Monastic Obedience in St. Anthony's Greek Orthodox Monastery

This blog is a paper I wrote for a writer's workshop course at The Evergreen State College. It is about the six months I spent at St. Anthony's Greek Orthodox Monastery in Florence Arizona in 1998, and how I was driven to a nervous breakdown.

My mind was led by confusion boats, mutiny from stern to bow
But I was so much older then, I’m younger then that now—Bob Dylan

At the age of 17, I was living in a world of opposites. Heaven and hell, good and evil, the world was black and white, and I was in the black.
Whether I died or the world ended, I did not like the prospect of eternal damnation. How could other Christians be so nonchalant about their fate, risking eternal damnation for the fleeting indulgence of earthly pleasures? Had they read the same Bible I had read—the one where Jesus upped the ante to get into heaven when he spoke The Sermon on the Mount? It would have been hard enough following all the Ten Commandments, but now to even think an evil thought was equivalent to the action itself. As I looked out into the world, I could not tell the life of a nonbeliever from a Christian. Visiting Protestant churches was like going to a pep-rally; asinine songs being shouted out with energy and excitement, gruesome words about being cleansed in the blood of the Lamb, but no one was turning their backs on the world as Jesus had instructed. Sure, carefree Christians were fond of quoting John 3:16, as if it were a free ticket into heaven: “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, and whosoever believes in him will not perish, but have eternal life.” But what did it mean to believe in Him?
Within Christianity there are different interpretations of what is required for salvation. Some believe they will enter heaven because of their good deeds while others and believe that through the grace of God, despite all any sins they may have committed, Jesus will save them out of love. Jesus also said, “If you love me, you will obey my commandments”? Could they enter heaven without “loving” Jesus? It was a catch 22, as I saw it, and I didn’t feel like risking eternity for a few kicks in the fleeting life on earth.
On my 18th birthday in August, 1998, I chose to deny the world, take up my cross and follow Him. It was not only the Bible that influenced my decision to join the monastery, other sacred books like Spiritual Warfare, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, and The Ladder of Divine Ascent, taught me that I was only seeing a veiled illusion of reality. During our lunch hour in high school, I snuck off into the wood to read books on mysticism, and pray in front of an icon of Christ. These books stirred my soul and showed me that I was outside the Garden of Eden, but there was a way back home, through prayer, fasting, and self mortification.
Deep in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona, the spiritual of Oasis of St. Anthony’s Greek Orthodox Monastery is a beacon of hope to faithful. A cluster of copper domes glisten in the sunlight surrounded by giant saguaro cacti—all lifting their limbs to the heavens. The monastery is on 300 acres of land five miles off of the two lane highway 79, and the closest town, dusty little Florence, is 20 miles away. The monks are hospitable to guests and pilgrims who visit the monastery, either as curious tourists, or people seeking counsel from the abbot, Fr. Paisios, or his spiritual father, and the founder of St. Anthony’s, Elder Ephraim.
St. Anthony’s Monastery
Elder Ephraim

The Elder Ephraim, a small, white bearded monk from Mt. Athos, Greece, had come to bring monastic life to Americans. His spiritual father, Elder Joseph, had told him when he was young that someday he would bring the Greek monastic tradition to us. St. Anthony’s Monastery was Elder Ephraim’s first project and he set Fr. Paisios, his disciple who had been a monk on the Holy Mountain of Athos for 20 years, as the abbot. Elder Ephraim was renowned in the Orthodox community for performing miracles. He was also clairvoyant; his gaze could pierce into the very heart and soul of a person, and often times, he would bring people to tears by speaking their hidden sins. I had my eye out for the Elder when I was visiting the monastery with my family. I was told that he was in the monastery, but I hadn’t seen a photo of him. He was old and short, but that fit the description of several of the monks.
I wasn’t planning on staying at St. Anthony’s because I thought I would finish high school, but when the Elder Ephraim looked into my eyes and told me that I was going to become a monk at the monastery, I didn’t see any reason to go back to the world. What was the point?
“Are you sure you don’t want to finish up your senior year?” my mom asked. She came to my room, watching me take a couple icons off my dresser which served as an altar in my room.
“No, I’m ready to leave the world,” I said.
“I just think it would be good for you to close one chapter of your life before you begin a new one,” she said. I shrugged my shoulders and continued packing. There really wasn’t much to bring with me other than a couple pairs of pants, shirts and socks—all black.
“School is so distracting,” I said, “I’ll be learning Greek in the monastery, and I’m sure they’ll teach me the things I need to know. It’s like moving from one school to another.” I looked up to her and smiled. She looked back at me hard and long and realized that I had always been the type of kid who wanted to find out why things were the way they were. She remembered taking me to the library when I was seven years old to find books that explained how the earth revolved around the Sun and exactly what Saturn’s rings were made of.
“You’ve always jumped into things you were interested in with both feet, so if this is what you really want, I’ll help you get there.”
She flew back to Arizona with me and stayed at the monastery for two weeks. The Elder Ephraim invited her to stay and be the official greeter of the visiting pilgrims, but she explained that she had three daughters back at home. Hearing this, the Elder Ephraim threw his hands up over his head and laughed.
“Oh no,” he exclaimed, “We will build a monastery for your girls next,” as they embraced. When my mom left, I settled into my life at the monastery.
Fr. Paisios, a thin, black bearded man became my spiritual father and told me that the routine of the monks would be difficult for me at first, but that I should try to follow the centuries old ascetic schedule. He gave me a 300 knot prayer rope and told me how to pray the mantra, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me” in Greek: “Kyrie Isu Xriste, eleison me”. I was told to pray this mantra ceaselessly and verbally throughout the day while working. I had read that obedience was the most important rule for a monk and that even if he was told to do something wrong, the sin would fall upon his elder at the Day of Judgment, so long as the monk was obedient.
The day at St. Anthony’s begins at midnight; everyone goes out to the court yard to recite the Jesus Prayer mantra out loud for an hour, either walking around to help wake up or sitting on one of the benches throughout the many walkways surrounding the icon laden temple. From 1am-3am we would go back into our rooms which are called cells and sit on a one legged stool to exercise The Prayer of the Heart. If we fell asleep we would fall over. This prayer was a technique much like the Indian pranyama which is a form of yoga used for controlling the breath for concentration. We would breathe in the first half of the mantra, bringing the name of Jesus into our hearts, Kyrie Isu Xriste, holding it for a second or two, and then breathe out, Eleison me, asking Christ to have mercy on us. Eventually the prayer would flow of its own accord in our hearts.
“At first this will be difficult for you,” Fr. Paisios explained as we sat in his office. “But as time goes by, the prayer will be like honey on your tongue.” His eyes seemed to shine when he said this. I could sense his love for the prayer.
“Your mind will want to wander away while you are saying the prayer,” he continued, “But try and watch your thoughts, when they wander from the prayer, don’t become angry, just guide them back.”
“During the day, I notice some of the monks are whispering the prayer,” I said, “Is it good to say the prayer, or just breathe it during the day?”
“During the day, say the prayer out loud. This is what the Elder Joseph taught his monks in the Philitheo Monastery on Mt. Athos.”
I thought of the Elder Joseph and how he had thrashed demons with his prayer rope. There was a picture of him on Mt. Athos; his eyes worried as if he was in pain.
From 1 a.m. to 2 a.m. we practiced the prayer of the heart, and then we would go to the warm, tile floored, cathedral for services. The sonorous Byzantine melodies chanted in Greek by various monks mixed with the fragrant incense that the priest would swing in front of the icons created an air of spiritual bliss, followed by breakfast around sunrise. After breakfast, the novices were permitted a two hour nap because we were still weak from our lazy schedules in the world. The rest of the day we worked on different projects throughout the newly established monastery followed by an evening Vespers service while the sunset. We usually made it to bed around 8-9pm, but it was difficult to get to sleep right away; we were lucky to get in four hours of actual sleep before midnight. With a total of six hours of sleep that was possible only if I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow, I was very tired my first few weeks.
There was much work to be done as money was constantly flowing in from the Orthodox community. The Elder Ephraim used it for construction and making the monastery beautiful with desert vegetation. My first duty was washing dishes, which I enjoyed immensely, because I was able to focus on the mantra. It took me a couple hours to do the dishes, but then I would report to Fr. Menas, a carpenter monk. Fr. Menas, a skilled carpenter, was perturbed by my lack of coordination.
“Remember when you were a kid and you tried to fit the square peg into the round hole?” He would ask me this rhetorical question constantly as I struggled with the tools and pieces of wood. At first, we were working on the stasithia which were wooden standing chairs that someone donated from Greece. These chairs were designed for the early morning services and had arms at standing height, so if a person fell asleep while they stood (which often happened), they would not fall over or disturb the service by stumbling. Two weeks later, the stasithia were all sanded and stained and it was time to move on to another project. Fr. Menas made me feel like a dullard, but he was sure that the next task of sanding mudded strips on sheetrock would be easy, even for an idiot like me.
Sanding the stasithia wood was something I wasn’t good at, but I could handle the vibration, whereas sanding the mud on the sheetrock was like running my fingers on a chalk board.
“What is your problem Lukas?” Fr. Menas asked, cocking his head to the side as he watched me drop the sanding block.
“I don’t know—I really don’t, I just can’t do it,” I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at the tiled floor of the cathedral, muttering the mantra in a whisper—I really did want mercy from Jesus so I could perform my duty.
Fr. Menas eyed me curiously, “Well, whatever it is, you need to get over it.” He said it with a tone of finality in his voice and looked away and began to sand another part of the wall.
Since childhood, I would shiver whenever I had to touch chalk, but in the monastery, I knew I had to be obedient. Forcing myself to overcome my pet-peeve, something that neither he nor I understood, I grunted the mantra and began rubbing the dried mud over the sheetrock with sanding block. Immediately my eyes watered and my whole body convulsed in a shiver.
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it Fr. Menas,” I said as I tried once more and dropped the sanding block after another convulsion.
He sighed heavily and shook his head, “Alright Lukas, go help Fr. Anthony in the garden.” He was shaking his head with dramatic sighs as I walked away.
Fr. Anthony was busy shoveling circles of cinder around the trees in the monastery so the water wouldn’t drain out. The cinder was relatively light compared to soil and I was able to fill the shovel completely and toss it into the barrels rhythmically with the mantra. Kyrie Isu Xriste, I whispered as I shoved the shovel deep into the red pile, and then exhaled as I flung the rock into the wheel barrel, Eleison Me. It was good to be outside working with Fr. Anthony, he was happy-go-lucky monk in his early 20s, glad to be outside working in the garden. He had been on Mt. Athos for four years before coming to St. Anthony’s, and told me that the life in the monastery was a breeze compared to the austere practice on the holy mountain.
“How can you consider this an easy life Fr. Anthony?” I asked, “We only sleep six hours a night, and soon we’re expected to get by with four hours.” Fr. Anthony smiled, and stopped shoveling for a moment to face me.
“Lukas, the monks on Mt. Athos don’t have a nice kitchen with running water, we have a hose with cold water. You are lucky to get six hours of sleep here, because on the Holy Mountain, we are only permitted 2-4 hours of sleep.” I was dumbfounded and stared blankly at him. I looked at Fr. Anthony, shoveling, so care free and vigorous—had he really been able to get by with a short nap in the evening?
Was this idle talk?—of course it was, I frowned, angry at myself for the lack of will power and brought my mind back to the mantra. I had already spoken too many idle words in my life and Jesus warned that we would be accountable for every idle word on the Day of Judgment. I remembered Psalm 141 of David: Set a guard over my mouth; keep watch over the doors of my lips.
In October something strange happened; an internal shift of emotion brought me to my knees. I was raking weeds away from some of the date-palm trees when I felt something clench in my chest that felt like a giant hand squeezing my torso on the inside of my ribs. It slowly let go, and as it did, tears flooded my eyes. I felt as if I had witnessed my best friend dying or something equally horrific, but nothing externally had caused this. One minute I was raking, whispering the prayer softly, a moment later, I was sobbing in big heaves, slumped over on the ground. I tried to whisper the words of the mantra, but as I did, I sobbed even harder. Using the handle of the rake, I brought myself to my feet and looked up at the blue sky. My heart still ached in my chest and everything around me, the red cinder building, the cacti and even the copper dome of the Cathedral, was depressing. The day was half over, so I forced myself to rake the yard in weak, pathetic strokes, struggling to overcome the bitter emotion. My heart would pulse with every word of the mantra, a physical twisting, yet I was certain it wasn’t a heart attack or any other physical symptom.
After dinner, I walked up to Fr. Paisios and tried to explain my aching heart. My eyes were red and puffy as I bent down and tried to explain I felt, grabbing my heart with my hands.
“Lukas, this is your ego shifting away from you,” he said, “It will hurt, but this happens when your ego doesn’t get its way and your thoughts are not of yourself but focused with the Jesus prayer.” His eyes were calm, but also stern without any sign of sympathy. At least he had an explanation. I kissed his hand, as was customary, and walked back to my seat. Fr. Paisios was pushing me, something my dad used to do when I was a child.
“Come on Luke, you just have to push through it,” my dad said as I trailed behind. We were skiing Big Creek Baldy Mountain in the back woods of Montana where I spent the first ten years of my life, and I had the sugar blues.
“Can we just take a break,” I pleaded. My veins were filled with sand; my head was a heavy bowling ball, wobbling on my thin, eight year old shoulders.
“No, we can’t stop now, Huke’de’Calzonez,” dad said, using one of his many nicknames. “If you lose momentum, your heart will slow down and your muscles will stiffen up. We’re almost there, just a few more miles; you’ll get your second wind in a bit.”
I was angry at him. We were almost to the top of the mountain and I didn’t want to ski anymore. I just wanted to take a small break. “Dad, can’t we just turn around here?”
“Don’t be a hang-dog Radmans,” he jeered, “This will build your endurance. Some day when I’m old, I’ll complain that I used to wait for you, and you can tell me to quit my whining. You’re just going through the sugar-blues, but it’ll pass.”
He was right. In less than an hour I began to feel my energy level increase as my second wind kick in. I raced my dad to the summit and won by a yard.
“Ah, come on Hukers, I used to wait for you,” dad said with a pseudo-whine in his voice.
At the top of Mt. Baldy, we looked out at the other white snowy peaks surrounding us. I felt elated and was glad that my dad had pushed me; now we would have fun skiing the six miles back down the mountain.
Over the next couple of weeks in the monastery, I went through a metamorphosis; I was beginning to get my spiritual second wind. The aching in my heart receded and I began to recite the mantra loudly, verbally as we were told. The other monks would whisper it occasionally, but if the rule was to say it out loud with every breath, then that was what I was determined to do. I worked with a bit of a taciturn hostility towards myself, using the mantra like a verbal whip to get myself focused. I moved more quickly as I worked and looked down, avoiding eye contact with the other monks as I walked. I was determined to stomp my ego into the dirt with the mantra and ignored any impulse of self gratification.
The nights were the most difficult for me and sleep was an enemy I was constantly battling. Half asleep in the dark cell where I prayed on my stool, focusing on the prayer was almost impossible. During the day I could use bodily movements to help my mind focus, but as sleep crept up on me and dreams began to take form, breathing in the name of Christ didn’t help dispel the visions. My head would constantly jerk as it would drop off, and the stool would wobble. The bells at 3am were a relief as they called us for morning services in the cathedral.
The cathedral was dimly lit with red candles dangling in front of the large icons of the saints. Upon entering the church, we would walk up to the icons, cross ourselves and touch the ground with our fingers before venerating the saints with a kiss. Then we would walk up to Fr. Paisios and tell him our sins of the previous day.
A monk is to distrust his own thoughts and any thought other than the Jesus Prayer is a sin to be confessed to the spiritual father. This was a baffling rule —every thought? Surely the mind chatters with ideas that flutter in and out, but when I asked Fr. Paisios for clarification on which thoughts to confess, he told me that it was necessary to confess all of them, and that it would be good to carry a little piece of paper to write my thoughts down on. To this day, I don’t see what I was supposed to have written. I would often pick up my pen and think, hmmmm okay, I guess I should write about looking at Fr. Arsenios with contempt, but was it contempt? Well now that I’ve thought about that—wait, should I write about thinking about how to specify the exact thought—wait isn’t this a thought…and on my mind would entangle. So I would confess general ideas to Fr. Paisios and wonder what the other monks would whisper in his ear.
During the early morning service, I would stand in front of the icon of Mary, a life size icon of The Holy Mother, holding her baby Jesus. It was heavily decorated with dazzling gold and red paint outlined with silver metal and gems. I would look upon this icon and my heart would swoon—I felt that somehow, she was looking back at me, comforting me, and this made me feel ashamed. I had sinned so much, so many lustful thoughts and deeds during high school. Tears would drip down and form a puddle in front of my feet during the service, but they felt so good and sweet. Weeping was a spiritual self indulgence. Feeling sad and unworthy, asking for mercy began to feel like a precious secret. I began to pity the world—if only they knew how good it felt to give everything away and force the body to live pure and holy, surely everyone would join monasteries, or at least weep in front of Mary.
In December, a couple weeks before Christmas, another change occurred inside me. I was walking back from breakfast, preparing to take my morning nap, when I fell to the ground. It felt like I was becoming an insignificant dot and seeing the universe expand around me. Infinitely, in all directions, the expansion continued until I was afraid I would disappear—I was smaller than an electron circling the nucleus of an atom. I scurried into my cell and collapsed, prostrating myself in front of the icons in my room. This was almost an inverse feeling of what I had experienced in October. The previous gripping of my heart had made me feel heavy and sad, but this feeling of expansion had made me feel like I would disappear. It was a sensation of my body expanding as big as the universe, but the true essence of myself was a tiny speck inside my heart, and this fragment of being was too small to characterize—it had no thought or sentience, yet I knew it to be my essence.
I tried to describe this experience to the Elder, and he stopped me half way through saying, “These things happen, you will experience terrifying things, and the grace of God, but don’t let it affect you. Keep praying; don’t let anything distract you from your prayer.” He looked at me and could see the confusion on my face, so he told me an inexplicable experience he had.
“One night on Mt. Athos, I awoke covered in fragrant oil. It was under my cassock, covering me from head to toe. I didn’t let it stop me from my prayer; it wasn’t from my prayers, Lukas—it was from the Elder Ephraim. We are all lucky to have him here watching over us.” Fr. Paisios smiled and his warm eyes seemed to glow in the darkness of the cathedral. I kissed his hand and went to my stasithia in front of the icon of The Virgin.
I contemplated what Fr. Paisios had told me about being covered with fragrant oil. Was he attributing the divine experience to the Elder Ephraim out of humility? I imagined the Elder Ephraim conversing with angels, fighting demons and creating an invisible field of protection over his disciples. I was glad to be his spiritual grand-child, happy to be in the flock of his dearest disciple.
Throughout December, the prayer began to feel sweet—literally, as if something in my heart was exuding the fragrance of flowers into my lungs so that, when I breathed, I could taste it. I was glad to be working in the garden, tending the trees without any distractions. The prayer seemed to give me energy, and the work my body did was effortless, so I asked for more chores.
Fr. Paisios gave me permission to walk the dogs; there were three mutts on the grounds that the monks would occasionally play with, but throughout the day they were tethered to runners. After doing the dishes, I would run with the dogs to the top of a small hill about a mile away from the monastery.
“Lukas, what are you, a marathon-monk?” Fr. Anthony joked as I ran by him.
At the top of the hill I would look out over the desert, noticing vibrant light around the cacti and dogs. “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord,” David wrote in the psalms. Perhaps the dark shroud obscuring my view of The Garden of Eden was slowly lifting.
In January, the monastery was full of guests and pilgrims that had come for St. Anthony’s feast day. My schedule was full of washing dishes, and although the rest of the kitchen was bustling as the cooks fretting about the food, I was at peace with a steady rhythm of dishes.
Then it happened. Inside my head, a flash bulb ignited with brilliant white light as I was catapulted out of my body and into a realm of shimmering colors that fragmented beautifully. The out of body experience was only a second long, but as I came back to my own body, standing there in the kitchen, holding a dirty spatula with my rubber-gloved hand, a sweetness, unlike any other I had felt entered my chest. It was as if wine were poured inside my heart, warm and comforting, expanding outward into my limbs. My eyelids fluttered as tears streamed down my face, a smile stretched across my face. The mantra was not there, only silence, a sweet silence, a wordless sensation of grace.
The intensity of the sweetness faded slowly, and I sighed, slowly verbalizing the mantra, but I uttered the words through a smile which I could not (nor did I try) keep from my face. After Vespers, I found Fr. Paisios and told him of my experience. The smile was still on my face, and I could feel my eyes shining.
“Lukas… that was a temptation from the devil,” he said, looking gravely into my eyes.
The smile was gone in an instant. I frowned, confused, searching for words I could not find for a response, so I kissed his hand and walked back in front of Mary. I began to recite the mantra, but the confusion began to create a dialogue within my head. How could that have been the devil, so sweet and precious? No, don’t think that. Kyrie Isu Xriste… he must be mistaken. Be Quiet—Kyrie Isu… what’s real then? This monologue within myself, full of doubt and fear began to trouble me. I looked to Mary for help and guidance. But what if you feel her grace and it’s really the Devil? The questions were formed, one after the other, and I knew I’d have to confess them. Fr. Paisios was standing on the other side of the cathedral; my body seemed to walk of its own accord over to him.
“Forgive me father, but thoughts of doubt are coming into my mind and distracting me from the prayer.” I whispered to him. He frowned and I realized that I was distracting him from his own prayer.
“Lukas, just focus,” he nodded for me to go back to my stasithia. Idiot!—that’s not how things are done. If I had disrupting thoughts, I should tell him the next night in the line with all the other monks. I felt ashamed and, after self-deprecating myself with a pinch on my leg, I continued the prayer. Why did you pinch yourself, you’re going to have to confess that. I shook my head, trying to focus. What if I forget to confess it? I didn’t have my pen and pad in the cathedral—all the other monks were as still as statues. The Byzantine melody was ancient and had such a beautiful sound, and it often helped me pray, but now it seemed annoying. I should confess that I felt annoyed by the melody—surely that’s sinful. An avalanche of thoughts tumbled upon me, stifling and suffocating my peace of mind. All sweetness was lost. What’s happening—was all that grace and sweetness of the Jesus Prayer a lie, a delusion of the Devil? Although my mind asked me these questions, I simply couldn’t believe it. Do you doubt Fr. Paisios? He’s your elder; you are to be obedient to him above all. In fact, in a communal monastery, I had read that a monk was to see his spiritual father’s face as the face of Christ and obey him as such. The spiritual father is like a shepherd, responsible for the souls of his flock.
The following days were a nightmare. Thoughts would pour into my mind, interrupting the mantra which was idly spoken. Every time I tried to tell myself that the elder was right and that my epiphany was of the Devil, something inside me would revolt, a discomfort, as if my soul knew that the Elder was wrong. This dichotomy raging in a furious debate made everything in the tangible world seem surreal. In the darkness as I sat on the stool, the reeling of my mind was so violent that I would shake, hyperventilate and finally turn on the light in my cell.
This isn’t real. None of this is real—it’s all a test. As the bells rang, summoning us to the cathedral, I went to whisper to Fr. Paisios. I could see him adjusting his stance, aggravated as I approached. “Fr. Paisios, I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”
“Focus on the prayer, don’t let anything…”
“But that’s just it!” I said, exasperated throwing my hands in the air, “I can’t focus… I can’t even try to focus because when I do, my mind says to me, ‘oh so you’re trying to focus on the prayer that’s good’, and then I don’t know whether or not to confess that thought, because after all, it is a thought other than the prayer, and then…”
“Lukas,” Fr. Paisios said calmly, “Do you remember how you were when you first came to the monastery? Just try to be that person again—don’t worry so much. You’re going to be here a long time, so you can take things slowly.”
“How can I go back to the way I was?” I asked, my eyes beginning to well up with tears. “I was so distracted when I first came here; the prayer had not entered my heart and I thought so many things I wasn’t even conscious of—I can try, but what should I confess with all these thoughts bouncing around in my head?”
“Well,” Fr. Paisios said thoughtfully, “Confess anything thing you think other than the Jesus Prayer.” After he said these words, my eyes opened wider, and an uncontrollable giggle escaped my mouth. I covered my face, still standing there in front of him.
“I’m sorry, I’ll try,” I said to him. He had the most curious look I’d ever seen on his face. I don’t think anyone had ever laughed during confession in the dark cathedral. As I turned around and walked to my stasithia, I noticed all the monks were watching me. Giddiness overcame me, something that I could not suppress as I stifled another uncomfortable giggle. I looked up to Mary and her sad face as she held baby Jesus.
I felt depressed like I had let myself down. Bitter tears formed, but as I began reciting the Jesus Prayer, I started convulsing with another fit of the giggles. All the monks were looking at me; I noticed that Fr. Menas was frowning. I couldn’t stay in the temple and walked out into the cold desert night. We were told that if we got tired, we should take a short walk around the building to get our blood pumping, and then go back inside. I was walking, slowly, reciting the Jesus Prayer and giggling, trying to get myself under control when heard the door open.
“Lukas, I need to talk with you,” Fr. Paisios said. His sullen eyes made my stomach churn. He led me to his small office, and told me to sit down. It was the same office that the Elder Ephraim had told me I was going to become a monk. I sat down across from him.
“You seem to be very troubled Lukas,” Fr. Paisios said. He folded his arms across his chest in a defensive manner.
“I don’t know what’s going on—I didn’t mean to laugh, really, it just came out of me… but I guess that’s more like the person I was when I arrived, so is that good?” I asked hopefully. I was geturing wildly in the air as I spoke, wide awake, which was strange because it was 4:00 a.m., usually when I was most tired.
“The Elder Ephraim is coming to visit us tomorrow, so maybe he can help you.” Was he implying that I was beyond his control or that he was ill-equipped to deal with me?
“Yeah, that might be a good idea—right now, thoughts are just—I mean really… every thought other than the Jesus Prayer, don’t you see how impossible that is?” I leaned toward him, lifting my eye brows. He leaned back in his seat frowning.
“Lukas, you are worrying too much, just try and relax.”
I smiled and nodded.
I think at this time I knew it was over. He couldn’t help me. How could he honestly expect me to relax, pray ceaselessly, and confess everything other than the Jesus Prayer? When the Elder Ephraim came, I was able to talk with him only a couple of minutes. When I tried to emphasize my predicament by grabbing my heart or other dramatic gestures, he became startled and had to stop and count his pulse. I was too much for the little saint to handle. It was over.
The next day Fr. Paisios told me that he and the Elder decided it would be best to fly me back to Washington. I felt strangely relieved, but also sad. Fr. Paisios asked me to take off my monks robe. Fr. Menas was puzzled, wondering what I could have done to deserve expulsion, as he saw me in layman’s clothing at my last supper. Leaving my black robe behind as I boarded the white plane, I smiled. Maybe I had fallen in between the line of yin and yang, black and white, and heaven and hell itself; I had slipped into the gray. Under obedience of my spiritual father, I had left the monastery, therefore, anything I did from here on out, he was accountable for. “If his obedience for the Lord’s sake is perfect, even if it does not seem perfect, he will escape judgment,” wrote St. John Climacus.