were formative in my embrace of Orthodoxy. Indeed, the power of the Holy Spirit to change lives is real, and to change individuals, to transform them, and to transform situations in which we find ourselves sometimes feeling rather hopeless.
A theme which, at this time, post-Pentecost days, has been realised in many churches where young people are beginning to return to the church. There is a revival of hope.
The conversation echoed a previous thought about the need for solitude of one‘s self within that space where God exists. If one wants to become a channel of divine grace to others, but this is God’s grace. It is nothing to do with ourselves. It is not ours.
We are nothing, but God makes us something. It’s simply a yes to God in all circumstances. St. Simeon the Theologian emphasises the need to listen to the advice of your spiritual father.
The priest Lev Gillet, in his book, called Encounter at the Well, discusses the situation that our Lord found himself in with a Samaritan woman. Christ, wearied by his journey, asks for some water at Jacob’s well. The martyr St. Philoumenos, who was a priest at the well, was with us in the evening in the form of little prayer cards, those magnetic ones which you attach to your fridges, which we had received earlier in the week from a priest.
We were able to give these to the children. The T family came to greet us, to share their love amongst us, to take a blessing and to sing for us. It was like refreshing water on a hot day.
We Christians thirst for God, and we receive him in fellowship, amongst others who are like-minded. He gives abundantly of His life and of His life-giving spring. The evening concluded with a late meal with M, E, G or J, depending on what you wanted to call him, and A. It was a joyous conclusion to a day of deep discussion, shared experiences, and surprising connections that we made.
Although we should not be surprised by those connections, since we have the same Lord, we have the same Christ, and because in His great love and humility for us, He calls us His friends. Amen.
*
(1) Souroti, the Monastery of St. John the Theologian.
