Monastic Routine on Mount Athos

Dirk Krausmüller

Source: Chapter 21 of the newly-published Routledge Handbook of Mount Athos, edited by Graham Speake, Routledge, London, 2027, pp. 253-262.

 

 

With the foundation of the Lavra in the year 963, monastic life on Mount Athos entered a new phase. Whereas before the eremitic lifestyle had been predominant, cenobitic monasti­cism now started to make inroads. The shift is clearly visible in the built environment: apart from the cells of the brothers, the precinct of the Lavra included a church (katholikon), a refectory (trapeza), workshops, and storerooms (Noret 1982, 151–2). In order to regulate the life of the community, Athanasios composed a rulebook, the so-called Hypotyposis, which he wished to be read out to the monks at regular intervals (Meyer 1894, 130–40). This text is not an original creation but has, by and large, the same content as the Hypotyposis of the famous Constantinopolitan monastery of Stoudios, which predates it by half a century (Migne 1860, 1704–20). It has been assumed that Athanasios had direct recourse to the Stoudite text, but this is by no means certain. Founders of monasteries often adapted the rules of the houses in which they had lived before. In Athanasios’s case, this was the monastery of Michael Maleïnos in north-west Anatolia. From his Life, we know that Michael gave his monastery a rule (Petit 1902, 562). Thus, it is entirely possible that the Stoudios Hypotyposis had already been adopted by him.

Like its Stoudite counterpart, Athanasios’s Hypotyposis has a bipartite structure: it deals first with worship and then with the diet of the monks. The information it gives is often elliptical because it presupposes readers who are already familiar with the subject matter. Even so, one can get a sense of how monastic life was organized in the Lavra. As in the Stoudios monastery, and indeed in all Byzantine monasteries, the day of the monks was structured through a series of services: apart from the Eucharist (leitourgia), these were Matins (orthros) in the morning, the little hours Prime (prote), Terce (trite), Sext (hekte), and None (enate) during the day, Vespers (lychnikon/hesperinon) at sunset, and Compline (apodeipnia) before going to bed. The first meal (ariston) followed the Eucharist, and the second meal (deipnon) was interposed between Vespers and Compline (Meyer 1894, 131–3). The year, too, was divided into sections. There were two festal periods, the twelve days (dodekahemeron) between Christmas and Epiphany and the fifty-seven days from Easter to the Sunday after Pentecost; three Lenten periods, Great Lent, together with Great Week, which lasted forty-six days and ended the day before Easter, and the lesser Lents of the Apostles, which followed the Sunday after Pentecost and ended with the feast of Sts Peter and Paul on 29 June (because the start date depended on the date of Easter it was of varying length), and of St Philip, which began on 15 November and ended on Christmas Eve; and two ‘ordinary’ periods between Epiphany and the beginning of Great Lent and between the feast of Sts Peter and Paul and the feast of St Philip. This pattern determined how services were celebrated. Matins, Vespers, and Compline were always observed, although their con­tent might change (Meyer 1894, 132–3). This was not the case with the little hours, which could at times be omitted. Here, Athanasios adds his own touch. He follows his Stoudite model for the two festal periods when he declares that no hours must be sung (Meyer 1894, 132). Yet then he makes a decisive change. Whereas at Stoudios all hours were celebrated during the three Lenten periods, he stipulates that this is only the case with Great Lent. During the Lent of the Apostles, only Terce and Sext are celebrated, and during the Lent of St Philip, in addition, also None (Meyer 1894, 133; Migne 1860, 1708B). These variations had an impact on the time for the Eucharist. When no hours were sung, the Eucharist began at the fourth hour of the day. When all hours were sung, the Eucharist began after Terce, and during the Lent of St Philip it began after Sext.

The second part of the Hypotyposis deals with the diet of the monks. As has already been pointed out, they usually ate two meals. Exceptions were Great Lent and also the Lent of St Philip, because of the shortness of the days, when no food was served in the evening (Meyer 1894, 137). Detailed information is only given about the first meal. During the two festal periods, the food was especially varied. Two dishes of vegetables and legumes boiled in oil were the main course. Fish, cheese, and eggs could also be eaten, and three measures of wine could be drunk (Meyer 1894, 136). At the other end of the spectrum was Great Lent. Throughout its duration, no wine was consumed. In the first and third weeks, no cooked food was served but only beans, chestnuts, and fruits. In the other weeks, this diet was sup­plemented with a dish cooked without oil (Meyer 1894, 137). This information is already found in the Stoudios Hypotyposis (Migne 1860, 1713CD, 1716BC). Yet again, Athanasios does not slavishly follow his model. An important diverging feature is his treatment of the weekly fast days, Wednesday and Friday. They were already observed at Stoudios. During ordinary periods of the year, the Stoudios Hypotyposis stipulates that on these two days, the first meal should be served at the ninth hour, which was customary for fast days (Migne 1860, 1716A). Yet there is no mention of dietary restrictions. By contrast, Athanasios declares that on the two days neither oil nor wine should be consumed (Meyer 1894, 137). In the section about the lesser Lenten periods, the Stoudios Hypotyposis tightens the regime, stipulating that one of the two dishes should be cooked without oil, but does not single out particular fast days (Migne 1860, 1713D–1716A). Again, Athanasios is stricter. He declares that on Wednesdays and Fridays, and also on Mondays, no oil and wine must be consumed (Meyer 1894, 137). The difference is most striking in the case of Great Lent. Athanasios stipulates that on Wednesdays and Fridays of the second, third, fifth, and sixth weeks, the harsher regime of the first week should be followed (Meyer 1894, 137). The only exceptions are feast days of Christ, Mary, and famous saints, where there were no dietary restrictions. Comparison with other contemporary sources suggests that Athanasios participated in a broader trend. There exists a second redaction of the Stoudios Hypotyposis of uncertain provenance, which is in some instances closer to Athanasios’s text, where we already find mention of weekly fast days during Great Lent (Dmitrievskij 1895, 224–38), and the topic also features in the Testament of Paul of Latros (Lampros 1915, 198–203).

Athanasios’s own concerns are particularly visible in the concluding part of the section about diet. Here, the Stoudios Hypotyposis gives an overview of the day of the monks, who are assumed to be present in the monastery (Migne 1860, 1717AB). By contrast, Athanasios focuses on monks who work at some distance from the Lavra. During the first week of Great Lent and during Easter week, they do not work, as is also the case with the other monks. During the remainder of Great Lent, they resume their tasks. Those who work near the monastery come back for Vespers and then have the second meal. Those who work further away only come back for Compline. Smiths, muleteers, shipwrights, and woodcut­ters receive bread, which they consume at the third hour, and also wine if it is not a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday. The other monks who work outside the monastery receive bread but drink only water. After Great Lent, they are also given a quantity of wine. Special provision is also made for the vintners during the harvest and the cooks when they prepare sourdough (Meyer 1894, 138–9). This reflects the status of the Lavra as a rural monastery whose inmates had to engage in agriculture and craftsmanship in order to survive. Later, the Lavra acquired vast tracts of land. This led to the establishment of dependencies (metochia) in which monks stayed permanently.

Apart from information about the structure of the services and about the monastic diet, the Hypotyposis also contains stipulations about other topics. The first part ends with the description of the tasks of the officials who are responsible for good order in the church. There are two disciplinarians (epistemonarches) for the two choirs who make sure that the singers behave properly; one waker (aphypnistes), who rouses the brothers who have fallen asleep during the readings, and one doorkeeper (thyroros), who asks the late-comers why they have tarried and permits nobody to leave the church unless there is a pressing need (Meyer 1894, 135). The second part begins with stipulations about the first meal. Coming from the church, the monks enter the refectory as a group and are then seated according to a preordained order. An overseer (epiteretes) makes sure that nobody misbehaves (Meyer 1894, 136). In both cases, Athanasios follows the Stoudios Hypotyposis quite closely (Migne 1860, 1709D–1712A, 1713C). Yet there is also the occasional personal touch. So Athanasios forbids his monks to lean on canes during services or to make their genuflec­tions on stools (Meyer 1894, 136). Other stipulations are only loosely related to the main topics. Athanasios insists that all monks come to him for confession and sets out how one should deal with newcomers. The possession of private property is prohibited. Recalcitrant monks are locked up and forced to eat dry food, but are not beaten (Meyer 1894, 136, 139–40).

Like its Stoudite counterpart, Athanasios’s Hypotyposis concerns itself exclusively with community life, where monks work, eat, and worship together. Yet this does not mean that Athanasios rejected the quiet life. Quite the contrary. In his Typikon, he stipulates that members of the community who have proved their mettle can live in hermits’ cells on the territory of the Lavra. The hermits had a measure of independence. They were given grain from which they could prepare meals and cash with which they could buy other necessities (Meyer 1894, 115). It is unclear whether they were allowed to earn money through the work they did, e.g. copying manuscripts. Athanasios has little to say about their lifestyle, but from contemporary sources we know that they imposed on themselves a harsh ascetic regime of fasting and prayer (Petit 1902, 598–603). They may have gone to the Lavra on Saturdays and Sundays in order to participate in services and communal meals.

This arrangement was not an invention of Athanasios. Indeed, he himself had become a hermit on Mount Kyminas outside the monastery of Michael Maleïnos, whose commu­nity he had entered several years earlier (Noret 1982, 136). In secondary literature, it is referred to as hybrid monasticism, since it combines cenobitic with eremitic elements (Papachryssanthou 1973, 158–80). It needs to be stressed, however, that Athanasios had his reservations. He does not permit more than five monks to move to the hermitage, and he does not wish monks from elsewhere to settle there. Instead, he favours another way of life. Monks who were ready for it could live in seclusion in their cells within the monastery proper. They, too, received a quantity of grain, which means that they prepared their own food. To what extent they engaged in communal worship remains uncertain. For Athanasios, this had the advantage that the monks were still under the tight control of the abbot (Meyer 1894, 116–17). It is difficult to say whether this was a true innovation. There is some evi­dence dating to the eleventh century for a similar arrangement at Stoudios (Krausmüller 2017, 88). Athanasios was well aware that the provisions for the quiet life might clash with the needs of the monastery. He enjoins his successors not to force the recluses to work for the community (Meyer 1894, 116). Whether they heeded this admonishment can no longer be ascertained.

The Hypotyposis only gives us the bare bones of community life at the Lavra. Much more plentiful information can be found in the Lives of Athanasios. The first text, the so-called Vita prima, was written very soon after the saint’s death by his favourite disciple Antony (Krausmüller 2007, 63–86). It is lost but can be recovered from Vita B, whose author was an anonymous monk of the Lavra (Krausmüller 2021a). Many episodes show Athanasios interacting with his monks, both collectively and individually. His ability as spiritual father is consistently highlighted. One example may suffice. When Athanasios saw that a monk was angry, he told the others to scold him. When the monk could bear the incessant criticism no longer, he went to Athanasios, who instructed him not to be angry any more (Noret 1982, 180–1). Yet one must be careful not to use the texts unreflectively. The Vita prima was written not on Mount Athos but in Constantinople, where Antony had founded a new monastery, the so-called Panagios. How complex matters are can be seen from the section of the text that purports to summarize Athanasios’s rules (Noret 1982, 157–9). Comparison shows that most of the material does not come from the Hypotyposis and the Typikon but from other sources (Krausmüller 2021b). Equally problematic is an episode about almsgiving. The monks of Lavra give pieces of clothing to a vagrant. When Athanasios learns about this, he ascends the ambo and delivers a speech. He points out that it is wrong to give away clothes and then demand new ones from the monastery. Moreover, even if the giver prefers to remain naked, he does wrong because he gives away what is not his. All almsgiving must come from the stores of the monastery (Noret 1982, 184–5). Significantly, the content of Athanasios’s catechesis also appears in the rule of the Panagios monastery. One might therefore argue that passages in this latter text were put into the mouth of Athanasios in order to bolster the claim of the monks of Panagios that they were the true heirs of Athanasios’s monastic vision. Indeed, Athanasios’s attitude is strikingly modern. In traditional houses, monks were permitted to dispose of their clothes as alms. The strictly cenobitic position is only found again in rules of the later eleventh century (Krausmüller 2016a, 111–26). Does this mean that Athanasios was ahead of his time? No definite answer is possible. Yet it cannot be excluded that both the Vita prima and the Panagios Typikon are dependent on a catechesis that Athanasios delivered on such an occasion.In the course of the tenth and eleventh centuries, further cenobitic houses sprang up on Mount Athos. Yet in most cases, we know nothing about community life there because their founders did not draw up rules, nor were their deeds memorialized in hagiographical texts. One might argue that Athanasios’s Hypotyposis came to be used in these monasteries too. Yet this is not at all certain. The manuscript tradition of the text is rather slim. Moreover, in most cases, it forms part of a dossier of writings by and about the saint, which suggests that it was only known at the Lavra. Of course, we can be certain that life in the other monasteries was organized along the same lines. It was simply the case that the req­uisite knowledge was passed on orally from one generation to the next. After all, even Athanasios’s Hypotyposis is not particularly detailed, and its stipulations must have been supplemented by oral tradition.All this suggests that the monks of Athos were not given to reflecting on their chosen way of life. There is only one exception to this rule, the Iveron monastery, which was founded by the Georgian nobleman John, a contemporary of Athanasios. Its second abbot, John’s son Euthymios, was a scholar who produced translations from the Greek and original works (Peradze 1927

, 530–9). Even after Euthymios’s death, literary production continued. The first text to mention is the Iveron Hypotyposis, which has been dated to c. 1040 (Pentkovskij 2001, 154). Its author knew Athanasios’s Hypotyposis and adapted from it the stipulations about the diet of monks who work in distant locations (Kekelidze 1908, 309). Yet it is no copy of the older text. This is already evident from the section about the refectory. Whereas Athanasios, following the Stoudios Hypotyposis, contents himself with a few brief remarks, the Iveron Hypotyposis gives a detailed description of the ritual that is to be followed. After the end of the Eucharist, the officiating priest and the other brothers gather in the narthex of the church and then walk together to the refectory, singing Psalms. After the priest has spoken a blessing, the monks sit down in groups of nine. The refectorian (trapezarios) receives a blessing from the abbot and then calls the reader (anagnostes). He asks for God’s blessing, to which the monks respond. Only then does the meal begin. After each course, a short prayer is said. The overseer (epiteretes) makes sure that everyone behaves properly. When the spoons are put down, the reader receives a blessing from the abbot and collects the cups because it is his duty to wash them. The refectorian puts the basket for leftovers in front of the abbot and asks for a blessing. The monks respond by giving thanks to God who has fed them. Then they put their leftovers into the basket (Kekelidze 1908, 307–8). The second meal is then dealt with in a similarly detailed manner (Kekelidze 1908, 308). The closest parallel is found in the Typikon of Patriarch Alexios, which is based on the now lost Stoudios Typikon (a much longer text than the Stoudios Hypotyposis) that was most likely composed around the year 1000 (Krausmüller, Grinchenko 2013, 153–75). This shows that the author of the Iveron Typikon was au fait with the latest developments in Constantinopolitan monasticism.Equally up-to-date is the first part, which concerns church services. Whereas Athanasios, following the Stoudios Hypotyposis, had contented himself with brief remarks about changes in the structure of the services throughout the year, the Iveron Hypotyposis deals with this topic exhaustively. It consists of two parts. First, a full description of the services for each day of the year, from September to August (Kekelidze 1908

, 229–72), and second, an equally detailed description of the services from the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee until the Sunday after Pentecost (Kekelidze 1908, 272–304). Here, too, the closest parallel is the Stoudios Typikon (Pentkovskij 2001, 233–368).

Further insights into the life of the monks at Iveron are afforded by a hagiographical text, the Life of John and Euthymios, which was composed by George the Hagiorite, who was sacristan (ekklesiarches) and then, from 1044 to 1056, abbot of the monastery (Martin-Hisard 1991, 67–142). This text contains a section that describes how Euthymios organ­ized the community. Such integration of normative material into a narrative was a new development in Byzantine hagiography. The information is often taken from the rules of the monasteries in which the Lives were produced. The earliest example is the Vita A of Athanasios by Athanasios of Panagios, which contains quotations from the Panagios Typikon (Krausmüller 2013a, 39–64). The Life of John and Euthymios presents us with a somewhat different case. It does not reproduce the stipulations of the Iveron Hypotyposis but rather complements them. We are told that Euthymios was never late for services, nor leant on a cane or against the wall, and that he demanded that his monks show the same behaviour. Only the old and the frail were exempt from this rule. Young monks had to stand in the middle of the church in two or three rows, with their hands crossed, to ensure better control. Whenever a new part of the service began, the sacristan prostrated himself before Euthymios and asked for his blessing. At the Lavra, two overseers (epiteretes) made sure that all came to Matins, punished the late-comers, and let nobody go out without a pressing need. Yet those who engaged in hard physical work could leave the church and rest for part of the service (Martin-Hisard 1991, 112–13). After Compline, monks were not permitted to meet in their cells or to chat. The overseers saw to it that this rule was observed. Those who misbehaved were admonished, and when they did not heed Euthymios’s words, also beaten. Then they had to prostrate themselves before him and ask for forgiveness. In this position, they had to remain for two or three weeks, depending on the severity of their crime (Martin-Hisard 1991, 114).

The next section of the text deals with the monastic diet. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Euthymios remained in his cell and consumed only bread and water. On the other days, he went to the refectory. Speaking during meals was prohibited, and the refectorian was charged with enforcing this rule. Even Euthymios himself would only whisper com­mands (Martin-Hisard 1991, 114). Like Athanasios, he provided spiritual guidance for the monks, delivering sermons on two or three Sundays of the month. The monks were pro­vided with everything they needed and were forbidden to acquire anything else or to own money. When this happened, the objects were publicly burned (Martin-Hisard 1991, 115–17). The various officials were not allowed to interfere in each other’s tasks. Like the Lavra, Iveron was a hybrid monastery where some monks lived in hermits’ cells. Yet here, too, steps were taken to curtail the independence of the hermits. They were forbidden to give leftover bread to the poor, as was customary, but had to hand it over to the cellarer because almsgiv­ing should come from the community (Martin-Hisard 1991, 121). As in the case of the Vita prima of Athanasios, we cannot be sure whether all these stipulations were indeed observed at Iveron or whether the hagiographer set out his own vision of the ideal monastic life.

The second half of the eleventh century was a time of great innovation in Constantinopolitan monasticism. One important new feature was the so-called inter-hours (mesorion), liturgical units, which followed the little hours. Around the year 1100, they became de rigueur in the monasteries of the capital (Krausmüller 2013b, 149–72). Even the abbot of the great house of Stoudios felt the need to add them to the traditional services. The celebration of the inter-hours meant that the monks spent much more time in communal worship and thus had fewer oppor­tunities for private devotion. There is no sign that this custom was adopted on Mount Athos.

Yet the Athonite monks could not insulate themselves completely from the new develop­ments. This can be seen from the debate about confession (Krausmüller 2016b, 703–32). In Byzantium, unordained monks had traditionally taken on the role of confessor. Even lay­people went to them rather than to their parish priest. This had also been the case on Mount Athos. Athanasios himself had not been a priest, and yet his monks had confessed to him. From the late eleventh century onwards, this consensus was challenged by the lay church. Patriarch Nicholas III Grammatikos and his deacons now maintained that a monk could only hear confession when he was ordained and when he furthermore had a special permission from his bishop, who alone had the power to bind and to loose. Moreover, they demanded that penances should be imposed according to canon law and not be left to the discretion of the confessor, as had been the custom hitherto. In Constantinople, even abbots who were not ordained were no longer allowed to hear confession. This development also had an impact on Mount Athos. The Athonite monk John Tarchaneiotes asked Patriarch Nicholas in writing whether unordained monks could hear confession. In his response, the Patriarch flatly denied that this was possible (Beneševič 1904, 47). Yet there is a description of a second exchange between the two men, which is found in the so-called Partial Account, a document that was composed by various Athonite monks. According to this text, the Patriarch agreed with John, stating that unordained monks with true discernment can hear confession, whereas priests who lack this quality must not (Meyer 1894, 170). One may first think that Nicholas had changed his mind. Yet it must be remembered that the passage in the Partial Account is not a transcript of a real conversation but rather an interpretation of this conversation by Athonite monks. There can be no doubt that it is a forgery, created to support the traditional position. It is, however, noticeable that even in the Partial Account, it is declared that the canonical penances should be applied, which is a departure from established custom.

Another innovation that upset the Athonite monks even more was stricter rules about fasting on Wednesdays and Fridays. As we have seen, Athanasios had already tightened the regulations he found in his Stoudite model, decreeing that during the three Lenten periods and the ordinary periods of the year, no oil and wine should be consumed on these days. Yet he had added that this rule did not apply during the two festal periods and on feasts of Christ, Mary, and famous saints. In the later eleventh century, the religious avant-garde in Constantinople, both abbots and members of the lay church, came to regard this practice as too lax. They had recourse to a late antique proof text, canon 69 of the Apostles, which stipulated that Wednesdays and Fridays should be fast days throughout the entire year (e.g. Hannick 2014, 266). This debate had an impact on Mount Athos. John Tarchaneiotes, as the spokesman of the Athonite monasteries, asked the Patriarch for his opinion on the mat­ter. The response, however, was not to his liking. This is evident from a second document, which begins as follows: ‘A brother was sent from our monastery to Your Holiness in order to ask about some questions put down in writing, which are necessary among us. When he returned, he showed us the memorandum which he submitted to Your Holiness and the solution that was promulgated thereafter, which reads as follows:

One must not break the fast on Wednesdays and Fridays because of the commemora­tion of a saint but only on the feasts of the Lord. … And that one must fast the tradi­tional fasts even during the Fifty Days and the Twelve Days, apart from the week after Easter. …

At a loss about this, we suspected that the monk lied or that we were in error’ (Beneševič 1904, 46–7). It is not difficult to see why the Athonites were shocked. The Patriarch severely curtailed the festal periods and permitted no exception, even for feasts of Mary. This went against the traditions that had been instituted by Athanasios. Therefore, the Athonite monks decided to send another letter. Yet this initiative was unsuccessful since the Patriarch simply reiterated his earlier position.

In this case, the issue of authority played an important role. In his answer, the Patriarch referred to canon 69 of the Apostles. This meant that for him, even the breaking of the fast during the week after Easter and on feasts of Christ was a concession to human weakness. Significantly, this was a response to the Athonite objection that the rules of Lavra and of Stoudios permitted the breaking of the fast on other feast days as well. Nicholas does not even bother to address this argument, which shows how little value he saw in these texts.

It seems likely that John Tarchaneiotes turned to Patriarch Nicholas for advice because some monks on Mount Athos had started to question traditional practice, and the Athonite elite had been unable to quell the dissent. The disappointment that John and his associates felt when they read the Patriarch’s reply leaves little doubt that they had expected him to confirm the status quo. Instead, they had unwittingly strengthened the case of the dissenters who could now point to Nicholas as an authority (Krausmüller 1996, 57–65). Yet this does not mean that the Athonite elite were reduced to silence. Liturgical manuscripts have pre­served a lengthy text, which consists of two parts: a request for information by an abbot, and the reply of a hermit. The hermit can be identified as John Tarchaneiotes, who thus again acts as an authority on Mount Athos. This text gives us a fascinating insight into how the Athonite elite set out to defend their monastic tradition in the changed circumstances of the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries.

The request reads as follows: ‘what should one do when a feast falls on a Wednesday or a Friday; and which texts should one accord the greatest authority in this matter?’ (Dmitrievskij 1917, 135–6). For Patriarch Nicholas, the answer had been simple. The only valid proof texts are canonical sources from Late Antiquity, and they state that the fast should not be broken at all. Unsurprisingly, John disagrees strongly with this point of view. Already in the first sentence, he makes it clear that he will not accept a distinction between ancient and modern fathers. He declares that the teachings of both groups must be regarded as divinely inspired (Dmitrievskij 1917, 136). In the following paragraph, he defends the authority of abbots. He claims that Late Antique normative texts were exclusively intended for hermits, whereas to those living in subjection, only one rule was given, namely that they obey their abbot (Dmitrievskij 1917, 137). This permits him to conclude that later fathers such as Athanasios and Theodore of Stoudios were entirely justified in regulating the lives of their monks as they saw fit. Yet John could not free himself from the reform discourse altogether. He concedes that the rules of Athanasios and Theodore were quite lax because they were adapted to the weakness of their contemporaries, who could no longer endure the older, stricter rules and would otherwise not have become monks (Dmitrievskij 1917, 144–5). This is, of course, not what had happened. Athanasios and Theodore had simply codified current practice.

John then announces that he will set out the stipulations of the modern fathers about the monastic diet in detail. He quotes passages from Athanasios’s Hypotyposis and then adds comments. At one point, he appears to give in to the demands of the reformers. He declares that some fathers restricted the second festal period to the week after Easter and the week after Pentecost. Yet then he states that other fathers considered the whole fifty-seven days to be one long feast, and leaves it open to his readers which position they wish to adopt (Dmitrievskij 1917, 138). At the end of the text, he lists all feasts of the year and indicates in each case to what extent the fast should be broken when they fall on a Wednesday or a Friday. For feasts of Christ, Mary, the Apostles Peter and Paul, and Philip, the Baptist, and the martyr George, there were no dietary restrictions, whereas on other feast days, no cheese, eggs, or fish were served, but oil and wine could be consumed (Dmitrievskij 1917, 146–50). The compilation of such lists was a sign of the times. We find a close counterpart in the Typikon of the Phoberos monastery outside Constantinople (e.g. Papadopoulos-Kerameus 1913, 36–7). Earlier authors, such as Athanasios, had not felt the need to go into such detail. Therefore, we cannot say whether John tightened the existing regime or simply codified oral tradition. John’s text became very popular. It was widely disseminated and even adapted to the needs of the monasteries of the Holy Land. It should be mentioned, however, that not all Athonite monks showed such a degree of independence. Only a few years later, one of their number accepted the advice of the Metropolitan of Thessalonike, Michael Choumnos, which was imbued with the Constantinopolitan reform discourse (Beneševič 1927, 184–5).

The debates seem to have died down later in the twelfth century, for we have no text from Mount Athos that would bear witness to them. This does not mean, however, that the Constantinopolitan religious elite now saw eye to eye with the Athonite monks. The Metropolitan of Thessalonike, Eustathios, a former patriarchal deacon, wrote a treatise in which he complained about the decline of standards in the monasteries of his diocese. According to him, these houses were run like businesses, and the abbots and leading monks were more interested in administering estates than in properly religious pursuits. By con­trast, monasteries in the capital left the running of their affairs to lay people and thus had more time for worship (Metzler 2006, 115–25, 143–7, 189–90). Although Eustathios does not mention Athonite houses explicitly, there can be little doubt that they would not have been regarded favourably by him.

 

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Krausmüller, Dirk 1996. ‘The Athonite Monastic Tradition during the Eleventh and Early Twelfth Centuries’, in A. Bryer and M. Cunningham, eds, Mount Athos and Byzantine Monasticism. Aldershot: Ashgate, 57–65.

Krausmüller, Dirk 2007. ‘An Ascetic Founder: The Lost First Life of Athanasius the Athonite’, in M. Mullett, ed., Founders and Refounders of Byzantine Monasteries. Belfast: Belfast Byzantine Enterprises, 63–86.

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A Sketch of the Early Years of the Life of Our First Hierarch, Metropolitan Philaret

Archbishop Nathanael (Lvov) (+1986)

 

 

In the old Russian Lives of the Saints and chronicles, it is often said of those whose lives are recounted by the hagiographer: “He was a good branch from a good root.” One feels inclined to apply these words to our First Hierarch, Metropolitan Philaret.

His father, Archpriest Fr Nicholas Voznesensky, who later embraced monasticism and became Archbishop of Hailar, was one of the finest, if not the finest, of all the clergy of the Far Eastern Diocese of Manchuria, which was rich in good pastors.

A graduate of the Moscow Theological Academy, Fr Nicholas impressed others by the depth and breadth of his extensive theological and scholarly knowledge. He compiled the finest textbooks on the Law of God, from which Russian young people throughout the Far East were educated. It should be noted that in the Far East the Law of God was taught not in an abbreviated but in an expanded form, compared with the way it had been taught in old pre-revolutionary Russia.

Fr Nicholas Voznesensky moved to Harbin from Blagoveshchensk, a city on the Manchurian border, as soon as power in the Amur region passed into the hands of the Bolsheviks. In Harbin, Fr Nicholas became rector of the large and splendid Iveron Church, which before the Revolution had been the church of the Trans-Amur Military District.

If not already in Blagoveshchensk, then soon after arriving in Harbin, Fr Nicholas lost his dearly beloved wife and assumed full responsibility for raising his family—two sons and three daughters.

Fr Nicholas’s family was permeated by a radiant, genuinely Orthodox, deeply ecclesial spirit. The writer of these lines was a friend of the entire family. What a rich variety of interests occupied everyone in that household! What varied and profound subjects were discussed around the tea table in the cozy rector’s house beside the Iveron Church!

It was in this grace-filled atmosphere that the boy Yura first grew up, then the student Georgy Nikolaevich Voznesensky, who while still a young man became Father Georgy and soon afterward Father Philaret, and who is now our First Hierarch, His Eminence Metropolitan Philaret.

Harbin was an exceptional phenomenon at that time. Built by Russians on Chinese territory, it remained a typical Russian provincial city for another twenty-five years after the Revolution. Harbin had twenty-six Orthodox churches, twenty-two of them actual church buildings, an entire network of secondary schools, and six institutions of higher education. By the mercy of God, Harbin continued normal pre-revolutionary Russian life for a quarter of a century.

Even China’s recognition of the Soviet government in 1924, the transfer of the railway into Soviet hands together with all the rights previously enjoyed in Manchuria by the Imperial Russian government, and the appearance in Harbin of emissaries from Moscow—all this altered the way of life in Harbin relatively little, and only superficially.

Most noticeable was the cessation of material support for the Church on the part of the railway administration, and the Soviet authorities’ takeover of some of the institutions of higher and secondary education in Harbin and Manchuria.

There were many secondary schools and institutions of higher education in Harbin. But Harbin lacked one thing: there was no institution of higher theological education.

There was a Polytechnic Institute, a Faculty of Law, a Commercial Institute, an Institute of Oriental Languages, and a Pedagogical Institute. For a time, there was also a Faculty of Medicine, which was closed because of insufficient funds for equipment.

But there was no theological school. And many thought that there was no need for one—that there were no young men in Harbin who wished to become clergymen. Yura Voznesensky was among the very first. From his earliest childhood he loved the Church with fervent and devoted love. From his father he heard such profound and inspired testimony concerning the Church, grounded in broad scholarly learning. Reading the works of the Holy Fathers attentively and lovingly, he became, in the fullest sense of the word, thoroughly imbued with them.

He loved mathematics for its pure and dispassionate clarity. Therefore, in the absence of a theological school, he entered the Polytechnic Institute and graduated from it with distinction.

But his thirst for theological knowledge remained unsatisfied.

Fr Nicholas began making arrangements for his son to pursue theological studies outside Harbin. The young engineer G. N. Voznesensky was accepted into an American theological institute in Wisconsin. His admission, however, was subject to certain restrictions, and in the end Georgy Nikolaevich had to abandon the plan.

Another young candidate for the priesthood tried to avail himself of this opportunity, but he too was unable to do so. Several years later, when he spoke with regret about this to the famous Serbian hierarch and preacher, Bishop Nikolai of Ohrid, the latter said to him: “Thank God for that... It took me eight years to unlearn what I had learned in two years at an English theological school.”

After this failure, Fr Nicholas began working to establish a theological school in Harbin. Indeed, the opportunity offered by the Americans had revealed that, besides G. Voznesensky, there were other young men in Harbin who wished to prepare themselves for ecclesiastical service.

Eventually, Fr Nicholas Voznesensky succeeded in establishing the Pastoral-Theological Courses, which were immediately recognized by the Synod of Bishops as a fully accredited institution of higher theological education, although the Manchurian government did not recognize them as such until several years later.

Fr Nicholas was the driving force behind these Courses. He was chairman of the Academic Council and lectured on Holy Scripture, Church History, and Apologetics. But the other professors and instructors of the Theological Courses were likewise distinguished and engaging. For the most part, they were professors from the Kazan Theological Academy. Fifteen subjects were taught at the Courses. There were fourteen students in the first graduating class and eleven in the second. Almost without exception, all the students pursued their studies with fervor, diligence, and self-sacrifice.

Upon entering these Courses, G. Voznesensky immediately distinguished himself as the best student. At that time he was also ordained to the diaconate as a celibate—that is, without marrying and without becoming a monk. Some time later he became a priest under the same status.

Meanwhile, His Grace Nestor, Bishop of Kamchatka, who was living in Harbin but was not part of the diocese and occupied an independent position, established at that time the so-called House of Mercy—an orphanage for children and a home for the elderly.

A splendid church was built at the House of Mercy. There arose a need for clergy. In 1929, Bishop Nestor tonsured as a monk one of the students of the Theological Courses, who was a friend of Fr Georgy Voznesensky. Fr Georgy began visiting the House of Mercy and, after some time, decided to embrace monasticism, settling there with the hieromonk who was already living there. At his tonsure, Fr Georgy received the name Philaret. By this act, the foundation was laid for a monastic community at the House of Mercy.

Fr Philaret lived with his friend in the same cell for eight years, and recently, recalling that period, he said to the nuns of the Lesna Convent in France: “Fr N. N. and I lived for eight years in the same cell and never once quarreled.”

The two young monks took turns serving the daily divine services in the church, recited the prescribed liturgical prayer rules, and read the Holy Fathers. However, they did not yet have a proper understanding of specifically monastic services such as the Midnight Office and Compline.

But in 1930, two monks of the Holy Trinity Monastery, the so-called Shmakovka Monastery, fled from the Maritime Province. This was the sacred lavra of the Far East, founded at the very end of the nineteenth century by the great Spirit-bearing ascetics, Fathers Sergius and Herman. The monastery was situated halfway between Khabarovsk and Vladivostok, twenty kilometers from the Shmakovka railway station. Since the founders of the monastery had been tonsured at Valaam, the Valaam typikon was introduced in the monastery they founded.

The monastery had an extensive economy, with workshops for sewing, shoemaking, metalworking, carpentry, and blacksmithing. It had a printing press and a bindery. Through its books, the monastery enlightened the entire Russian Far East. There was also an apiary and a livestock yard, with a special section for breeding deer for their antlers. There were greenhouses and nurseries where, under the direction of Abbot Sergius, a graduate of the Higher Agronomic Institute, the monks acclimatized for the Far East all kinds of vegetable and fruit-bearing plants from Russia. There was a candle factory and a school. The number of monks and novices reached as many as 300. The monastery owned 3,753 desyatinas of land, for the most part remote, virgin, semi-tropical taiga of the Maritime Province.

Most importantly, there was a lofty ascetic spiritual life there, toward which Orthodox souls from throughout the Far East who desired “the ascetic life” were drawn as to a bright beacon. Among the brethren were not only Russians, but also Orthodox Chinese, Koreans, and several Japanese.

All of this was utterly destroyed by the Communists in 1926. The monastery was closed, the monks dispersed, and its economic enterprises seized and collectivized. Yet within two years nothing remained of them: the deer died out, and the acclimatized nurseries degenerated.

The widowed priest Fr Vasily Bystrov—later the late Archimandrite Innokenty of the Novo-Korennaya Hermitage in Mahopac—and the novice Brother Andrei, who had lived at the Shmakovka Monastery, fled to Manchuria four years after its closure, seeking refuge with Bishop Nestor, whom they knew from the bishop’s frequent visits to the Shmakovka Monastery.

Fr Vasily and Brother Andrei, who was soon tonsured a monk with the name Clement, settled in a room next to that of Fr Philaret and the other hieromonk. Fr Vasily and Fr Clement introduced into the monastic community of the House of Mercy, which had thus grown in number, a monastic rule modeled on that of Shmakovka—that is, on the Valaam rule.

The monks rose at 4:30 in the morning. At 5:00 they read the Midnight Office. Then came the Liturgy, which they served in turn. On Mondays and Tuesdays Fr Philaret served; on Wednesdays and Thursdays, his friend; and on Fridays and Saturdays, Fr Vasily Bystrov. On Sundays Bishop Nestor served together with all the clergy of the House of Mercy.

In the evening, after supper, the monks celebrated Compline. At Compline a canon was read, and during the canon an akathist. Their spiritual zeal led these monks to seek out what other prayer services might also be added to those already being performed.

From the end of Compline until the completion of the Midnight Office, all conversation whatsoever was strictly forbidden.

Spiritual fervor is always contagious. Church-loving young men began to gather around the young monks of the House of Mercy and were gradually drawn into monastic life. Some of them received monastic tonsure. By the mid-1930s, the monastic community of the House of Mercy already numbered nine monks.

Among them we should mention Fr Philaret’s close friend, Hieromonk Methodius (in the world, Kirill Iogel), who later became an outstanding preacher and died at a very young age. We should also mention Fr Nil, in the world K. Nosov, a self-sacrificing young man who in 1934–35 secretly crossed into Russia on anti-Communist assignments for Harbin patriotic organizations. He too died very young, after catching a severe chill and contracting tuberculosis because, while returning from one of his visits to Russia, he had been forced to remain sitting in the cold waters of the Amur River in the month of October. We should also mention the Orthodox Chinese priest Fr Elias, who organized a candle factory at the House of Mercy.

In 1932, Fr Philaret, together with the scouts of the Harbin troop, set out on foot for Maoershan Station, 107 kilometers away, where a summer camp was to be established.

The troop covered this distance in three days. On the first day they walked 40 kilometers, on the second 35, and on the third they expected to walk 28 kilometers, because, owing to the difference between versts and kilometers, the scouts had mistakenly been told that the distance from Harbin to Maoershan was 103 kilometers rather than 107.

It was precisely those last extra four kilometers that seemed especially difficult to the young men and children making the journey. The weather was hot and dry.

For a long time there had been neither river nor spring along the way. All the water in their canteens had been drunk. They were tormented by unbearable thirst. Suddenly a little pool of water came into view—a small marsh.

“Fr Philaret,” the children’s voices cried out, “bless the water, and then we’ll drink from the puddle and nothing will happen to us.”

Fr Philaret recited the Our Father and blessed it as “drink for the servants of God.”

The scouts rushed to the water.

“Fr Philaret, I swallowed a tadpole!” cried one little boy.

“It’s all right; the water is blessed. ‘If they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them,’ it says in Scripture,” Scout Semyon, one of the regular attendees at the monastic services of the House of Mercy, explained sagely.

Then, during the last “extra” kilometers before Maoershan Station, when the children were utterly exhausted, sitting down and refusing to get up, suddenly Fr Philaret’s voice was heard, at first softly, singing alone: “Having passed through the water as though it were dry land, and having escaped the evil of Egypt...” The sacred words were immediately taken up by the children, almost half of whom sang in church choirs. A spark of renewed courage passed over their tired faces. They pulled themselves together and, singing the sacred irmoi, made their way to Maoershan Station, where they were met by another work party that had arrived by train.

At the camp, Fr Philaret and his friend, with the help of the scouts, built a field church woven from branches. There they celebrated the monastic services of the Midnight Office and Compline every day, the All-Night Vigil on Saturdays, and the Divine Liturgy on Sundays.

They also went on long hikes with the scouts. Especially interesting was a hike to Mount Maoershan, when they visited an old Chinese Buddhist monastery and found a cave in which they discovered tracks of an ancient saber-toothed tiger—a machairodus—imprinted in the clay.

In addition to the scout camp, Fr Philaret also provided spiritual care for a similar camp belonging to another youth organization that was a rival of the scouts.

Not far from the scout camp there was a large raspberry garden belonging to a Chinese merchant, who invited the scouts into his garden and admitted them for ten cents per person. The children could eat as many raspberries as they wished on the spot, but were not permitted to take any away with them.

One day Fr Philaret went with the children to the raspberry garden. Before beginning to eat the raspberries, Fr Philaret made the sign of the Cross. The boys followed his example, and one of the little Wolf Cubs remarked: “How good it is that the priests are with us; before, we used to gobble up the raspberries without crossing ourselves.”

Seeing how some of the children greedily threw themselves upon the raspberries and began quarreling over them, Fr Philaret said:

“We are now indulging without restraint in these delicious berries, but the ancient Holy Fathers did not regard such things in this way. Once, admirers of a certain holy hermit brought him as a gift a large bunch of ripe, sweet grapes. The holy father thanked those who had brought it, but did not eat it himself; instead, he sent the grapes to a neighboring hermit. He did the same. And all the holy fathers of the desert acted likewise. In the end, the bunch of grapes returned to the first hermit, and he rejoiced that all the hermits of that desert had proved so temperate.”

“And what became of the bunch of grapes?” one scout asked.

“I do not know, but I think the first hermit squeezed the juice from it and used that juice, once it had become wine, to celebrate the Liturgy,” Fr Philaret said.

“So does that mean we are not allowed to eat raspberries?” another little boy asked disappointedly.

“No, children, eat the raspberries and enjoy them. But do not give yourselves over to them with your whole soul. Do not become enslaved either to raspberries or to any other food. Eat with your mouth and stomach, but do not surrender your soul to it. I told you about the ancient hermits, those great heroes of the spirit, not in order to spoil your appetite for raspberries, but to remind you that our teachers and models for life are not those who become enslaved to bodily instincts, but those who knew how to master them—those who did not touch the delicious grapes, although of course they wanted to eat them no less than we want to eat these raspberries, but who knew how to subordinate their desires to the striving for ascetic struggle and to concern for their neighbor. That is what we must learn from them.”

* * *

To a considerable extent under the influence of Fr Philaret, the principal reading in the community of the House of Mercy consisted of the works of the Holy Fathers. The young monks sought to nourish their souls with these holy teachings and radiant examples.

All the monastics of the House of Mercy were deeply impressed by the Holy Fathers’ injunction to be as considerate as possible toward one another. It is related that one of the ancient monks would sometimes sit lounging back with one leg crossed over the other, which was not in keeping with monastic decorum. Not wishing to offend their brother by correcting him directly, yet at the same time desiring to remedy the matter, two holy elders agreed between themselves that one of them would sit lounging back with one leg crossed over the other in the presence of their brother, while the other elder would rebuke him for it. They did so, and the first monk corrected the habit that was unbecoming to the monastic bearing.

A couple of years after the community at the House of Mercy had been established, one of its monks was once reading a secular book. Brother Semyon, whom we have already mentioned, saw this and was troubled. But remembering the patristic injunction concerning considerateness, he walked around the monk who was reading for quite some time and finally asked:

“Fr N., what are you reading?”

“Mowgli, by Kipling.”

“I too, before I began coming to your monastery, used to read useless books.”

* * *

Not all the young men who regularly visited the monastery of the House of Mercy became monks, but all became closely attached to the Church.

In the mid-1930s, the Soviet government sold the Chinese Eastern Railway to Japan. Tens of thousands of Russians employed by the railway were dismissed from their jobs and had to choose whether to leave for the USSR or remain unemployed in Manchuria. Among those who remained were many young people educated in Soviet schools, where they had been instilled with an aversion to the Church and with the conviction that religion was incompatible with science and was a sign of backwardness.

Among these young people, the young monks of the House of Mercy undertook various forms of work, employing the simplest of methods.

Fr Philaret had always been very fond of fishing. Manchuria offered exceptionally rich fishing. On days free from services and other duties, Fr Philaret and the other young monks would invite former Soviet youths to accompany them on fishing trips. Often, around an evening campfire on the picturesque banks of the Sungari River or beside small lakes beyond the river, after heart-to-heart conversations, the spiritual eyes of these young men were opened to the fundamental truths of the Faith.

One day, three such young men, who only recently had been Soviet youths, came to Vespers, which Fr Philaret and his friend were serving. After the service, all five of them were supposed to go on an overnight fishing trip. But unexpectedly, one of the parishioners requested a memorial service after Vespers. The young men who had come would have to wait a while longer.

“Read something here,” the monks told them.

“What is there to read? Everything here is just religious stuff—nothing interesting,” the young men protested listlessly.

Fr Philaret opened the Acts of the Apostles to chapters 27 and 28 and gave it to them to read while the memorial service was being served. Twenty minutes later, after finishing the service, the monks came back to the young men.

“Well, we’re ready. Let’s go fishing.”

“Wait, let us finish reading. This really is interesting.”

And so these young men, who had never before seen Holy Scripture, became acquainted with it.

* * *

In addition to the daily services, the monks of the House of Mercy carried out obediences teaching the Law of God in the orphanage and in various secondary schools in Harbin. At the Aksakov Girls’ Gymnasium, the students later said: “Of all the Law of God lessons we had during those years, the only ones we remember are Fr Philaret’s.”

After becoming a monk and settling at the House of Mercy, Fr Philaret continued to maintain close ties with his father, Archpriest N. Voznesensky, who also soon embraced monasticism with the name Dimitry and became Bishop—and later Archbishop—of Hailar.

Although the House of Mercy and the Iveron Church, where Bishop Dimitry lived, were situated at opposite ends of the city, Fr Philaret often went to visit his father. One day, while returning from Bishop Dimitry’s residence, Fr Philaret encountered a beggar asking for alms for Christ’s sake. Fr Philaret had only ten cents with him—the price of the fare from the Iveron Church to the House of Mercy.

Nevertheless, he gave the ten cents to the beggar and set out on foot himself, a distance of some five or six kilometers—about an hour and a half’s walk at a brisk pace. As he walked, Fr Philaret reflected that it is said that if you give something for Christ’s sake, it will be repaid to you a hundredfold, and yet in actual life things do not seem to happen that way.

Upon returning to the House of Mercy, he remembered that the wedding of two of his spiritual children had been scheduled for that day, and that he was to perform the Crowning service for them. The fees for occasional services at the House of Mercy were placed in a common collection box, from which they were later distributed partly for the support of the orphanage and the home for the elderly, and partly to the clergy.

But on this occasion, after placing the appropriate sum in the collection box, the newlyweds brought Fr Philaret ten dollars, saying:

“Dear Father, please take these ten dollars for yourself personally, as a token of our great love for you.”

Thus, only a few hours after Fr Philaret had given ten cents to the beggar in the name of Christ, he received exactly a hundredfold in return. Coming to his fellow monks, he said sadly:

“For today’s good deed I shall receive nothing in the Kingdom of Heaven, since I have already received my reward in full in this present age.”

* * *

Metropolitan Anthony was still alive in those days. The young monks of the community at the House of Mercy revered and loved without measure the great elder-hierarch, a Father and Teacher of the Church. His works, especially Confession, Pastoral Theology, and A Dictionary to the Works of Dostoevsky, were favorite reading among these young monks. They grew up on the writings of Metropolitan Anthony, became imbued with them as they matured spiritually, and always kept before them the examples found in those works.

And despite the distance of more than 10,000 kilometers, the Metropolitan managed to find these devoted admirers of his. Fr Philaret and one of his friends wrote to Metropolitan Anthony. And though burdened with immense labors and the gravest cares involved in presiding over our long-suffering Church in exile, the aged Metropolitan Anthony found time to reply to these two young monks, who at that time seemed utterly insignificant.

Soon afterward, one of the monks of the House of Mercy—namely, the author of this collection [editor’s note]—had occasion to accompany Bishop Nestor on his journey to the Council of Bishops in Yugoslavia, and there to see Metropolitan Anthony.

Metropolitan Anthony received the young monk with heartfelt paternal love and, with warm solicitude, asked him by name about each of the monks of the community. He questioned him with particular care about Fr Philaret, whom he had singled out from among the others and had come to love with special warmth. Perhaps even then, in 1933, the great hierarch, through his grace-filled spirit, foresaw that the beacon he had kindled in exile would pass into the hands of this very hieromonk, who at that time was still quite young.

In one episode this became especially clear. Shortly before his departure from Yugoslavia, while sitting at table with Metropolitan Anthony, the monk from Manchuria asked the First Hierarch to give him a photograph with an inscription as a keepsake. Metropolitan Anthony readily agreed. His cell-attendant, Archimandrite Theodosius, brought a photograph, and the Metropolitan sat down to write.

The Manchurian monk looked over the Metropolitan’s shoulder and was stunned. Metropolitan Anthony was writing: “To my dear and beloved Hieromonk Philaret, with heartfelt love, Metropolitan Anthony.” Although another young hieromonk was standing right there beside him, scarcely half a meter away, Metropolitan Anthony’s thoughts and heart were directed toward the one whom he had come to know and single out without ever having seen him, from a distance of some ten thousand versts.

Only Fr N.’s disappointed sigh distracted Metropolitan Anthony from his writing. He raised his head, looked affectionately at Fr N., who was standing over him, and said:

“Ah, yes, it is you who need the photograph,” and, taking another copy, he wrote a similar inscription on it.

Thus, across thousands of versts, a thread of spiritual connection was stretched between two grace-filled heads of our holy Church Abroad: between the great hierarch Metropolitan Anthony and our present [third—ed.] First Hierarch, the gracious, meek, and Spirit-bearing Metropolitan Philaret.

 

Russian source:

https://azbyka.ru/otechnik/Nafanail_Lvov/ocherk-rannih-let-zhizni-nashego-pervosvjatitelja-mitropolita-filareta/

Borderline States—Between Body and Soul

Dmitry Avdeev (†2022) on depression, neuroses, and other nervous disorders

 

 

I don’t wish you wealth, fame, success, or even good health, but only peace in your soul. That’s the most important thing. If you have peace, you will be happy.

- St. Alexiy of St. Zosima Hermitage

 

We increasingly talk and hear about chronic fatigue, neuroses, depression, and other diseases that arise “due to nerves.” And doctors, based on numerous studies, state that a huge number of physical illnesses develop precisely as a result of prolonged nervous strain. Moreover, about half of the diseases currently studied by psychiatry are borderline conditions (those that arise due to nerves).

A discussion with the well‑known Moscow psychiatrist, Candidate of Medical Sciences D. A. Avdeev, about these disorders, ways to overcome them, and the Christian approach to them was recorded some years ago for a spiritual educational program on Belarusian television, however only fragments of it were aired.

In 2022, Dmitry Alexandrovich passed away prematurely from cancer. He was a professional who believed in God and sought to foster a Christian attitude towards mental illnesses, which led him to develop a model of Orthodox psychotherapy. This article contains a more complete version of his video interview.

* * *

May it be unto you according to your faith…

Modern man’s life is full of stress and emotional overload. And it’s no wonder—the abundance of events and information, like a powerful tsunami, overwhelms our thoughts and feelings every day. There’s practically no time to stop and catch our breath. We’re always in a hurry…

It’s also getting colder, and it’s raining. Autumn is a time when emotional crises and chronic illnesses become more pronounced, and overall well‑being and mood deteriorate.

But is it only the pace of our lives and climatic conditions that are to blame for the fact that the number of diseases arising “due to nerves” is rapidly increasing, and borderline conditions are increasingly developing into mental illnesses? Here is what is written on this matter in the “Foundations of the Social Concept of the Russian Orthodox Church”:

The Church views mental illnesses as one of the manifestations of the general sinful corruption of human nature.

From the history of medicine, it is known that from the moment of the baptism of Rus’, medicine in Rus’ was under the direct patronage of the Orthodox Church. Holy Prince Vladimir declared in his Charter that doctors are church people, subordinate to the bishop. And monasteries provided care not only for the poor but also for the sick, which also included those “deprived of reason.” The process of separating psychiatry from the Church began only at the end of the 18th century, when psychiatrists decided to become more “objective” and rely solely on data from clinical and laboratory observations.

After October 1917, [1] a person was reduced to pure physiology—mere flesh, without any hint of the existence of a soul. Psychiatry began to view a person’s personality from the same perspective. However, the term “psyche” means “soul” in Greek.

Currently, spirituality is once again being discussed in psychiatry. Clinics are opening house churches, providing spiritual care for patients, and holding scientific and theological conferences with the participation of clergy and psychiatrists.

“By nature” or from sin?

—As a psychiatrist and a believer, how would you assess the causes of neurosis, depression, and other nervous disorders? Is it stress, the hectic pace of our lives, or something else?

—One might ask oneself: was life really simpler in the time of Ivan the Terrible? Or in any other era, for example, in the Napoleonic era? Of course not. But it would be disingenuous if I said that we are not affected by speed, by the pace of life. There are even such concepts as “exhaustion depression,” “informational neuroses,” but these are just the backdrop, the environment. Archpriest Dimitry Smirnov made the remarkable comparison of modern man’s spiritual state to a jug that’s been shattered. Unfortunately, it’s been reduced to a pile of shards.

Psychiatry, psychotherapy, and psychology do not talk about sin. But the main thing to pay attention to is a person’s spiritual state, which cannot be good without spiritual peace, without a clear conscience, without the person striving to overcome pride, vanity, and other sinful passions.

—So, are borderline states sinful states? Or are mental disorders a type of illness? How should we treat them, and how should they be cured?

—I’ve been studying borderline states for about twenty years now, and I see that these are diseases, but they are often sinful diseases. When sin occurs in the depths of the human spirit, it disorganizes the will and emotions. And I’ve long noticed in my practice that neuroses and many forms of depression (in particular, neurotic depression) have spiritual roots. And from those roots, certain physical manifestations arise. After all, a person is a combination of the spiritual, the mental, and the physical. This is how it all descends in a hierarchy, step by step: spirit, soul, and body.

I can give you one telling example. Once, a patient came to me complaining of a neurotic disorder. During the conversation, he said: “Doctor, if you only knew how much I’m tormented by envy! It’s eating me up from the inside! After all, I envy everyone—those who have a better apartment, a more successful job, higher earnings. And it weighs so heavily on me! I’m just burning up inside.”

So, should we give such a patient a sedative tablet three times a day? And put a checkmark, as if the problem were solved? That would be completely wrong. Nothing will happen without understanding that he is in the grip of sinful passions, without repentance, without work on himself.

It is necessary to identify the three main causes in the development of mental illnesses. Mental illnesses may be a consequence of some organic disorders in the body, i.e., they are diseases “of nature,” which are either hereditary in nature or associated with individual biological factors. These include schizophrenia, manic‑depressive psychosis, epileptic psychosis, and senile psychosis.

The term “from nature” was introduced by John Climacus. We read in his works that he observed that in some monastics, certain states of spiritual turmoil did not pass after prayer, the sign of the cross, or after the performance of church sacraments. We have a remarkable example in the life of Venerable Theodosius of the Kiev Caves, who spent three years caring for a monk who suffered from what would now be called catatonia.

A few examples. A typical symptom of schizophrenia is delusion (delusion is a false conclusion). It is impossible to try to rationally convince a person suffering from delusions. Depressive psychosis. It is associated with changes in the brain tissue’s neurotransmitters. The mother says to such a patient: “Well, pull yourself together.” And she starts to feel offended, angry, and guilty—but what the patient needs is medical help. There is a change in the emotional state in the case of epilepsy, when the patient exhibits aggressive behavior, requires medical assistance and active treatment of the disease.

The second group—a vast group of mental disorders—are illnesses resulting from passions that have enslaved the soul.

The third group consists of illnesses caused by demonic assault, brought about by demonic influence.

Here, it’s important not to get things mixed up. I’ve come across situations more than once where, say, a patient is experiencing the onset of schizophrenia, the debut of a psychotic process; and their relatives are church‑going believers. And so they decide that they shouldn’t go to a doctor but should instead go for an exorcism. Of course, prayer is needed, as is church commemoration and the blessing of a spiritual advisor. But this is a mistake, and there’s a danger lurking here. It’s important to understand that mental disorders are, after all, a separate group of diseases.

And at the same time, these illnesses may be a cross laid upon us by the Lord. Sometimes I witness very remarkable examples: a person seems to have a severe mental illness—but how they grow spiritually against that backdrop! I remember one of my patients. He is a moderately disabled person due to a mental illness, and as a doctor I tried to console and reassure him. But he looked at me and said: “Doctor, don’t. The situation I’m in is the most salvific for me.” And, of course, the Christian path is not closed to such a person, and the Kingdom of Heaven is not closed to them. No, this is our brother in Christ who needs help, prayer, compassion, and support.

Depression doesn’t always mean despondency.

—Dmitry Alexandrovich, let's take a closer look at depression. What are its characteristics, and how does it arise?

—In some cases, depression is a painful disorder. And this is due to the fact that in the brain structures, neurotransmitters such as serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine are reduced to almost zero, and the person experiences a pessimistic, depressed mood. They are inactive. Relatives and acquaintances try to somehow stimulate them: They tell them to get a job, to pray more. But they can’t do it because they are sick. At the first stage, medical assistance is needed—psychiatric and psychotherapeutic—and as recovery progresses, psychological and spiritual support will become more prominent.

And then there are depressions (and there are significantly more of them, in fact the vast majority) as a consequence of the passions of despondency and sorrow that have enslaved the soul. This point is very significant. It is necessary to distinguish—and this applies to the clergy as well—between sin and illness.

In general, depression has become one of the leading health issues; there are about 500 million people worldwide suffering from depressive disorders. The use of psychotropic medications and antidepressants has gotten out of control for medical professionals and cannot be accounted for in any way. Moreover, depression is becoming younger; today we are talking about childhood depression.

—Sometimes, depressive states or a nervous breakdown can lead a person to think about suicide. What would you advise someone who might be on the verge of suicide?

—This is very serious… But I would advise you to cross yourself with faith and say: “Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!” Then go to church and, without holding anything back, sincerely tell the priest all your worries and concerns during confession. If you need first aid, that’s exactly where to find it.

Speaking about the problem of suicide in general, it is known that only ten percent of those who commit suicide are mentally ill people. Ninety percent are mentally healthy but spiritually deeply damaged people. And do you know how many of them there are? Thirty-nine to forty per every 100,000 people! That is tens of thousands — a city of suicides every year! We are talking about successful suicides. But there are also attempted suicides, and they are much more numerous.

There are many mental illnesses toward which we need to form a Christian, Orthodox attitude.

Neurosis = conflict

—What are the characteristics of neuroses?

—Neurosis has many spiritual roots. Probably, to put it very briefly, neurosis is a clash between what is desired and reality. And the more powerful the clash, the stronger the manifestation of neurosis. It is always an internal conflict. Sometimes I give an example like this: I clench two fists, press them together, and ask the patient which hand should I break—the right one or the left one? Both are equally painful! There is no way out of this dead‑end situation.

In these cases, humility, inner peace and kindness are needed. Can one imagine such a state of affliction in St. Seraphim of Sarov, who greeted everyone with the words: “My joy, Christ is risen!”? An Orthodox Christian may be ill, may be poor, or homeless—it is all the will of God. But with the right spiritual disposition, in the soul of an Orthodox Christian “roses bloom and nightingales sing.” This is an indisputable truth. Remember the Savior’s words: “My peace I give to you!”

One can suffer from neurosis for a long time until a person understands the true causes of neurotic disorders, until he realizes that it is his perception, value system, attitudes, and some incorrect behavioral stereotypes that are to blame for the illness. A daughter hasn’t spoken to her mother for ten years because of some principles, and she experiences terrible inner tension, has a headache, and her conscience is troubled… But what’s the solution? To go up to her mother, hug her, kiss her, and ask for forgiveness—and everything will fall into place. And people stubbornly refuse to relent, ending up with illnesses or heart attacks. After all, today it is known that eighty percent of all diseases arise from stress.

I remember how one woman wrote to me in a letter: “Here I am, sick, and I don’t understand at all what clash of the desired and the real you’re talking about in the case of neuroses.” I replied: “My dear (I think her name was Liudmila), God has allowed you to be sick right now, and you’re so burdened by it that you want to be healthy at any cost… Humility! Humility is the main remedy.” Walking the Christian path to Christ—that is the main remedy for neuroses.

“You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”

—And what if a person is lost? Maybe they didn’t have faith, or they’ve just started coming to church. They’ve backed themselves into a corner—and they’re in a deep, years‑long depression or suffering from a neurosis. Can they pull themselves out on their own? Or do they still need outside help?

—This is, in fact, what my colleagues and I have been doing for many years. Of course, the Lord guides all of us. And He will not abandon this person, provided that person prays, sincerely believes, and turns to the sacraments of the Church. Look, the “Foundations of the Social Concept of the Russian Orthodox Church” beautifully states that an Orthodox psychotherapist or psychologist is the co‑worker of a clergyman. A meeting with him often precedes a meeting with a priest. And often people come to me who are not yet ready to go to confession, but they already have spiritual questions. They come to me with these questions during their appointments, and we try to resolve them. Of course, this makes life easier for such a person, because an Orthodox psychologist or someone who has been attending church for a long time and has read the Holy Fathers can give good, beneficial advice.

—Some psychotherapists claim that if a child develops mental disorders or complexes as a result of improper upbringing, they are practically incurable as the child grows older. What’s your comment as a doctor and a person of faith?

—Perhaps I should start by answering your question from a different angle. The thief who spent his whole life stealing and killing, when he found himself on the cross to the right of the Savior in the last three hours of his life, repented, changed his ways, and was the first to enter paradise. Therefore, in my opinion, claims that drug addiction, alcoholism, certain neurotic disorders, and childhood experiences are incurable do not correspond to reality. In my view, such psychotherapists have mercenary motives and want to keep the patient tied to them.

Take, for example, psychoanalysis. When I talked to French psychoanalysts and asked them: “Well, how effective is it?”—I saw bewilderment and a smile in their eyes; what effectiveness? The client attends psychoanalysis sessions for three, five, or seven years. And a psychoanalytic procedure costs quite a lot of money, lasts about an hour, and takes place twice or three times a week. It turns into a lifestyle.

Of course, there’s the issue of the starting point—“You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear,” as they sometimes say. If a child has pious parents and is familiar with the sacraments of the Church, then in general such a child has more opportunities—that is, he has certain initial advantages in life. And yet, as long as a person is alive, as long as a person is breathing, the Lord gives him a chance to change, for transformation and revival.

Orthodoxy is not something you can just pick up on the fly.

—The fear of God versus fear as a phobia: What is the difference?

—The fear of God brings peace and tranquility to the heart. Fear as a phobia is demonic fear. Who is the most neurotic? The devil. And the fear instilled by him gives rise to precisely this state in the heart.

In my books, I compare and contrast repentant lamentation over sins and neurotic self‑criticism. Repentant lamentation over sins gives rise to peace, tranquility, and joy in the heart. But neurotic self‑criticism is like grinding water in a mortar, like running in circles, sorrow for sorrow and nothing else. It doesn’t bring anything constructive.

—But how can a person figure out which fear is which?

—For that, you need to study the holy fathers. And Orthodoxy isn’t something you can just pick up on the fly, it’s not something you can learn in five minutes. You need to study it, try to live in a Christian way, and go to church. And gradually, little by little, your way of thinking will develop in the right direction.

“Be attentive to yourself, so that hot‑temperedness, irritability, and resentment do not gain the upper hand over you—for otherwise you will lead a troubled and disorderly life. But cultivate generosity, meekness, lack of malice, and everything that is fitting for Christians, so that you may lead a peaceful and serene life” —St. Ephraim the Syrian.

 

Elena Nasledysheva spoke with Dr. Dmitry Avdeev, M.D., Ph.D.

Translation by Myron Platte.

 

1. That is, the October Revolution in Russia.

 

Source: https://orthochristian.com/180676.html