Unlike many who visit Athos, my trip was not planned months or years in advance, but instead came about when a friend invited me to join him on pilgrimage there. How often does one get the opportunity to visit a storied millennium-old monastic republic? I decided to take him up on the offer. And so it was that I made my way via Thessaloniki to Ouranoupolis (“Sky City” or “Heavenopolis”) where we picked up our “Diamonitirion” entry permits which allowed us to take the ferry from the last secular town before the monastic border.
The Holy and Great Monastery of Vatopedi is one of the largest, oldest and richest on Athos. The main approach road winds through the surrounding hills so that it suddenly springs up on you – it’s only from a greater distance that you can properly appreciate the scale of it. Like many of the monasteries of Athos it’s been built piecemeal over the centuries, originally effectively a castle with a church inside it.
Gradually the perimeter walls have been built up to house accommodation, and many are now topped with those precarious wooden garrets beloved of Greek and Turkish architects. We passed beneath the spectacular frescoed entrance pavilion and were ushered up to the guest hall, where we were welcomed with lokum and home-made raki. Shown to our rooms we found simple but clean shared accommodation, my bed being arranged like a window seat overlooking the main quad.
Soon we were making our way to the church for vespers. At this, my first Orthodox service, I was struck by the use of both sensory deprivation and sensory overload. We were led into the main church through large white curtains shielding floor to ceiling brightly-coloured frescoes on the church’s west front depicting saints, angels, warrior emperors, and of course the Mother of God and Jesus.
Then, through a door into almost complete darkness: a moment for eyes to adjust. The church isn’t one big space but is divided into multiple chapels, shrines and vestibules. Monks wandered about in all directions, and I became disorientated. Through the gloom I started to see sparkling lamps and glittering icons; beautiful incense hit my nostrils; all I could hear was chanting from deep within the building.
We were half-led, half-cajoled forward, avoiding stray monks and looking out for the increasing number of lamps which are not far off head height. The chant got louder all the time. Then, through another doorway, and suddenly we were in the centre of the whole thing. One or two monks provided an underlying drone, over and above which the chants themselves swooped and turned, their close relation to Islamic and Jewish traditions immediately apparent.
Suddenly the sound jumped away, to the antiphonal choir in the other transept. A section ended; other monks swapped in, with different books and texts, the notation of Byzantine chant looking alien even to someone familiar with Gregorian neumes. I settled into my misericord, trying to take everything in while remembering to stand and sit at the same time as everyone else, and not forgetting to cross myself the “wrong” way – ie right to left – in a vain attempt to fit in.
Then a priest-monk loomed forward with a censer the size of a toaster, covered in golden ornaments and spewing incense. A senior monk was robed and given a silver sceptre, with the others lining up to prostrate themselves and kiss his hand. And beneath all of this, the chant went on. There was eventually a pause in the form of a reading; a solid 15-minute reading, in fact, because this was no ordinary Vespers.
It was the eve of the feast of the Prophet Elijah, so we were treated to an anthology of stories about him from the Book of Kings (so I’m later told – it’s all Greek to me). Then it was time to kiss the icons – or at least some of the most important and powerful ones out of the hundreds in the church. I joined the back of the queue with my fellow pilgrims, and self-consciously kissed each icon before heading out through the antechambers back into the blazing evening sun, still 28 degrees Celsius at 6.30pm.
Normality gradually reasserted itself. Later that evening we were given a tour of the monastery by Fr Ephstathios, who’s in his 30s and is one of more than a dozen Australian-Greek monks at Vatopedi – I was surprised to learn that Melbourne is the world’s third largest Greek-speaking city. He recounted a story of the monastery’s foundation by Constantine the Great, and the Virgin Mary’s countless intercessions to save it over the centuries. On occasion this has been via individual icons which are now particularly venerated.
We also learned that “monks do not suffer rigor mortis. It doesn’t matter if they’ve been ordained for 50 years or for one hour, it won’t affect them.” The certainty with which this was recounted made me consider the contrast with Benedictines I have met who may have viewed some of these stories with a touch more cynicism. Here on Athos, the old certainties endure.
Meals were not really times for conversation. The frescoed medieval dining hall being under restoration, we ate in the guest house on tables of six or eight in thin interconnecting rooms. Standing for a short prayer before tucking in, the food was simple but delicious: the main dish was usually stewed vegetables or pasta, served on one platter per table. Alongside that was a host of accompaniments: fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, black olives so big I thought they were prunes, brown and fruit bread, onions, lemons, various spreads… There was plenty of oil and vinegar to dress salads, and cold light red wine for those who didn’t fancy water, drunk from pewter mugs. A monk read religious texts throughout, and talking was discouraged. After around 20 minutes a bell rings: if you’re not finished then perhaps that’s God’s way of telling you you’re eating too much.
After most of our meals we volunteered to help clear up and reset the refectory – no mean feat with some 150 places to prepare. As we tidied after one of the meals, Fr Stefano took me aside briefly and taught me the “Jesus Prayer” – “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me” – which I repeated as a mantra while I worked. It was a touching reminder that the monks’ faith permeates everything they do.
The Feast of the Prophet Elijah continued the next morning, at 5am. Starting in the church, it moved outside; candlelight was all that illuminated the courtyard as chant and prayers surrounded one of the monastery’s holiest icons. We then set off on a procession around the monastery, a monk using a bunch of sage to sprinkle holy water on the ground, on worshippers and on inanimate objects such as boats in Vatopedi’s harbour.
The main axes around which our days revolved were prayer and communal meals. We generally had some free time in the afternoons, and given that services started as early as 4am we tended to spend at least some of that having a snooze. Walks were an option, but in 35 degree heat I only managed one six-mile hike along the coast, coming back in desperate need of a cold shower. Other activities included a visit to the monastery’s treasury and its icon workshop.
Since hitting a nadir in the 1970s the spiritual life of Athos has made a strong comeback, with an abbot being appointed at Vatopedi for the first time in generations in 1990 and over 120 monks now part of the monastery. It’s still not clear exactly why that turnaround happened. I was struck by how all of those monks we encountered seemed at peace with their vocations, often joyful about them. It was a powerful reminder for those of us with busy, corporate existences, of another, very different approach to life.
Will Edwards is a journalist for Agence France-Presse.
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