St. Thomas Week

St. Thomas Sunday, the eighth day after the resurrection, Antipascha, stands at the opposite end of bright week from Pascha, embracing an extended invitation into the resurrected life in the kingdom.  The day also inaugurates the second week of Pascha which offers a continuous reflection into St. Thomas' encounter with the risen Lord expressed in Jn 20:19-31,  of which the most relevant portion reads as follows:

Now Thomas, called the Twin, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  The other disciples therefore said to him, “We have seen the Lord.”  So he said to them, “Unless I see in His hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe.”  And after eight days His disciples were again inside, and Thomas with them. Jesus came, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, “Peace to you!”  Then He said to Thomas, “Reach your finger here, and look at My hands; and reach your hand here, and put it into My side. Do not be unbelieving, but believing.”  And Thomas answered and said to Him, “My Lord and my God!”  Jesus said to him, “Thomas, because you have seen Me, you have believed. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” (Jn 20:24-29) 

The hymns throughout this second week echo the themes of this text with experiential and theological meditations on their meaning.  Let us consider a few of the hymnic threads that weave this week's tapestry.

Entering through closed doors

The Gospel text is emphatic that the disciples, both on Pascha night and on the following Sunday, were hiding behind closed doors out of fear.  Without ignoring the fact that Christ comes to bring peace to his troubled followers, the hymns emphasize a theological point, namely that the resurrected Christ is not constrained by the impermeable boundaries of our world.   

"Just as you did not break the seals of your tomb at your awesome resurrection, O life-giving Christ, so you entered into the midst of your glorious apostles even though the doors were locked, and you filled them with joy."  (Sunday Matins, Praises) 

The suggestion is that the stone was rolled away from the tomb after Christ had risen, after he had passed through the rock-hewn and sealed tomb,  so that others could see into the empty tomb, not so that he had a way out.  That the crucified Christ is not restricted by limitations is extended to hades: 

"The gates of hades, O Christ, could not hold you back, nor could the seals on the tomb, nor the locked doors." (Canon of the Feast, Ode 1) 

Finally, our Lord's boundlessness extends from the material and the spiritual worlds to our psychological world.  

"Today the air is filled with the fragrance of spring and blossoming flowers, and the new creation exults with joy; today the Lord passes through closed doors and shatters the bonds of doubt by his presence."  (Exapostilaria for the Feast) 

Neither doors behind which we hide, nor gates that imprison us in death, nor doubts that paralyze our responsiveness are sufficient to impede the Good Shepherd's loving search for his sheep.  He comes to find us, to let us encounter him as the risen Christ, the Son of God, the Savior of the world.

Transforming the mystery of unbelief into belief

While the risen Christ is not himself constrained in any way, he does not enter though closed doors to compel or to constrain Thomas, but to invite out of a desire to be known which will require a response:

"O Thomas, be not unbelieving toward me who were wounded for your sake.  Touch the wounds in my hands and my feet with your hand.  Be of one mind with the Apostles who have seen me, and join your voice to theirs to proclaim that I am the living God."  (Exapostilaria for the Feast) 

"It pleased you to be known, O Christ, Lover of mankind.  Thus you led Thomas to that knowledge: in the face of his doubt, you invited him to examine your side." (Canon of the Feast, Ode 4)

"What a wondrous mystery: unbelief becomes an assured belief as Thomas says, 'Unless I see, I will not believe.'" (Sunday Vespers, Aposticha) 

"In our hymns we sing of your blessed tongue, O Thomas: it was the first to piously confess Jesus, our Lord and our God, as the source of our life, after the touch which filled you with grace and truth."  Canon of the Feast, Ode 4)

St. Thomas' encounter with and subsequent belief in the risen Lord makes him not only the first to confess Jesus as Lord and God, but opens the door through which the whole world may enter; the emphasis, however, is that it was his unbelief that occasioned the transformative meeting.

"Thomas doubted what he was told in order to turn the steps of unbelievers toward the Faith." (Sunday Vespers, Stichera for Lord I call) 

"How beautiful is the mystery of Thomas' unbelief for it leads the hearts of believers to the knowledge of God."  (Sunday Vespers, Stichera for Lord I call) 

"Your unbelief will teach everyone of my passion and resurrection from the dead; and they shall all shout with you, 'My Lord and my God, glory to you!'" (Sunday Vespers, Stichera for Lord I call)

"Having drawn deeply from the inexhaustible treasure of your side pierced with the soldier's spear, Thomas filled the creation with the wisdom and knowledge of God.  (Canon of the Feast, Ode 4) 

And lest we miss the personal encounter offered in these general statements ("everyone", "the creation"), the hymns make explicit that the invitation extends to each us:

"By his impudence, Thomas the Twin makes us beneficiaries of his doubting belief.  (Canon of the Feast, Ode 7) 

"You have shown us, O Lord, how the doubt of Thomas can lead us toward belief.  In your wisdom, you arrange all things for our God, O Christ, Lover of mankind." (Canon of the Feast, Ode 5) 

"O come, all you faithful, in our hymns let us bless the memory of the apostle and disciple of Christ who touched the nail-prints and divinely imprinted on our hearts that sure faith which he sought to make firm throughout the universe.  Now he implores the savior to grant great mercy to our souls."  (Tuesday Matins Sessional Hymns)

Confessing the God-Man

What did Thomas see?  What did he believe?  He saw with the eyes in his head wounded flesh.  Seeing with the eyes of his heart, with his noetic eyes, he believed and confessed, 'My Lord and my God!"  Thomas experienced the God-Man, the theanthropos.

"'Thomas, touch me!'  said the Lover of man who had risen from the dead on the third day.  'See my hands and the holes in my feet and the opening in my side.  Know that my divinity suffered no change, but rather I assumed an earthly nature and suffered in the flesh through it.'"  (Tuesday Vespers, Stichira of Lord I call) 

"Though the doors were closed, O Lord, you appeared in the midst of your disciples, revealing the splendor of your divinity.... saying clearly, 'Behold, I have flesh' .... Having been assured of your humanity and divinity by his own hand, the disciple [Thomas] was filled with awe and cried out in belief, 'My Lord and my God, glory to you!'" (Sunday Vespers, Stichera for Litia) 

"With awe, Thomas put his hand into your life-giving side.  He perceived the double energy of your two natures, O Christ our Savior, united in you without confusion."  (Canon of the Feast, Ode 7)

Thomas' encounter is with the incarnate living God, the I AM of the burning bush, the Fire which consumes the unworthy.  Accordingly, the Church reflects with its customary amazement on the divine-human encounter with words that are echoed in our pre-communion prayers.

"O Thomas, ... you had the boldness to touch the side shining with the Fire of the divinity."  (Canon of the Feast, Ode 5)

What a wondrous mystery: the grass can touch fire and not be consumed; for Thomas put his hand into the fire of the side of Jesus Christ our God, and he was not consumed in touching him." (Sunday Vespers, Aposticha)

Why did the hand of the apostle not melt away when he approached the burning side of the Lord?  Who gave him the boldness to touch him?  Surely it was the one who was touched.  If he had not given the power to that frail hand, how would it have been able to touch the wounds that made heaven and earth tremble?  Thomas received the grace of touching Christ and crying out,  "You are my Lord and my God!'"  (Canon of the Feast, Ikos)

"Your life-giving side was touched and examined by the weak hand of a mortal, and you did not permit him to be burned by the fire of your immaterial divinity: we magnify you with hymns."  (Canon of the Feast, Ode 9)

Healing the world

Thomas' experience of the God-Man directs us to the cosmic healing of these wounds on the Lamb who was slain from the very foundation of the world, and to the availability of that healing to all through the mysteries of the Church.

"Blessed are you who touched the wounds of the savior and the opening in his wondrous side by which he healed the immense wound of Adam;"  (St. Thomas Friday, Matins Sessional Hymn) 

"You came and stood before your disciples, O Christ, though the doors were closed, and Thomas was not with them.  But it was providential, for he said, 'I will not believe unless I see for myself the Lord, and see the side from which blood and water came forth for baptism, and see the wounds through which he healed mankind from the great wound, and see that he is not a ghost, but truly has flesh and bones.'" (Sunday Vespers, Dogmatikon for Lord I call)

Experiencing the reality ourselves

Finally, as we noticed above in passing, the hymns are relentlessly personal--directed at us, inviting us.  We are not signing about something that happened far away in time and space to someone else.  We are ourselves entering into that very same encounter with the healing and life-giving God-Man.

"Teach us to cry out to you with Thomas, 'My Lord and my God, glory to you!'" (Sunday Vespers, Aposticha) 

"I feel great joy, O Savior, when I see your resurrection confirmed by the boldness of Thomas.  Thanks to him, we have been able to affirm the union of your divinity and your humanity in a duality of natures and energies which are united in you."  (Tuesday Vespers, Stichira of Lord I call)

"O faithful let us strive to sanctify our hands by abstinence from the passions, so that we too may touch the savior's side."  (St. Thomas Wednesday, Matins Apostica)

"We have seen you now, O King of the universe, not with our bodily eyes, but with love in our hearts; we believe that you are God, and we magnify you in our hymns."  (St. Thomas Thursday, Matins, Aposticha)

Through the prayes of St. Thomas, may we come to experience so vividly the risen God-Man that we might cry out with him, "My Lord and my God!  Glory to you!"

Death, Burial & Resurrection

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.  (Paschal Troparion)

It is seductively easy to think that it is Christ's resurrection that destroyed death, but this is not what the hymns of the Church express.  In the Troparion for the feast, we're told that death is defeated by death, not by life.  We don't sing, "Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by life.  That would be a very different teaching.  Christ doesn't come with bigger weapons than the enemy, so as to overpower it.  He enters the battle against death the same way he entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday: meek and humble.  He resolutely refuses the power structures of this fallen world, refusing to enter into combat on the enemy's terms.  He does not fight fire with fire: anger with anger, violence with violence, sarcasm with sarcasm.  He instead leads us in the most excellent mystery, beyond our comprehension: "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit" (Jn 12:24).

In the hymns for Agape Vespers today we sing an expanded version of this teaching:

On your cross you annulled the curse of the wood; in your burial you destroyed the dominion of death; and in your rising, you enlightened the human race.  Therefore we cry out to you, O Christ our God, glory to you.  (Sticherion from "Lord I call")

Here the cross and burial are associated with overcoming death and it's power, but the resurrection with enlightening all humans.  Similarly in the Aposticha for today's Vespers we sing, "Your resurrection O Christ Savior, illumines the entire inhabited world, and calls back your own handiwork (plasma)."  The resurrection provides light for us to see the darkness of this world, of our own souls, for what it really is, and--having seen this spiritual reality--to be called back to him who created us; that is, to repent, to return to him, to prefer light over darkness. 

The Kontakion of the feast also emphasizes that the burial overcomes the power of death: "Though you descended into the grave, O Immortal One, you destroyed the power of hades."  The more common theme expressed in the hymns, however, is that the burial (descent into hades) is Christ's work of leaving no place untouched by his glorious presence. 

In order to fill all things with your glory, you descended into the depths of the earth; for my person (hypostasis) in Adam is not hidden from you, and by being buried you renewed me from corruption, O Lover of man. (Ode 1 of the Paschal Canon)

From the time of Adam and Eve hiding behind a tree in the garden, Christ has been the good shepherd who comes out to search for his wandering sheep.  Adam, where are you?  We are in Adam, but we are not hidden from Christ, not even when we attempt to hide behind trees, even the cursed tree of death.  For he comes looking for us even in hades, the place of death.  And when he enters hades, he fills it with his glory so that there would be no place deprived of divine light, no place to which we can flee from his presence, no place to hide. 

A concise, albeit cursory, summary of the Paschal hymnography's teaching, then,  is this:

• By his death, Christ destroys death and its power over us. 
• By his burial (descent into hades), Christ fills all things with his glory.  
• By his resurrection, Christ enlightens us to see the spiritual reality of this world.

Our Lord and God and Savior Jesus Christ did not come to die instead of us, so that we would not have to die, but to die with us, so that united to him death would have no power over us.  He was buried so that even in hades we would not be separated from his glorious presence.  He rose from the dead to enlighten us to follow the most excellent way of humility, of freely choosing to be a grain that falls into the ground and dies with him so that we too might not remain alone but rather bear much fruit. 

Smitten with the Mitten(s)

I am now at the blue dot.

Happy to be home.  Thank God. 

potpourri

1. When I first arrived we were eating three apples a day, one after each meal. At my fifth meal here (at Nea Skiti), I didn’t eat my apple. When it was time to get up from the table, Geronta exclaimed, “What’s wrong?  Don’t you like fruit!”

2.  Geronta Paisios: “We have a saying on the Holy Mountain,’If you are known in Athens, you’re not a monk.’

3. Geronta to me, “You don’t understand Greek time!”

4. Conversation with a trying-to-be-kind pilgrim at dinner: offering me the bowl of cheese, I say, “No thank you.” He persists, and so do I. Finally he says, “It’s cheese.” “Hmm,” I wonder, “does he really think I don’t know what cheese is?” A few moments later he says, “Would you like a lemon?”  Again I say, “No thank you.”  “Are you sure?” he replies. “Yes, I’m sure.”  “I’ll share some of mine with you.”  “No thank you.”  “It’s good,” he says, “a sour, yellow fruit.”  “Hmm,” I think to myself, “Do I really look that dumb?”

5. Geronta to me, “Don’t be shy in matters pertaining to the Church.”

6. Fr Paisie during early Sunday morning Liturgy, before my turn to do an ekphonesis, “In English; it will sound better.”

7. Hieromonk at St. Andrew’s:  “We have a saying on the Holy Mountain, ‘Any monk who doesn’t take care of a brother until the brother dies is worthless.’” 

8. I’ve been buying lots of things and thought it might be useful if I learned how to say, “How much?” in Greek.  πόσο κάνει; This was working very well until the first time I tried it ... at which point I realized I don’t know the Greek names for numbers, and thus couldn’t understand the shopkeeper’s reply. 

9. Vatopedi feels like a small cosmopolitan city, without loss of the personal kindness of a village. There are 130 monks here from 18 countries, many I would guess to be in their 20sand 30s, though they have all adult ages represented plentifully. The Giftshop would not be out of place on Madison Ave, and the quality of the monks singing would be at home in the Lincoln Center (though the monks themselves wouldn’t be).  Among the many gifts I received here was a lengthy visit with Fr. Matthew before leaving Wednesday morning. 

Joyful Humility

This (Tuesday) morning I left Nea Skiti (red dot) on the Mikra Agia Anna speed boat, bound for Dafni.   By God’s grace, I was given a ride in a car from the port of Dafni and taken to Karyes—the capital of Mount Athos.  (I was picked up by a policeman, which is quite another story, for another time.).  

This saved me more than an hour over waiting for the bus, and that allowed me time to see if I could find two old friends from my previous trip, monastics at St. Andrews, a Skete on the outskirts of the capital.   Indeed, God let me find them both immediately upon arriving, and we had a most joyous reunion.  They still remember me and our monastic community in their prayers, as I do them. 

From there I walked the quarter mile into town, which looks like this:

Looking back you can see the domes of St. Andrew Skete. 

I had much less time than I wished in the Protaton Church, which has absolutely stunning iconography since I needed to catch a van to Vatopedi (the blue dot in the map above).  As I was about to board the van, the young monk in front of me turned and motioned for me to go first.  Red hair and a bright face, he seemed full of joy.  I insisted that he go first, but he proceeded to win the ‘insistence-battle.’  I entered the van and took my seat, which turned out to be the last seat available.  He and two others stood in the aisle, which seemed fine—until the van driver boarded and proceeded to kick them off.  No standing on the van.  One man tried vociferously and persistently to give his seat to the young monk, but the monk just smiled all the brighter, gently but firmly refusing the offer.  He won that insistence-battle, too.  There was a strange power in his quiet demeanor.  As he proceeded to disembark the van without the slightest outward indication of any displeasure or inconvenience, as if he really believed that God works all things work together for good for those who love Him, I thought to myself: “joyful humility.”

Joyful Sorrow

Today, Monday the 27th, is my last full day at the Holy Hut of St. John the Theologian, New Skete  (ΙΕΡΑ ΚΑΛΥΒΗ ΑΓΙΟΥ ΙΩΑΝΝΟΥ ΤΟΥ ΘΕΟΛΟΓΟΥ, ΝΕΑ ΣΚΗΤΗ).  Tomorrow morning, if the Lord wills,  I will live and will serve The Divine Liturgy here in the hut’s chapel for the fourth time during my stay, share a final breakfast with my gracious hosts, and then catch a boat, a bus (or, even better, a car), and a van to make my way to Vatopedi for my final night on the Holy Mountain.  

I look forward to returning home; it’s time.  But I don’t look forward to leaving here.  I will miss the brotherhood, and the simple way of life they have shared with me.  Mostly, however, I will miss being in a community that has such a humble and continuous devotion to my patron saint.  I have never been very good at sustaining this devotion on my own, but here it is effortless. 

So, in a way, I feel as if I’m saying goodbye to St. John.  I know that’s silly; feelings often are silly—but we have them nonetheless.  So I am sad about leaving. But I rejoice in the nearly two weeks we had together, and I live in hope that—by his prayers—I will carry a few seeds of his presence with me, they will take root, and bring forth a little fruit. 

Excursions

On Wednesday, Friday and Saturday of this past week I went on excursions, little pilgrimages, if you will.  By ‘pilgrimage’ I simply mean a journey to a holy site for the purpose of prayer, for communion with our God and the great cloud of witnesses that surround us, having lived their life as a testimony to the God revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Places are made holy by God’s presence, for He alone is holy.  But God never acts alone, and the sanctification of a place always involves the volitional reception of His presence in prayer.  So when we travel to holy sites, we are going to places where our predecessors in the faith have labored in prayer, encountering God and His holy ones.  Holy places are experientially different; they simply feel different, like the cares and burdens of this world no longer have a grip on us. 

Here are some highlights from my little pilgrimages.

Wednesday

On Wednesday I took a ferry, Agia Anna, to the Monastery Dionysiou.  On the map below it is the red dot, and my ‘home’ is the blue dot.  I happened to be boarding the ferry with new Abbot of Nea Skiti, and he kindly paid my passage.  

Approaching Dionysiou on the ferry, it looks like this:

Notice, among other things, the series of terraces cascading down the hillside, where they have their gardens.  This scene is ubiquitous here.  There is no natural level ground.  Looked at from an upper side, the gardens look like this:

But looking straight down from above you get a little more of a feel of the steepness of the slope. 

Dionysiou was quiet when I was there and I was able to venerate their relics and spend time praying in a beautiful little chapel to the Mother of God, Panagia of the Akathist. This was a very precious time for me.  

Dionysiou is also famous for its 17th century frescos depicting St. John’s Apocalypse (Revelation).  Among other things they include the depiction of a mushroom cloud in the sequence of end times images—painted over 300 years before the world experiences it.  I was taking photos of these panels when I was politely and firmly told that photography was not allowed.  So I won’t include any here, but if you are curious it is easy to google them and see very high-quality images of the frescos. 

From Dionysiou I took the one hour hike along the rugged shoreline to St. Paul’s.  Beautiful journey.   St. Paul’s is a treasure trove of relics, the most stunning and unexpected one for me was the forehead of St. Panteleimon, which exuded an overpowering fragrance of myrrh.  

From St. Paul’s I walked the remainder of the way to Nea Skiti, about another 45 minutes, reflecting with joy on the great cloud of witnesses whom I experienced this day.  So many faithful who have preserved the living faith in their very bodies, their flesh and bones, the temples of our God, awaiting their resurrection. 

Thursday

Within the boundaries of Nea Skiti, about a ten-minute walk from our hut, is the tomb of Elder Joseph the Hesychast—a controversial figure for some, but I’ve always benefited from his life without feeling drawn to some of the practices that are more extreme.  So on Thursday evening, I went to his tomb to pray. Here is the little structure it is in:

And here is the tomb. 

Friday

On Friday I took a boat, Mikra Agia Anna, to the Monastery Grigoriou.  It is the red dot below, a ways past Dionysiou, and home remains the blue dot.

Here’s Little St. Anne:

No one was available to bring out the relics for me, but I was able to go into their main church as well as spend a long time in their beautiful little chapel dedicated to St. Anastasia of Rome.  

The three main persons associated with this monastery are St. Nicholas (center below), to whom the main church is dedicated, St Gregory (below right), who founded the Monastery, and St. Anastasia (below left), who has been credited with many miracles.  

The entrance to the main church has the beautiful mosaics, of Christ and the four Evangelists:

It’s about a six-hour walk home, I’m told—which likely means 7 or 8 for me, so I opted for a return trip on Mikra Agia Anna.  My conviction is that pilgrims should walk, but utilitarian principles won out on this day.

Saturday

On Saturday I took the ferry, Agia Anna, to the near edge of the tip of this holy peninsula, to a place called Kerasia—the blue dot below, where ‘home’ is Nea Skiti. 

Beautiful waters!

The path ahead of me. 

Looking back down. 

A hut at the Skete of Little St. Anne. 

Many wonderful views looking up the peninsula.  If you look closely at the far end of the land as it bends out to the left (Northwest) you can spot the Monastery Simonopetra.  

Here is a hazy close up from the same spot.

After a brief stop at Agia Anna, I descended down the ridge to Nea Skiti.  On the way, I met these pilgrims from Russia, including the youngest I’ve seen here. They wanted my picture so I had them return the favor. 

A glorious and beautiful day, hiking, praying and enjoying God’s creation.