The sailboats of Nafplio gently rock in the sunlight. They creak against their dock lines, tugging, as if trying to liberate themselves. The gulls are singing. The scent of the sea is strong. Pungent even. Like the seafood department of Winn-Dixie.
A church bell tolls.
I pass the church. The church is Agia Sophia, a Greek Orthodox building believed to date back to the Byzantine period. This building is old, predating the birth of Cher.
I am struck by this building. This structure may have been here centuries before the Protestant Reformation. Before the Fourth Crusade. Before a guy named Columbus reached America. Before the Internet. This is ancient Christianity, up close.
On the front stoop is an older man in a long black tunic. He has a bushy white beard. He is sweeping the steps with a broom. This must be the parish priest, I’m thinking. The “pápas.”
Evidently, priests handle their own brooms in Greece.
Or perhaps he is a monk. Which could make sense, too. There is a monastery not far from here in the village of Aria. The monastery is home to six nuns who lead a life of contemplation. I’ve been thinking about nuns a lot lately. Particularly one I met on a bus outside Athens.
The priest sees me walking the street alone, and he waves.
“Kaliméra,” he says. At least I think that’s what he is saying. Which is “Good morning.” Or possibly, “Good day.” Or perhaps, “I like cheese.”
No way to know for sure. I don’t speak Greek.
I return the wave and smile. But I have no idea what to say back. So I say one of the only four Greek words I know: “Efcharistó.” Which is a way of saying thank you.
He smiles.
I am fascinated by Greek Orthodoxy, which has preserved ancient Christian traditions of prayer and contemplation that predate the division of Eastern Orthodoxy and Catholicism. Traditions that link directly back to twelve ragged men in sandals who hung out with a n’er-do-well Galilean carpenter.
These practices have largely been forgotten by modern adaptations of the religion. But in Orthodox monasteries, the ancient rhythms of contemplation continue.
I sat next to one such contemplative on a bus outside Athens. She was quiet, peaceful, gazing out the window. Her hands were still. You know how you can sometimes sense someone’s energy without hearing them speak even a word? Hers was content.
We talked some. She spoke English.
A nun’s objective is simple, she explained. To lead a life of stillness so that she is constantly aware of God. That is the basis for her life. Meditation.
This practice is called “hesychasm.” It predates the American Bible-slapping I grew up with. What’s more, this archaic practice of stillness seems to more closely resemble the awareness practices of Eastern religions rather than the self-flagellation practices I was taught.
I asked what her days were like.
She said a nun’s typical day begins the same way. She might rise at 4:00 a.m., then spend her morning hours in solitude repeating the Jesus Prayer a hundred times, using a knotted rope. The prayer is ancient and profoundly simple:
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.”
Or she might use a short doxology: “Glory to you, O God, glory to you.”
“You repeat these prayers so many times,” said the nun, “that the prayers become a reflex. Like blinking, or breathing.”
Over the years, the words of the prayer move slowly from the head into the heart. And once the words have migrated to the heart, you’ve reached a new state of being.
“A state where your heart prays without your mind.”
What humbles me about all this is that ancient church forebears believed this stuff. They practiced this. Taught this. Died for this. And yet the practice was never taught to me.
I was never taught to meditate. Instead, I was taught more vitally important lessons, such as avoiding the lingerie section of a Sears catalog.
I was taught to pray with many words. I was taught that I should be in a constant state of repentance and self-loathing. I was never told, not even once, that God not only loves me, but he actually LIKES me.
“Prayer should bypass the brain,” the nun went on. “It is not a shopping list. It is awareness. Prayer is just love. The further you get in your journey, the more you will see that most of what you worry about doesn’t matter. Only love is real.”
After her explanation, I thanked her for taking the time to talk to me. “Efcharistó,” I said.
“See?” she said. “You’ve got it.”
“I do?”
She patted my knee. “That one word is the only prayer you’ll ever need.”
Thanks.
