“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.
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.
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(1) Souroti, the Monastery of St. John the Theologian.
Thursday the 11th of June, the Feast of St. Luke Symferoupol and the revelation of Axion Estin by the angel Gabriel.
The journey to St. Kyriaki monastery was quite eventful. St. Kyriaki monastery is where a number of our Antiochian nuns found themselves.
At one point in the journey, engrossed as we were, in deep conversation and with the Paraklesis of St. Luke Symferoupol providing the background ison to our talk, we took a wrong road. My fault, I’m afraid, as I was the co-pilot, supposed to be directing the way.
The sign Local Road did not really do justice to the rather barely marked track that we found ourselves on in this huge field. However, Sat Nav came to the rescue and revealed to us the way that we should go. We needed a U-turn.
U-turns can be life-saving in a religious and a spiritual point of view, from sin and death and the roads which lead to destruction, to the way that leads to Paradise.
A reliable source told me how beautiful this place was, and indeed there was no hyperbole from that source.
This beautiful monastery, which is really a hidden gem amidst the beautiful countryside, reminded me of the Hymns of Resurrection from St. Ephraim, also a Syrian.
In his Hymn to the Resurrection, chapter 15, verse 10, he writes this:
“Let us summon and invite the saints,
the martyrs, apostles and prophets,
whose own blossoms and flowers
shine out like themselves –
such a wealth of roses they have,
so fragrant are their lilies:
from the Garden of Delights do they pluck them,
and they bring back fair bunches
to crown our beautiful feast.
O praise to You from the saints who are blessed.”
Sister T told us how the nuns came to be there, and it reminded me of another verse from St. Ephraim the Syrian, verse 12, in the same poem:
“Receive our offering, O our King,
and in return grant us salvation;
give peace to the land that has been devastated,
rebuild the churches that were burned,
so that when deep peace has returned,
we may plait you a great wreath,
with flowers and people to plait it,
coming in from all sides
so that the Lord of Peace may be crowned.
Blessed is He who has acted and is able to act.”
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For those of you who missed it, the story of the Sisters of War and St. Kyriaki monastery in Veria can be read here
Even though it is is 31C, it is raining. One of our friends said, “you have brought the rain with you from Manchester.” Indeed, but I drank from the fountain of Christ’s Mercy.
St Efraim the Syrian writes:
“Thanksgiving be to Him who caused a stream to flow forth
in the mouths that had been closed,
so that they might give praise without end, through the Son,
to the worshipful Father.”
Nisiben hymns 69
The evening was spent in conversation with Sister A and S at C’s house. The conversation was pastoral in nature, and the conversation revolved around the vicissitudes of life that we all suffer. Set within that larger framework of God’s divine plan.
It is a blessing to share one another’s burdens and to focus on our faith, our common heritage, within a world which often has taken the wrong direction and that is searching for answers. St Paul, in his letter to the Galatians in chapter 6 v. 2, writes, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” So, in acceptance of these words, we were indeed bearing one another’s burdens, and in so doing, fulfilling that law of Christ, to love God and to love one’s neighbour.
St Porphyrios says, “Christ is everything.” So, we should not add or subtract anything to our Christian faith, since, by adding, we compromise, and by subtracting, we fall short of that perfection which God calls us to. C.S. Lewis calls this “Mere Christianity.”To Wormwood, his nephew, in the Screwtape Letters, he says, what we must do is to keep them in the state of mind I call ‘Christianity and …’, you know, ‘Christianity and Crisis’, ‘Christianity and the New Psychology’, ‘Christianity and the New Order.’” To add to that, perhaps ‘Christianity and Politics.’
The horror of the same old thing is one of the most valuable passions we have produced in the human heart. It creates an endless source of heresies. Pure Christianity, with nothing added and nothing taken away, we find in the monasteries.
C.S. Lewis writes again: “just as we pick out and exaggerate the pleasure of eating to produce gluttony, so we pick out the natural pleasantness of change and twist it into a demand for absolute novelty.”
Original, authentic and unadulterated Christianity does not need nor seek approval of the world, or indeed embrace its passing fads and fashions and fantasies. It remains steadfast to apostolic order, to true doctrine and to the living tradition.
Any movement that is required is impelled by the action of the All-Holy Spirit. Amen.
Dear brothers and sisters, I am sure all/ most of you are familiar with Andrei Rublev’s Troitsa (Russian for Triune or Trinity). I have studied this icon in the past, this Trinitarian interpretation of Gen. 18:1-16, the episode in which “three men” visit Abraham and Sarah and promise them a son. Last week, however, I listened to a homily on Pentecost and the Holy Trinity in connection with this icon, and I discovered new insights which I was not familiar with.
This icon hails from the summit of a more-than-thousand-year-old iconographic tradition, yet what I found most moving and inspiring is its message, specifically the impact of the importance of the Holy Trinity on our daily lives, not as an object of abstract theological debate, but rather a referral to our living relationship with God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.
Let me explain, and let us open ourselves up and experience the reality that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are indeed real and insistently call us to participate in their loving communion.
1. The Trinity Is One
The Catechism 253 is clear in saying: The Trinity is One. We do not confess three Gods, but one God in three persons, the “consubstantial Trinity”. The divine persons do not share the one divinity among themselves but each of them is God whole and entire. In the words of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215), “Each of the persons is that supreme reality, viz., the divine substance, essence or nature.
Symbolizing the fact that the three divine persons are of equal essence, we see:
– All three angels are the same in form and size
– All three carry the same staves in their hands
– All three sit on the same type of throne
– Each figure is clothed in the same types of garments – chiton and himation – which are individually distinct.
– The characteristic tone of the garments works with a limited palette of colours: purple, pale green, and the one colour that is common to all three – an intense blue.
2. The divine persons are really distinct from one another
The Catechism continues in number 254 to explain: “The divine persons are really distinct from one another. God is one but not solitary.” “Father”, “Son”, “Holy Spirit” are not simply names designating modalities of the divine being, for they are really distinct from one another. They are distinct from one another in their relations of origin: “It is the Father who generates, the Son who is begotten, and the Holy Spirit who proceeds.” The divine Unity is Triune.
3. The Monarchy of the Father
While the traditional icons of this episode usually accentuated the central angel (the Son) through its frontal attitude and often its size, here Rublev does something different:
The central angel and the one on the right incline towards the one on the left and look towards it, while the one on the left looks towards the one on the right, giving the indication of the relationship between the three persons.
As such, it is the angel on the left that becomes the centre of the relationships. This follows the Oriental tradition, which considered the source of the unity and of the Godhead to be, not an essence lying behind the persons, but the person of the Father.
4. The Angel on the Left – The Father
When speaking of icons, in reality, one doesn’t say that he or she has “painted” an icon. They are “written” and “read”, going from left to right. Let’s now take a look at each individual angel, beginning on the left, and try to recognise the particular aspects. We can distinguish the angel on the left from the others, seeing that:
– He alone sits upright while the other two incline towards him.
– Seeing that the Father is still invisible for us, His form is almost completely veiled, allowing us to catch only a glimpse of the radiant blue (symbol of divinity) of His chiton. We can only hope to see him from “behind” through the beauty and wisdom of His creation, which is here represented by the mantle. The mantle bears royal colours: gold and red with a greenish reflection, symbol of life.
– Both hands bear a firm grip on his stave, which is pointed towards the earth. All authority of the heavens and the earth belongs to Him.
– The house, rising immediately behind him, points to the Father, for “in my Father’s house are many rooms” (Jn 14:2). It is also a symbol of hospitality, seeing that Abraham and Sarah were recompensed for the hospitality that they offered.
5. The Angel in the Middle – The Son
In the Icon, we can discover the following distinguishing characteristics of the son:
– He wears a dark purple chiton decorated with two stripes, one of which is visible – stripes worked with gold. The costly purple and gold represent his being the “anointed of God,” king and prophet in one. The reddish brown colour represents the earth and therefore his humanity and his martyrdom for all mankind. Christ is fully God and fully man.
– While the azure blue chiton of the Father is scarcely visible, that of the angel representing the Son is the prevailing colour. This is because it is Jesus the Son who has revealed his “glory” which he has as the “only-begotten of the Father”. The disciples have seen and touched this (Jn 1.14), and the mission of every disciple is to bear testimony of this fact.
– The tree that rises behind the Son is a symbol of both the Tree of Life (from Genesis) and the Wood of the Cross. On the Cross the Son transforms this tree of death into a tree of life whose fruits are passed on to us through our baptism in the Holy Spirit.
Let us always remember that we, too, are called to follow Christ along the paradoxical path of the cross that carries the sufferings of this world and allows this, through the Holy Spirit, to be transformed into new life.
6. The Angel on the Right – The Holy Spirit
The Holy Spirit’s personal being has been revealed; his countenance has not. The only thing we know about him is through his relationship to the Father and the Son.
– Like the Son, the Holy Spirit is inclined towards the Father, from whom he proceeds according to the teaching of the Bible (Jn 15:26).
– Like the Son, the chlamys is worn in such a way that leaves an arm free. Here, instead of the right arm, it is the left. Those follow the line of thinking proposed by St. Irenaeus who said that the Son and the Spirit are equally the two “hands” of the Father, through which he works everything.
– Like the Son, the heavenly azure blue is clearly seen.
– We also discover in his chlamys a pale green which, in Russia at least, is the liturgical colour of Pentecost. Here, the idea is that green represents new life in the Spirit, who is the “Giver of Life” and who transmits and transforms our lives through our baptism. We see this same pale green on the ground on which all three figures find themselves.
– Finally, behind the angel, we see a rock protruding. Like the Son and the Holy Spirit, the rock seems to be bowing down towards the authority and glory of the Father. We are invited to do the same.
– The rock can be understood as a symbol of earth, whose “face is renewed by the Spirit”. Earlier copies of the icon show that the rock was originally cracked, which would lead us to recall the rock that was split by Moses’ staff, causing living water to flow out (Ex 17.6).
– The rock/mountain is also a privileged place to encounter God. There, heaven and earth embrace one another as they did when Moses encountered God on the mountain. It is a place that is often difficult to reach, requiring a certain silence, asceticism, and renunciation of the daily comforts the world and its routines offer us. We all need to keep an eye out for these “mountains” in our lives.
7. Postures and Gestures
8. The Original Painting
Copyists and retouchers have made significant changes over the years. Originally, the Son’s hand was pointing towards the Holy Spirit, instead of the blessing gesture that we now see. …The Son’s right hand seemed to point at the chalice; yet, at the same time, it points beyond towards the Spirit.
The artist’s attention was thus more directed at the Spirit. This is confirmed by the Father’s posture and gesture as he is looking at the Spirit, to whom his right hand, raised in blessing, is directed. The Spirit also seems to corroborate this in the fact that he humbly bows his head before the Father. His right hand also seems to want to underline this movement.
Please note that the Holy Spirit also touches the table because he also comes to the world.
9. The Decisive Moment for our Salvation
This scene has often been interpreted to be the moment when the Father decided to send the Son, through the Holy Spirit, to save humanity (us).
As we seein the image below, it is the Father, who is at the origin of it all, who calls the Son and indicates the cup of sacrifice in the centre of the table. The Son comprehends the Father’s will (to become man’s bread of life) and accepts, bowing his head and blessing the cup.
The Holy Spirit, also known as the Comforter, the Paraklete, also accepts the will of the Father. He rests his hand on the table as he looks towards the Father, indicating his obedience to the Son (no one can call upon “Jesus Christ” without the Holy Spirit) and His trustful abandonment to the Father.
10. The Symbol of Sacrifice
With careful observation, one can note how the middle angel seems to be contained within the shape of a cup whose contours are formed by the other two angels. Similar to the reflection just mentioned, here we see how the act of salvation is one of the Holy Trinity. As the Filarete, metropolitan of Moscow, once commented in 1816:
“The cup, a point of convergence between the three, contains the mystery of love of the Father who crucifies, the love of the Son who is crucified, and the love of the Holy Spirit who triumphs with the force of the cross.”
While the three figures form a circle, it is not closed in on itself. It is a circle of communion which opens and offers space for another. While their gaze is aimed towards one another, the reversed perspective means the faces are, in a sense, facing the observer as well. As such, the spectator (that’s you and me) is invited and welcomed to participate as the fourth link in this mystical chain.
11. The Altar and the Eucharist
As we have just seen, in this Trinitarian circle of love, there is always space for another, and open space in which we are invited not only to observe but to participate.
At the centre of the encounter, there is a table/altar where we also see a small box/window. This space is where relics of the martyrs are deposited.
When asking ourselves how we are called to participate, here and now, the icon invites us to participate in the celebration of the Eucharist (the altar) and to live our lives as martyrs, as witnesses of the resurrection who, following the school of Jesus, are willing to give our lives for others and for the faith.
It is probably this last “detail” of the small box/ window where the martyrs’ relics are deposited that I find so amazing! What an invitation our Lord extends to each one of us! We are all invited to live our lives as martyrs! Glory to God for all things!
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Cf. Gabriel Bunge, The Rublev Trinity; Garrett Johnson, St. Thomas Aquinas Parish, Manchester, for the imagesand the insights
Dear brothers and sisters, I wish you all a blessed Great Lent! This 40-Day Fast is considered in Orthodox tradition, “the tithe of the year”, a spiritual offering of roughly 10% of our time (40 days plus Holy Week) to God, intended for intense spiritual renewal, prayer and fasting. It acts as a reminder that all time, all possessions and all gifts belong to God, encouraging us to reorient our lives away from passions and toward Him.
Especially for this time, I find +Rev. Thomas Hopko’s 55 Maxims are most relevant, those “55 things that a believer, very simply, would do if they were really a believer and were really obedient to God and wanted to live the way God would have us live”. These 55 Maxims may appear too practical and down-to-earth, but are in truth profound and deep. May we put these 55 Maxims into practice for the following 40 Days and ever, Amen!
1 Be always with Christ and trust God in everything.Never forget God.
2 Pray as you can, not as you think you must.Pray as God inspires you to pray, not as you want to, but as God gives. And for a Christian, that would mean in one’s heart, in one’s room, and in one’s Church.
3 Have a keepable rule of prayer done by discipline. You can’t just pray when you feel like it. You have to pray by discipline, the times of day where you would remember God and say your prayers.
4 Say the Lord’s Prayer several times each day.Just as one is getting into one’s car or walking into one’s office or into one’s classroom or before eating a meal, when waking in the morning, when going to sleep at night. Just say the Lord’s Prayer. It’s the prayer that the Lord gave, a short prayer, but it contains everything that a human being needs to pray if Christ is crucified, raised, and glorified.
5 Repeat a short prayer when your mind is not occupied.This short prayer could simply be “Lord have mercy” or “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy.” The person just might say “Jesus.” A person might say “God,” but just some short prayer that fills the mind when the mind is not working in order to have the remembrance of God in one’s life, in one’s heart.
6 Make some prostrations when you pray.Kneel down. Bend over. Bow down. Use your body. As St. Ephraim said, “If your body is not praying when you’re praying, you’re not really praying.” Prayer is not just an activity of the mind and heart. It’s an activity of the whole person.
7 Eat good foods in moderation and fast on fasting days.
8 Practice silence, inner and outer.Just sit for a few minutes every day in total silence. Turn off all the appliances. Open oneself to God. Don’t think about anything. Watch the thoughts that come, and turn them over to God.
9 Sit in silence 20 to 30 minutes each day.
10 Do acts of mercy in secret.
11 Go to liturgical services regularly.
12 Go to Confession and Holy Communion regularly.
13 Do not engage intrusive thoughts and feelings.
14 Reveal all your thoughts and feelings to a trusted person regularly.
15 Read the scriptures regularly.
16 Read good books, a little at a time.
17 Cultivate communion with the saints.
18 Be an ordinary person, one of the human race.
19 Be polite with everyone, first of all family members.
20 Maintain cleanliness and order in your home.
21 Have a healthy, wholesome hobby.
22 Exercise regularly.
23 Live a day, even a part of a day, at a time.
24 Be totally honest, first of all with yourself.
25 Be faithful in little things.
26 Do your work, then forget it.
27 Do the most difficult and painful things first.
28 Face reality.
29 Be grateful.
30 Be cheerful.
31 Be simple, hidden, quiet and small.
32 Never bring attention to yourself.
33 Listen when people talk to you.
34 Be awake and attentive, fully present where you are.
35 Think and talk about things no more than necessary.
36 Speak simply, clearly, firmly, directly.
37 Flee imagination, fantasy, analysis, figuring things out.
38 Flee carnal, sexual things at their first appearance.
39 Don’t complain, grumble, murmur or whine.
40 Don’t seek or expect pity or praise.
41 Don’t compare yourself with anyone.
42 Don’t judge anyone for anything.
43 Don’t try to convince anyone of anything.
44 Don’t defend or justify yourself.
45 Be defined and bound by God, not people.
46 Accept criticism gracefully and test it carefully.
47 Give advice only when asked or when it is your duty.
48 Do nothing for people that they can and should do for themselves.
49 Have a daily schedule of activities, avoiding whim and caprice.
50 Be merciful with yourself and others.
51 Have no expectations except to be fiercely tempted to your last breath.
52 Focus exclusively on God and light, and never on darkness, temptation and sin.
53 Endure the trial of yourself and your faults serenely, under God’s mercy.
54 When you fall, get up immediately and start over.
55. Get help when you need it, without fear or shame.
