The Way of the Pilgrim

The Way of the Pilgrim

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Foreword

When I began looking for a book from the Orthodox Christian tradition, The Way of the Pilgrim was recommended to me. To deepen my own understanding, I took an existing translation from the Malankara Library and carefully reformulated the wording.

What I discovered was a treasure: the simple, steady rhythm of the Jesus Prayer—“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.” The emphasis on unceasing repetition was something new for me. It was never part of the faith tradition of my youth. Yet as I opened myself to it, I found it to be a welcome companion on the journey of prayer.

Now, when I lie awake at night, I often whisper these words. Not because I believe I am evil, unworthy, or trying to appease God, but because life can feel isolating and lonely. In those moments, the presence of the living Christ—called upon with this short prayer—becomes a balm to the soul.

My hope is that this little book nourishes you as it has nourished me. May these pages open a path of quiet prayer, steady presence, and simple faith. And may you discover, in your own pilgrimage of life, that Christ is always closer than your breath.

Many blessings on the road ahead.

—Michael

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Chapter 1

By the grace of God, I am a Christian. By my actions, I am a great sinner. And by calling, I am a wandering pilgrim — A simple soul without a home, traveling from place to place.

All I carry with me is a small knapsack slung over my shoulder with a little dried bread inside, and tucked close to my heart, a copy of the Holy Bible.

That’s all I have. And really, that’s all I need.

One Sunday — it was the twenty-fourth after Pentecost — I went to church for the Divine Liturgy. During the reading from Saint Paul’s First Letter to the Thessalonians, a single phrase struck me like a bell in the quiet of my soul:

“Pray without ceasing.”

I couldn’t shake it. The words clung to me long after the service was over.

How could that even be possible? I wondered. We all have responsibilities — work, daily tasks, conversations. How could someone truly pray without ceasing? Was that even realistic?

Later, I turned to the Scriptures myself. And sure enough, there it was again, clear as day:

• “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thess. 5:17)
• “Pray at all times in the Spirit” (Eph. 6:18)
• “In every place lift up holy hands in prayer” (1 Tim. 2:8)

The more I thought about it, the more troubled I became. What did this mean for me? What kind of prayer was this? And how could I possibly live it?

I knew I needed help. Someone must understand this kind of prayer, I thought. Surely a wise teacher or priest can explain it to me.

So I began to travel. I visited churches known for their gifted preachers, hoping I might finally learn the way of unceasing prayer.

I heard many wonderful sermons — thoughtful, passionate, full of wisdom. They spoke about the beauty of prayer, its importance, and the blessings it brings. But still... no one explained how to actually do it. No one could tell me how to enter into prayer that flows without end. Not one sermon taught me how to pray in the Spirit or how to make my whole life into a prayer.

And so my longing only deepened.

After hearing so many sermons without finding the answer my soul longed for, I finally gave up on those kinds of talks. They were fine for the general crowd — helpful, even inspiring — but they never touched on how to actually pray without ceasing.

And now, something inside me wouldn’t let go of this longing. It had taken root in me. I felt drawn — irresistibly — to discover the way. So with God’s help, I made up my mind: I would seek out someone with real experience, someone who had lived this kind of prayer and could show me the way.

I set off again, wandering from place to place, my Bible my constant companion. Wherever I went, I asked if anyone knew of a spiritual guide — someone who could teach the inner life, not just talk about it.

Eventually, I heard of a certain landowner who lived quietly in a nearby village. They said he had spent many years devoted to his salvation. He never left his home, had a small chapel in his house, and spent his days in prayer and reading spiritual writings.

When I heard this, I didn’t waste any time. I picked up my pace and hurried to find him.

When I arrived, I found the man just as described — quiet, peaceful, reserved. He looked at me kindly and asked, “What is it you want from me?”

“I’ve heard,” I said, “that you are a man of prayer and spiritual insight. In the name of God, would you please help me understand something? What does the Apostle mean when he says, ‘Pray without ceasing’? How can a person possibly pray like that? I want to learn, but I just can’t grasp it on my own.”

He paused for a moment and studied me carefully. Then he said:

“Unceasing interior prayer is the continual movement of the soul toward God. To grow into this beautiful practice, you must ask the Lord often — with all your heart — to teach you how to pray without ceasing. Just begin. Pray more and more earnestly, and in time, the prayer itself will teach you how to continue. But it will unfold in its own time.”

That was all he said.

Then he gave me something to eat, kindly pressed a little money into my hand for the road, and sent me on my way.

And just like that — I was off again. No real explanation. No step-by-step guide. Still hungry for something I didn’t yet know how to find.

And so, I set off once more. All the while, my thoughts turned again and again to the words that kind landowner had spoken. I reread Scripture. I pondered. I prayed. But still... I couldn’t quite understand what he meant.

The longing in me had only grown stronger. It gnawed at me. Some nights, it even kept me from sleep. My heart was restless — not with anxiety, but with a deep ache to know God more fully through this mysterious, unceasing prayer.

After walking about 125 miles, I came to a large provincial town. There, I noticed a monastery on the outskirts. As I settled into an inn nearby, I overheard someone speaking warmly about the abbot of that monastery — a gracious man, known for his kindness, his hospitality, and his life of prayer.

That was enough for me. I went to find him.

He welcomed me with open arms — warm, gentle, joyful. He sat me down, offered me something to eat, and made me feel at home.

“Holy Father,” I said, “I’m not here for food — thank you kindly — but for guidance. I need help. I want to know what I must do to be saved.”

He looked at me with a soft smile. “Well, dear one,” he said, “live according to the commandments, pray to God, and you will be saved!”

“Yes, Father... but I’ve heard we are to pray without ceasing. And that’s where I get lost. I don’t understand how to do that. I don’t even fully understand what it means. Would you help me?”

He paused for a moment, then said, “Ah... that, I’m not so sure I can explain. But wait — I do have a small book that might help.”

He went to his bookshelf and returned with a little volume: The Spiritual Education of the Interior Man by Saint Dimitri. He opened it and handed it to me. “Here, read this part.”

I took the book and read the passage:

‘Those words of the Apostle — “pray without ceasing” — should be understood as referring to the prayer of the mind: for the mind can always be turned toward God, and pray to Him without stopping.’

I looked up. “But Father, how? How can the mind be always turned toward God — praying without being distracted by everything else in life?”

He sighed gently and replied, “Ah, dear brother... that takes a great deal of wisdom — unless, of course, God chooses to grant it as a gift.”

That was all he said.

No further guidance, no steps, no clarity. Just a mystery left in my hands.

I spent the night at the monastery, quietly grateful for his kindness. And in the morning, I thanked him for the shelter and continued on my way — still not knowing where, exactly, I was going. Only that something inside me was drawing me forward.

I felt a quiet sorrow rising within me — a grief that came from not understanding what my soul so deeply longed to grasp. Still, I tried to comfort myself by reading the Holy Scriptures. They were my food, my compass, my companion.

For five days, I walked along the main road, lost in thought, clinging to my little Bible like a lifeline. I didn’t know where I was going exactly. I only knew that something was calling me onward.

One evening, just as the light began to fade, an old man caught up with me on the road. He looked like a cleric of some kind, so I asked who he was. With a peaceful smile, he told me he was a schima monk — a monastic who had taken the Great Schema, the highest level of Orthodox monastic vows — and that he lived in a monastery about six miles off the road.

“You should come with me,” he said kindly. “We welcome pilgrims at the monastery. There’s a guesthouse where you can rest and eat with other devout travelers.”

I hesitated. My journey wasn’t about food or rest.

“Thank you,” I said, “but my peace doesn’t depend on finding shelter. What I truly need is spiritual guidance. As for food, I’ve got some dry crusts of bread in my knapsack — enough to get by.”

The monk paused and looked at me with interest. “What kind of guidance are you looking for, brother? What is it that’s troubling your heart?”

His voice was gentle, sincere. Something in me softened.

He continued, “Come with me. We have experienced startsi — wise elders — at our monastery. They can nourish your soul and help you find the path, through the Word of God and the teachings of the holy Fathers.”

So I told him my story.

“Batyushka,” I began, “about a year ago, during the Divine Liturgy, I heard a reading from the Apostle that stirred something deep in me. It said, ‘Pray without ceasing.’ I couldn’t make sense of it. So I began reading the Bible myself, and there I found it repeated again and again: we are to pray always, in every place, at all times — not only while working, or walking, or reading, but even while we sleep. ‘I sleep, but my heart is awake’ — that’s what it says in the Song of Songs.

“I couldn’t understand it. How could a person possibly pray in this way? How could this be done? What kind of prayer was this?

“That question took root in me. I couldn’t let it go. Day and night, I found myself thinking about it, searching for answers.

“I started visiting churches wherever I could, hoping to hear a sermon that might explain it. And I heard many fine words — teachings about how to prepare for prayer, about the blessings that come from prayer — but never anything about how to actually pray without ceasing. No one could show me what that prayer looked like, or how it lived and breathed in a person’s life.

“I kept reading the Bible to see if I had misunderstood. But still, no answers came. My heart remains restless. I am not at peace. I’m still searching.”

The starets made the sign of the cross and began to speak.

“Thank God, dear brother,” he said, “for placing within you this deep and irresistible longing for unceasing, interior prayer. This desire didn’t come from nowhere — it is a gift. It is the very call of God stirring in your soul.

“So be at peace. Truly — rest in this: up to now, what you’ve been experiencing is the testing of your will, a kind of preparation. You’ve been cooperating with the Spirit’s gentle invitation, learning to follow that inner tug toward something greater than yourself.

“And now, you’ve been shown something essential — something that can’t be learned from books or sermons alone. You’ve come to see that no amount of worldly knowledge, no clever reasoning or surface-level curiosity, can open the way to the mystery of unceasing prayer. That kind of prayer is not the result of intellect — it’s the fruit of a humble and quiet heart. It is born out of poverty of spirit, not brilliance of mind. It must be lived, not simply studied.

“So no, it’s not surprising that the sermons you’ve heard haven’t satisfied your hunger. They may have been wise and well-meaning, but they were focused on the surroundings of prayer — not its essence.

“It’s true: much is said and written about prayer. But even among spiritual teachers, many are more skilled at discussing the outer elements of prayer than at describing its living core. Most speak from ideas, not experience.

“One preacher might offer a beautiful message about why prayer is necessary. Another might describe the power of prayer — its benefits, its fruits. Yet another will explain how to prepare for it: how to focus your mind, warm your heart, be attentive, humble, contrite, and so on.

“All of this has value. But none of it quite gets to the heart of the matter: what prayer itself actually is, and how to learn to pray unceasingly.

“And that — that is the most important question of all. The one question that rarely receives a clear answer.

“Why? Because it requires more than reason. It requires a kind of vision, a mystical insight that comes from the Spirit — not from intellectual effort. That kind of insight is rare. And in its absence, many well-meaning people end up treating prayer backwards.

“They think that if they just prepare well enough — with effort, focus, virtue, good works — then prayer will somehow emerge from all that. But it doesn’t work that way.

“It is prayer itself that gives birth to those good works. It is prayer that awakens humility, tenderness, and love. Not the other way around.

“When we treat the fruits of prayer as if they’re the cause — when we try to make them the starting point instead of the result — we unintentionally strip prayer of its real power.”

“All of this,” the starets continued, “runs contrary to the witness of Holy Scripture. The Apostle Paul himself says:

‘I urge, therefore, that first of all, supplications be made...’ (1 Timothy 2:1)

Did you catch that? First of all. Before anything else, pray.

It’s clear, isn’t it? Prayer isn’t just one part of the Christian life — it is the starting point, the foundation. A lot of good works are asked of us, yes — acts of charity, humility, self-control. But none of those can truly take root unless prayer comes first.

Without prayer, how can we even begin to approach God? How can we discover truth? How can we overcome the cravings and urges of the flesh, or open our hearts to the light of Christ?

Only prayer makes this possible — and not just any prayer, but frequent, sincere prayer.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. The kind of pure, unceasing prayer that the soul longs for — that’s not something we can just will into existence. Even Saint Paul admits:

‘We do not know how to pray as we ought.’ (Romans 8:26)

So what can we do?

We can show up. We can pray often. We can make space — again and again — for God to teach us.

That’s the part that lies within our power: the frequency of prayer, and our willingness to return to it. That steady rhythm of prayer is what gradually prepares the soul. It softens the heart, clears the mind, and allows true prayer to take root.

And once that happens... everything else begins to unfold.

As Saint Isaac the Syrian said:

‘Acquire the mother, and she will bear you children.’

In other words, learn to pray first — and from that prayer will flow all the virtues, all the good works, all the love and clarity the soul needs.

But this can be hard for people to see — especially those who’ve never had a living experience of prayer for themselves. Without that personal encounter, even spiritual teachers may overlook the mystical wisdom of the Fathers. And so they speak little of it.

But those who’ve tasted it, even just a little... they know. Prayer is the doorway. It is the wellspring. Everything begins there.

We became so absorbed in our conversation that, before I realized it, we had nearly reached the monastery. I didn’t want to lose the chance to learn from this wise starets, so I quickly asked, “Honorable Father, would you be so kind as to explain to me the meaning of unceasing interior prayer? And how can one learn it? I see that you have experience and know it well.”

The starets smiled gently and invited me inside. “Come with me,” he said. “I will give you a book of the Fathers’ writings. With God’s help, it will help you understand prayer clearly and in detail.”

We entered his small cell, and he began to speak:

“Unceasing interior prayer — the Jesus Prayer — is the continual, uninterrupted calling upon the holy name of Jesus Christ. With your lips, your mind, and your heart, you call to mind His constant presence and beg His mercy, no matter what you are doing, wherever you are, at all times, and even as you sleep.

The words of this prayer are simple: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me!’

If you make this prayer your habit, you will find great comfort in it. You’ll want to repeat it again and again until one day, it feels impossible to live without it. The prayer will begin to flow naturally, of its own accord.”

“Now, is it clear to you what unceasing prayer is?” he asked.

“Very clear, my Father!” I exclaimed joyfully. “For God’s sake, please teach me how to acquire it!”

“We can learn how to pray in this way from the book called the Philokalia,” he said. “It contains the complete and detailed teachings on unceasing interior prayer, given by twenty-five holy Fathers. It is so full of wisdom and grace that it is considered the foremost manual for the contemplative spiritual life.

The blessed Nikifor once said, ‘Without struggle and sweat, it does not bring one to salvation.’”

“Is it possible that it is more exalted and holier than the Bible?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “it is not more exalted or holier than the Bible. But it contains enlightened explanations of what is mystically contained within the Scriptures. It is so lofty that it cannot be easily grasped by our limited intellects.

“Let me give you an example: the sun is the greatest, most resplendent source of light. But you cannot look directly at it with the naked eye. You need a special lens—one that is far smaller and dimmer than the sun itself—to study its brilliance and endure its fiery rays. In this way, the Holy Scriptures are like the sun, and the Philokalia is the necessary lens that helps us see and understand its light.

“Now listen carefully,” the starets said as he opened the Philokalia and selected a passage from Saint Simeon the New Theologian:

‘Find a quiet place to sit alone and in silence; bow your head and shut your eyes. Breathe softly, look with your mind into your heart; recollect your mind—that is, gather all its thoughts—and bring them down from your mind into your heart. As you breathe, repeat: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me” — either quietly with your lips, or only in your mind. Strive to banish all thoughts; be calm and patient, and repeat this exercise frequently.’

The starets explained all this to me patiently, illustrating with examples. We read further passages from Saint Gregory of Sinai, the blessed Callistus, and Ignatius.

After reading, the starets spoke more in his own words. I was fascinated. I listened carefully, absorbing every detail as best as I could.

We spent the entire night together, without sleeping a wink, and then went off to matins. When it was time to part, the starets blessed me and said that as I learned the prayer, I should come to him regularly — to reveal everything honestly and openly, to confess my struggles. He told me it was difficult, even futile, to live an inner spiritual life properly without the guidance of a spiritual director.

Standing in the church, I felt a burning zeal inside me to learn unceasing interior prayer as diligently as I could. I prayed to God for help in this effort.

But then a question troubled me: How would I visit the starets for counsel and confession? The monastery guesthouse allowed only a three-day stay, and there were no other residences nearby.

Then, by God’s grace, I heard about a village a little over three miles away. I went there searching for a place to stay, and I was overjoyed to find lodging. A kindly peasant hired me to guard his kitchen garden for the summer, and in return, I could live alone in a small hut near the garden. Thank God! I had found peaceful shelter.

So, I settled into my new home and began to learn interior prayer as I had been taught, visiting the starets from time to time.

For a week, in the quiet of the garden, I worked diligently on unceasing prayer. At first, it seemed like progress was being made. But then a heavy weight settled over me — laziness, boredom, drowsiness, and a swarm of distracting thoughts clouded my mind.

Filled with grief, I went back to the starets and shared my troubles.

He greeted me kindly and said, “That, beloved brother, is the kingdom of darkness waging war against you. There is nothing more dreadful to this darkness than the prayer of the heart, so it will try every trick to stop you from learning to pray.

“But remember — even the enemy acts only by God’s will and permission, and only as long as it is necessary for us. It seems your humility still needs testing. It is too soon for you to enter your deepest heart with such unrestrained zeal, lest you fall into spiritual greed.

“I will read to you what the Philokalia says about this.”

The starets found a passage from the teachings of Blessed Nicephorus the Solitary and began to read:

“If, after a few attempts, you are unable to enter into the place of the heart, as you were taught to do, then do what I tell you, and with God’s help, you will find what you seek. You know that each person has a larynx through which they speak. Banishing all thoughts (which you can do if you truly want), exercise this faculty and continually repeat the following: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me!’ Compel yourself always to repeat this. If you do this for some time, then assuredly this exercise will open the doors of your heart. Experience has proven this.”

“So this is what the holy Fathers prescribe in such cases,” the starets said. “You must accept this teaching with complete trust and repeat the Jesus Prayer as often as possible.

“Take this chotki and use it while you pray. Begin by repeating the prayer at least three thousand times a day. Whether standing, sitting, walking, or lying down, continue to say, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me!’

“Do not rush or say it loudly, but without fail, repeat it three thousand times each day. Don’t increase or decrease this number on your own.

“Through this practice, God will help you attain the unceasing prayer of the heart.”

I joyfully accepted his instructions, returned home, and began to follow the starets’ guidance faithfully and exactly.

For two days, the prayer felt difficult and forced. But then, gradually, it became easy and deeply desirable. When I stopped, I felt a compelling need to begin again.

Soon, I was praying with comfort and ease, without the effort I had to exert at first.

I shared all this with the starets, who then instructed me to increase the number of repetitions to six thousand times a day. “Be calm and simply try to repeat the prayer as faithfully as you can, for the number of times I have assigned you. God will bestow His mercy on you.”

For an entire week, in the solitude of my hut, I repeated the Jesus Prayer six thousand times a day. I didn’t worry about anything, and I paid no attention to any thoughts, no matter how strongly they assailed me. I focused solely on precisely carrying out the starets’s instructions.

And do you know what happened? I became so used to the prayer that when I stopped, even for a brief moment, I felt as though something was missing — as if I had lost something precious. When I began again, I was immediately filled with an inner lightness and joy.

If I happened to meet people, I no longer felt any desire to speak with them; I longed only for solitude, to be alone with my prayer. Within a week, I had become deeply accustomed to this prayer.

After ten days without seeing me, the starets himself came to visit. I described my inner state to him. He listened and said, “Now that you have grown accustomed to the prayer, take care to preserve and strengthen this habit. Do not waste your time, and with God’s help, resolve to repeat the prayer, without fail, twelve thousand times a day.

Remain in solitude, rise earlier in the morning, stay up later at night, and come to me for counsel every two weeks.”

I began to follow the starets’s instructions. By late evening on the first day, I had barely managed to complete the rule of twelve thousand repetitions. On the second day, I fulfilled the rule with ease and delight.

At first, I was weary from the constant repetition. My tongue grew numb, and my jaws felt stiff — though these sensations were not unpleasant. Then I felt a subtle, delicate pain in the roof of my mouth, followed by a slight pain in the thumb of my left hand, which I used to count the knots of the chotki. My left wrist felt inflamed, and this sensation spread up to my elbow, creating a most pleasant feeling.

Moreover, all of this somehow urged and compelled me to pray more and more.

Thus, for the first five days, I faithfully repeated the prayer twelve thousand times a day. As this habit grew stronger, it also became more pleasant, and I found myself more willing to practice it.

Early one morning, something unusual happened — the prayer itself awakened me. I began to say my usual morning prayers, but my tongue felt reluctant to speak them. All my desire seemed to be reaching, almost with a will of its own, toward the Jesus Prayer.

As soon as I began to repeat it, I was filled with such lightness and joy that it felt like my tongue and mouth were moving on their own. The words flowed without any effort at all. I spent the whole day wrapped in that joy, as if I were somehow apart from the world — almost like I was on another planet.

By early evening, I had easily completed the twelve thousand repetitions of the prayer. I even had a strong desire to keep going, but I didn’t dare go beyond the rule the starets had given me. In the days that followed, I continued to call on the name of Jesus Christ with such ease, feeling drawn to it again and again.

Eventually, I went to visit the starets and told him everything in detail. He listened attentively and said, “Thank God that the ease and desire for prayer have awakened in you. This is a natural result of frequent practice and perseverance. It’s like a piece of machinery that, once its main drive is set in motion, can run on its own for a long time — but it still needs to be oiled and kept in motion from time to time.

“Do you see now what great potential God, in His love, has placed even in our earthly and sensual human nature? What deep experiences can be felt even outside a state of full grace — even in a soul still wounded by sin and passion — as you yourself have discovered?

“But how much more magnificent, delightful, and joyful it is when the Lord purifies the soul and grants the gift of unceasing, self-acting prayer! That kind of prayer is beyond words. It is a foretaste of heaven itself, given here on earth to those who seek the Lord with simplicity and love in their hearts.

“From now on, I give you leave to repeat the prayer as much as you wish, and as often as your heart desires. Strive to spend every waking moment in prayer. Don’t worry about counting repetitions anymore. Just call on the name of Jesus Christ, humbly submitting yourself to God's will, and trusting in His help.

“I believe He will not abandon you. He will guide you and set you firmly on the path.”

I embraced the starets’s guidance and spent the entire summer continually repeating the Jesus Prayer with my lips. I felt deeply at peace, and even in my dreams, I found myself still uttering the prayer.

Whenever I encountered people during the day, each one seemed so dear to me — as if they were family. Beyond that, I didn’t concern myself much with them. Thoughts faded away on their own, and the prayer alone filled my awareness. My mind stayed attentive, recollected, focused on that simple invocation. Sometimes, of its own accord, my heart would grow warm and fill with a quiet, gentle joy.

When I went to church, even the long monastic services — which used to feel burdensome — now passed swiftly, as if in no time at all. My little hut, once so plain, felt like a splendid palace. And my heart overflowed with gratitude to God for sending such a wise and holy starets to guide a wretched sinner like me.

But my time with him was not long. At the end of that summer, my beloved starets died. With tears, I said my farewell and thanked him for all the fatherly counsel he had given me. Before parting, I begged him to give me, as a blessing and keepsake, the chotki he had always used to pray with. He did so — and then I was alone.

Summer came to an end. The kitchen garden was harvested, and I no longer had a place to stay. The peasant released me from my duties, gave me a small wage of two rubles, and filled my knapsack with dried bread for the journey.

So once again, I set out on the road, wandering from place to place. But now, there was no worry in my wandering. Calling on the name of Jesus Christ filled my days with joy. Everyone I met seemed dear to me, as though love itself lived in each of them.

At one point, I began to wonder what I should do with the small wages I’d earned from guarding the kitchen garden. What did I really need money for? Then a thought came to me, clear and sudden: “Of course! The starets is gone now, and there’s no one left to guide me. I’ll buy myself a copy of the Philokalia and continue learning about interior prayer on my own.”

I made the sign of the cross and kept walking, my heart praying with each step. Eventually, I came to a provincial town and began searching through the shops for a copy of the Philokalia. I found one — but it was priced at three rubles, and I only had two.

I tried bargaining with the shopkeeper, but he wouldn’t lower the price. At last, he said, “Go to that church over there and speak with the parish elder. He has an old copy of the book. Maybe he’ll sell it to you for two rubles.”

So I went, and to my great joy, the elder agreed to sell me his worn old copy. It was tattered and fragile, but I was thrilled. I patched it up as best I could, sewing a piece of fabric around it for a cover, and placed it lovingly in my knapsack alongside my Bible.

I set out again, praying the Jesus Prayer with every breath. It had become more precious to me than anything else in the world. There were days I would walk over forty-seven miles, yet I felt no effort or exhaustion — the prayer filled my entire awareness.

When it was bitterly cold, I prayed more fervently, and soon warmth would return to my body. If hunger came upon me, I called on the name of Jesus, and my hunger faded away. If my back or legs ached with pain, I would lose myself in the prayer, and before long, I couldn’t even feel the discomfort.

If someone offended me, I would turn to the sweetness of the name of Jesus, and all hurt or anger would vanish, as if it had never been. It was as though I had become a fool in the eyes of the world — nothing concerned me anymore. I had no interest in the distractions and pursuits that once held sway over me. I longed only for silence, for solitude, so I could continue praying without interruption.

There was now only one desire in me: to pray unceasingly, because that prayer filled me with a quiet, enduring joy.

God alone knows what was happening to me! Of course, I understood these feelings were still bound to the senses, or, as my departed starets would say, they were a natural outcome of continual practice. And in my unworthiness and simplicity, I dared not yet reach for the deeper prayer of the inner heart. I waited instead on the will of God, placing my hope in the intercessions of my departed teacher.

And so, even though I had not yet been granted the unceasing, self-acting prayer of the heart, I still gave thanks to God — for now I understood clearly what the apostle meant when he wrote those words that first stirred my soul:

“Pray without ceasing.”

Chapter 2

For a long time I wandered through many different places, always accompanied by the Jesus Prayer. No matter what I encountered—or who—I felt encouraged and comforted by the steady rhythm of that holy name in my heart and on my lips.

Eventually, I began to wonder if it might be better to settle down somewhere. I longed for enough time and solitude to study the Philokalia more deeply. I had read short passages here and there—whenever I stopped to rest at night or paused along the road during the day—but my heart ached to fully immerse myself in its pages. I hoped that, through the Philokalia, I might discover the way of salvation more clearly, guided by the prayer of the heart.

But as much as I wanted to find a place to stay, my circumstances made that difficult. I had a disability in my left arm that I’d had since early childhood, which made it hard to find any steady work. Without a way to support myself, I couldn’t manage a permanent home.

So I decided to head east, toward Siberia. I wanted to visit the grave of Saint Innocent of Irkutsk, and I imagined that the quiet of the Siberian forests and open steppes would be just the thing—less noise, fewer distractions, more space for prayer and study.

And so I set out once more, the Jesus Prayer quietly flowing from my lips with every step.

After a while, something beautiful began to happen. The prayer started to move from my lips into my heart. That is, while my heart beat in its natural rhythm, I sensed the words of the prayer echoing within it, gently and steadily: Lord . . . Jesus . . . Christ . . . — one word for each heartbeat.

So I stopped speaking the prayer aloud and instead listened, attentively and quietly, to the words of my heart. I remembered how my beloved starets had once told me how sweet this moment would be. And indeed, I began to feel a gentle tenderness deep in my chest—like a soft aching, but full of peace.

And then something even deeper stirred in me. My thoughts were filled with such love for Jesus Christ that it overwhelmed me. I imagined that if I were to see Him, I would fall at His feet and never let go—clinging to Him with tears and tenderness, kissing His feet in love and awe. I would thank Him from the depths of my soul for His mercy, for allowing even someone like me—unworthy and sinful—to taste such consolation through His holy name.

Then something wonderful happened. A gentle, wholesome warmth began to fill my heart, spreading gradually across my chest. It felt both comforting and holy, like being quietly embraced from the inside. This warmth stirred in me a desire to return to the Philokalia—not only to deepen my understanding of the prayer of the heart, but also to verify what I was now experiencing. I felt a cautious concern: what if I mistook this natural warmth for the grace-filled work of God? My late starets had warned me that such missteps—confusing spiritual progress with mere emotional experiences—could lead to pride and delusion. I wanted to be sure.

So I shifted my rhythm. I began walking mostly at night and spending my days seated under the shelter of the trees, reading the Philokalia with care and reverence. Oh, the wisdom it opened to me! So many things I’d never known, so many insights that felt like dew to my soul. The more I read and practiced, the more I tasted a sweetness I hadn’t even imagined before. The kind of sweetness that doesn't just touch the tongue—it fills the spirit.

It’s true that some of the teachings were still beyond me. My mind, dull and untrained as it was, couldn’t grasp everything at once. But the prayer itself—the living, breathing repetition of the name of Jesus—began to clarify what I couldn’t understand with reason alone. At times, in dreams, my dear starets would come to me and explain things gently, guiding me as if he had never left my side. Most of all, he would stir my heart toward humility.

For over two months that summer, I lived in this hidden bliss—walking the forests and backroads, praying as I went. When I reached a village, I would humbly ask for a bit of dry bread for my knapsack and a pinch of salt. I’d fill my little bark jar with water and continue walking—sometimes nearly seventy miles—sustained by little more than prayer and grace.

But perhaps, as I now reflect, there was still something lacking in me. Maybe it was due to the lingering sins of my broken soul, or maybe I still needed greater humility and guidance. For just as the season was coming to a close, I was met with a trial.

One evening, I had come out onto a main road as the sun was setting. Two men approached from behind. They looked like soldiers from their haircuts, and soon they fell in step beside me. Without much preamble, they began demanding money. I told them honestly, “I don’t have a penny.” But they didn’t believe me.

“You’re lying!” one of them barked. “Pilgrims always get plenty of money!”

The other sneered. “Enough talking.” Then, without warning, he struck me hard across the head with a club.

And with that, everything went black.

I don’t know how long I lay there unconscious, but when I finally came to, I found myself lying at the edge of a forest, just off the road. My clothes were in disarray, and my knapsack was gone. All that remained were the frayed ropes that had once held it on my back. But—thank God—they hadn’t taken my passport, which I’d tucked safely inside my old hat in case I ever needed to produce it quickly.

I slowly stood up and began to cry—not from the pain in my head, but from the anguish in my soul. My books were gone. My Bible and my Philokalia, which I had kept so close, had been stolen with the knapsack.

And so I wept. Day and night, I grieved deeply. Where was the Bible I had read since my early childhood, the one I had carried faithfully with me all this time? Where was the Philokalia that had offered such comfort and guidance, that had taught me how to pray? My heart broke under the weight of that loss. These books were my companions, my teachers, my very sustenance—and now they were gone. I hadn’t even finished learning from them. I thought to myself, Why didn’t they just kill me instead of leaving me alive, empty-handed and starved of spiritual food? What would I do now?

For two days I wandered, barely able to move, so overwhelmed was I by sorrow and loss. On the third day, utterly exhausted, I collapsed beneath a bush and fell into a heavy sleep.

In that sleep, I dreamed.

I saw myself back at the monastery, sitting once more in the cell of my dear starets. I was pouring out my grief to him, telling him everything. He looked at me with compassion and said gently, “Let this be a lesson to you in detachment from earthly possessions. It will help to loosen your grip on the world and ease your ascent toward heaven. This sorrow was permitted for your protection—to guard you from falling into spiritual gluttony.”

Then he added, “God asks the Christian for total surrender—a letting go of his own will, of his desires, of all attachments—so that he can become entirely available to the Divine. The Lord orders all things, even suffering, for the good and salvation of the soul. As it is written, “…who desires all men to be saved.” —1 Timothy 2:4

“So take courage,” the starets said, “and believe that ‘with the temptation God will also provide the way of escape.’” —1 Corinthians 10:13

“And you will soon be comforted in far greater measure than you now grieve.”

When I awoke from that dream, a deep calm had settled over me. My heart felt lighter, and a quiet strength stirred within my soul. I made the sign of the cross and whispered, “God’s will be done.” Then I stood up and resumed my journey. And as I walked, the prayer returned to my heart just as before—living, steady, and sweet.

For three days I traveled in peace, praying without ceasing.

Then, one day, I came upon a convoy of prisoners marching under guard. As I drew closer, to my amazement, I saw the very two men who had robbed me. They were walking at the edge of the group. I rushed up to them, threw myself at their feet, and begged them with all my heart to tell me what they had done with my books.

At first they acted as if I were invisible. But then one of them said, “We’ll tell you—for a price. Give us a ruble.”

“I swear to you,” I pleaded, “I’ll give you a ruble, even if I must beg for it in Christ’s name. Here—take my passport as a pledge if you like.”

At last they told me: my books had been taken and were now in the rear wagon, along with all the other stolen goods that had been confiscated from them.

“How can I get them back?” I asked.

“Speak to the captain,” they said.

I ran to the officer in charge and poured out my story—how I’d been robbed, and how my Bible and Philokalia were the only treasures I had in this life.

The captain listened thoughtfully, then asked, “Can you really read the Bible?”

“Not only can I read,” I answered, “but I can also write. You’ll see—my name is written in the Bible itself. And it matches the name in my passport.”

The captain nodded. “These two are deserters,” he said. “They’d been hiding out in a mud hut, robbing anyone they could find. They were caught just yesterday by a clever coachman who caught them trying to steal his three-horse team.”

He paused, then added, “Well, I suppose I’ll return your books to you, if they’re in the wagon. But you’ll need to walk with us to our next stop—it’s only a little over two miles ahead. We can’t delay the whole convoy just for your sake.”

I walked gladly beside the captain’s horse, and we struck up a conversation. He was older, with a kind and honest face, and I quickly saw that he was a good man. He asked about me—where I came from, where I was headed, and what kind of journey I was on. I answered every question truthfully, and before long we had arrived at the hut where the convoy would spend the night.

The captain went to the rear wagon, found my books, and returned them to me with a simple word: “Here they are.” Then he looked at the darkening sky and said, “Where will you go now, in the night? Stay here in the foyer.”

I could hardly contain my gratitude. Now that I had my Bible and my Philokalia again, I didn’t know how to thank God. I clutched them to my chest and held them so tightly that my arms went numb. Tears streamed down my face, and my heart beat with a tender joy.

The captain watched me quietly, then said, “It’s obvious that you love reading the Bible.”

I was so moved, I couldn’t speak. My tears flowed even more freely.

The captain continued, “Brother, I too read the Bible every day.” He unbuttoned his military coat and pulled out a small silver-bound Bible, printed in Kiev.

“Come, sit. I’ll tell you how I came to it.”

Then he called out, “How about some supper!”

We sat down together and he began his story.

“From the time I was a young man, I served in the army—not in some cushy garrison, but in active duty. I knew my job well and earned the rank of second lieutenant. My superiors liked me. But I was young, and so were my friends—and sadly, we all drank. At first it was just for fun, but soon I became completely dependent on alcohol. When I was sober, I was a model officer. But once I started drinking again, I was lost for weeks at a time, completely useless.

“They put up with it for a while. But one day, during a drunken outburst, I insulted a commanding officer. That was it. They demoted me to the rank of soldier and transferred me to a garrison post. I was warned: one more slip, and the consequences would be severe.

“I tried everything to stop drinking. I prayed, I fasted, I tried every cure I could find. But nothing worked. No matter what I did, I couldn’t overcome it. Eventually, they decided to put me under arrest.

“When I heard that…” He paused, shaking his head. “…I was at my wit’s end.”

“One day, as I sat in the barracks deep in thought, a monk came by, unexpectedly, collecting alms for the church. Each of us gave what we could. When he approached me, he paused and asked, ‘Why are you so sad?’

“We struck up a conversation, and I poured out all my woes to him. He listened with compassion and said, ‘The very same thing happened to my brother. Here’s what helped him: his spiritual father gave him a Bible and told him firmly that whenever he felt the urge to drink wine, he should immediately pick up the Bible and read a chapter. Every time the urge returned, he was to read yet another chapter. My brother followed this advice. And before long, the passion for alcohol left him completely. He hasn’t touched a drop in fifteen years. Why don’t you try the same? It’ll work—you’ll see. I have a Bible, and I’ll bring it to you.’

“I listened, but I replied, ‘How can your Bible help me when neither my efforts nor medical treatments have worked?’ I said this because I had never actually read the Bible.

“But the monk said, ‘Don’t say that. I assure you—it will help.’

“The next day, true to his word, he brought me his Bible. I opened it, looked through it, read a little, and said, ‘I won’t take it. I can’t understand a word. I’m not used to reading Church Slavonic.’

“But the monk insisted. ‘That doesn’t matter. These are the words of God Himself—they carry the power of grace. Just keep reading, even if you don’t understand everything. A saint once said, “If you don’t understand the words of God, the evil spirits do—and they tremble before them.” Your addiction to alcohol is surely the work of the devil. And here’s something else: Saint John Chrysostom wrote that even the room where a Bible is kept becomes a terror to the spirits of darkness. They can’t work their snares in a place where the Word of God dwells.’”

“I forget how much money I gave the monk, but I did accept his Bible. I tucked it away in a small trunk along with my other belongings—and then forgot about it.

“Some time later, I was once again overcome with a powerful urge to drink. The craving was so intense I felt as though I were dying for a taste of wine. I rushed to open my trunk, intending to grab some money and run to the tavern. But the first thing my eyes landed on was the Bible. In that moment, I remembered everything the monk had told me. I opened the book and began to read the first chapter of Matthew. I read the whole chapter, though I didn’t understand a word of it. Then I recalled the monk’s advice: ‘If you don’t understand it right away, keep on reading diligently.’

“All right, I thought to myself, I’ll read another chapter. I did—and I began to understand. Why not try a third chapter? But just then, the barracks bell rang, signaling it was time for lights out. It was too late to go anywhere, so I stayed in.

“The next morning, I woke up still craving a drink. But then I thought, What if I read a chapter from the Bible first? I did—and stayed put. Later, when the urge returned, I read again—and felt better.

“This encouraged me so much that every time the desire to drink came upon me, I would turn to Scripture and read a chapter. The more I did this, the easier it became to resist. And when I had finally read through all four Gospels, the craving had left me completely. In fact, it had turned into an aversion. It has now been exactly twenty years since I last touched a drop of alcohol.”

Three years later, my officer’s rank was restored to me. In time, I was promoted again, until eventually I attained the rank of commanding officer. I married a kind and gentle woman, and we settled into a good life. Thanks be to God, we live peacefully, give to the poor when we can, and welcome pilgrims into our home. Why, even my son is an officer now—and a fine young man he is!

“Listen,” the captain continued, “from the moment I was freed from alcoholism, I made a vow: for the rest of my life, I would read the Bible—one Gospel every day, no matter how busy I was. And that is exactly what I’ve done. On days when I’m too exhausted to read it myself, I lie down and ask my wife or son to read an entire Gospel aloud to me, so I never miss a day. In thanksgiving to God—and to His glory—I had this Bible bound in pure silver. I carry it always in my breast pocket.”

I listened to the captain’s story with great delight and said, “I once knew someone with a very similar experience. In our village, there was a gifted craftsman who worked at the local factory. He was a good man and did beautiful, meticulous work—but sadly, he too struggled with drinking. A God-fearing man once suggested to him that whenever he felt the urge for wine, he should say the Jesus Prayer thirty-three times, in remembrance of the Holy Trinity and the thirty-three years of Jesus Christ’s earthly life. The craftsman took the advice to heart. He began saying the prayer—and not long after, he stopped drinking entirely. And that’s not all—three years later, he entered a monastery!”

The captain grew thoughtful. “Tell me,” he asked, “which is more exalted—the Jesus Prayer or the Bible?”

“It’s all the same,” I replied, “for the Divine Name of Jesus Christ contains within itself all the truths of the Bible. The holy Fathers say that the Jesus Prayer is the abbreviated version of the entire Bible.”

We said our evening prayers together, and the captain began reading aloud from the Gospel of Saint Mark, chapter one. I listened quietly, while in my heart I continued to pray the Jesus Prayer. At last, around two in the morning, he finished reading the Gospel, and we went to bed.

I rose early, as was my habit, and saw that everyone else was still asleep. As the first light of dawn crept over the land, I opened my beloved Philokalia. Oh, what joy welled up in my heart as I turned its pages! It felt as though I’d been reunited with someone I dearly loved—like a father or a friend returned to life. I kissed the book over and over and thanked God for giving it back to me. Then I turned to read the writings of Theophilus of Philadelphia in the second part of the Philokalia.

One sentence stood out to me with great force: “While sitting in the refectory,” he writes, “give food to your body, give your attention to the reading of the day, and give your mind over to prayer.” At first, this seemed impossible—to do three things at once. But then I remembered the joyful evening I had just shared with the captain, and I realized that what I had read was not only true—it was something I had already experienced. A mystery began to unfold before me: that the mind and the heart are not the same thing, but two distinct parts of the soul.

When the captain awoke, I thanked him sincerely for his kindness and prepared to continue on my way. He offered me some tea and gave me a ruble as a parting gift. We said our farewells, and I resumed my journey with joy in my heart.

I had walked no more than three-quarters of a mile when I remembered the promise I had made—to give those two soldiers a ruble if I ever got one. Now I had the means to keep that promise. But I hesitated. One thought argued, “They beat you and robbed you! And they’re under arrest—they can’t even spend it.” But another voice reminded me, “If your enemy is hungry, feed him” [Rom. 12:20]. And again: “Love your enemies” [Matt. 5:44]. Then I recalled the words of Jesus Himself: “If anyone sues you and takes your coat, give him your cloak as well” [Matt. 5:40].

That settled it. I turned around and went back. The prisoners were just then being lined up for the next stage of their journey. I approached the two men and quietly placed the ruble into their hands. “Repent and pray,” I said. “Jesus Christ loves mankind—He will not abandon you.”

And with that, I turned and walked away, heading off in the opposite direction, my heart full and at peace.

After walking more than thirty-three miles along the main road, I felt a desire to turn off onto a quiet path where I could be alone and read. For a long time, I wandered through forests, encountering only the occasional small village. Often, I would spend an entire day in the stillness of the woods, sitting beneath the trees and carefully studying the Philokalia. I learned so many wondrous things from it. My heart was aflame with longing—a deep desire for union with God through interior prayer, a union I was now striving for under the guidance and confirmation of the Philokalia.

At the same time, I continued reading my Bible, and I noticed something remarkable: it was becoming clearer to me. Things that had once been confusing or mysterious were beginning to make sense. Truly, the holy Fathers are right in saying that the Philokalia is the key to understanding the hidden depths of Holy Scripture. With its help, I began to grasp the deeper meanings behind phrases like “the hidden inner man of the heart,” “true prayer,” “worshiping in the spirit,” “the Kingdom of Heaven is within you,” “the intercession of the Spirit with groanings too deep for words,” “abide in Me,” “give Me your heart,” “put on Christ,” “the betrothal of the Spirit to our hearts,” and the cry that rises up from within: “Abba, Father!”

As I prayed more deeply from the heart, the world around me began to feel transformed. The trees, the grasses, the birds, the very earth and air and light—they all seemed to proclaim the glory of God. Everything testified to God’s love for mankind. All creation, it seemed, was praying to God, singing His praise with one voice. And in that experience, I came to understand what the Philokalia calls “knowledge of the language of all creation.” I saw how a person, through prayer, can come into communion not only with God, but with all that He has made.

I journeyed on for quite some time, until at last I found myself in a place so wild and uninhabited that for three whole days I did not see a single village or soul. My supply of dried bread was gone, and I began to despair, fearing I might die of hunger. Yet each time that despair threatened to overwhelm me, I would begin to pray—and immediately the fear would fade. I surrendered myself fully to the will of God, and in that surrender was a deep joy and peace.

One day, as I walked along the road beside the forest, I suddenly saw a mongrel dog come running out toward me. When I called, it came eagerly and began to play affectionately at my feet. My heart leapt with joy! Now this is surely a mercy from God, I thought. Surely there must be a flock grazing nearby, and this dog belongs to the shepherd—or perhaps there is a hunter close by. Whatever the case, I hoped at least to beg some bread or find out where the nearest village was.

The dog danced and jumped about me, but when it realized I had nothing to offer, it suddenly darted back into the forest, down the narrow path it had come from. Curious, I followed. About five hundred yards in, I saw that the dog had slipped into a small hollow between some trees. It kept poking its head out and barking softly.

Just then, a thin, pale man of middle age appeared from behind a large tree. He asked me how I had come to be wandering there, and I returned the question, curious about his presence. We quickly fell into friendly conversation, and he invited me to his humble mud hut. He told me he was a forester, tasked with guarding this part of the woods, which had recently been sold for logging.

He offered me bread and salt, and we talked long into the day. I said to him, “I envy you, for you live in such comfortable solitude, far removed from the bustle of people. Meanwhile, I wander from place to place, always among strangers.”

“If you’d like to,” he said, “you’re welcome to live here too. There’s an old mud hut not far from mine—it used to belong to the watchman before me. It’s in poor shape, of course, but livable in the summer. You’ve got your passport, and there’ll be enough bread for both of us. Every week, they bring me bread from the village. There’s a spring nearby too—it’s never once dried up. I’ve lived here ten years now, brother, and in all that time, I’ve eaten only bread. I drink nothing but water. But just so you know: when the peasants finish working the land this fall, nearly two hundred of them will gather here to harvest the timber. When that happens, my watch will end—and you won’t be able to stay either.”

When I heard this, joy flooded my heart. I could hardly contain myself—how could I ever thank God enough for such unexpected mercy? What I had longed for—peace, solitude, and a place to immerse myself in prayer and the Philokalia—had been given to me, freely and without asking.

There were still more than four months before fall. That meant four full months to read, to pray, to learn the way to the unceasing prayer of the heart. So, without hesitation, I settled into the humble hut he showed me. It wasn’t much—but it was quiet, and it was mine, for a season.

I spoke more with the simple brother who had welcomed me, and he shared the story of his life with frank honesty.

“I had a good trade back in my village,” he told me. “I dyed fustian and linen—and I made a fine living at it. But I can’t say I lived without sin. I used to cheat my customers. I lied under oath, cursed often, drank too much, and got into fights. There was an old deacon who used to visit the Orthodox homes in our village. He had a very old book about the Last Judgment. For a few kopecks, he’d sit and read from it deep into the night. And I’d listen while I worked—he’d read about the end of days, the torment of hell, how the living would be changed and the dead raised, how God would come in glory to judge all mankind. He spoke of angels sounding trumpets, fire and brimstone, the worm that never dies.

“One night, I was listening, and suddenly, fear gripped me. I thought, ‘There’s no way I’ll escape that torment. I’m lost unless I change. Maybe there’s still time to save my soul. Maybe I can pray my sins away.’ The thought wouldn’t leave me. So, after much wrestling, I sold my house and gave up my trade. I had no family holding me back, so I took this job as a forest watchman, in exchange for a little bread, some warm clothes, and a few candles for prayer. The village mir agreed to take care of me, and here I’ve been ever since.”

“So I’ve lived here more than ten years,” he continued. “I eat only once a day—just bread and water. At the rooster’s first crow, I rise and begin my prayers. I make my prostrations until dawn, burning seven candles before the icons. During the day, as I walk my rounds through the forest, I wear iron chains under my clothes—seventy-two pounds of them—pressed against my skin. I don’t curse anymore. I don’t drink wine or beer. I don’t brawl. And I’ve never been with a woman—not once in my life.

“At first, I loved this life. I thought, this is how I’ll be saved. But lately... these thoughts won’t leave me alone. They sneak in and pull at me all the time. I start wondering: Can sins really be washed away just by prayer? And it’s a hard life, brother. I start to doubt if it’s all true—what that book said. Will the dead really rise again?

“Take someone who died a hundred years ago. There’s not even dust left of him—how can he come back? And tell me this—has anyone ever actually come back from the dead to tell us what’s next? Maybe the clergy made it all up—maybe those books were written just to scare us poor fools into behaving. Life is hard enough already. And if there’s nothing after death, if this is all there is, then what’s the point of suffering so much now?

“Wouldn’t it be better,” he said, his voice low, “to just go back to my old job, make a good living, and enjoy what’s left of my life?”

As I listened to him, my heart was moved with sympathy. I thought to myself, People say it’s only the educated who become skeptics, who stop believing in God. But here is one of our own—a simple, kind-hearted peasant—and even he is tormented by doubt! Truly, the powers of darkness are no respecters of persons; they prey on the learned and the humble alike. And perhaps it’s the simple ones they attack more easily. That’s why we all must seek wisdom and anchor ourselves in the Word of God—so we can stand firm when temptation strikes.

Wanting to encourage and strengthen this brother’s wavering faith, I reached into my knapsack and pulled out my beloved Philokalia. I turned to chapter 109, to the words of the venerable Hesychios, and read them aloud to him. Then I explained: “Brother, just giving up sin because you’re afraid of punishment isn’t enough. It doesn’t go deep enough to change the heart. The soul isn’t freed from dark and wandering thoughts by fear alone. It is only freed when the mind is guarded and the heart is purified—and that comes through interior prayer.”

I continued, “The holy Fathers are clear: if someone strives for salvation only because they fear hell—or even because they want heaven—they’re like a hired servant. Their motives are shallow. But God doesn’t want servants or hired hands. He wants sons and daughters who come to Him in love. He wants us to be honest with Him, to open our hearts and find joy in simply being with Him—not for a reward, but because we delight in His presence.”

“No matter how hard you work, how strictly you fast or how many prostrations you do, if you don’t keep God in your thoughts and His name in your heart, you won’t find peace. Your thoughts will trouble you, and you’ll fall into temptation—even small ones—again and again.”

“Why don’t you begin the Jesus Prayer?” I asked him gently. “You’re already in solitude—your life is perfect for it. Just try. It’s so simple, and soon you’ll see its power for yourself. Those tormenting doubts will vanish. You’ll start to feel faith and love for Jesus rising in your heart. You’ll begin to know—not just believe, but know—that the dead will rise again, and that the Last Judgment is real. Your heart will grow light, joyful, and full of peace. You’ll no longer feel alone, and you’ll no longer question the path you’re walking toward salvation.”

Then I showed him, step by step, how to begin praying the Jesus Prayer—and how to continue it without ceasing, just as the Scriptures and the holy Fathers teach us. It seemed that he was open to trying it; his heart had calmed, and a new peace had come over him. After this, I gently took my leave and went to the little mud hut he had told me about.

Oh, my God! The moment I stepped into that humble dwelling—more like a cave, or even a tomb—I was flooded with a joy beyond words. To me, it felt like the most glorious palace, filled with light, comfort, and the presence of God. Tears of gratitude flowed freely. I fell to my knees and gave thanks to the Lord for such mercy. “Here at last,” I thought, “in this stillness and solitude, I can return to the task at hand: to seek the prayer of the heart, and to ask the Lord to guide me in His way.”

And so I began again, reading the Philokalia slowly and carefully, this time from beginning to end. I did not rush. As I read, I was struck anew by the wisdom, holiness, and depth within those sacred pages. Each word carried weight; each teaching sparkled with light. And yet, because it covered so many themes and presented so many voices from the Fathers, I couldn’t fully grasp everything. Much of it I understood in part, but I longed to piece it all together, especially the teachings about interior prayer—about how to enter into the self-acting prayer of the heart, where the Spirit prays within us without ceasing.

This desire burned within me—not from pride, but from a longing to obey God’s own command through the Apostle: “Earnestly desire the higher gifts” (1 Corinthians 12:31), and again, “Do not quench the Spirit” (1 Thessalonians 5:19).

I pondered the matter deeply. What could I do? I decided I would press in—begging the Lord in prayer, not just once or twice, but continually. Surely, I thought, if I knocked long enough, the Lord would open the door and grant me light. So I resolved to do nothing else but pray, without pause, for a full twenty-four hours. As I prayed, my thoughts grew quiet, and eventually, I drifted into sleep.

In my dream, I found myself once again in the humble cell of my departed starets. He sat before me, lovingly explaining the Philokalia. “This holy book,” he said, “is filled with the deep wisdom of God. It is a mystical treasure trove, a sacred vault of divine understanding—of the hidden ways and judgments of the Lord. But it is not easily opened to everyone, nor is it understood the same by every reader. Rather, it gives instruction according to the capacity of the one who reads it. To the wise, it offers deep and discerning guidance. To the simplehearted, it offers a simpler path. That is why you, in your simplicity, should not read it in the order the teachings appear, one section after another.

“Instead, begin here: First, read the teaching of Nicephorus the Solitary, which is found in the second part. Then, move on to the full writings of Saint Gregory of Sinai—but skip the brief chapters. After that, read Simeon the New Theologian, especially his teaching on the three forms of prayer and his Discourse on Faith. Finally, read the writings of Callistus and Ignatius. Within these texts you will find the complete instruction on the interior prayer of the heart—clear and accessible to those who earnestly seek.”

He continued, “And if, after that, you wish for even greater clarity, turn to the fourth part of the Philokalia, where you’ll find a concise summary on prayer methods by Callistus, the most holy Patriarch of Constantinople.”

In my dream, I looked down and saw the Philokalia in my hands. I started to search for these passages, but I could not locate them easily. The starets smiled gently, reached down, and picked up a piece of coal from the ground. With it, he made a small mark in the margin beside the correct passage. “Here it is,” he said. “Now you will remember.”

When I awoke, it was still early—just before dawn. I lay still for some time, carefully turning over in my mind every word, every gesture, every detail of the dream. I wanted to preserve the instruction and imprint it on my memory.

But as I lay there, a new thought crept in: Was this really the soul of my beloved starets visiting me, or was it all a product of my own imagination—born from how often I think of him and meditate on the Philokalia? God alone knows the answer.

Still pondering all this, I got up as the first light of morning broke through the trees. And then—what do you think happened? I looked over at the flat rock that served as a table in my little hut, and there lay the Philokalia, wide open to the very passage my starets had shown me in the dream. Even more astonishing, there were markings in the margin—made in charcoal—exactly as he had done in the dream. Beside the book, just as before, was the same small piece of coal. I stood frozen in awe.

This deeply shook me, for I remembered clearly that the night before I had carefully wrapped the book and placed it at the head of my bed. I was also certain there had been no marks anywhere near that passage. At last I was fully convinced—my beloved starets had truly come to me in spirit, that he was alive in the presence of God, and that his guidance had been real and full of grace.

With trembling gratitude, I opened the Philokalia and began reading according to the order my starets had revealed: first the teaching of Nicephorus the Solitary, then Saint Gregory of Sinai (excluding the brief chapters), then Simeon the New Theologian’s words on the three forms of prayer and his Discourse on Faith, and finally the writings of Callistus and Ignatius. I read them all with great care—once, and then a second time. And with each reading, a holy fire grew within me: a longing, a burning thirst to experience personally all that I had read.

The veil was lifted. I began to understand what interior prayer really was—how one could enter into it, what its fruits were, and how it filled the soul and heart with joy. I also learned how to discern whether the sweetness I felt was truly from God, or simply from natural causes—or worse, a deception of pride or illusion.

So I began to put the teachings into practice. I followed the instruction of Simeon the New Theologian and sought out the “place of the heart.” I would close my eyes and focus inwardly, turning my gaze toward the left side of my chest, where the heart beats. I listened attentively. At first, all I could sense was darkness. But little by little, the image of my heart began to form in my awareness. I could see it in my mind and hear its steady beating.

Then I began the Jesus Prayer from within, linking it to my breath, just as Saint Gregory of Sinai and Callistus and Ignatius had taught: concentrating my mind in my heart, I would inhale, saying within myself, “Lord Jesus Christ,” and then exhale, whispering in my soul, “Have mercy on me.”

At first, I could only maintain this for an hour or two. But as time passed, I practiced longer and longer—until I found I could carry the prayer within me almost the entire day. And whenever weariness or doubt crept in—or laziness tried to steal my focus—I would open the Philokalia and read again those sacred passages about the heart. Without fail, desire and devotion would return to me, fresh as morning dew.

About three weeks into my practice of the Jesus Prayer in solitude, something extraordinary began to unfold. I started to feel a tender soreness in my heart—not a pain, but a sacred ache, followed by a warmth so delightful it seemed to embrace my whole being. This warmth came with peace and a gentle joy, and it stirred within me such a deep longing to remain in prayer always. It became my greatest desire, my sweetest occupation, my whole life. Nothing else mattered. My heart was being awakened by love.

From that point on, I experienced a variety of inner movements—gifts, really—both in my heart and in my mind. Sometimes, a bubbling up of unspeakable joy would overtake me. My heart would grow so light, so free, and so full of consolation that I felt transfigured—as though I no longer lived in this world but in the presence of the Kingdom. At other times, my heart would burn with love—love for Jesus Christ, yes, but also for everything and everyone He had made. And sometimes, tears—sweet and cleansing—would well up and pour out of me, not from sorrow, but from gratitude. I, such a sinner, was being shown such mercy!

And then there were the moments when a light would come over my mind—suddenly, things I had never understood became clear, even radiant. My ignorance was replaced with insight. Even the Scriptures, which had once seemed closed, now opened like flowers in springtime. At times, the warmth I felt in my heart would spread to my whole body, and the nearness of God became tangible—I could sense Him surrounding me like light or a gentle breeze. Other times, the simple whisper of Jesus’ name would bring more joy than any earthly delight.

I came to see that this prayer—the prayer of the heart—bears fruit in three ways: through the spirit, through the feelings, and through revelation.

• In the spirit, it brings love, peace, rapture, purity of thought, and a continual remembrance of God.
• In the feelings, it brings warmth, joy, vitality, a sense of lightness and detachment—even from physical illness or offense.
• In revelation, it opens the mind to Scripture, gives insight into the mystery of all living things, frees the heart from worry, fills one with the sweetness of divine presence, and confirms the intimate nearness of God and His unfailing love.

For nearly five months, I remained in solitude, immersed in this inner prayer. Over time, it became so constant and effortless that my heart and mind took up the prayer on their own, even without my will. It continued whether I was awake or asleep, whether I was reading, speaking, or walking. Nothing could stop it. It was like a living stream flowing through me. I had become a dwelling place for the name of Jesus, and my soul overflowed with praise.

Eventually, the forest workers returned and the time came for me to leave my little hut. I thanked the forester, offered a prayer of blessing, and bent down to kiss the earth—grateful for this sacred place where God had met me and changed me. I lifted my knapsack onto my back—my treasured books inside—and set off once again.

I wandered far and wide after that, until I came at last to Irkutsk. But the prayer remained with me. It had taken root so deeply that it became my constant companion, my joy, my song, my breath. It never left me, no matter where I went or what I was doing.

Even when I worked, the prayer flowed effortlessly from my heart and gave energy to my hands. If I was listening to someone speak or reading something aloud, the prayer continued alongside it, as if there were two voices within me—one attending to the world, and one always speaking with God.

Ah, what a mystery the human being is! Truly, as the psalmist said: “O Lord, how wondrous are Thy works! In wisdom hast Thou made them all” [Psalm 104:24].

As I continued my travels, I encountered many extraordinary experiences—blessings, trials, and mysteries too great to fully recount. Truly, God’s hand was with me every step. If I were to tell them all, even a whole day would not be enough! But one particular incident stands out as a sign of the Lord’s care and the power of prayer.

It was a winter evening, and dusk was settling quietly over the snow-covered forest. I was walking alone toward a village about a mile and a half away, hoping to find shelter there for the night. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, a wolf lunged at me. I had nothing in my hands but the old woolen chotki—the prayer rope of my dear starets. I had carried it with me always, as a sign of blessing and a tool for prayer.

Instinctively, I swung the chotki to drive the beast away—but to my amazement, the knotted rope flew from my hands and wrapped itself miraculously around the wolf’s neck! The creature turned and bolted, crashing into a thorny bush. In his struggle, his hind legs became snared, and the chotki, now caught on a branch, tightened around his throat. The more he thrashed, the more entangled he became.

I crossed myself with faith and drew closer—not out of bravery, but because I feared losing the chotki, which I cherished deeply. As I reached for it, the wolf broke free just at that moment, snapping the cord and vanishing into the woods.

I was left standing there—stunned, heart pounding—holding the torn prayer rope. And yet, I was safe, entirely unharmed. I lifted my hands in gratitude and prayed for the soul of my beloved starets, thanking God for His mercy.

Eventually, I reached the village and found a small inn where I hoped to spend the night. Inside the warm hut, two men sat at a table drinking tea. One was old and thin, the other middle-aged and round, and both were clearly men of a higher class than the average peasant. I inquired of the stable boy who they were, and he told me: the older man was a public schoolteacher, and the other was a county court clerk. “I’m taking them to a fair,” he said, “thirteen miles from here.”

After resting for a short while, I asked the peasant woman for a needle and some thread. Taking a seat near the candlelight, I began to carefully mend my torn chotki. As I worked, the county clerk glanced over and said with a grin, “Looks like your prostrations were so intense, you wore out your prayer rope!”

“It wasn’t my prayers that broke it,” I replied quietly. “It was a wolf.”

The clerk burst out laughing. “Well now, do wolves say the Jesus Prayer too?” he scoffed.

I gently told them the full story—how I had been attacked, how the chotki had wrapped around the beast’s neck, how the bush had entangled him, and how I’d retrieved the rope, torn but still precious to me.

Still chuckling, the clerk said dismissively, “Ah, you ‘holy ones’ are always full of miracles! But where’s the holiness in this? You probably just flung something at the animal and got lucky. Wolves get caught in brambles all the time. There’s so much happening in the world—it’s a stretch to think everything’s a miracle.”

The old schoolteacher, who had been listening quietly, now spoke with gentle authority. “Sir, don’t be so quick to dismiss things you don’t understand. You’re speaking from shallow logic, without grasping the deeper mystery. But I, for one, see both a rational and a spiritual truth in this pilgrim’s story.”

“Oh?” said the clerk, amused. “And what’s so scholarly about a wolf caught in a bush?”

The teacher continued, “Perhaps you didn’t study much beyond the school catechism, but do you remember from the Scriptures how, in the beginning, Adam lived in innocence and harmony with creation? The animals approached him without fear. He named each one, and they were subject to him. Why? Because he was pure. Sin had not yet fractured the bond between man and the natural world.”

He turned to us, his eyes thoughtful. “Now consider this: when a person becomes holy, they are being restored to that very state of grace—the purity of Adam before the Fall. And holiness isn’t just in the soul. It seeps into the body, even into the things a holy person touches. That starets—the elder whose chotki this was—was a man of such sanctity. The prayer rope he held every day became infused with the grace that lived in him. That is why, perhaps, even a wild animal could sense something sacred in it.

“You see,” he said, “animals don’t reason, but they do sense. Their sense of smell is incredibly keen—especially for what we might call spiritual vibrations. This is not mere fantasy. It is a mystery. A real mystery of the spiritual and physical world.”

The clerk, clearly unimpressed, rolled his eyes and muttered, “You educated folks always go on about power and wisdom! For me, a shot of vodka is power enough.” He laughed to himself, got up, and went to pour a drink.

The teacher calmly replied, “You’re free to your own views. But please—leave spiritual and scholarly matters to those who’ve studied them.”

I was moved by the teacher’s words—he had spoken with both humility and insight. So I came closer and said quietly, “Batyushka, if I may, I’d like to share more about my starets.”

He nodded with kindness, and I began to recount the dreams I’d had, how the starets had visited me in them, offering guidance and instruction. I told him about the passage in the Philokalia, how it had been marked in charcoal—just as I had seen in the dream—and how the markings had not been there the evening before. The teacher listened closely, giving me his full attention.

But the clerk, now sprawled on a bench nearby, muttered without turning around, “You people are always losing your minds with all that Bible reading. It’s no wonder! What ghost walks around at night scribbling in books? You probably dropped it in your sleep and it got smudged with soot. There’s your ‘miracle’ for you. Oh, you rascals—I’ve seen your type before.”

With that, he turned to face the wall and drifted off to sleep.

I turned to the teacher and said, “If you wish, I can show you the very book. You’ll see for yourself that these are precise markings—not just some smudges from soot.” Reaching into my knapsack, I took out the Philokalia and opened it for him. “I’m amazed by such wisdom,” I said, “for how could a bodiless soul pick up a piece of charcoal and write with it?”

The teacher studied the marks carefully and said, “That, too, is a spiritual mystery. When spirits appear to us in bodily form, they create a material body from the air and elements around them. After their work is done, they return those elements to the world. Just as air can be compressed and stretched, so a soul clothed in it can interact with material things—like picking up a piece of charcoal and writing.”

He glanced at the book and opened it to a passage by Saint Simeon the New Theologian. “Ah, this must be a theological work—I’ve never seen it before.”

I replied, “Batyushka, this book is almost entirely devoted to teachings on the interior prayer of the heart in the name of Jesus Christ. It contains detailed guidance from twenty-five holy Fathers.”

The teacher smiled and said, “I am familiar with interior prayer.” I bowed deeply and asked him to share what he knew.

He spoke gently: “The New Testament tells us that all creation is subject to ‘vanity, not of [their] own will,’ and ‘groans inwardly, struggling and desiring to enter into the liberty of the sons of God’ [Romans 8:20ff]. Interior prayer is this mystical inward groaning of creation itself—an innate yearning of the soul toward God. It is not something that must be learned, for it is planted within everyone and everything.”

“How can one attain it, discover it, and experience it deep in the heart?” I asked the teacher. “How can one recognize and embrace it with one’s will, so that it becomes active—bringing delight, enlightenment, and salvation?”

He paused thoughtfully. “I do not recall if any theological treatises explain this clearly,” he said.

“But here,” I said, pointing to the Philokalia, “it is all written down.”

The teacher took a pencil, quickly jotted down the book’s title, and said, “I simply must order this book from Tobolsk. I want to study it.”

We parted ways after that, and as I resumed my journey, I thanked God for the blessing of that conversation. Yet my heart also ached for the clerk, and I prayed that the Lord might somehow lead him to read the Philokalia even once, granting him the wisdom he needed for salvation.

---

In spring, I came to a village where I found lodging at the house of a priest. He was a kind man who lived alone, and during the three days I stayed, he observed me carefully. Then he said, “Stay here with me. I need a conscientious person to watch over the workers and sit in the chapel, accepting donations for the new stone church we’re building near the old wooden chapel. You could do this, and it would suit your way of life. You could sit alone in the chapel and pray to God. There is even a small booth for the watchman. Please stay, at least until the church is finished.”

Though I initially tried to decline, the priest was insistent, and finally I agreed.

---

Through the summer, I lived in that chapel. It was peaceful and well suited to reciting my prayer, even though many people came by, especially on feast days. Some visitors came to pray, others to linger idly, and a few even to steal from the collection plate. I regularly read the Bible and the Philokalia, and when visitors saw this, some would strike up conversations with me. Others simply asked me to read to them.

After some time, I noticed a young peasant girl who often came to the chapel and spent long hours praying. I listened closely to her murmurs and realized that some of the prayers she repeated sounded strange—some were distorted, unfamiliar. Curious, I asked her, “Who taught you these prayers?”

She answered that her mother, a devout churchwoman, had taught her. But her father was a schismatic, belonging to a sect that rejected the priesthood altogether.

I felt compassion for her situation and gently advised her to pray according to the true tradition of the holy church—especially the Lord’s Prayer and the “Rejoice, O Virgin Theotokos.”* Then I said, “Why don’t you start saying the Jesus Prayer? It is a direct reach toward God, and through it, you can find salvation for your soul.”

The girl took my counsel to heart and began to practice what I had taught her with simple faith. And do you know what happened? After a short while, she told me she had grown so accustomed to the Jesus Prayer that she felt drawn to recite it continually—if such a thing were possible. When she prayed, joy filled her; when she stopped, a yearning to pray again welled up inside her.

I was deeply glad to hear this and encouraged her to keep praying in the name of Jesus Christ.

---

As summer waned, many more visitors came to the chapel—not only to hear me read and seek advice but also to bring their troubles and ask for help finding lost items. Some clearly thought I was a kind of fortune-teller.

Then, that same young girl returned one day, heavy with grief and desperate for guidance.

“What should I do?” she asked. “My father has decided to marry me off—against my will—to one of the schismatics in his sect. The wedding is to be performed by one of the peasants. How can that be a legal marriage? It will only lead to debauchery! I want to run away—it doesn’t matter where!”

“Where would you run to?” I asked gently. “They’ll only find you again. These days, there is nowhere to hide well enough. No matter where you go, they will track you down. Why not pray to God more earnestly instead? Trust in His judgment to soften your father’s heart and to save your soul from sin and heresy. That would be far wiser than fleeing.”

As time passed, life at the chapel grew unbearably noisy and full of distracting temptations for me. When summer ended, I decided it was time to leave and continue my journey alone.

I approached the priest and said, “Batyushka, you know what I seek. I need quiet and solitude to pray, but here there are too many harmful distractions. I have fulfilled my obedience by staying through the summer. Now please release me and give me your blessing for my solitary journey.”

The priest was reluctant to let me go and tried to persuade me to stay.

“What is stopping you from praying right here?” he asked. “There’s nothing you must do except sit in the chapel. Your daily bread is provided. Pray there day and night if you wish and live with God, brother! You have great gifts, and your presence benefits us. You don’t idle in gossip with visitors, and by faithfully receiving the collections, you do something truly profitable for God’s church. This is more pleasing to God than prayers in solitude.

“What do you need solitude for? It is merrier to pray in community. God did not create man simply to know himself, but so that people could help and guide one another toward salvation, each according to their ability.

“Look at the saints and the ecumenical Fathers! They cared deeply for the Church day and night and traveled widely to preach. They did not withdraw in solitude, hiding from others.”

“God gives each man his own gift, Batyushka. There have always been many preachers, but also many hermits. Each found their unique calling and followed it, trusting that God Himself was guiding them along the path to salvation. How else would you explain that so many saints relinquished their church offices, administrative roles, and priestly duties, fleeing into the solitude of the desert to escape the noise and distractions of life among people? Saint Isaac the Syrian left his episcopal diocese behind. The venerable Athanasius of Athos fled from his great monastery. They did this precisely because those places were too full of temptation and distraction, and because they truly believed the words of Jesus Christ: ‘For what will it profit a man, if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life?’ [Matt. 16:26].”

“But they were saints!” the priest said.

“If saints needed to protect themselves from the dangers of mingling with people,” I replied softly, “then what must a poor sinner like me do?”

At last I took my leave of this kind priest, and he saw me off with genuine affection.

After walking nearly seven miles, I stopped for the night in a village. At the inn, I found a peasant who was gravely ill, and I advised his friends that he should receive his last communion. They agreed and sent for the village priest by morning. I stayed on, to venerate the holy gifts and pray during this great sacrament.

Meanwhile, I stepped outside and sat on a mound of earth to wait. Suddenly, a young girl came running toward me from a nearby backyard—the same girl who had spent so much time praying in the chapel.

“How did you come to be here?” I asked gently.

“The date was set for my betrothal to that schismatic,” she told me, “so I ran away.” Then she dropped to the ground before me and pleaded, “Be merciful—let me come with you. Take me to a women’s monastery! I don’t want to be married. I’ll live there and pray the Jesus Prayer. They’ll take me in if you speak on my behalf.”

“Mercy, child,” I said gently, “where could I possibly take you? I don’t know of any women’s monasteries in this part of the country. And even if I did, how could I travel with you when you don’t even have a passport? No one would take you in, and the authorities would find you in no time. They might even send you back with a charge of vagrancy.”

I looked at her kindly and continued, “Why don’t you go home and pray to God with all your heart? If you truly don’t want to be married, then pretend to be ill. It’s not deceit for the sake of sin, but for salvation. Even the holy Mother Clementa did this, and so did the blessed Marina when she took refuge in a men’s monastery. There have been many others like them.”

We were still sitting there talking when suddenly four peasants came thundering down the road in a wagon. Before I could say a word, they grabbed the girl, threw her into the cart, and drove off with her. The other three seized me, tied my hands together, and dragged me back to the village I had only just left. I tried to explain what had happened, but they shouted me down: “We’ll teach you to seduce our girls, little holy man!”

By the time we arrived, the sun was setting. They dragged me to the village courthouse, chained my legs, and locked me up in a jail cell to await trial in the morning.

That night, the kind priest who had hosted me came to visit. He brought some food and tried to comfort me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “As your spiritual father, I’ll testify on your behalf. I know your character. You’re not the kind of man who would do what they’re accusing you of.”

He stayed with me a while, then gave me his blessing and left.

Later that evening, the magistrate happened to be passing through the village. He stopped in to see the local deputy and was told what had happened. Without delay, he gathered everyone at the courthouse and ordered that I be brought in. We stood there waiting. The magistrate arrived in high spirits—still wearing his hat—and sat down heavily at the table.

“Hey, Epiphan!” he called out to the girl’s father. “Did your daughter steal anything from your house?”

“No, Batyushka, nothing at all,” he replied.

“Has she been caught in any funny business with that fool over there?” he asked, pointing toward me.

“No, Batyushka!”

“Well then,” the magistrate said, “here’s what we’re going to do: You handle your own daughter. As for this young know-it-all, we’ll give him a good scare tomorrow and throw him out of the village. And he’d best take the hint never to show his face here again. That’s that!”

With that swift judgment, the magistrate stood, stretched, and went off to bed. I was taken back to the jail. The next morning, two village policemen came, gave me a solid thrashing, and let me go.

I left the village praising and thanking God. It was such a joy to have been considered worthy to suffer even a little for the name of Christ. That thought warmed and strengthened my soul, and the unceasing prayer within me grew all the more vibrant.

None of it—neither the shame nor the pain—offended me. It all felt strangely distant, as though it had happened to someone else and I had only watched it from the side. Even the beating had been easy to bear. The sweet prayer that stirred in my heart overshadowed every hardship and kept my soul at peace.

After walking about three miles, I ran into the young girl’s mother. She was on her way back from the market, carrying a few purchases. When she saw me, she said, “Well, it turns out the bridegroom’s changed his mind. He’s angry that Akulka ran off. The marriage is off now.” Then she handed me some bread and a patty for the road.

I thanked her, and with a light heart and peaceful soul, I continued on my way.

The weather was dry that day, and I had no desire to seek shelter in another village. That evening, as I passed through the forest, I noticed two fenced-in haystacks and decided to settle down there for the night. I lay beneath them and soon fell asleep.

In my sleep, I had a dream. I was walking along a familiar road, reading from the writings of Saint Anthony the Great in the Philokalia. As I read, the dear starets appeared beside me. Gently, he interrupted and said, “You’re reading the wrong passage. Let me show you what you need right now.” He guided me to the thirty-fifth chapter of Saint John of Karpathos, and I read:

“Sometimes the teacher submits to ignominy and suffers temptations for the sake of those who will benefit spiritually from this.”

Then he directed me further to the forty-first chapter, where I read:

“Those who pray most earnestly are the ones who are assailed by the most terrible and fierce temptations.”

Looking at me with kindness and firmness, the starets said, “Be strong in spirit and do not despair! Remember the words of the Apostle: ‘He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world’ [1 John 4:4]. Now you have seen for yourself that temptations come only to the extent a person can endure. And with the temptation, God also provides the way of escape [1 Cor. 10:13].”

He paused, then continued: “It was this trust in God's help that strengthened the holy men of prayer. That hope stirred their hearts and set them aflame with love. They not only gave themselves wholly to unceasing prayer, but they also shared it with others—freely, lovingly—whenever God allowed it.

“Saint Gregory of Thessalonika once said: ‘We must not only heed God’s command to pray unceasingly in the name of Christ; we must also reveal and teach this prayer to others—monastics and laypeople, the wise and the simple, husbands and wives, even children. We must awaken the longing for unceasing prayer in all.’”

The starets then added, “Callistus Telicudes says something similar: ‘Interior prayer, spiritual illumination, and all gifts that lift the soul—none of these should be kept hidden. They should be written down and shared for the love and benefit of all.’”

He ended with a warning rooted in Scripture: “Still, guard your heart. Share the seed of God’s Word only with humility, never from vanity. Remember: ‘Brother helped by brother is like a strong fortress’ [Prov. 18:19], but the Word of God must never be scattered to the wind.”

When I awoke from that dream, my heart was overflowing with joy. The words of the starets had strengthened me deeply, and I rose and continued my journey in peace.

---

A long time passed before another significant moment came. But I will share it with you now.

It was the 24th of March, and I felt a powerful, irresistible longing to receive Holy Communion the next day—the Feast of the Annunciation of the Most Pure Theotokos. I asked around for the nearest church and was told it was twenty miles away. Without hesitation, I walked the rest of that day and all through the night, determined to make it in time for matins.

The weather was harsh and unkind. First it snowed, then it rained. The wind blew hard, and the cold pierced through me. At one point I had to cross a small creek. As I stepped out onto the ice, it broke beneath me, and I plunged into the freezing water up to my waist. Yet I continued on, soaked and shivering.

I arrived just in time for matins and stood through the entire service, followed by the Divine Liturgy, where God, in His mercy, allowed me to receive the Holy Gifts. Though my body was weary and frozen, my soul rejoiced in His presence.

Wanting to preserve the peace and spiritual joy of the day, I asked the church watchman if I could rest in his room for the night. It was a simple, cold space—no heat, just a wooden plank for a bed—but it felt to me like the bosom of Abraham. As I lay there, prayer rose effortlessly in my heart, filling me with a quiet ecstasy. Waves of love for Jesus Christ and the Mother of God washed over me. I felt completely steeped in heavenly delight.

But toward evening, I began to feel a sharp pain in my legs and remembered that my clothes were still wet. I tried to ignore it, turning my attention back to the prayer in my heart. And as I prayed, the pain faded into the background, and I was lifted once more into joy.

The next morning, I tried to rise—but I could not move my legs.

They were completely paralyzed, lifeless as if they were made of string. The watchman, startled, helped drag me off the bed, but I could not stand. For two days I sat, unable to walk.

Then, on the third day, the watchman grew impatient and afraid. “If you die here, who’s going to bury you?” he snapped, and he began to chase me from the room.

With great effort, I dragged myself along the ground with my hands and collapsed on the stone steps of the church. I lay there for two full days. People came and went. They passed by without stopping, without even looking at me, as if I were invisible. I begged for help, but no one answered.

At last, someone came to me.

A peasant approached, sat down beside me, and began to speak with unexpected familiarity. “What’ll you give me if I cure you?” he asked. “I had the same thing happen to me once, and I know how to fix it.”

“I have nothing to give you,” I replied honestly.

“Well then, what’s in your knapsack?”

“Just a little dried bread and a few books.”

He thought for a moment. “How about this—if I help you get better, you come work for me for the summer?”

“But I can’t work,” I said. “I’ve no strength in my legs, only one arm is useful, and the other is nearly withered.”

He eyed me curiously. “So what can you do, then?”

“Nothing really,” I answered. “Except—I can read and write.”

“Aha!” he said, as if struck by inspiration. “You can write? That’s something! My boy knows how to read a little, but I want him to learn to write too. The trouble is, hiring a tutor costs twenty rubles—too much for me. How about this: you teach my son to write, and I’ll cure you.”

We shook hands on the agreement. With the help of the church watchman, he carried me to his house and placed me gently inside an old, abandoned bathhouse behind his yard. That would be my dwelling for the time being.

Then he got to work on the cure.

He scoured the area—fields, backyards, even the garbage heaps—collecting almost a bushel full of rotting bones: bird bones, cow bones, anything he could find. He washed them thoroughly, crushed them down with a heavy stone, and placed the powder into a large earthen pot. Turning the pot upside down, he set it over the mouth of a jar that was buried in the ground, sealing the edges of the lid with thick clay.

Then he built a large fire around it and kept it burning steadily for more than twenty-four hours.

As he tossed more wood onto the flames, he nodded and said confidently, “This will do it. We’re going to get tar from these bones.”

The following day, the peasant dug the jar out of the ground. Inside was a little more than a pint of thick liquid that had slowly dripped through the small hole in the upside-down earthen pot. It was reddish, oily, and gave off an unbearable odor—something like raw flesh. The bones, once black with rot and decay, were now pure and white, almost shimmering like mother-of-pearl or polished pearls.

I began rubbing this strange, foul-smelling liquid into my legs five times a day.

And what do you think happened?

By the second day, I could move my toes. On the third day, I was able to bend and stretch my knees. By the fifth day, I was walking around the yard with the help of a cane. Within a week, my legs had regained their strength entirely.

My heart overflowed with thanksgiving to God. I marveled at the wisdom built into His creation—that even dry, decomposing bones, forgotten and discarded, still held within them the power to restore life. Who could imagine that something so lifeless could contain such energy, such healing virtue? It struck me as a sign, a whisper from God Himself: This too is a pledge of the resurrection to come. How I wished the forester—my companion from a past summer, who had doubted the resurrection—could have witnessed this wonder!

Once I had recovered, I began to teach the peasant’s son as promised. I didn’t use a grammar book. Instead, I wrote out the Jesus Prayer for him by hand. I showed him how to form each letter, and his task was to copy it again and again. What peace there was in this! It was restful to my body and nourishing to my soul.

Since the boy spent most of his day apprenticed to the steward of a nearby estate, he could only study with me during a quiet window—from daybreak until the mid-morning Divine Liturgy, while the steward still slept. He was an intelligent child, and before long, he could write short passages quite well.

One day, the steward noticed the boy writing something and asked him, “Who’s teaching you that?”

“The pilgrim staying in our old bathhouse,” the boy replied. “The one with the withered arm.”

The estate steward, a curious man of Polish descent, eventually came to see me. He found me sitting quietly, reading the Philokalia. After a few pleasantries, he asked, “What are you reading there?”

I showed him the book.

“Ah, the Philokalia! I remember seeing this once at our ksenda’s house back in Vilna. I heard it contains some rather strange mystical teachings—some kind of magic or breathing tricks written by Greek monks. People say it’s similar to what those religious fanatics in India or Bukhara do—they breathe in strange ways to stir something in their chest, then they go on believing that these natural sensations are from God. It’s foolishness. We’re called to pray simply because it’s our duty. Say the Our Father in the morning as Christ taught—and that’s enough. None of this endless repetition! Say it over and over, and you’ll wear your heart out—or go mad in the process!”

“Please, Batyushka, don’t speak that way about this holy book,” I replied gently. “These weren’t just ordinary monks who wrote it. The Philokalia was compiled from the writings of the most revered and holy men—saints honored even in your Church. Saint Anthony the Great. Saint Macarius. Saint John Chrysostom. Mark the Anchorite. These weren’t misguided mystics—they were Fathers of the faith, filled with the Spirit of God.

“Yes, it’s true that others—like monks in India and Bukhara—adopted some of these practices, but my starets told me they distorted and misunderstood them. The teachings in the Philokalia are deeply rooted in the Word of God. The same Jesus Christ who taught us the Our Father also told us to ‘pray without ceasing’ and to love God with all our heart and all our mind [Matt. 22:37]. He said, ‘Take heed, watch, and pray’ [Mark 13:33], and ‘Abide in me, and I in you’ [John 15:4].

“And the saints remind us that King David cried out, ‘O taste and see that the Lord is good!’ [Psalm 34:8]. The Fathers explain that we are meant to experience the sweetness of prayer, not just recite it like a daily chore. We are to seek the joy and consolation that comes from truly dwelling in the presence of God.

“Let me read to you how these saints speak of those who reject this path of interior prayer. They warn that such people contradict the Scriptures, settle for a shallow spiritual life, and remain satisfied with mere outward good deeds. They don’t hunger and thirst for the deeper truth and, in doing so, they miss out on the joy and bliss of communion with God. Because they judge their lives only by what’s seen on the outside, they often fall into pride or delusion and lose sight of the inner life entirely.”

“The things you’re reading about are all very lofty,” the steward said thoughtfully, “but they don’t really apply to ordinary folks like us, living out our lives in the world.”

I smiled and replied, “Then let me read you something simpler—something that speaks directly to those living in the world who still managed to learn the practice of unceasing prayer.”

I opened the Philokalia and read aloud a passage from Saint Simeon the New Theologian, telling the story of George the Younger, a man who lived a regular life in the world but learned to pray without ceasing.

The steward was intrigued. “That’s impressive,” he said. “Let me borrow your book for a little while. I’d like to read more of it when I get the chance.”

“I could lend it to you for a day,” I said, “but no more. I read from it every day and depend on it for guidance.”

“Well then,” he said, “at least copy that story for me—I’ll pay you for your trouble.”

“There’s no need for money,” I answered. “I’ll copy it for you out of love, and I pray that God grants you a desire to take up the prayer yourself.”

I gladly wrote out the passage and gave it to him. He brought it home and read it to his wife. Both of them were deeply moved. Soon after, they began inviting me to their home more often. I would bring the Philokalia with me and read to them while they sat together over tea, listening quietly.

One evening, they asked me to stay for dinner. The steward’s wife, a warm and kindly older woman, joined us at the table. As we ate some fried fish, she suddenly began to choke on a bone. We tried everything we could to help, but the bone wouldn’t come out. She was in great pain, and after a while, she had to lie down in bed. We sent a messenger to fetch the doctor from the next town, nearly thirty miles away. But since night had fallen and there was nothing more I could do, I quietly returned to my little room.

That night I barely slept. In the silence of my light slumber, I heard the voice of my starets. I couldn’t see him, but I clearly recognized his gentle, firm tone.

“Your landlord once healed your body,” he said, “and yet you will not help the steward’s wife? Have you forgotten that God commands us to have compassion for the suffering of our neighbor?”

“I would gladly help!” I responded in my dream. “But I don’t know how!”

“Then listen,” he said. “The old woman has had a strong aversion to lamp oil her entire life. The smell alone makes her sick, and she cannot bear to swallow even a drop. But it is precisely this that will help her. If she swallows a spoonful of lamp oil, it will make her vomit. The fish bone will come out, and the oil will soothe the wound left in her throat, helping it heal.”

“But how can I get her to take it,” I asked, “if even the smell repulses her?”

“Tell the steward to hold her firmly. And you—pour the oil quickly into her mouth. Use force, if necessary.”

I awoke at once and hurried to the steward’s house. I told him everything just as I had heard it.

“Lamp oil?” he said doubtfully. “She’s already hoarse, feverish, even raving at times. Her throat is swelling badly. But then again, oil won’t harm her… and nothing else has worked. We may as well try.”

He poured some lamp oil into a small glass, and we went to her bedside. Gently but firmly, we managed to get her to swallow it.

Almost immediately, she began to vomit—and the fish bone came out, along with a bit of blood. Relief swept across her face, and soon she sank into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The next morning, I returned to check on the steward’s wife—and to my great joy, she was sitting up, calmly drinking tea. She and her husband were in awe—not only that she had recovered so quickly, but that her deep-seated aversion to lamp oil had somehow been revealed to me in a dream. No one else knew that about her.

Just then, the doctor arrived. The steward’s wife eagerly told him all that had happened, and I shared the story of how the peasant had healed me from paralysis with tar drawn from bones. The doctor listened patiently and said, “These things are not so unusual. Nature has its own powers. The same forces were at work in both your cases.” Then he took out a pencil and jotted some notes in his book, so he wouldn’t forget.

But after this event, something shifted in the neighborhood. Word began to spread that I was a visionary—some kind of healer or even a holy man. People came from all around with their ailments and questions. They brought gifts. They honored me and saw to all my needs.

For a week, I endured it.

And then I realized how dangerous it was. My heart began to tremble—not with joy, but with fear. The praise of others is a hidden snare. It creeps in sweetly but corrodes the soul. I saw how easily I might begin to think of myself as special, how easily vainglory might plant its seed and grow.

So I slipped away in the night without telling a soul.

And oh, what freedom! As I walked into the wilderness again, I felt as though some great weight had fallen from my shoulders. My heart felt light, unburdened, and open to heaven. The prayer returned in full sweetness, warming me from within. Often it would overflow—filling my heart with love for Jesus Christ until every part of my body seemed to pulse with joy.

Sometimes, when I reflected on the Scriptures, it was as if I saw them with my own eyes—living scenes unfolding before me. Such tenderness would well up in my heart that tears of joy would spill freely. How can I describe such joy? There are no words for it. Only the prayer itself can carry that kind of sweetness, and only Jesus can give it.

At times, I would travel for three whole days without seeing a single soul or any sign of human habitation. To my immense delight, this solitude made me feel as though I were the only man alive on earth—just one wretched sinner standing in the presence of the merciful and man-loving God. This precious loneliness was a balm for my spirit, allowing me to experience the delights of prayer with a sensitivity that was impossible amid the distractions of people.

At last, I arrived in Irkutsk. There I reverently venerated the relics of Saint Innocent, feeling humbled by the holiness that had passed through this place. But as I walked through the crowded streets, a question formed quietly in my heart: “Where do I go from here?”

The city, with its throng of people, was no place for the solitude I craved. Lost in thought, I met a local merchant who stopped me and asked kindly, “Are you a pilgrim? Why don’t you come to my house?”

I followed him to his lavish home, where he invited me to share my story. When I finished, he said, “Old Jerusalem is the true destination of your pilgrimage. The shrines and relics there surpass anything you have seen in this world.”

“I would love to go,” I replied, “but there is no land route. I could reach the sea, but I have no money to pay for passage by ship.”

The merchant smiled gently and said, “If you like, I can make it possible for you. Just last year, I sent one of our old men there.”

I fell at his feet in gratitude. “Listen,” he said, “I will give you a letter of introduction to my son. He lives in Odessa and trades with Constantinople. His ships sail there often. He will arrange passage for you on one of his vessels. Once in Constantinople, he will instruct his agents to book your passage to Jerusalem—and pay for it. It is not expensive.”

Overcome with joy, I showered my benefactor with thanks. I also gave thanks to God for His fatherly love and care for a wretched sinner like me, one who had been good for little, who had eaten the bread of others in idleness.

I stayed in the merchant’s house for three days, enjoying his generous hospitality and receiving the promised letter of introduction to his son.

And so I set out on my way to Odessa, filled with hope of reaching the holy city of Jerusalem. Yet I did not know if the Lord would grant me to venerate His life-giving tomb.

Chapter 3

Just before leaving Irkutsk, I went to visit my spiritual father—someone I had often spoken with during my time there. I said to him, “Well, Father, here I am, about to begin my journey to Jerusalem. I came to say goodbye and to thank you for the love and kindness you’ve shown to me, an unworthy pilgrim.”

He gave me his blessing and said, “May God guide your steps. But you know, you’ve told me much about your travels, yet very little about yourself. Who are you? Where are you from? I would be grateful to know more about your life before you began this pilgrimage.”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’d be glad to tell you. My story isn’t very long.”

I began to share. “I was born in a small village in the Orlovsk province. After my parents died, there were only two of us left—my older brother and me. He was ten years old, and I was just about three. Our grandfather took us in and raised us. He was an honest and generous man who kept an inn on the main road, and many travelers stayed there, thanks to his hospitality.

“My brother was spirited and full of mischief. He spent most of his time out running around the village, while I stayed close to our grandfather. On feast days we would go to church with him, and at home he often read aloud from the Holy Scriptures—this very Bible I now carry with me.

“When I was seven, my brother began to take a dark turn. He started drinking heavily, and it seemed something had gone wrong deep inside him. I remember one evening very clearly: we were lying together on the stove bed when, without warning, he pushed me off. I fell hard and injured my left arm. From that day on, I lost all use of it. Over time, it withered completely.”

“Grandfather realized early on that I wouldn’t be able to work in the fields like other boys. So instead, he began to teach me to read and write. Since we didn’t have any schoolbooks or grammar guides, he used what we had—this very Bible I still carry with me. He started right at the beginning, pointing out words and having me copy them so I could learn my letters. I’m not sure how I did it, but by repeating what he taught me, I eventually learned to read.

As his eyesight faded, he asked me to read aloud to him more often, correcting me gently as I went. It became a holy rhythm in our life.

There was a county clerk who used to stay at our inn from time to time. I admired his beautiful handwriting and watched him closely as he wrote. Seeing my interest, he offered to teach me. He brought me paper, ink, and even sharpened quills for me. That’s how I learned to write.

Grandfather was delighted. “Now that God has revealed reading and writing to you,” he said, “you’ll make something of yourself. Always thank the Lord for this and pray often.” So we did. We never missed a church service, and we prayed at home too. I would chant, “Have mercy on me, O God,” while Grandfather and Grandmother knelt or made prostrations.

When I turned seventeen, Grandmother passed away. Grandfather said to me, “We no longer have a woman to run the house. Your older brother has gone his own way and cannot be relied on. I want you to marry.”

I hesitated, ashamed of my withered arm, but Grandfather insisted. He found a kind, mature young woman—just twenty years old—and we were married.

A year later, Grandfather fell seriously ill. As he lay dying, he called me to his side and gave me his final blessing.

“My son,” he said, “I leave you this house and everything I have. Live with honesty. Don’t cheat anyone, and above all, pray to God—for everything in life comes from Him. Don’t put your trust in people or riches, but only in the Lord. Go to church, read the Bible, and remember me and your grandmother in your prayers. I am giving you one thousand rubles. Use it wisely. Don’t waste it, but don’t be stingy either. Give to God’s Church, and share with those in need.”

“So Grandfather passed away, and I buried him with reverence. Not long after, my brother became jealous and bitter. He resented that I had inherited the inn and everything else Grandfather had left behind. His heart grew dark with envy—and in time, his anger led him to a terrible act.

One night, while we were sleeping and there were no guests at the inn, he broke into the storage room where I kept the money, stole it, and set the place on fire. By the time we awoke, the flames had already spread throughout the house. We barely escaped with our lives, climbing out the window in nothing but our nightclothes.

By God’s mercy, we had kept the Bible under our pillows, so we were able to save it. As we stood outside, watching the house burn to the ground, we said to each other, ‘Thank God—we saved the Bible. At least we have something to comfort us in our sorrow.’ Everything else was gone. Later, we heard that my brother had fallen into drunkenness and was even bragging about how he had taken the money and burned the inn down.

We were left with nothing. No clothes, not even a pair of lapti to put on our feet. By the grace of God and the kindness of others, we were able to borrow enough to build a small hut and live as landless peasants.

My wife had a gift for handiwork. She spun, sewed, and wove cloth with incredible skill. She took in work from others, laboring day and night to support both of us. My withered arm made me almost useless for work, so I would sit beside her while she spun thread, and I would read aloud from the Bible. She listened quietly, and sometimes tears would stream down her face.

‘Why are you crying?’ I asked her once.

‘The words are so beautiful,’ she said. ‘They pierce my heart.’”

“Remembering Grandfather’s words, we fasted often and prayed the akathist to the Mother of God every morning. Each night before sleep, we made a thousand prostrations, so as not to fall into temptation. We lived like this in peace for two years.

What’s striking is that we had never heard of the prayer of the heart—we didn’t understand it at all. We simply prayed aloud, repeating words without much comprehension, making our prostrations like clumsy children doing somersaults. Yet even in our simplicity, we had a strong desire to pray. Somehow, it came naturally to say long prayers with joy, even if our minds didn’t grasp them fully.

It seems my old teacher was right: the soul can pray secretly within itself, even without our conscious awareness. Something in us awakens—an inner longing for God—that matches each person’s understanding and ability.

Then, after those two years, my wife suddenly became very ill with a raging fever. She received Holy Communion and passed away on the ninth day of her illness. I was left completely alone, without any way to support myself.

I began to beg, though I felt ashamed. But more than anything, I was drowning in grief. I didn’t know how to live without her. Whenever I walked into the cabin and saw her clothing or one of her kerchiefs, it pierced my heart like a knife. I would cry out loud and sometimes even faint. Eventually, the grief became unbearable.

I sold the hut for twenty rubles and gave away our remaining belongings to the poor. I was granted a permanent disability passport because of my withered arm. I took my Bible and left, with no particular place in mind.

‘Where should I go now?’ I wondered. And then the thought came: I’ll go to Kiev and venerate the relics of God’s saints. I’ll ask for their help and prayers. The moment I decided this, I felt peace return to me. My journey to Kiev was full of consolation.

That was thirteen years ago. Since then, I have wandered many places. I’ve visited countless churches and monasteries. But these days I mostly keep to the open steppes and empty fields. I don’t know whether the Lord will truly allow me to reach the holy city of Jerusalem. Perhaps, if it is His will, that sacred place will be where my sinful bones are finally laid to rest.”

“How old are you now?” my spiritual father asked.

“I’m thirty-three.”

“The age of Jesus Christ at His death.”

Chapter 4

But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord God my refuge… —Psalm 73:28

When I came to visit my spiritual father, I said, “How true it is, what the old Russian proverb says: ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’ I had every intention of leaving today, beginning my journey to the holy city of Jerusalem. But something entirely unexpected happened. A small event—completely unforeseen—has kept me here for three more days. And I couldn’t resist coming to see you, Father, to ask your advice about how to handle it. Let me tell you what happened.

After I had said my farewells and entrusted myself to God, I set out with a light heart. But just as I was passing through the city gates, I saw a familiar face standing in the doorway of the last house. It was a fellow pilgrim—someone I hadn’t seen in three years. We greeted each other warmly, and he asked where I was headed.

“I’m hoping to reach old Jerusalem, God willing,” I replied.

“Thank God!” he said. “I know the perfect traveling companion for you!”

“God bless you and him,” I said, “but surely you remember—I’ve never traveled with companions. I’m used to walking alone.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “But listen—this companion would suit you perfectly. You see, I work in this very house, and the father of the master has also made a vow to visit Jerusalem. He’s a good man—older, humble, a bit deaf. In fact, he’s very deaf. You could shout your head off and he wouldn’t hear a thing. If you need to speak to him, you’d have to write it down on paper. So you won’t be bothered by chatter—he hardly talks at home either. But he could really use your help on the road.”

He went on, “His son is giving him a horse and wagon for the journey to Odessa. From there, he’ll sell both and continue on by ship. The old man wants to walk most of the way, but he needs the wagon for his belongings and a few gifts he’s bringing to the Lord’s tomb. You could even load your own knapsack onto the wagon—just think of it! And how could you let an old, deaf man go off all by himself on such a long road? It’s dangerous. He’s carrying some money and parcels, and we’ve been trying to find someone trustworthy to accompany him. But everyone wants too much in return—and none of them are right. You would be just the person. I’ll vouch for you to his family, and they’ll be thrilled. They’re good people. They care for me, and I’ve worked for them these past two years.”

We had been talking at the doorway, but then he brought me inside and introduced me to the master of the house. Right away, I could tell this was a good, honest family—humble, generous, full of decency. So I agreed to their offer. We planned to set out, God willing, on the third day after Christmas, right after the Divine Liturgy.

Isn’t it something how these unexpected turns happen in life? And yet, in all of it, God’s hand gently steers our course. As the Scriptures say, “For God is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13).

When I finished telling this story, my spiritual father smiled and said, “I rejoice with all my heart, dear brother, that the Lord has let me see you again—so soon, and so unexpectedly! Since you still have some time before your journey, I ask you, lovingly, to stay a little longer. Tell me more about the spiritual lessons you’ve received during your long pilgrimage. I’ve listened with such delight to your stories.”

“I would be glad to,” I replied. And so I began to share again.

So many things have happened to me—both joyful and sorrowful—that I could never recount them all. Some I’ve even forgotten. My heart was always more drawn toward whatever awakened my lazy soul to prayer. The rest, I tried to leave behind. As the apostle Paul says, “forgetting what lies behind and striving forward to what lies ahead” (Philippians 3:13).

Even my blessed starets, of holy memory, used to teach that the greatest obstacles to prayer can come not only from evil, but from what appears good. He said the enemy will sometimes attack us “from the left”—through vain, sinful, or distracting thoughts. But when that fails, he attacks “from the right”—bringing us thoughts that seem uplifting, beautiful, even spiritual—just to keep us from true prayer.

This deception, he said, is known as “right-hand theft.” It tricks the soul into preferring spiritual ideas or consoling emotions over actual communion with God. Prayer becomes replaced by thinking about God, rather than being with God.

So he warned me to gently set aside even the most inspiring thoughts if they came during prayer. Even conversations or reflections that felt spiritually nourishing could become a kind of spiritual indulgence if they distracted me from the deeper stillness of the heart. He told me: if I ever noticed I was spending more time talking about prayer than actually praying, or more time thinking spiritually than resting in God’s presence, I should recognize that—even this—can be a subtle form of ego, a craving for “spiritual sweets.”

Especially for beginners, he said, prayer must come first. Always. Our time spent in hidden, interior prayer must be more than any other pious activity, no matter how good it seems. For without prayer, we are like lamps without oil—shining for a moment, but unable to stay lit.

Still, not everything can or should be forgotten. Some encounters etch themselves so deeply in the heart that they remain clear in memory for years, even if we don’t dwell on them often.

I’ll tell you now about one such experience—a moment of grace that lives on in me like a warm light.

While I was traveling through the Tobolsk province, I came upon a town where my last piece of dried bread was nearly gone. I stopped at a house and humbly asked if they could spare a little food.

The man who answered smiled and said, “Thank God you came at just the right time! My wife has just taken fresh bread out of the oven. Here—take this warm loaf. And please, pray for us.”

I gratefully thanked him, and as I was putting the bread into my worn knapsack, his wife caught sight of me and said, “Look at that poor bag—it’s falling apart! Let me give you another.” She brought out a sturdy one and gave it to me with such kindness. Their generosity filled me with quiet joy. I thanked them both from the bottom of my heart and continued on my way.

Just outside the town, I stopped at a little shop and asked for some salt. The shopkeeper gave me a small bag for free. With bread and salt in hand, I rejoiced in spirit, whispering thanks to God for such unexpected blessings. I would not need to worry about food for a whole week! I could sleep in peace, with no hunger troubling my prayer.

Bless the Lord, O my soul! I said over and over.

A few miles down the road, I reached a poor village. There, standing humbly by the path, was a wooden church. Though small, its walls were painted with simple but beautiful frescoes. As I passed, a quiet tug in my heart drew me inside to pray.

I stepped onto the porch and stood for a moment in silence, offering my thanks to God. Two children—perhaps five or six years old—were playing nearby in the grass. They were beautifully dressed, so I assumed they must be the priest’s children.

I finished praying and turned to go. But just as I walked away, I heard voices behind me:

“Dear beggarman! Dear beggarman, wait!”

I turned around and saw the children—one boy, one girl—running toward me, bright-eyed and full of joy. Each took one of my hands and said, “Come with us to Mommy—she loves the poor!”

I gently replied, “But I’m not a beggar—I’m just a pilgrim, a man passing through.”

Still, they insisted, pulling me along with innocent determination.

“Then why do you carry a knapsack?” they asked with curiosity.

“I keep bread in there for the road,” I told them, smiling. “But tell me, where is your mother?”

“She’s just behind the church,” they said, tugging at my hands, “in the big house behind that little grove of trees.”

They led me through a lovely garden to a grand manor set in the middle, and we stepped inside. Everything was clean, quiet, and filled with a peaceful order. Their mother—the mistress of the house—came rushing to meet us with open arms.

“Welcome! Welcome! From where has God sent you to us?” she exclaimed warmly. “Come in, dear sir, come in and sit!”

She gently lifted the knapsack from my shoulders, placed it on the table, and led me to sit in a soft, comfortable chair.

“Would you like something to eat? A cup of tea? Is there anything you need at all?”

I looked at her with heartfelt gratitude and replied, “I thank you most humbly. I have bread enough in my sack, and while I do drink tea, we peasants aren’t really used to it. Your generous welcome and the kindness in your heart are far more precious to me than anything I could be served. I will ask God to bless you, for you live with the spirit of Scripture—the love of pilgrims and strangers.”

As I spoke those words, I felt the fire of prayer begin to burn brightly in my heart again. The inward flame rekindled, rising like a holy tide. I longed to be alone, to give full attention to the sweetness of prayer that was blossoming within me.

So I stood up gently and said, “Please forgive me, Matushka—it is time for me to take my leave. May the Lord Jesus Christ be with you and with your dear children.”

And with that, I made my way quietly out, eager to return to the solitude where I could be alone with my Beloved, in the silence of unceasing prayer.

“Oh no! God forbid that you should leave—I simply won’t allow it,” the mistress said, her voice full of warmth. “My husband is coming home from the city this evening—he’s a judge—and he will be overjoyed to meet you. He considers every pilgrim to be a messenger from God. If you go now, he’ll be so disappointed not to have met you.”

“Besides,” she continued, “tomorrow is Sunday. You can pray with us at the Divine Liturgy, and afterward we’ll share whatever meal the Lord has provided. On every feast day, we open our home to guests—sometimes as many as thirty of Christ’s poor. But you haven’t even told me anything about yourself—where you’ve come from, where you’re going! Stay and talk with me. I love to hear devout people speak of spiritual things. Children, children! Take the pilgrim’s knapsack and place it in the chapel—he will sleep there tonight.”

I was astonished by her kindness and hospitality. I thought to myself: Am I speaking with a human being or an angel?

So I stayed.

That evening, I met her husband, the master of the house. I told him a little about my journey and my plans to travel on to Irkutsk.

“In that case,” said the mistress, “you’ll pass through Tobolsk. My mother is there—she is now a schima nun and lives at the women’s monastery. We’ll write a letter of introduction for you, and she will gladly receive you. Many seek her out for spiritual counsel. Oh! And you can bring her the book she asked us to order from Moscow—The Ladder of Divine Ascent by Saint John Climacus. How beautifully all of this is coming together!”

When it was time for dinner, I joined them at the table, along with four other women. After the first course, one of the ladies stood up, made a deep bow before the icons and then to those of us at the table. She brought in the second course and sat again. Another woman rose and did the same before serving the third course.

Watching all this with quiet wonder, I leaned toward the mistress and asked, “If I may, little mother—are these women your relatives?”

She smiled. “No, but they are sisters to me in Christ. This one is our cook, the second is the coachman’s wife, the third is the housekeeper, and the fourth is my maid. They’re all married—there isn’t a single unmarried girl in my house.”

Having observed and listened to everything, I was even more astonished. I thanked God for bringing me to such devout people and felt the intense activity of prayer burning in my heart. Eager to be alone so as not to disturb this sacred prayer, I rose from the table and said to the mistress, “No doubt you will want to rest after dinner. I am accustomed to taking a walk, so I will stroll around the garden.”

“No,” she replied gently, “I do not need to rest. I will walk with you in the garden, and you can tell me something edifying. If you go alone, the children will pester you—once they see you, they won’t leave your side, for they truly love the needy brethren of Christ and pilgrims.”

With no way to refuse, I went with her. Seeking to avoid speaking about myself, I bowed before her and said, “Matushka, in the name of God, please tell me how long you have lived such a devout life and how you have achieved such piety.”

She smiled and began, “Perhaps I should tell you the whole story of my life. You see, my mother is the great-granddaughter of Saint Joasaph, whose relics rest in Belogorod and are open for veneration. We once owned a large townhouse and rented one wing to a nobleman who was not well off. When he died, his widow was pregnant, but she passed away shortly after giving birth. My mother took pity on the poor orphaned child and raised him alongside me. I was born one year later. We grew up together, studied under the same tutors, and became as close as brother and sister.”

She continued, “Some years later, my father died, and my mother moved from the city to this country estate. When we reached adulthood, my mother gave me in marriage to this orphaned young man who had grown up in our house. She settled her entire estate on us and then entered a monastery, where she had a cell built for herself. In her blessing, she exhorted us to live as true Christians: to pray earnestly to God, to love our neighbors, to care for Christ’s needy brethren with simplicity and humility, to raise our children in the fear of God, and to treat our servants as brothers.”

She paused and then added, “We have lived here by ourselves for the last ten years, striving to follow her instructions. We maintain a guesthouse for the poor, and at this moment, more than ten crippled and needy people reside with us. Perhaps tomorrow you will visit them with me.”

When she had finished her story, I asked, “Where is that book by Saint John of the Ladder that you wanted delivered to your mother?”

“Let’s go inside, and I will find it for you.”

No sooner had we settled down to read than the master of the house arrived. Upon seeing me, he embraced me warmly, and we exchanged the Christian kiss of peace. Then he led me into his own room and said, “Come, dear brother, to my study and bless my cell. I think you have had enough of her”—he gestured toward his wife—“for as soon as she sees a pilgrim or someone who is ill, she gladly spends day and night with them. This has been the way of her entire family for generations.”

We entered his study. It was filled with many books and magnificent icons, alongside a life-giving crucifix bearing a life-sized figure of Christ, with a Bible resting nearby. I prayed quietly, then said to him, “Sir, what you have here is God’s paradise. Here stands the Lord Jesus Christ Himself, His Most Pure Mother, and His holy saints; and these”—I pointed to the books—“are their divinely inspired, living words and teachings, which can never be silenced. I expect you enjoy frequent spiritual converse with them.”

“Yes, I admit it,” the master replied. “I do love to read.”

“What sort of books do you have here?” I asked.

“I have many spiritual books,” he replied. “Here is the Chet’-Minei for the entire year, the works of Saint John Chrysostom and Saint Basil the Great. There are numerous theological and philosophical treatises, as well as collections of sermons by the most celebrated preachers of recent times. My library is valued at five thousand rubles.”

“By any chance, do you have a book about prayer?” I asked.

“I love to read about prayer,” he answered. Then he reached for a volume on the Lord’s Prayer—the Our Father—written recently by a priest in Saint Petersburg. We began reading it together with great pleasure.

Shortly after, the mistress of the house brought us tea, and the children carried in a large silver basket filled with biscuits or pastries I had never before tasted. The husband took the book from me, handed it to his wife, and said, “Since she reads so beautifully, we shall have her read to us while we enjoy some refreshment.”

She began reading aloud, and as I listened, I was able to attend simultaneously to the prayer in my heart. The more she read, the stronger my inner prayer grew, filling me with deep delight. Suddenly, it seemed as though someone passed swiftly before my eyes—through the air—as if it were my late starets. I shuddered but, not wanting to reveal this, I quickly said, “Forgive me, I must have dozed off.”

At that moment, I felt as if the starets’ spirit had penetrated my own, illuminating it. A sudden enlightenment came upon my understanding, and a multitude of thoughts about prayer filled my mind. I made the sign of the cross over myself to banish these thoughts just as the mistress finished reading. Her husband then asked if I had enjoyed it, and we began to discuss the book.

“I liked it very much,” I said. “The Lord’s Prayer—the Our Father—is more exalted and precious than all the prayers recorded by Christians, for it was given to us by the Lord Jesus Christ Himself. The commentary was very good, though it focused mainly on Christian works. In my reading of the holy Fathers, I have also encountered contemplative and mystical commentaries on this prayer.”

“In which of the Fathers did you find these teachings?” they asked.

“Well, for example, in Saint Maximus the Confessor, and also in the Philokalia through the writings of Saint Peter of Damascus,” I replied.

“Do you remember any of what you read? Please, tell us about it!”

“Certainly! Let us consider the very first words of the prayer: Our Father, Who art in heaven. The book we read today offered one interpretation, saying these words call us to brotherly love — to see all people as children of one Father. That is true, but the holy Fathers go even deeper. They teach that this phrase is an invitation to lift our minds to heaven, to the heavenly Father Himself, and to remember our sacred duty to live each moment in His presence.

“The words hallowed be Thy Name are explained in your book as a call to reverence — that the Name of God should never be spoken disrespectfully or taken in false oaths. Simply put, the holy Name must be spoken with awe and never in vain. Yet the mystical commentators see these words as a direct request for the gift of the interior prayer of the heart — a plea that the most holy Name of God be engraved upon the heart, hallowed by the self-active prayer, sanctifying all our feelings and spiritual powers.

“When we pray Thy Kingdom come, the mystical teachers interpret this as a yearning that inner peace, tranquility, and spiritual joy may descend into our hearts.

“Your book explains the petition Give us this day our daily bread as a request for the material necessities — not in excess, but enough to satisfy our needs and to help those in want. But Saint Maximus the Confessor offers a deeper meaning: he sees daily bread as the nourishment of the soul with the heavenly bread — the Word of God — and the union of the soul with God through constant remembrance of Him and the ceaseless interior prayer of the heart.”

“Ah! That is a great thing to aspire to,” exclaimed the master of the house, “but it seems nearly impossible for those of us living in the world to attain this interior prayer! Most of the time, we’re just grateful if the Lord helps us to say our prayers at all, without falling into laziness.”

“Do not see it as something unattainable, Batyushka,” I replied gently. “If it truly were overwhelmingly difficult, God would not have commanded all of us to pursue it. His strength is made perfect in our weakness. The holy Fathers, from their own experience, provide us with ways and methods that make it easier to enter into the prayer of the heart. Of course, hermits have special, more advanced practices, but there are also accessible methods designed for laypeople that faithfully guide us to this prayer.”

“I have never encountered anything so detailed in my readings,” the master said thoughtfully.

“If you like,” I offered, “I can read to you from the Philokalia.”

I retrieved my Philokalia, found the article by Saint Peter of Damascus in section three, and read aloud:

“‘More important than attending to your breathing, one must learn to call upon the Name of God at all times, in all places, and during all activities. The Apostle teaches us to pray without ceasing — to remember God constantly, no matter where you are or what you are doing. If you are busy with some task, remember the Creator of all. When you see the light, recall the One who gives it. When you look at the sky, the earth, the waters, and all their contents, marvel and glorify the Creator. As you put on your clothes, remember Him who gifts them to you, and thank Him for all your provisions. In short, let every action be an opportunity to remember and praise God. And before you realize it, you will be praying without ceasing, and your soul will rejoice continually.’”

“Do you see now how this method to attain unceasing prayer is convenient, simple, and within reach of anyone with a heart open to God?”

They were deeply moved by what they heard. The master embraced me joyfully and thanked me with real warmth. Then, flipping through my Philokalia, he said, “I’ll order this from Petersburg as soon as I can. But for now, I’ll copy that passage so I don’t forget it. Please, read it to me again.”

He listened closely as I read it once more, then quickly and neatly wrote it down. Suddenly he exclaimed, “My God! I even have an icon of the holy Damascene!” (It was likely Saint John of Damascus.) He picked up a picture frame, slipped the handwritten passage behind the glass, and hung it beneath the icon.

“There,” he said with a smile, “the living words of one of God’s saints, hanging right under his image. Now I’ll be reminded every day to put his life-giving counsel into practice.”

Later we sat down for dinner, joined by the same gathering of men and women. The table was filled with a deep and peaceful silence—a reverence that wrapped around us like a gentle cloak. After the meal, everyone, young and old, gathered for prayer. They asked me to chant the Akathist to the Most Sweet Jesus, and we prayed together for a long time.

Once the prayers were finished, the servants retired for the night. The three of us remained in the room a little longer. The mistress brought me a clean white shirt and a pair of socks. I bowed low and said, “Matushka, I’ll gratefully accept the shirt, but I’ve never worn socks in my life. We peasants are used to onoochi.”

Without hesitation, she left the room and returned with an old robe made of thin yellow fabric. She tore it in two and fashioned a pair of onoochi from it. Her husband, looking at my worn-out footwear, said kindly, “Look at this poor man's shoes—barely holding together.” He brought out a pair of his own bashmaki, new and large enough to wear over boots.

“Go change in the next room,” he said. I did as he asked, and when I came back, they sat me down and began dressing my feet themselves. The master wrapped the onoochi gently around my feet, while his wife helped him pull on the bashmaki.

At first, I protested, feeling shy and unworthy. But they quieted me, saying, “Sit still and be at peace—Christ washed the feet of His disciples.”

I could do nothing but weep. And they wept with me.

Later, the mistress retired with the children, and the master and I made our way to the little summerhouse in the garden.

We weren’t tired yet, so we lay there in the quiet summerhouse, talking late into the night. Eventually, the master turned to me with a serious look and said, “Now be honest—with God as your witness and with a clear conscience. Who are you, really? You must come from a good family and have chosen to live as a fool for Christ. The way you read and write, the way you speak so thoughtfully and clearly—it’s not the kind of learning that comes from a peasant’s life.”

I looked at him and said, “Truly, I told you and your wife everything from my heart. I had no reason to lie, and I wouldn’t. Everything I’ve shared isn’t mine, not really. It’s what I was taught by my blessed starets, who was full of wisdom from God, and what I’ve read slowly and carefully in the writings of the holy Fathers. I’m just passing it on.

“But more than anything, it’s interior prayer that’s opened my eyes—though I can’t take credit for that either. It was the Lord’s mercy, through my starets’ gentle guidance, that awakened it in me. And this, I believe, is something anyone can receive. You simply need to become quiet inside, descend into your heart, and start calling on the name of Jesus with faith and humility. Before long, a light begins to shine from within, and your understanding opens like a flower in the sun. You start to see things more clearly—even the hidden things of the Kingdom of God begin to make sense in your soul.

“To be able to enter your own heart, to see your true self, to feel that discovery with joy—and at the same time be moved to tears over how far you’ve wandered from your original goodness—that alone is a profound mystery. And once you touch that place inside, you find you can speak wisely with others too. Because wisdom doesn’t come first from schooling—it comes from the mind and heart God gave us from the beginning.

“Learning can shape the mind, yes, but only if there’s a heart that’s awake and ready. Where there’s no understanding, no awakening, no amount of books or discipline can help. The truth is, we’ve grown distant from ourselves. We rarely want to face who we truly are. Instead, we run from it, filling our days with empty distractions. We tell ourselves we’d love to live a more spiritual life, we’d love to pray more—but there’s just never enough time. We’re too busy worrying about this and that.

“But really, what could be more important than the eternal soul? This short life of ours, which we spend fussing over constantly, will pass away. The soul lasts forever. And that’s what I meant when I spoke of the difference between good judgment and foolishness.”

“Forgive me, dear brother,” he said gently, “I didn’t mean to question you out of mere curiosity. It came from a heartfelt sense of Christian concern—and also because of something that happened two years ago, which your words reminded me of.

“A beggar came to our home. He had a military discharge passport, was old and frail, and so poor that his clothes barely covered him and he had almost nothing on his feet. He didn’t talk much and spoke so simply that we assumed he was just a peasant from the steppes.

“We let him stay in our little guesthouse for the poor. But after about five days, he became very ill. So my wife and I moved him into this summerhouse and began to care for him ourselves. When it became clear he was near death, we called for our priest. He came and heard his confession, gave him Communion, and administered Holy Unction.

“Then, the day before the man died, something unexpected happened. He got up from his bed, asked for paper and a pen, and requested that we lock the door and let no one in while he wrote his final will and testament to his son. He gave us an address in Saint Petersburg and asked that we send it there after his death.

“I was amazed—not only was his handwriting graceful and refined, but his writing style was elegant, thoughtful, and perfectly composed. Tomorrow I’ll read it to you—I kept a copy.

“All of this made me deeply curious. So I gently asked him about his past. He made me promise not to reveal anything while he was alive. And then, to the glory of God, he told me the story of his life.”

He continued:

“I was once a very wealthy prince, living in splendor and indulgence, completely absorbed in a life of luxury and excess. After my wife died, I lived alone with my only son, who was doing well—he had earned the rank of captain in the Guards.

“One evening, as we were getting ready to attend a grand ball at the home of an influential noble, I lost my temper with my valet. In a sudden outburst of anger, I struck him violently on the head and ordered that he be sent back to his village.

“The next day, the valet died—his brain inflamed from the blow. But at the time, I felt only a momentary regret. I quickly forgot about it, brushing the whole matter aside.

“But about six weeks later, something began to happen. The valet started to appear to me—at first in my dreams. Night after night, he would come, staring at me and repeating, ‘Wretched man! You are my murderer!’

“Soon, it wasn’t only in dreams. I began to see him when I was fully awake. The more time passed, the more frequently he appeared, until it seemed he was haunting me without pause.

“But he wasn’t alone for long. I began to see others too—men I had wronged, women I had seduced and abandoned. They surrounded me, accusing me, tormenting me, day and night. There was no escape.

“I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t live. I withered away to nothing. No doctor could help, no remedy eased my suffering.

“In desperation, I went abroad, hoping that new treatments might save me. But after six months, nothing had changed. In fact, the visions grew worse, more relentless. I returned home half-alive, a shell of a man.

“It was then that I knew—without any doubt—that hell exists. Not just as some idea or future judgment, but as a real, living torment. My soul had tasted its fires, while still in this body.”

"In the middle of his anguish, the man came face-to-face with the weight of his own choices. He confessed his wrongs, repented deeply, and released all his servants. Then he made a vow—not out of punishment, but out of a sincere desire to walk humbly: that for the rest of his life, he would take on hardship and live in poverty, offering himself in service to those the world tends to overlook.

And something miraculous happened.

The torment lifted. All the dark, haunting visions disappeared. In their place came a peace so deep, so radiant, that he couldn’t put it fully into words. He described it as tasting paradise itself—like the Kingdom of God had quietly opened its gates inside his own heart.

His body healed, and his soul was made light.

Without any fanfare or farewell, he set out to fulfill the promise he had made. He left his homeland, traveling alone across the vast expanse of Siberia. For fifteen years, he wandered. Sometimes he worked for humble folk, doing whatever small jobs he could. Other times he simply begged for food, asking in the name of Christ.

And yet, through all of it—all the lack, the cold, the uncertainty—he was happy. Deeply, sincerely happy. He said that only someone who’s been dragged through their own personal hell and then lifted into God’s mercy could understand the peace he carried.

Before he died, he handed me a letter—a will, really—and asked me to send it to his son. I still keep a copy tucked into my Bible. Would you like to read it? I have it here.

---

In the name of God, glorified in the Trinity—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

My dearest son,

It’s been fifteen years since you last saw me. Though I’ve had no word from you, I’ve heard little whispers about your life, and through it all, I’ve held you in the quiet place of a father’s love. That love compels me now to send these final words from my deathbed, in hopes that something in them might serve you well.

You know something of the pain I endured from living thoughtlessly. But you don’t yet know the joy I found in repentance. My years of wandering—though poor and unknown—were filled with a kind of bliss I never expected. There’s sweetness in a soul made clean.

I’m dying peacefully now, in the home of someone who showed kindness not just to me, but to you as well. When you’re able, express your thanks to him in whatever way feels true.

I leave you my blessing, and with it, this charge: Always remember God. Keep your conscience clear. Be wise. Be gentle. Be fair. Be kind to those who serve under you, and never look down on the poor or the homeless. Remember that your father, broken and tormented, found his healing only by walking the path of poverty and pilgrimage.

I now close my eyes in peace, trusting in the mercy of our Intercessor, Jesus Christ, and in the hope of eternal life.

Your father

---

The kind man and I lay together in the garden summerhouse, chatting in the gentle quiet of the afternoon. After a time, I asked him something that had been on my mind.

“Tell me, Batyushka,” I said, “doesn’t running a guesthouse for pilgrims bring its share of trouble? I mean, I’ve met my fair share of wanderers who are just drifting, with no real aim—or worse, too lazy to work. Some even stir up trouble along the way. I’ve seen it myself.”

He gave a little nod, but his eyes stayed soft. “We don’t get too many like that,” he said. “Most who come here are genuine. Still, when the difficult ones do arrive, we actually make a point to welcome them even more warmly—and encourage them to stay longer.”

I looked at him, curious.

“Often,” he continued, “when they spend time living among the poor in spirit—among Christ’s own beggars—they begin to change. The rough edges soften. They leave our care different than when they arrived—quieter, humbler. More human, you could say.”

He told me about one man in particular. He’d been from a local middle-class family, but had fallen into such disgrace that even the kindest townspeople chased him away with sticks. No one would feed him, not even a crust of bread. He was known for being violent, drunk, and prone to stealing.

One day, utterly worn down and hungry, the man came to their doorstep and asked for some bread—and wine, of course, as that was his craving above all.

“We received him with kindness,” the master said. “We told him, ‘You’re welcome to stay. You’ll get all the wine you want—but only if you promise that when you’ve had your fill, you’ll quietly go to sleep. If you stir up any trouble, that’s it—we’ll not only send you away for good, but I’ll personally report you to the magistrate and have you taken to a penal colony.’”

The man agreed. And true to his word, he drank—freely and deeply—for over a week. But each time he got drunk, he simply stumbled off to bed or lay down quietly in the garden. He kept his end of the deal, mostly because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing access to the wine.

And then something started to shift.

His fellow beggars, many of whom had walked through their own valleys, gently encouraged him to try drinking less. They didn’t scold—they just invited him, bit by bit, to imagine something better. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to drink less. And then one day—three months later—he stopped altogether.

He found work. He stopped begging.

And just two days before our conversation, he had come by to say thank you.

As I listened to his story, I was filled with wonder. What wisdom, I thought, has been shaped here—not by control or harshness, but by love. I couldn’t help but say aloud, “Blessed be God, who has revealed His mercy in this home you care for!”

After our talk, the master and I dozed off for a little while—maybe an hour, maybe more—until the soft ringing of the bell called us to matins. We rose quietly and made our way to the church.

When we stepped inside, I noticed his wife was already there with the children, settled in silence. We stayed for matins and then the Divine Liturgy that followed. The master and I stood with the little boy inside the altar area, while his wife and daughter knelt near the altar window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the holy mystery as the Gifts were elevated.

And then—oh, my God—how they prayed.

With heads bowed and hearts wide open, they wept. Not with sorrow, but with joy—tears pouring down their faces as if heaven itself had touched them. Their faces glowed with such pure light that I couldn’t help myself… my own eyes filled with tears too, overflowing just from witnessing the beauty of it.

There’s something about that kind of prayer—quiet, honest, full of longing and love—that opens a door inside you. Even as an onlooker, you’re pulled into its grace.

After the Liturgy, everyone made their way to the dining room—the master and mistress, the priest, the servants, and all the beggars who had come for shelter. There must have been forty of them: some crippled, others frail, children nestled among them. Yet they all sat together, shoulder to shoulder, at one long table.

What struck me most wasn’t the number of people or the food, but the stillness. A deep, almost sacred quiet filled the room, as if peace itself had joined us at the table.

Feeling a little bold, I leaned over to the master and said softly, “In monasteries, they often read from the lives of the saints during meals. You have the full collection—you might consider doing the same.”

He turned to his wife with a smile and said, “Masha, why don’t we start that? It would be good for everyone. I’ll read first—at this meal—and then you can read next. Then our friend Batyushka here can take a turn. After that, anyone else who can read is welcome to join in.”

The priest, who was quietly eating nearby, looked up and said, “Oh, I do love to listen. But reading? Well, forgive me, but I simply don’t have the time for it. The moment I get home there’s always something that needs doing. Children calling, cows to tend to, endless small things that pile up. I’ve got so many daily duties that I hardly remember the theology I studied in seminary.”

At that, a strange feeling passed through me—something between surprise and sorrow. But before I could say anything, the mistress gently took my hand and whispered, “He speaks this way out of humility. Always has. He may downplay himself, but he is righteous. Kind beyond words. He’s been a widower for twenty years and has raised a whole household of grandchildren—while still serving in the church, offering the sacraments faithfully and often.”

Her words brought to mind something I had once read in the Philokalia, from Nikitas Stethatos. He wrote, “The nature of things is measured by the interior disposition of the soul”—that is, how we see others depends on the state of our own heart. He goes on to say, “He who has attained to genuine prayer and love no longer puts things into categories. He does not separate the righteous from the sinners, but loves all equally and does not judge them—just as God causes the sun to shine and the rain to fall on both the just and the unjust.”

Those words settled in me again as I looked around the table. No distinctions. No judgments. Just people, gathered in the quiet love of God.

A quiet hush settled over the room again. Across from me sat a completely blind beggar, one of the guests staying at the house. The master, with his usual gentle care, fed him—cutting pieces of fish, guiding the spoon to his mouth, making sure he was nourished.

I found myself watching this man closely. His mouth stayed slightly open, and his tongue moved constantly, fluttering as though it trembled. Something about it caught my attention. I wondered if he might be one of those hidden souls—someone deep in prayer without drawing any notice. The thought stayed with me, and I kept quietly observing him.

But the peace of that moment was interrupted. One of the older women at the table suddenly became ill and began to moan in pain. Without hesitation, the master and his wife carried her into their bedroom and laid her down gently on the bed. The wife stayed at her side, and the priest went off to retrieve the Presanctified Gifts—just in case. The master called for his carriage to fetch a doctor. The rest of us quietly slipped away.

As I walked out, I felt something stirring deep within—a wave of longing. It had been two full days since I’d been alone in silence, and the desire for stillness came over me like a tide ready to break. There was a fullness inside me, like a prayer swelling within my chest that had nowhere to go. I felt it pressing against my heart—almost painfully, though not in a way I wished to stop. It was a sweet kind of ache that could only be soothed by solitude… and by prayer.

In that moment, something became clear to me. I understood, even if just faintly, why those who are drawn deeply into the life of prayer often withdraw from the noise of daily life. Why they leave behind company, even good company, to hide away in the shelter of silence. There’s something in the heart that begins to beat differently when it tastes that stillness.

It reminded me of the words of Hesychios, who taught that even the most noble conversation can become idle chatter when we’ve had too much of it. And of Saint Ephraim the Syrian, who once said, “Good speech is silver, but silence is pure gold.”

And that day, I knew exactly what he meant.

As I reflected on everything, I made my way back to the guesthouse where everyone was resting after the meal. I climbed quietly into the attic, finding a calm space to settle, rest, and pray for a little while.

Later, when the beggars had risen from their rest, I sought out the blind man. We walked together just beyond the kitchen garden, found a quiet spot, and sat down to talk.

I asked him gently, “For God’s sake, would you tell me—do you pray the Jesus Prayer for your own spiritual benefit?”

He nodded. “I have been praying it unceasingly for a long time now.”

“What do you experience when you pray like this?”

He smiled softly. “Only that I cannot be without the prayer, day or night.”

Curious, I pressed further. “How did God reveal this practice to you? Tell me everything, dear brother.”

He began his story. “You see, I once belonged to a local guild and made my living as a tailor. I traveled from province to province, sewing clothes for peasants.

“One time, I stayed longer than usual in a village, living with a peasant family I was making clothes for. On one of the feast days, I noticed three books lying near their icon case. I asked, ‘Who in your household knows how to read?’ They told me, ‘No one. These books were left to us by our uncle, who could read and write.’

“I picked up one book and opened it randomly. There, on one page, I found these words—words I remember clearly to this day: ‘Unceasing prayer is calling always upon the Name of God, whether one is conversing or sitting down, walking, working, or eating, or occupied with any other activity—in all places and at all times one should call upon the Name of God.’

“After reading this, I thought to myself, ‘This might actually be something I can do.’ So I began quietly repeating the prayer in a soft whisper while I sewed—and I found it very comforting.

“The others living with me in the hut began to notice and mocked me. ‘What are you?’ they said. ‘Some kind of wizard? What are you whispering all the time? Are you weaving a spell?’ To keep my prayer private, I stopped moving my lips and began to pray only with my tongue.

“In time, it became so natural that day and night my tongue would form the words on its own. And this—this became a great comfort to me.”

“So I lived like that for quite some time,” the blind man continued, “traveling from village to village with my sewing. Then, all of a sudden, I lost my sight completely. It runs in my family—most of us suffer from what they call ‘dark water.’”

He paused for a moment, and then added, “When I became too poor to care for myself, the guild arranged to have me placed in an almshouse in Tobolsk, the capital of our province. I was on my way there when the master and mistress here asked me to stop and rest with them. They said they’d help me get a cart to carry me the rest of the way.”

Something tugged at me. “That book you read from all those years ago—do you remember the title? Was it the Philokalia, by any chance?”

He looked thoughtful. “Honestly, I don’t know. I didn’t even look at the cover.”

I happened to have my Philokalia with me, and turning to Part Four, I found the passage he had quoted so clearly from memory. I read it aloud, and as soon as the words left my lips, he lit up.

“That’s it!” he cried. “That’s exactly what I read! Keep reading, brother—this is just wonderful!”

When I reached the line that said “One should pray with the heart,” he stopped me, eager with questions. “What does that mean? How do you do it?”

I explained that the Philokalia offers detailed teachings on the prayer of the heart—how to cultivate it, how to sustain it, how to descend into the inner stillness where the prayer lives and breathes. He listened with the hunger of someone who had just found a long-lost key.

He clasped my arm and said, “Would you please read the whole book to me? Every word about the prayer of the heart—I want to understand it all.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “When are you planning to leave for Tobolsk?”

“I could leave right now,” he answered without hesitation.

“Then let’s travel together,” I offered. “I’m thinking of setting out tomorrow myself. Along the way, I’ll read to you all the teachings on the prayer of the heart. I’ll show you how to find that quiet place within—and how to enter it.”

“But what about the cart?” the blind man asked.

I smiled and said, “Ah, who needs a cart? We know how far Tobolsk is—it’s only a hundred miles or so. We’ll take it slow. Just think how beautiful it will be for the two of us to walk together, just the two of us. We’ll have plenty of time to talk, to read, and to soak in the teachings on prayer along the way.”

And so we agreed.

That evening, the master of the house came to invite us to supper. After the meal, we shared our plan with him—that the blind man and I would travel together on foot, and that we wouldn’t be needing the cart. We explained it would be easier this way to read from the Philokalia as we went. When he heard this, the master’s face lit up.

“I’ve enjoyed the Philokalia myself,” he said. “In fact, I’ve already written a letter enclosing some money, and I’ll be mailing it to Saint Petersburg tomorrow on my way to the courthouse. I’ve asked them to send me a copy with the next post.”

The next morning, we set out. We thanked our hosts warmly for their kindness, which had been nothing short of Christlike. Their hospitality had been full of grace. They even walked with us for a good half-mile down the road before we said our goodbyes.

The blind man and I traveled slowly, walking six to ten miles a day. The rest of our time was spent resting in quiet, hidden places—little pockets of stillness where we could read. I read to him everything in the Philokalia about the prayer of the heart, just as my late starets had taught me. We started with the writings of Nicephorus the Solitary, moved through Saint Gregory of Sinai, and continued from there.

He soaked it all in—hungrily, joyfully, like a man drinking deeply after years in the desert. His heart was wide open. And soon, he began to ask questions—so many questions! Some of them were so deep, I didn’t know how to answer.

When we’d finished all the relevant teachings, he turned to me with real urgency.

“Please,” he said, “show me. Show me how the mind finds the heart. Show me how to bring the name of Jesus Christ into it. Teach me how to feel the sweetness of that inner prayer, the one you spoke of—the one that lives and breathes in the heart.”

I said to him gently, “You may be blind in your eyes, but can you not still see things in your mind? Can you not call to mind the face of someone you once knew, or an object you once held, or even one of your own hands or feet? Can you not picture it as clearly in your mind as if you were looking straight at it? And can you not, even now, focus your inner gaze upon it—just as you once focused your outer eyes?”

“But what about the cart?” he asked.

“Eh, who needs a cart? We know how far Tobolsk is—it’s only about a hundred miles. We’ll just walk slowly. Think how good it will be for us to travel together, just the two of us. That way, we can talk and read about prayer as we walk.” So we agreed.

That evening, the master himself came and invited us to dinner. After the meal, we told him that the blind man and I had decided to travel together on foot and wouldn’t need the cart. It would be easier for us to read the Philokalia that way. When he heard this, the master said, “I, too, enjoyed the Philokalia. In fact, I’ve already written a letter and enclosed some money, which I’ll send to Saint Petersburg tomorrow on my way to the courthouse. I’ve asked them to send me a copy with the next post.”

The next day we set out, warmly thanking our hosts for their extraordinary love and hospitality. They walked with us for over half a mile before we parted ways.

The blind man and I took short walks each day, about six to ten miles at a time. The rest of the time, we sat in quiet places and read from the Philokalia. I read to him everything about the prayer of the heart, following the order my late spiritual father had given me—starting with the writings of Nicephorus the Solitary, then Saint Gregory of Sinai, and so on. He listened with eagerness and joy, soaking it all in. Then he began asking me questions about prayer—questions so deep that I didn’t always know how to answer them.

When we had read all the essential passages, he earnestly asked me to show him how the mind finds the heart, how to bring the Name of Jesus into it, and how to experience the sweet inner prayer of the heart.

I explained it this way: “You’re blind and can’t see, but aren’t you still able to picture in your mind what you once saw with your eyes—a person, an object, or even your own hand or foot? Can’t you visualize it clearly, almost as if you were really seeing it, and even focus your eyes on it, even though you’re blind?”

“I can do that,” said the blind man.

“Well then, do the same thing with your heart. Try to picture your heart in your mind. Focus your eyes on it, as if you were looking right through your chest. Picture it as clearly as you can. Then, listen to its steady beating. Once you’ve done that, begin to say the prayer in rhythm with your heartbeat, keeping your mental focus on your heart. On the first beat, say ‘Lord’; on the second, ‘Jesus’; on the third, ‘Christ’; on the fourth, ‘have mercy’; on the fifth, ‘on me.’ Keep repeating this again and again. It should be easy for you, since you already know the basics of heart-prayer.

“When you get used to it, you can begin to say the full Jesus Prayer in rhythm with your breath. As you inhale, focus on your heart and say, ‘Lord Jesus Christ.’ As you exhale, say, ‘have mercy on me.’ Do this as often as you can. Soon, you’ll start to feel a gentle but pleasant ache in your heart, followed by warmth and tenderness. If you stay with this practice, with God’s help, you’ll experience the sweet, self-acting prayer of the heart.

“But as you do this, be careful not to let your imagination wander or to entertain any visions. Reject everything the imagination brings up, because the holy Fathers teach that true inner prayer must be without images or visions—otherwise you risk falling into delusion.”

The blind man listened intently and began practicing the method with great dedication, especially at night when we stopped to rest. After about five days, he began to feel a strong warmth and an indescribable sweetness in his heart. A longing to pray constantly grew in him, and it stirred a deep love for Jesus Christ.

From time to time, he began to see a light, though he didn’t see any shapes or objects—just the light. Sometimes, as he entered into his heart in prayer, he would feel a flame like a candle flare up sweetly inside him, rising from his heart through his throat. It seemed to light him up from within, and on one occasion, he even seemed to be able to see things at a distance.

We were walking through a forest, and he was silently absorbed in prayer. Suddenly he said, “What a pity! The church is already on fire, and the belfry has collapsed.”

“Stop imagining things,” I said. “That’s just a temptation. You need to push those thoughts away. How could you possibly know what’s happening in the city when we’re still almost eight miles away?”

He listened to me, kept praying, and said no more. But when we arrived in the city that evening, I saw burned-down buildings and a collapsed belfry that had stood on wooden piles. A crowd had gathered, astonished that no one had been hurt when it fell. From what I could tell, the fire and collapse had happened at exactly the time the blind man had said.

He turned to me and said, “You said I was imagining things, but it happened just as I described. How can one not love and give thanks to our Lord Jesus Christ, who shows His grace even to sinners, to the blind and the simple! And I thank you, too, for teaching me the work of the heart.”

“You can love Jesus Christ and be as grateful to Him as you will,” I said, “but beware of accepting visions as direct revelations of grace, because such things can often occur as natural manifestations, according to the natural order of things. Man’s soul is not absolutely bound by space and matter. It can also see events through darkness and at very great distances, as if they were happening nearby. It is we who do not give power and momentum to this capability in our souls, and we squelch it beneath the bonds of either the carnal fleshiness of our bodies or our confused thoughts and scattered ideas. Yet, when we focus our attention on the inner self, divert our concentration from everything external, and refine our mind, then the soul finds its truest fulfillment and exercises its highest powers, which is quite natural. I heard from my late starets that nonpraying people or people who have a certain ability or suffer from sick disorders are able to see, in the darkest room, the aura of light that radiates from all things, to distinguish between various objects, to sense the presence of their double, and to know the thoughts of others. But what occurs during the prayer of the heart is the direct result of God’s grace, and it is so delightful that no tongue can describe it, attribute it to anything material, or compare it to anything at all. All physical sensations are base in comparison to the delightful experience of grace acting within the heart.”

My blind man listened seriously to all this and was even more humbled by it. The prayer continued to increase within his heart, delighting him beyond description. I rejoiced in this with all my heart and earnestly thanked God for granting me to have met such a blessed servant of His.

At last we arrived in Tobolsk, where I took him to the almshouse. After kindly parting with him, I left him there and continued on my own journey.

For a month I walked slowly, reflecting in depth on how edifying and encouraging the good experiences in life can be. I read the Philokalia frequently to verify all that I had told the blind man of prayer. The edifying example of his experience kindled in me a zeal, gratitude, and love for the Lord. The prayer of the heart delighted me so much that I thought there could be no one happier than I in the whole world and could not imagine how there could be any greater or deeper contentment in the Kingdom of Heaven. Not only did I experience all this within my soul, but everything around me appeared to be enchanting and inspired me with love for and gratitude to God. People, trees, plants, and animals—I felt kinship with them all and discovered how each bore the seal of the Name of Jesus Christ. At times I felt so lightweight, as if I had no body and were not walking but rather joyously floating through the air. At other times I entered so fully into myself that I saw clearly all my inner organs, and this caused me to marvel at the wisdom that went into creating the human body. Sometimes I knew such joy that I felt as if I had been crowned a king. It was at such moments of consolation that I wished that God would grant me to die as soon as possible, so that I could pour myself out in gratitude at His feet in the spiritual world.

Yet I began to notice something shifting in me. Even though my heart had been so full of joy, there was now a quiet unease creeping in—a kind of anxiety or hidden fear. I found myself wondering, “Is something about to go wrong?” The memory of that young village girl came rushing back—the one I had taught the Jesus Prayer in the chapel, only for it all to end in such pain.

I remembered how easily joy could be followed by trial.

Then I thought of the wise words of Blessed John of Karpathos: how a spiritual teacher often bears hardship, even humiliation, for the sake of others’ growth. It struck me—maybe these inner shadows weren’t something to resist, but to understand. Maybe they were part of the path too.

Still, I didn’t want to stay in that anxious place, so I turned my attention back to prayer. I prayed with all the sincerity I could gather. And something beautiful happened—just like before, the heaviness lifted. The fears dissolved. I felt steadied again, gently returned to peace.

“Let God’s will be done,” I said to myself with a full heart. “Whatever Jesus allows, I will bear it. I know I’m still proud and flawed. But even those few people I’ve shared the mystery of interior prayer with—God had already been guiding them in secret before I ever crossed their path.”

That thought settled me like a soft blanket. Once again, I was filled with consolation. The prayer returned to its gentle rhythm within me, and my joy came back—deeper now, and even more peaceful than before. I continued down the road, feeling like I was walking not just forward, but inward, toward the Light.

It had been raining steadily for two full days. The road had turned to deep, sticky mud that swallowed my legs with every step. I could barely walk. So I left the road and cut across the open steppe, where I didn’t see a single soul for nearly ten miles.

By evening, I finally spotted a small farmstead near the roadside. Relief flooded me. “Thank God,” I thought, “Maybe I can rest here for the night. Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll accept it with gratitude. Maybe even the weather will clear.”

As I approached, I saw an older man sitting on a mound of earth outside. He looked like he’d had too much to drink and wore a tattered military overcoat. Still, I bowed politely and asked, “Would it be possible to ask someone here if I might stay the night?”

The man bellowed back, “Who else would give you permission but me? I’m in charge here! This is a post station—and I’m the postmaster!”

“Well then, Batyushka,” I said gently, “May I stay here tonight?”

“Got a passport?” he snapped. “Show me some legal proof of who you are!”

I handed him my passport. But no sooner had he taken it than he asked, “So, where’s the passport?”

“You’re holding it in your hands,” I told him.

“Oh… well then—let’s go inside the hut.”

Once inside, he put on a pair of glasses, looked over my passport, and said, “Yep, seems legit. You can stay the night. I’m a good man, you know. Here—let me offer you a welcome drink!”

“I’ve never had a drink in my life,” I replied quietly.

“Who cares!” he laughed. “At least join us for dinner.”

So I sat down to eat with him and his cook, a young peasant woman who was already more than a little drunk herself.

We shared the meal, but it was hardly peaceful. The two of them argued the whole time, throwing insults back and forth like it was a game. By the time the meal ended, they were in the middle of a full-blown fight.

The postmaster stumbled off to sleep in the pantry, while the cook cleared the table, muttering curses under her breath as she washed the cups and spoons.

I sat quietly for a while, waiting for the cook to calm down. But she kept stomping around the room, muttering under her breath. Realizing it might take some time, I asked gently, “Matushka, is there anywhere I could sleep? I’m completely worn out from the road.”

“Of course, Batyushka,” she said. “I’ll make you a bed.” She dragged another bench over next to the one by the front window, laid a felt blanket across it, and placed a pillow at the head. I lay down and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep so she could go about her business without feeling watched.

She bustled about the room for quite some time, cleaning and tidying. Eventually, she put out the fire. Just as she started walking toward me, there was a sudden and terrifying crash—the entire window in the front corner of the hut burst inward, frame and glass and even splinters of the wall above it flying into the room.

The whole house trembled.

Outside the window, we heard groaning, shouting, and the sound of a struggle. The cook screamed and leapt back in fear, landing flat on the floor. I jolted upright, barely awake, thinking the ground had split open beneath me.

Then two coach drivers burst through the door, carrying a man between them who was so badly injured and covered in blood that I couldn’t even see his face. The sight of him sent a wave of horror through me.

It turned out he was a royal courier. He had come here to change horses, but his driver misjudged the entrance to the gates. The carriage pole smashed through the window, and with a ditch in front of the house, the wagon had flipped. The courier had been thrown from the carriage and struck his head on a sharp wooden stake—part of the earth mound that served as a bench near the house.

He was bleeding badly but still conscious. “Water! Wine!” he demanded. Someone brought him both, and he used them to clean the deep wound on his head. After that, he drank a glass of the wine.

Then he roared, “Get the horses!”

I approached him and said softly, “Batyushka, how can you possibly travel when you’re in such pain?”

“A royal courier has no time to be sick,” he said firmly, then climbed into the carriage and galloped off.

The coach drivers dragged the peasant woman—who had passed out from fright—over to the stove in the corner and covered her with a bast mat.

“She’s just in shock,” one of them said. “She’ll come around soon.”

The postmaster, still groggy from his hangover, took another drink to steady himself and went right back to bed, leaving me alone.

Before long, the woman began to stir. She got up and started pacing the room, slowly walking back and forth from corner to corner. Then, without saying a word, she stepped outside into the night.

I said my prayers and realized how deeply tired I was. Just before dawn, I finally managed to get a little sleep.

In the morning, I thanked the postmaster and set out on my way. As I walked, I prayed with faith, hope, and gratitude to the Father—the source of all blessing and comfort—who had protected me from what could have been a terrible disaster.

Six years later, I was passing by a women’s monastery and decided to stop in to pray. The abbess was very kind and welcoming to travelers, and after the Liturgy, she invited me in and asked one of the sisters to bring me tea.

While I waited, some unexpected guests arrived, and the abbess left to greet them. I found myself alone with the nuns.

One of them came over to pour me tea. There was something gentle and humble in her presence, and I felt moved to ask, “Matyushka, have you lived in the monastery long?”

“Five years,” she replied. “I was out of my mind when I first came here. But God was merciful, and the mother abbess allowed me to stay and take the veil.”

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“I had a terrible shock one night while working at a post station,” she said. “I was asleep when some horses crashed through the window. The fear drove me mad. For a year, my family took me from one holy site to another, hoping I’d be healed. But it was only here, in this monastery, that I found peace and was restored.”

When I heard this, my heart rejoiced. I silently gave thanks and praise to God, who, in His wisdom, arranges everything for good.

“There were also many other incidents,” I said, turning to my spiritual father. “Were I to tell them all in the order they occurred, three days and nights would not be enough. But I will tell you one more.”

One clear summer day, as I walked along the road, I saw a churchyard—a cemetery with a church and some houses for the clergy. The bell rang for the Liturgy, so I began walking toward the church. Some local people were also heading that way, while others sat in the grass nearby. When they saw me hurrying, they said, “No need to rush. You’ll have plenty of time to stand around before it starts. The services here are really long because the priest is in poor health and moves slowly.”

Indeed, the service was long. The priest was a young man, but he looked terribly thin and pale. He celebrated the service very slowly, yet with deep reverence. At the end, he gave a heartfelt and clear sermon on the many ways to grow in love for God.

Afterward, the priest invited me to his home for lunch. As we sat at the table, I said, “You serve so slowly and devoutly, Father.”

“Yes,” he replied, “even though my parishioners complain about it. But what can I do? I like to reflect on every word of the prayers and savor them. If we say words without feeling or understanding, it does no good—for ourselves or for others. It all comes down to the inner life and prayer from the heart. But very few people care about that. They don’t want to work at it. They aren’t interested in spiritual light within.”

“And how does one gain this inner light?” I asked. “It sounds like it requires great wisdom.”

“Quite a bit,” he said. “To live an inner, prayerful life and be spiritually awake, you need to take one verse from Scripture and focus all your attention on it. Meditate on it as long as you can. The light of understanding will come. The same applies to prayer. If you want it to be pure and full of joy, then choose a short prayer—just a few powerful words—and repeat it often and for a long time. You’ll start to love praying.”

His words really touched me. They were so practical and simple, yet full of wisdom. In my heart I thanked God for leading me to such a true shepherd.

After the meal, the priest said, “Why not rest a bit while I read the Bible and prepare tomorrow’s sermon?” So I went into the kitchen, where there was only one person—an extremely old woman hunched in the corner, coughing. I sat near the window, took out my Philokalia, and began reading quietly.

After a while, I noticed the old woman was whispering the Jesus Prayer—over and over, without stopping. I was filled with joy to hear the holy Name being said so faithfully, and I said to her, “How wonderful, dear mother, that you’re praying without ceasing! It’s the best thing a Christian can do.”

“Yes, Batyushka,” she replied, “at my age, my only comfort is to ask the Lord for mercy.”

“How long have you been saying this prayer so constantly?”

“Since I was a little girl, Batyushka. I can’t live without it. The Jesus Prayer saved me from disaster and death.”

I leaned closer. “Please, tell me your story. I want to glorify God and praise the power of His name.”

She began:

“I was once a young, beautiful girl. My parents arranged a marriage for me, and the day before the wedding, my fiancé came to visit. Just ten steps from the house, he collapsed and died without a word. I was so shocked and frightened that I decided never to marry. I gave myself to God instead, choosing a life of prayer and pilgrimage.

“But I was still young and afraid to travel alone. An older woman, a seasoned pilgrim, told me that if I repeated the Jesus Prayer constantly as I walked, no harm would come to me. I believed her, and truly, I was never hurt, even as I traveled to faraway shrines. My parents supported my journeys.

“As I grew older, my body weakened, and this kind priest welcomed me into his home and feeds me. I’m grateful for every breath.”

I listened with awe, my heart full of thanks to God for such a rich and holy day. I received the priest’s blessing and continued on my way, filled with joy.

Not long after, I passed through the Kazansk region and had another experience—one that showed me just how powerful the Jesus Prayer can be, even when someone isn’t fully aware of what it is they’re doing. It also showed me that frequent and constant repetition is the surest path to its fruits.

It was evening, and I came into a Tatar village. Near the edge of town, I saw a Russian coachman standing next to a wagon outside a small house. The horses were grazing nearby. I was relieved to see a fellow Christian and decided to ask for lodging, hoping I might spend the night with him.

“Who’s your passenger?” I asked.

“My master,” he said, “traveling from Kazan to the Crimea.”

While I was speaking with the coachman, his master opened the curtains of the carriage, looked out, and saw me.

“I’m spending the night here too,” he said, “but I didn’t want to stay in the hut. Tatar homes are so uncomfortable, I decided to sleep in my carriage instead.” Since the evening was pleasant, he stepped out for a walk, and we began to talk.

As we chatted, I asked him many questions, and he told me this story about himself:

“I served in the navy as a high-ranking captain until I was sixty-five. As I got older, I developed gout—a painful condition with no cure. I retired and moved to my wife’s farm in the Crimea, but I was almost always sick.

“My wife was a restless, extravagant woman who loved gambling. She didn’t want to live with a sick man, so she left me and moved to Kazan to live with our daughter, who was married to a civil servant. Before she left, she took everything—even the servants. She left me with only one person: an eight-year-old boy who was my godson.

“For three years, I lived alone. The boy, though young, was smart and took care of all the household work. He cleaned the house, kept the stove lit, cooked porridge, and boiled water for tea. But despite how helpful he was, he was constantly causing trouble. He would run around, make noise, shout, and play endlessly, which irritated me terribly.

“Because of my illness—and probably also out of boredom—I took great interest in reading spiritual books. My favorite was a large book by Saint Gregory Palamas on the Jesus Prayer. I read it all the time, and occasionally practiced the prayer myself.

“But the boy’s mischief made it hard to focus. No amount of scolding or punishment seemed to help. So I came up with a plan. I made him sit beside me on a footstool and told him to repeat the Jesus Prayer over and over.

“At first, he didn’t like it. He tried everything to avoid it. Sometimes he would just sit there in silence.”

To help the boy take the prayer seriously, I kept a rod nearby—not that I used it much, but the sight of it was enough to keep him focused. I would quietly read while he prayed aloud, listening to his voice. Whenever he stopped, I’d just point to the rod, and that was enough to get him going again.

Oddly enough, it brought peace to my home. The noise and chaos faded, and for the first time in a while, I felt calm.

Before long, I noticed something surprising—he no longer needed any prompting at all. The rod sat untouched. He started saying the prayer on his own, more eagerly, even joyfully. I could see a real change in him. He was calmer, more thoughtful, and he began doing his chores better than ever.

That warmed my heart. I started giving him more freedom. And then, something remarkable happened.

He became so attached to the Jesus Prayer that he began saying it all the time—while working, walking, doing anything. It came out of him naturally, like breathing.

Curious, I asked him, “Why do you keep praying so much?”

He shrugged and said simply, “I don’t know. I just really want to. I can’t stop—I want to say it all the time.”

“And what do you feel when you pray?”

“Nothing in particular,” he said, “except… it feels really nice when I do.”

“Is that good?”

He smiled. “I don’t know what to say. I just know I’m happy.”

By the time the Crimean War began, the boy was twelve. I took him with me to Kazan to stay with my daughter. He had to live in the kitchen with the other servants. But he didn’t like it there. The other kids would joke around and play, constantly teasing him and interrupting his prayer.

After a few months, he came to me and said, “I’m going back home. It’s too noisy here—I can’t take it.”

“It’s winter,” I told him. “You can’t make that journey alone. Wait until I go back, and I’ll take you with me.”

“The very next day, the boy disappeared. We searched everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, a letter came—from the Crimea. It was from some people who had stayed behind on our farm. They wrote that on April 4th, the day after Easter, they found the boy dead in my empty house. He was lying peacefully on the floor of my room, his hands folded prayerfully on his chest, a cap placed gently under his head. He was wearing the same thin frock coat he always wore when he lived with me—the very one he was wearing when he left. And so they buried him in the garden.

“When I got that letter, I was completely stunned. How could he have possibly made it back to the farm so quickly? He left on February 26th and was found on April 4th. That’s nearly two thousand miles in a little over a month. Even with God’s help, you’d still need horses to cover that distance! Sixty-five miles a day? And this, with no passport, no warm clothes, not even a coin in his pocket. Maybe someone gave him a ride, sure—but even that would have needed God’s direct care to make happen.

“Well,” the master finished, “my boy tasted the fruits of prayer. And here I am, in my old age, and I’ve still not reached the depth he had found.”

I told him, “Batyushka, you used to read that wonderful book by the blessed Gregory Palamas, didn’t you? I’ve read it too, and it’s beautiful—but it focuses mostly on praying with your lips. What you should read is the Philokalia. That’s where you’ll find the full teaching—the way of bringing the Jesus Prayer deeper, into the mind and the heart, and experiencing its sweetest fruit.” I handed him my copy, and I could tell how pleased he was. He promised to find a copy for himself.

I thought to myself, “My God, what incredible things You do through this prayer. How full of wisdom are the ways You teach us! A rod—that simple rod—taught a young boy to pray, and even led him to deep consolation. Could it be that the sorrows and trials we face in prayer are, in fact, Your own ‘rod’? If so, why do we become so fearful and upset when these trials come to us? After all, they are sent by the hand of our loving Father in heaven—maybe they’re meant to train us, to bring us closer, and to lead us to a joy beyond words.”

When I finished telling my story, I turned to my spiritual father and said, “Please forgive me—I’ve talked far too long. The holy Fathers teach that even conversations about spiritual things can turn into vanity if we go on without restraint. It’s time for me to go and meet up with my companion to Jerusalem. Please pray for me—a poor sinner—that the Lord, in His endless mercy, will grant me a safe journey.”

“My dear brother in Christ,” he said, “with all my heart I pray that God’s grace, full of love, will bless your journey and go with you—just like the angel Raphael went with Tobias.”

Chapter 5

A whole year had passed since I last saw the pilgrim. Then, at last, there was a soft knock at the door, and a gentle voice announced the arrival of that dear brother—bringing great joy to the one who had been waiting for him.

Starets: “Come in, beloved brother! Let us give thanks to the Lord together, who has blessed both your journey and your safe return!”

Pilgrim: “Glory and thanks to the Most High, the Father of all goodness, for everything He provides out of His wisdom—whatever is best for us, pilgrims and strangers in a foreign land. Here I am again, a sinner who left you last year, and by God’s mercy has been granted the joy of seeing you and hearing your kind welcome once more.

“Of course, you're expecting to hear a detailed account of the holy city of God—Jerusalem—which I longed to visit with all my heart and toward which I directed all my efforts. But as you know, not everything we desire comes to pass. That’s what happened to me—and it's no surprise. How could I, a poor sinner, be worthy to walk the sacred ground that still bears the footprints of our Lord Jesus Christ?

“You’ll remember, Father, that I left here last year with a companion—an elderly man who was deaf—and I carried a letter from a merchant in Irkutsk to his son in Odessa, asking him to help arrange passage for me to Jerusalem. Well, we made it safely to Odessa without any trouble. My companion quickly booked a spot on a ship headed for Constantinople and departed. I stayed behind and went looking for the merchant’s son, to whom the letter was addressed.

“I found his house easily, but to my deep sorrow and surprise, I learned that my benefactor had died just three weeks earlier after a short illness. He was already buried. I was grieved, but I surrendered it all to the will of God.

“The household was in mourning. His widow, who was left with three small children, was overwhelmed by sorrow—she cried constantly and fainted from grief several times a day. It looked like she might not live long either. Still, in the midst of all this, she received me kindly. Since she couldn’t send me to Jerusalem herself, she allowed me to stay as her guest for two weeks, until her late husband’s father was expected to return to Odessa to handle the family’s affairs and settle the accounts.

“So I stayed.”

I stayed with them for a week, then a month—and then another month passed. But the merchant never arrived. Instead, he sent a letter saying that due to his own difficulties, he couldn’t come. He told the family to settle all their affairs and come join him in Irkutsk as soon as possible.

That set off a whirlwind of activity as they made plans to leave. Seeing that they were now too busy to keep hosting me, I thanked them for their kind hospitality to a stranger, said my goodbyes, and continued on my journey through Russia.

For a while, I wasn’t sure where to go next. But eventually, I decided to head to Kiev, since I hadn’t been there in many years. So I set off.

At first, I was truly saddened that my dream of visiting Jerusalem hadn’t come true. But I reminded myself that even this disappointment was part of God’s divine plan. That gave me comfort. I hoped that the Lord, who loves all people, would accept the desire of my heart as though I had actually made the journey—and that He would still guide me and bless my path with spiritual fruit.

And that’s exactly what happened. Along the way, I met people who opened my eyes to things I’d never known before—people who brought light to my soul and helped it toward salvation. If events hadn’t taken this turn, I never would have crossed paths with these spiritual guides.

So I continued walking during the day with the prayer always with me, like a faithful companion. At night, I would find a place to stay and read from my Philokalia to strengthen my soul and keep it alert in its struggle against the unseen forces that try to pull us away from salvation.

Then, about seventy versts from Odessa, something unusual happened.

I came across a long train of wagons—about thirty carts—carrying goods. I caught up to them, and I noticed that one of the drivers, who was near the front, was walking alongside his horse. The rest of the drivers were farther back, traveling together in a group.

We came to a pond fed by cold underground springs. Because of the early spring thaw, chunks of ice were floating around its edges, crashing into each other with a loud, eerie sound.

Suddenly, the young man leading the caravan stopped his horse, which brought the whole train of carts to a halt. All the other drivers ran up to see what was going on—and there he was, beginning to take off his clothes. They asked him why, and he calmly said that he had an overwhelming urge to swim in the icy pond.

Everyone was stunned. Some laughed at him, others scolded him and called him mad. His older brother, who was also part of the group, tried to stop him and pleaded with him to get back on the road.

But the young man wouldn’t budge. He insisted on what he felt.

A few of the younger drivers, thinking it was all a joke, dipped buckets into the icy pond and splashed water on him—on his head, on his neck—saying, “There you go! Here’s your bath!”

The moment the cold water touched his body, he cried out, “Oh! How wonderful!” Then he sat down on the ground as they kept splashing him. Not long after that, he lay down—and quietly, peacefully—he died.

Everyone stood in shock, unsure of what had just happened. Some of the older men grew anxious and said they would need to report it to the authorities. Others just shook their heads and said, “It must have been his time to go.”

I stayed with the group of wagon drivers for about an hour, still trying to take in what I had just witnessed. Then I continued on my way. After walking about three and a half miles, I came to a village right off the main road.

As I entered the village, I came across an elderly priest walking down the street. I felt compelled to share the strange event I had seen, curious to hear his thoughts. The priest invited me into his home, and after I told him the whole story, I asked him if he could help me understand what had happened.

He listened quietly, then said, “Dear brother, there’s not much I can tell you for certain—only that many things in this life are mysterious and far beyond our understanding. I believe that sometimes God allows events like this to occur so that His presence and divine order in the world become more visible to us, often through what seems unnatural or sudden.”

Then the priest shared a story of his own.

“Near our village, there’s a deep, narrow ravine—very steep, at least ten sazhen deep. Just looking into it gives you chills. Somehow, a narrow pedestrian bridge was built across it.

“One day, a peasant from my parish—a good, decent man with a family—began feeling a strong, strange urge to throw himself into that ravine. He struggled with the thought for an entire week, deeply tormented by it. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. One morning, he got up early, rushed to the ravine, and jumped off the bridge.

“People heard his cries and managed to pull him out, though it was very difficult, and both of his legs were badly broken. When they asked him why he had done such a thing, he said that even though he was in terrible pain, he felt at peace. He said that giving in to the urge that had haunted him so intensely all week had somehow quieted his soul. It was as if he had been willing to die just to find relief.”

The priest continued his story.

“The man was treated in the city hospital for over a year. I visited him there from time to time. Just like you, I hoped to hear the doctors offer some explanation for what had happened. But when I asked them, they all said the same thing—it was a case of ‘obsession.’

“I pressed them for a scientific explanation. Why do these things happen? What causes such torment in a person? But they had nothing more to offer. All they could say was that it was one of nature’s mysteries, something science doesn’t yet understand.

“So I told them, ‘If a person were to turn to God in prayer in moments like these—and if they shared their inner struggle with people who are kind and wise—then even a force as powerful as an “obsession” might lose its grip.’ It’s true—there are many things in life that simply can’t be explained.”

Evening fell while we talked, so I stayed the night. The next morning, a clerk from the district police came to ask the priest for permission to bury the man who had died in the river. He said the autopsy found no signs of insanity, and the official cause of death was listed as a sudden stroke.

“You see?” said the priest. “Even medicine had no explanation for what drove him to the water. Not everything has a clear reason.”

I thanked the priest and continued on my journey. After traveling for several days, I was worn out when I arrived at a large trading town called Byelaya Tserkov. As the sun began to set, I started looking for a place to stay the night.

In the town marketplace, I saw a man who looked like a traveler, much like myself. He was going from shop to shop, asking for directions to someone’s home. When he saw me, he came over and said, “You look like a pilgrim too. Why don’t we go together? I’m looking for a man named Yevreinov. He’s a good Christian, runs a prosperous coaching inn, and is known for welcoming pilgrims. Look, I even wrote down his address.”

I was glad to join him, and before long, we found the place.

Though the host wasn’t home at the time, his wife—a kind, elderly woman—greeted us warmly. She showed us to a cozy room in the attic where we could rest. We settled in for a bit, and after a while, the host returned and invited us to share dinner with him.

Over the meal, we got to talking—about who we were, where we’d come from. Then, somehow, the question came up: why did he have the name Yevreinov?

“The poor man was driven to despair. Then one day, he heard someone say that even the most terrible demonic visions flee at the sign of the Cross. With nothing left to lose, and as a desperate experiment, he got hold of a Cross and wore it around his neck. From that moment on, the vision stopped tormenting him.

“After that, he began secretly attending Christian churches and reading the Gospels. Over time, his heart softened. The bitterness he once held was replaced by a deep hunger for truth. Eventually, he was baptized and became a Christian, taking the name John. He left his hometown, settled here, and married. I was born his only son.

“I chose to take the surname ‘Yevreinov,’ meaning ‘son of a Jew,’ not out of shame, but to always remember the mysterious way God can reach even the hardest of hearts and bring light out of darkness. My father used to say that the suffering he went through was God’s mercy—because through it, he found truth, peace, and salvation.”

We were deeply moved by this story. As the evening wore on, we prayed together and gave thanks for the mysterious and wondrous ways God works in human lives.

After dinner, we gave thanks—both to God and to our kind host—and made our way up to the little attic room where we were staying. We weren’t quite ready to sleep yet, so we started talking.

My traveling companion shared a bit of his story. He was a merchant from Mogilets, though his heart had already begun turning toward the monastic life. For two years, he’d lived as a novice in one of the monasteries in Bessarabia, but only on a temporary passport. Now, he was heading home to get a permanent release from the merchants’ association so he could return to the monastery for good.

He spoke with such affection for the Bessarabian monasteries—the way they were run, the depth of the spiritual life there, the discipline, the wisdom of the startsi (those gentle elders who guide others in the way of prayer). He said that compared to the monasteries in Russia, it was like comparing heaven and earth. He encouraged me to go there myself.

While we were still talking, another guest arrived—a non-commissioned officer on leave from the army. He was clearly worn out from his journey, so after a short introduction and a shared prayer, we all lay down to sleep.

At daybreak, we began to pack up and get ready to continue our journey. But just as we were about to thank our host and leave, the sound of church bells rang out—calling the faithful to matins.

The merchant and I stopped in our tracks. How could we just walk away after hearing that sacred call? How could we turn our backs on the invitation to stand in God’s presence, to join the prayers of the Church? We looked at each other and quickly agreed—it would be better to attend the service first, to pray with others in the holy stillness of the temple. Then, when we left, it would feel right. Our steps would be lighter, our hearts more peaceful.

We turned to the officer and invited him to come with us. He shook his head. “Why bother?” he said. “What does it matter to God if we go to church now? I’ll pray when I get home. You go if you want—I’m heading out now. While you’re at matins, I’ll have a three-mile head start, and honestly, I can’t wait to be home.”

The merchant looked at him kindly but seriously. “Be careful, my friend,” he said. “You don’t know what the future holds. God might have something different in mind for you.”

So, the merchant and I went to church, while the officer headed out on his own. The matins service was held quite early—gentle and still, just as the day was beginning. When it ended, we walked back to our room to gather our things. But before we could even finish packing, our hostess appeared with a steaming samovar in her hands.

“And where do you think you’re going?” she said, smiling. “Here, have some tea—and stay for dinner while you’re at it. We won’t let you leave on an empty stomach!”

We couldn’t refuse such kindness. So we sat down and began sipping our tea. We hadn’t been there long—maybe half an hour—when suddenly, we saw the officer running toward us, completely out of breath.

“I’ve come to you full of grief… and joy,” he said.

Naturally, we were alarmed. “What happened?” we asked.

He caught his breath and told us the story:

“Right after I left you, I decided to stop at the inn. I needed to break a large bill and figured a quick shot of vodka would make the journey easier. I changed my money, had my drink, and set off feeling light on my feet.

“About two miles down the road, I thought I’d double-check the money—just to be sure the innkeeper hadn’t shorted me. I sat down at the side of the road, pulled out my wallet, and counted everything. It was all there. But then I reached for my passport… and it was gone. Just like that.

“I panicked. My head started spinning. Where could it be? Then it hit me—I must’ve dropped it at the inn while I was changing money. I turned right around and ran back, my mind racing with all sorts of fears: What if it’s gone? What if someone took it? What will I do?

“I got back and asked the innkeeper, but he just shrugged and said he hadn’t seen it. My heart sank. I started searching everywhere—around the tables, underfoot, in the corners where I’d stood.

“And would you believe it? There it was. Folded just the way I’d left it, lying in the hay and trash on the floor, trampled and filthy but still intact.

“I was so relieved I nearly cried. It was dirty, sure, and I might get a harsh punishment for how it looks—but I didn’t care. I was just grateful to have it back. At least I’d be able to get home.

“But that’s not all,” he added, wincing. “While I was running back in such a panic, I tore the skin clean off my foot on some rocks. Now I can hardly walk. I came back to tell you everything… and, well, to ask if you’ve got a bit of lard I could use on the wound.”

The merchant looked at the officer with compassion in his eyes, but he didn’t hold back his words.

“You see, my friend? This is what happens when we ignore the quiet invitations of the Spirit. You didn’t come with us to pray, even when the bells rang out like a whisper from heaven. You wanted to get ahead, to reach your destination faster—and yet, here you are, right back with us, limping and sore.

“I tried to warn you—not to rush ahead, not to assume you knew what the road would hold. And now, well... here we are.

“But more than that, it wasn’t just that you skipped church—you even said, ‘What good is it to God if we pray?’ That’s a dangerous way to think.

“No, God doesn’t need our imperfect prayers. But in His deep, unshakable love for us, He loves when we pray. Even the smallest prayer, even a feeble, wandering one, is precious to Him.

“It’s not only the rare and perfect moments of pure prayer—the kind the Holy Spirit breathes into our souls—that bring Him joy. No, it’s every flicker of desire, every little movement of our hearts toward Him that delights Him. He asks us to abide in Him, and He promises to abide in us. Every time we even want to respond to that call, He meets us there.

“God notices every little step we take in His direction. Every honest intention. Every whisper of love. Even the thought, ‘Maybe I’ll try to turn toward God today’—He treasures it. And in His generosity, He pours back a thousand times more love than we ever give.

“You offer a mite, and He returns a treasure. You think of turning toward Him, and already He’s running to meet you. You whisper, ‘Have mercy on me,’ and He’s already wrapping His arms around you like a Father who’s just found His long-lost child.

“That’s the kind of love God has. That’s what makes heaven rejoice—not because we’re perfect, but because we keep turning back, again and again, however small the step.

“So don’t tell yourself it’s useless when your prayer drifts or your attention scatters. Don’t dismiss those little moments—sighing from the heart, making a small offering, resisting a temptation, bearing a slight offense in silence, or simply calling on the name of Jesus Christ. All of that matters. Every bit of it matters to God.”

“You see,” the merchant continued, “you might think these small efforts don’t amount to much. That they don’t really matter. But I’m telling you—they do. Not a single act of goodness, no matter how tiny or hidden, is ever wasted. Each one is seen by the loving, watchful eye of God. And each one will be honored—richly. Not only in the life to come, but even in this one.

“Saint John Chrysostom said it beautifully: ‘No good deed, however small, is ever scorned by the Righteous Judge.’ If our sins are weighed so carefully—if even our stray thoughts and words are counted—how much more will the good we do, even when it's humble and imperfect, be noticed and cherished by our all-loving Judge?

“Let me tell you a story—something I witnessed myself.

“There was a monk in Bessarabia, a good man, sincere in his faith. One day, he found himself battling a craving for dried fish. It doesn’t sound like much, does it? But for him, it was a real struggle. At the time, there was no dried fish to be found in the monastery, and the thought came to him: Maybe I should go out to the market and get some.

“He went back and forth with himself. On one hand, monks are called to be content with what is given—to live simply, to avoid seeking pleasure. And besides, the marketplace was full of distractions and temptations, not a place for a monk to wander.

“But the craving got the better of him. Against his better judgment, he decided to go.

“He left the monastery and started down the city street. As he walked, he suddenly realized—he didn’t have his chotki (his prayer rope) in hand. And right away, something stirred in him. How can I walk through the city like this? I look like a soldier without a sword. People will see me and wonder… they might even be troubled by it.

“Just as he was about to turn back, he reached into his pocket—and there it was. The chotki. He pulled it out, made the sign of the cross, slipped it over his fingers, and continued on his way—his mind now at peace.”

The merchant went on.

“As the monk approached the busy marketplace, he saw a horse standing near the shops, hitched to a large cart loaded with huge vats. Suddenly, something startled the horse—it bolted, hooves clattering wildly against the cobblestones. In an instant, it crashed into the monk, brushing his shoulder and knocking him hard to the ground.

“He wasn’t seriously hurt, but the shock left him breathless. And then—just two steps from where he’d fallen—the cart tipped violently, the entire load smashing into the ground with a deafening crash. The cart was reduced to splinters.

“He lay there stunned. If he’d been just a moment slower… if he’d taken just one more step… he would’ve been crushed along with it.

“Shaken, but grateful to be alive, he got up, dusted himself off, and continued on. He bought the dried fish, returned to the monastery, ate, prayed, and went to bed.

“But later that night, as he drifted into a light sleep, something remarkable happened. A dignified elder—a starets he didn’t recognize—appeared to him in a dream.

“‘Listen,’ the elder said gently, ‘I am the patron of this monastery. I’ve come to help you understand the lesson hidden in what happened today.

“‘Your struggle with temptation was weak. You gave in too easily, and you failed to examine your own heart deeply enough. That opened the door to danger—and the enemy took the chance to stir up trouble.

“‘But your guardian angel was watching. He stirred something in you—the memory of your chotki, the longing to pray. And you listened. You obeyed. You took that tiny step back toward God.

“‘And that small, almost forgotten act—that flicker of faithfulness—saved your life. Do you see? Can you understand now how tenderly God watches over us, and how richly He rewards even the smallest turning of the heart toward Him?’”

The monk awoke with a start—but not in his bed. He found himself kneeling on the floor, prostrate at the threshold of his cell door.

He wasted no time sharing the vision with others, including me. He wanted everyone to hear what had happened—not to bring attention to himself, but to offer a glimpse of how near God's mercy truly is, and how even the smallest gesture of love and remembrance can become a doorway to grace.

The merchant sat quietly for a moment, then let out a soft sigh.

“God’s love for us is truly beyond all measure,” he said. “Just think—something as small as pulling a chotki out of his pocket, slipping it over his hand, and calling on the Name of God once... that alone was enough to preserve a man’s life.

“On the grand scales of eternity, that one, tiny moment of turning toward Jesus outweighed hours and hours of hesitation, distraction, even spiritual laziness. A single whisper of the Name tipped the balance. A small act, repaid with something far greater than it seemed to deserve. A simple mite, returned with a gold coin.

“Do you see now how powerful prayer truly is? How mighty is the Name of Jesus Christ when we speak it with even a sliver of sincerity?

“In the Philokalia, Saint John of Karpathos says that when we pray the Jesus Prayer—‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner’—God’s own mystical voice responds to every cry with these words: ‘Child, your sins are forgiven.’

“And he goes even further. He says that in that very moment of prayer, we are no different from the saints, the martyrs, and the blessed. Not because we’ve earned it, but because prayer unites us all in the presence of God. Saint John Chrysostom said the same: ‘Prayer cleanses instantly, even if it is spoken by a sinner.’

“Such is the mercy of God! And yet, what do we so often do? We cling to our worries and distractions. We say we don’t have time. We forget God—and worse, we forget that we belong to Him. We put off prayer as if it’s optional, while filling our days with things that vanish as quickly as they come.

“And sometimes, when things fall apart and hardships come, we wonder why. But even those moments—those unexpected trials—can be used by God in His mercy to wake us up, to teach us, and to draw us closer to Him again.”

He paused, his eyes soft with feeling.

As soon as he finished speaking to the officer, I couldn’t help myself. I said to him, “Sir, you’ve filled my poor soul with such joy—I feel like bowing before your feet in thanks.”

He smiled and turned to me. “Ah, so you enjoy stories about spiritual matters, do you? Just wait a moment—I have something for you.”

He reached into his things and pulled out a small, well-worn pocketbook.

“This,” he said, “is Agapia, or Salvation for Sinners. It’s filled with stories of miraculous events—much like the one I just shared.”

The merchant pulled the small book from his pocket and carefully opened its worn cover. His eyes scanned the pages until he found the story he was looking for. Then he began to read aloud, his voice quiet and steady.

It was the story of a devout man named Agaphonik. From his earliest years, his parents had taught him to stand each day before an icon of the Mother of God and pray the ancient words: “Rejoice, O Virgin Theotokos…” And so he did—day after day, year after year.

But as time went on, and life’s demands grew louder, his heart grew dull. He began to pray it less and less, until one day… he stopped altogether.

Then, one evening, Agaphonik welcomed a pilgrim into his home. The man told him he was a hermit from the desert of Thebaid. And with a solemn gaze, he said, “I’ve been sent to you. In a vision, I was told to come and remind you—rebuke you, really—for abandoning your prayer to the Mother of God.”

Agaphonik was surprised. “But I prayed that prayer for years,” he said. “And I never saw anything come of it. So eventually, I gave up.”

The hermit shook his head. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? How many times that prayer saved you, protected you, even without your knowing?

“Remember your youth—when you nearly drowned, but somehow came out safe. Remember the time a deadly plague swept through your village and so many around you died… but you stayed healthy.

“Or that time you and your friend were thrown from a carriage? He broke his leg. You didn’t even have a bruise.

“And what about that young, strong man you used to know—who’s now an invalid, while you’re still healthy and able to walk without pain?”

The hermit went on, recalling moment after moment, gently helping Agaphonik see all the quiet mercies that had followed him. Finally, he said:

“All of these—every single one—was the fruit of that simple prayer. Through it, your soul was lifted toward God, and the Most Holy Theotokos kept watch over you. Her intercession wrapped around you like a mother’s arms. So do not abandon her now. Keep praying. Keep glorifying the Queen of Heaven. For if you stop… she may no longer be there to protect you.”

When the merchant finished reading, we were called to dinner. The room was quiet for a moment—each of us taking in the story in our own way.

We ate with gratitude, thanked our host warmly, and then prepared to part ways—each of us continuing on our own journey, led by the path set before us.

I continued on foot for about five days, carrying with me the warmth of the stories I had heard from the devout merchant from Byelaya Tserkov. His words lingered in my heart like soft embers—comforting, glowing.

But as I neared Kiev, something in me shifted. I didn’t know why, but a heavy weariness came over me—both in body and in spirit. I felt drained, troubled by gloomy thoughts. My prayer grew dry, and I was swept up in a kind of spiritual laziness. It was hard to lift my soul. Hard to remember why I was walking at all.

Off to the side of the road, I noticed a wooded area and a thicket of trees. I turned from the path and wandered in, looking for a quiet place to sit—somewhere hidden, where I could rest and turn again to the Philokalia for strength. I hoped its words would water the withered ground of my heart.

I found a secluded spot behind a bush, and there I opened the book and began reading from the teachings of the Venerable Cassian the Roman, from part four of the Philokalia, on the eight thoughts that trouble the soul.

About half an hour passed, and I found myself drawn into his words—rich and nourishing. Then, as I glanced up into the forest, I noticed something strange. Not far off—perhaps a hundred paces away—I saw a man kneeling motionless in the woods. His stillness caught me. He looked deep in prayer.

The sight warmed me. I smiled to myself, thinking, What faithful souls still walk this earth, quietly communing with God.

I went back to my reading.

An hour passed. Maybe more. And when I looked up again, he was still there—still kneeling, perfectly still.

My heart was stirred by this silent devotion.

But then, suddenly, the man collapsed, crumpling to the ground. He didn’t move. I couldn’t see his face—he had always been turned away from me—but now I felt compelled to find out who he was, and whether he was alright.

I walked over slowly and found that he wasn’t hurt—just asleep. He lay there lightly dozing. He was a young man, maybe twenty-five years old, with a clean, pale face and soft features. He wore a simple peasant’s caftan, belted at the waist with a rope made of bast. He carried nothing with him—no bag, no staff, no belongings at all.

The sound of my steps stirred him, and he stood up quietly.

I asked who he was.

He told me he was a state peasant from the Smolensk province. He had come from Kiev and was now making his way onward.

“So where are you heading now?” I asked him.

He shrugged slightly and answered, “I don’t know. Wherever God takes me.”

I was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Has it been long since you left home?”

“Yes,” he said, “this is my fifth year.”

“And where have you stayed during that time?”

“I’ve gone to many places—holy sites, monasteries, churches. I just keep moving. There’s not much reason to stay home. I’m an orphan, no family. And my leg isn’t right—hasn’t been since I was little. So I wander.”

I looked at him, full of both compassion and respect. “It seems someone close to God must’ve guided you—not just to wander aimlessly, but to walk with purpose, visiting sacred places.”

He smiled faintly and began to tell me more.

“Well,” he said, “I grew up poor. Since I was a boy, I worked as a shepherd in our village. For about ten years everything was fine. But then one day, after I brought the herd back in, I noticed something—my village elder’s best sheep was missing. And this elder was a harsh man—mean, with no pity in him.

“When he saw the sheep was gone, he ran at me in a rage, cursing and threatening. He shouted, ‘Go find it, or I’ll beat you to death! I’ll break your arms and legs!’

“I knew he meant it—he was capable of anything. So I went out searching, retracing the places the herd had grazed. I searched into the night—past midnight. No sign of the sheep.

“It was a pitch-black night, nearly autumn. I wandered deep into the woods—thick forest, the kind that’s hard to push through in our province. Then the storm came. The trees started groaning and bending with the wind. Wolves howled in the distance. I was terrified. My whole body went cold. I thought I would faint from fear and loneliness.

“And in that moment, I dropped to my knees. I didn’t know what else to do. I made the sign of the cross over myself and cried out with all the strength I had: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.’

“And the moment I said it, peace came over me—like a warm light filled my chest. The fear disappeared. My heart felt light—so full of joy, like I had been lifted up to heaven.

“I was so amazed, I just kept saying the prayer, over and over. And I don’t remember how long I knelt there. I don’t remember the rest of the night. The next thing I knew, the sun had risen, and I was still kneeling in the same spot.

“I stood up calmly. The sheep was gone, still, but my heart was full. I felt drawn to keep praying that little Here is the next part, lovingly adapted in the same devotional, reflective tone. Let it unfold gently, as if you're sitting with these two pilgrims by candlelight:

---

“As soon as I got back to the village,” the young man continued, “the elder saw that I had come home without his sheep. And without a word, he beat me—so badly that he twisted my leg. I was left nearly lifeless.

“For six weeks, I lay barely able to move. But even then, I kept repeating that little prayer: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.’ It was the only thing that brought me comfort. I’d whisper it through the pain, and somehow it gave me strength.

“Eventually I healed a little, enough to walk again, though my leg was never the same. And when I could, I left the village and began to roam the world. I didn’t like being around people too much—they talk too much, and there’s so much sin and noise. So I started making pilgrimages to holy places. When I wasn’t in a monastery, I wandered through the forests alone.

“This is now the fifth year of that life.”

As he spoke, my heart filled with joy—deep, holy joy—that the Lord had allowed me to meet such a man. Grace radiated from him, quiet and unpretentious. I looked at him with warmth and asked, “And now? Do you still keep praying that prayer constantly?”

He nodded, almost smiling. “I couldn’t live without it,” he said. “Whenever I remember how I felt that night in the forest, it’s like something nudges me, and I fall to my knees. I just start to pray without thinking.

“I don’t know if my sinful prayer is any good. But sometimes, when I pray, I feel this joy—I don’t know where it comes from. Like something inside me becomes free. There’s this happy peace, like everything’s okay, even if nothing looks different.

“But other times, I feel tired. Bored. Even a little depressed. Still, I want to pray. I always want to pray—until I die.”

I leaned closer and said gently, “Do not be confused, kind brother. All of it is pleasing to God. All of it is part of your salvation.

“The Holy Fathers teach us that whatever happens during prayer—joy or dryness, freedom or struggle—it is all good. Nothing is wasted in prayer. No effort, no word, no breath is lost before God.

“When you feel inner freedom, spiritual sweetness, or a strong desire to pray—this is God rewarding your effort. He’s encouraging you with comfort and grace.

“But when you feel tired, numb, or spiritually dry—this too is from God. He is purifying your soul. He is strengthening you through patience. And through humility, He is preparing you to receive even greater sweetness when the time is right.

“Here, let me show you,” I said, reaching for my book. “Let’s read from Saint John of the Ladder together.”

I found the passage I was looking for and read it aloud to him. He listened with quiet attention and seemed deeply moved. When I finished, he looked at me with gratitude in his eyes and thanked me again and again.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked back into the forest—disappearing into the trees like a bird returning to its nest. I stood there a while, watching him go. My heart was full. I turned back to the road and resumed my own journey, giving thanks to God, who had seen fit to bless a sinner like me with such a holy encounter.

By God's grace, I reached Kiev the next day. And the moment I entered that sacred city, my first desire was clear: I wanted to fast, to confess my sins, and to receive the Holy Mysteries of Christ in this blessed place. Everything else felt secondary. My soul longed for cleansing and communion.

I found lodging near the holy relics of the saints, so I could easily attend church services. A kind old Cossack took me in. He lived alone in a small hut, and it was a quiet, peaceful place—just what I needed for prayer and reflection.

As the week of preparation for confession unfolded, I resolved to make a full and honest confession. I wanted nothing left in the shadows. I turned my mind back over the years of my life, sifting through my memories. I tried to remember every sin, no matter how small.

To help myself, I began writing everything down. Every word, every deed that had grieved my conscience, I recorded. By the end, the list was long—far longer than I had expected. But I felt lighter, just for having named the truth.

Then I remembered something I had heard: about four and a half miles outside of Kiev, in the quiet Kitayev Hermitage, lived a spiritual father known for his deep wisdom and quiet holiness. People said he lived an ascetic life and possessed profound discernment. Anyone who spoke with him left changed—comforted, instructed, and spiritually renewed.

I was filled with joy at the thought of meeting this holy elder, and without hesitation, I went to see him. We spoke at length, and then I handed him my long list of sins.

He read through it carefully, then looked at me with kind but serious eyes.

“You, dear brother, have written many empty words,” he said gently. “Listen closely to what I must tell you:

First, you should not confess sins again that you have already repented of and have been absolved for, and which you have not repeated. To do so shows a lack of trust in the power of Confession itself.

Second, when confessing, do not bring up others involved in your sins. Confess only your own failings.

Third, the Holy Fathers warn us not to confess sins in excessive detail or with insinuations. Speak of them in general terms—too much personal scrutiny can lead both you and your confessor into temptation.

Fourth, you say you have come to repent, but you are not truly repentant for not knowing how to repent. Your repentance feels cold and careless.

Fifth, though you have listed many trivial things, you have missed the most important ones. You have not acknowledged that you do not love God as you ought; that you despise your neighbor; that you doubt the words of Scripture; and that pride and ambition fill your heart.

“Understand this: the abyss of evil and all spiritual corruption springs from these four roots. From them, all sinful shoots grow.”

I was taken aback. “Forgive me, Venerable Father,” I said, “but how could I not love God, our Creator and Benefactor? And what else is there to believe in except God’s Word in Scripture—full of truth and holiness?

“As for my neighbor, I wish them well. Why would I despise anyone? And pride—there is nothing in me to be proud of except my many sins. What could I possibly desire or covet, given my poverty and this lame leg? Surely, if I were rich or educated, then perhaps I would be guilty of what you say.”

The elder smiled sadly. “It is unfortunate, kind one, that you have not yet grasped the depth of what I say. To help you learn more quickly, I will give you a list that I follow myself when I go to confession. Read it carefully, and you will find clear and precise proof of all I have told you.”

The confessor handed me the list, and I began to read it carefully. It was titled The Confession of the Interior Man That Leads to Humility.

The words felt like a mirror held up to my soul:

By diligently looking within and honestly examining the state of my heart, I came to realize something difficult: I do not truly love God. I have no real love for my neighbor. I lack faith in the spiritual realities around me. And I am filled with pride and ambition.

As I studied my feelings and actions closely, I found these truths about myself:

(1) First, I do not love God.

If I truly loved Him, I would find myself thinking of Him often—and with genuine joy. Every thought of God would bring a deep delight. But the opposite is true for me. More often, I think easily and willingly about earthly things. Thoughts of God come hard, dry, and heavy.

If I loved God, then prayer would be a nourishing conversation, something that delights me and draws me deeper into communion with Him. Instead, I struggle.

Prayer feels like a burden. I am often reluctant, weakened by laziness, and I find myself ready to be distracted by any small thing—anything to shorten or even stop praying altogether.

When I am busy with empty distractions, time seems to fly by unnoticed. But when I turn my mind toward God, when I try to place myself in His presence, every hour stretches and feels like a year.

If we truly love someone, their presence fills our thoughts throughout the day. We carry their image in our minds and care deeply about them no matter what else we’re doing. A beloved friend is always near, even in the busyness of life.

But for me, I barely set aside even one hour a day to dive deeply into thoughts of God—to meditate, to open my heart, to surrender to His burning love.

Instead, I find myself spending the rest of the day—twenty-three hours!—offering my energy and attention to other idols: the distractions that inflame my passions.

Talks about worldly things, shallow and empty matters that don’t nourish the soul, often give me pleasure. But thoughts of God leave me feeling dry, bored, and lazy.

Even when others bring up spiritual topics, I’m quick to steer the conversation back toward subjects that flatter my ego or feed my curiosity about politics, news, or secular knowledge.

I’m eager to learn about sciences, arts, and material things—but when it comes to learning about God and spiritual truths, I feel indifferent. It seems almost foreign to me, a subject to explore only when I have spare time, as if it’s less important.

Yet, the Lord Jesus said clearly: “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word.” (John 14:23) Love for God shows itself in keeping His commandments.

And if I hardly try to follow those commandments, if I exert so little effort to live by them, then the honest conclusion is that I do not truly love God.

Saint Basil the Great echoed this truth when he said, “The proof that man does not love God and His Christ lies in not keeping His commandments.”

(2) And there’s more. I realized that I have no real love for my neighbor.

I am not just unwilling to lay down my life for another, as the Gospel teaches, but I won’t even sacrifice my honor, my happiness, or my peace for their sake.

If I loved others as I love myself, their troubles would cause me pain, and their joys would fill me with gladness.

Instead, I find myself more eager to hear bad news about my neighbor, and rather than feeling sorrow, I feel indifferent—sometimes even pleasure.

I do not cover my brother’s faults with silent love. Instead, I judge and talk about them openly.

Their well-being and happiness are not mine to rejoice in. They feel distant and alien to me. And in subtle ways, their success can even stir envy or contempt within my heart.

(3) I have no real faith in spiritual realities—not in eternal life, not truly in the Gospel.

If I were deeply convinced that life goes on beyond this world, that there is a reckoning for how I live, then I would carry that truth with me constantly.

The thought of immortality would humble and awe me. I would move through this life like a traveler passing through a foreign land, always preparing to return home.

But the truth is quite the opposite. I hardly ever think about eternity.

In my heart, I often harbor a secret doubt: Who really knows what happens after death?

Even when I say I believe in eternal life, it’s mostly with my mind. My heart isn’t truly convinced.

My restless actions and my endless worries about satisfying my earthly needs reveal this clearly.

If I truly believed that the Holy Gospel holds God’s own words, I would study it eagerly and with joy.

I would find delight in its wisdom, goodness, and love.

I would treasure it deeply, turning to it day and night as if it were my only sustenance.

And I would sincerely strive to live by its commandments—never letting anything in this world pull me away from it.

(4) I am filled with pride and a craving for self-importance.

All my actions reflect this inward condition. When I notice anything good in myself, I want others to see it too. I may even speak about it openly or, at the very least, admire myself inwardly.

Even when I act outwardly humble, inside I quietly take credit for what I do, believing I am better than others—or at least, not any worse.

If I notice a fault within myself, I rush to excuse it, dressing it up as something understandable or even admirable.

I grow irritated with people who don’t show me the respect I think I deserve, as if they simply lack the wisdom to recognize my worth.

I am proud of my talents, and when things don’t go my way, I take it as a personal affront.

I complain about those I resent and feel a secret pleasure when they stumble.

Even when I try to do something good, I often do it with mixed motives—seeking praise, spiritual reward, or social approval.

In truth, I’ve made an idol of myself. I constantly serve this inner false god, seeking comfort, praise, and the satisfaction of my cravings.

Looking back at all this, I see myself clearly: proud, indulgent, weak in faith, lacking in love for God, and dismissive of my neighbor.

What condition could be worse?

Even the spirits of darkness—though full of pride and hatred—at least believe in God, and tremble at His presence.

After reading this confession the priest had given me, I was shaken.

I thought to myself, My God… what terrible things are hidden in my soul—and I had no idea!

Seeing these truths laid bare, I felt a deep longing to be cleansed, to be healed. I turned to this wise spiritual Father, hoping he could show me the way.

And he gently began to explain:

“You see, dear brother, the reason you do not love God is because you lack faith. And the reason you lack faith is because you are not yet fully convinced. This lack of conviction comes from not seeking true, living knowledge—and from a spiritual indifference that leaves the soul untouched by the light of truth.

In short: without faith, there can be no love. Without conviction, there can be no true faith. And to become convinced, one must seek knowledge with the heart, not just the mind.

This kind of conviction is born from a desire to know—deeply and personally. And this desire awakens through reflection, through prayer, through studying the Holy Scriptures and the wisdom of the saints. It comes from listening, watching, and letting the soul grow thirsty for the things of God.

As one spiritual writer put it: ‘Love usually springs from knowledge. The deeper and more intimate the knowledge, the greater the love. The more the soul comes to see the beauty, perfection, and grace of God’s nature—and His boundless love for humanity—the more open it becomes to divine love.’

Now you see—the root of those sins you read lies in a kind of spiritual laziness. A slowness of soul that stops us from hungering after truth. And once that hunger dies, the whole inner life withers.

If you want to be free from this, begin by kindling that hunger again. Seek out spiritual understanding. Dwell in the Scriptures. Sit with the words of the Holy Fathers. Reflect. Listen. Talk with those who walk closely with Christ. Let your heart be stirred.

Oh, dear brother—how many struggles we face simply because we neglect the nourishment of our soul! We do not meditate day and night on God’s word. We do not pray with persistence. And so our inner life grows cold, starved, and too weak to follow the path of truth with energy and joy.”

“To truly grow from all this,” the holy Father continued, “let us resolve, as often as we are able, to lift our thoughts toward heavenly things. When we set our minds on what is eternal, divine love begins to grow within us. Over time, it will become like a fire in our hearts—burning, purifying, warming everything it touches.

And alongside reflection, let us pray. Pray often, pray with your whole heart, for prayer is the most powerful way we are renewed and transformed. Nothing brings the soul back to life like prayer. Let your heart whisper the words the Church has always taught: ‘Lord, grant me to love You now, as once I loved sin itself.’”

I listened with my whole being. And with deep gratitude, I asked this beloved Father to hear my confession and to grant me Holy Communion. After receiving the Body and Blood of Christ, I felt full—humbled and quiet, yet burning with an inward joy.

I intended to return to Kiev then, carrying this treasure of spiritual wisdom in my heart. But the kind starets had plans to visit a nearby monastery, and before he left, he invited me to remain in his hermit’s cell. “Stay here,” he said, “and give yourself fully to prayer. Let silence and stillness shape your days.”

Those few days felt like a taste of heaven.

In the quiet solitude of that simple cell, held in the prayers of my spiritual father, my soul rested in pure tranquility. Prayer flowed from my heart like a gentle river. I didn’t have to force it. It came with ease, with joy. I forgot myself completely. My thoughts were wrapped only around the sweet name of Jesus Christ. Nothing else mattered.

When the confessor returned, I asked him for counsel—where should I go next on this pilgrimage of the heart?

He smiled and said, “Why don’t you go to Pochaev? There, you may venerate the icon of the Miraculous Footstep of the All-Pure Mother of God. She will guide your steps along the path of peace.”

I received his blessing with a peaceful heart and set out for Pochaev three days later.

The road to Pochaev was long—about 130 miles—and honestly, it felt dull at times. The path stretched past taverns and clusters of Jewish settlements, but rarely did I come across familiar Christian homes or places where I could rest my heart in faith and fellowship.

So when I stumbled upon a Russian coaching inn nestled in a small village, I felt a surge of joy. At last, a place where I might rest for the night and perhaps find a bit of bread to carry on. My own little supply of crusts was wearing thin.

Inside, the innkeeper greeted me. He looked prosperous, settled—an older man with strong features. As we spoke, I was surprised to learn that he came from the same Orlovsk district I once called home.

But his first question caught me off guard.

“What faith do you belong to?”

“I’m an Orthodox Christian,” I replied simply.

The moment the words left my lips, he scoffed.

“Orthodox? That Orthodoxy of yours is nothing but words,” he said with a bitter edge. “It’s empty! I know your kind of religion. I was pulled into it once, tempted by a clever priest. I joined your church for six months. But I came back to the true faith.”

He went on, his voice laced with disappointment and a kind of wounded pride.

“What a mess it is—your services! The readers mumble through everything. They skip whole passages, speak so fast no one understands a thing. And the choirs? Just tavern singers in disguise. And the people—no reverence at all. They stand wherever they want, men and women all mixed together. They chatter through the service, fidgeting and pacing. You can’t even pray quietly!”

He looked at me, as if expecting me to agree.

“Now our church,” he said, “is different. The services are reverent. Everything is read clearly. The singing lifts the soul. Men and women know their places, standing apart. Everyone makes prostrations at the right time, as the Church teaches. When you enter our church, you feel it in your bones—you’re in the presence of God. But walk into one of yours?” He shook his head. “It’s like entering a marketplace.”

As I listened to the old innkeeper, I realized that he was an Old Believer—a member of the group that had split from the Orthodox Church over liturgical reforms. And though I disagreed with his conclusions, I had to admit—some of his critiques rang true. I couldn’t argue with him. Not really.

In my heart, I thought: how can we ever hope to bring Old Believers back into unity when our own services lack clarity and reverence? Their faith may cling to the outward forms, but those forms matter—especially when we neglect them. Until our own clergy set a better example, their hearts will remain closed to deeper truths.

With a heavy spirit, I made up my mind to move on. I had just stepped into the vestibule when something caught my eye—a narrow doorway, slightly ajar, leading to a small room. Inside, a man was lying on a bed, reading. He didn’t look like a Russian, and he beckoned me in with a wave of his hand.

“Come,” he said gently. “Tell me who you are.”

I shared my story, and he listened with kind eyes.

Then he said, “Friend, would you be willing to help a sick man—just for a week, until God grants me strength again? I am a monk from the holy Mount Athos in Greece. I came to Russia to raise support for our monastery, but on the journey back, I fell ill. My legs—so painful, I can’t even walk. That’s why I’m staying here. Please, servant of God, don’t turn me away. I will pay you.”

I smiled. “I don’t need any payment,” I said. “I’ll care for you gladly—in the Name of God.”

And so I stayed.

That week turned into a sacred blessing. He told me stories about the monks of Mount Athos—about hermits, anchorites, and great ascetics who lived hidden lives of prayer and purity. From him I learned so much. He had a Greek copy of the Philokalia, along with a book by Saint Isaac the Syrian. Together, we read them—comparing the Greek with the Slavonic translation done by Paissy Velichkovsky.

He had great respect for Paissy’s work. “There could be no truer or more faithful translation,” he said. And I believed him.

I noticed how constantly he prayed, how deeply he lived in the spirit of the Jesus Prayer. His heart seemed tethered to heaven. He spoke Russian fluently and generously answered all my questions about the practice of unceasing prayer.

I listened closely. I even began to write down his words—especially what he taught about the profound beauty and unmatched power of the Jesus Prayer. Here is some of what he shared with me…

One evening, as we sat quietly together, the monk began to speak of the Jesus Prayer with a light in his eyes, as though he were unwrapping a priceless treasure.

“The greatness of the Jesus Prayer,” he said softly, “is revealed even in its very structure. It has two parts—each carrying immense weight. The first part—‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God’—draws the mind into the very heart of the Gospel. In just those few words, you are holding the entire life of Christ, all that He is, all that He has done. The Holy Fathers teach that in this one phrase, the fullness of the Good News is hidden like a pearl in a shell.

“And the second part—‘have mercy on me, a sinner’—is the confession of our own human story. It names our weakness, our need, our deep longing for healing and redemption.

“But here is the beautiful mystery,” he said, his voice low and steady, “No soul—no matter how poor or broken—could ever express its deepest yearning more clearly than with these few words: ‘Have mercy on me.’ There’s nothing more profound.”

He paused and looked at me intently.

“Think of all the other prayers a soul might cry—‘Forgive me!’ ‘Pardon my sins!’ ‘Wash away my guilt!’ Those are prayers born from fear—anxious cries to be spared the consequences of wrongdoing. But ‘have mercy on me’—that comes from somewhere deeper. It’s not just fear asking to be let off the hook. It’s the loving, humble plea of a child reaching for their Father. It knows its helplessness. It longs not just for pardon, but for transformation.

“It is the prayer of one who knows: ‘I cannot fix myself. I cannot stand on my own. Only Your mercy can restore me.’ Mercy here isn’t just the canceling of a debt—it is compassion in action. It is strength for the weak. It is light for the lost. It is the grace to rise again and live.”

He grew quiet for a moment, then spoke again.

“Imagine a poor man drowning in debt. He begs not only for the debt to be forgiven, but also for the compassion of someone who sees his utter poverty and lends him a hand. That’s what this prayer does. When we say, ‘Have mercy on me,’ we are crying out: ‘O Lord, not only forgive me—but help me. Give me the strength to change. Awaken my soul. Set me on fire to live for You. Heal my wandering heart and draw it back to You alone.’”

I sat in awe, deeply moved by the wisdom that had just poured forth. The monk’s words were like a lantern in the dark, lighting up places in my heart I didn’t know were asleep. I thanked him—truly and humbly—for speaking such life into my soul. But he wasn’t finished yet.

“If you’d like,” he offered, “I can share something even more subtle—something I learned from experience and study, something many overlook.”

Of course, I wanted to hear more.

He smiled gently and said, “It’s about the way people recite the Jesus Prayer—the inflections, the musical rhythm of the soul that emerges as one speaks it aloud. You see, during my time at the Academy in Athens, we studied not only theology but the patterns of prayer and speech, the living nuances that shape the soul.”

I leaned in closer as he continued.

“I’ve had the grace of hearing many devout Christians whisper the Jesus Prayer—not only in the quiet of their homes, but in the sacred stillness of churches too. And if you listen carefully, with an open and attentive heart, you’ll notice something remarkable: each person speaks the prayer slightly differently. Their very voice reveals how their heart is encountering God.

“Some raise their voice ever so slightly at the very beginning—‘Lord’—like a child reaching up toward a parent. The rest of the prayer then flows in a lower, steady tone, like a stream following gravity to the depths.

“Others begin in a low, gentle murmur, but as they reach ‘Jesus,’ their tone lifts—as though their spirit is straining toward the Name that saves. Then they return again to that quiet current of the soul, letting the rest of the prayer settle like dew on the heart.

“Still others speak the entire prayer in a soft, even voice—but when they come to the final words—‘have mercy on me’—their pitch rises with intensity, almost to the edge of tears. It’s as if their entire being is wrapped in that one plea for mercy, bursting forth like a final cry.

“And then,” he said with a pause, “there are some who carry the prayer in a gentle monotone, but lift their voice just slightly at the words ‘Son of God.’ It’s a reverent acknowledgment—a quiet act of worship hidden in tone.”

He looked at me kindly and added, “Even in these small inflections, the soul expresses its posture before God—whether it’s awe, longing, repentance, or reverence. It’s not about performance. It’s about presence.”

The monk’s voice softened, as if he were inviting me into a holy mystery.

“Now listen carefully,” he said. “The Jesus Prayer is the same for all of us. Every Orthodox Christian professes the same faith, and we all recognize what this prayer holds: the Name of the Lord Jesus, and the plea for His mercy—for reconciliation, for healing. And yet... we each say it differently.

“Why is that? Why does one person lift their voice on ‘Lord,’ while another is stirred to raise it on ‘Jesus’ or ‘Son of God,’ or even only at the final cry of ‘have mercy on me’? Why this diversity in something so seemingly simple and shared?

“Some might explain it in practical terms—habit, influence, personality, even the natural tone of one's voice. They might say it’s nothing more than personal style or comfort. But I believe something deeper is at work.”

He paused, letting the silence speak first.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that what we’re hearing is not just the human voice—but the voice of the Spirit within the human heart. I believe this hidden melody, these sacred inflections, are stirred by the Holy Spirit Himself, who, as the Scriptures say, intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.

“Even when we don’t know how to pray, the Spirit is already praying in us—guiding us, gently shaping our cry to God. And if the Holy Spirit is truly the one praying in the hearts of the faithful, then perhaps the varied tones and emphases we hear in this simple prayer are the marks of grace at work—tailored uniquely to each soul’s need.

“To one, the Spirit gives a holy fear—so they cry out ‘Lord’ with awe and trembling, overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Creator. To another, the Spirit pours out such love that they lift the name ‘Jesus’ like a flame rising from their heart. Another may be filled with unwavering faith and cling to the title ‘Son of God,’ knowing who alone can save. Still others, pierced with deep humility, weep as they whisper ‘have mercy on me, a sinner.’

He looked at me with a light in his eyes, not from himself, but from the truth he carried.

“This,” he said, “is how grace manifests—not just in outward signs, but in the secret stirrings of the soul. That’s why the holy elders, the true lovers of Jesus, would fall into ecstasy just at the sound of His Name. Even if someone nearby merely said it in passing, their hearts would ignite with a sweetness and longing so intense, they could hardly bear it.”

The monk continued, his words unfolding like the quiet petals of a flower blooming in candlelight.

“When a soul is firm in its faith—truly unwavering in the belief that Jesus Christ is of one essence with the Father—then something begins to burn within. Each time he says ‘Son of God,’ that flame grows brighter. The words kindle and strengthen his faith, and he is no longer just repeating a title. He is affirming the living Truth—that Jesus is God.

“And the one who has been given the gift of humility… ah, that soul knows its smallness. That one says ‘have mercy on me’ not as a phrase, but as a cry from the depths. He knows his frailty, his brokenness, and leans wholly into the mercy of God. And as he speaks those final words of the prayer, he pours himself out with his whole being—trusting not in his own strength, but in the endless compassion of Christ. He is like a beggar with open hands, sustained only by the hope of divine mercy and the hatred of his own sin.”

He paused again, and I could feel that the stillness between his words was just as holy as the words themselves.

“This,” he said, “is why each person prays the same prayer in a different tone, a different rhythm, a different spirit. It is not because we are trying to be different—but because the Holy Spirit is doing something personal and particular in each of us. The inflection is a reflection of what’s being born within.”

I sat in silence, drinking in every word like water in a dry land.

“Sometimes people ask me,” he continued, “‘If the prayer is truly from the Spirit, why is it only one part of the prayer that carries such weight for each person? Why not all of it, equally radiant with ecstasy?’ And to that, I say: Who can understand the mind of God? Who can measure the mysteries of grace?”

He smiled gently.

“We are the clay, and He is the potter. And He shapes each of us according to His wisdom. Grace is not distributed mechanically, but personally—tailored to the soul’s readiness, need, and capacity. As Scripture teaches, the Spirit gives as He wills, not as we demand. Who are we to ask why the potter fashions one vessel for one purpose and another for a different one?”

I stayed with this holy man for about five days. His body, once frail, began to show signs of healing. But more than that, my own soul was being healed—touched by the light that shone through his gentle presence and words.

Those days passed as though outside of time. In that small room, it was as if the world had faded away, and only one thing mattered: the silent, loving invocation of the Name of Jesus Christ.

When we weren’t praying in silence, we spoke of only one subject—interior prayer. That sacred thread ran through everything. We ate little, spoke little, and yet it felt as though we had feasted on the bread of angels.

One day, a deeply devoted man came to us, his heart heavy with anger. He spoke harshly about the Jews whose towns he had passed through, upset by the wrongs he felt they had done to him—mistreatment and deceit that left him bitter. His feelings ran so deep that he cursed them, saying they didn’t deserve to live on this earth because of their stubbornness and lack of faith. At last, he confessed to a strong, almost unbearable hatred for them.

After listening quietly, my starets gently began to share his wisdom.

“My friend,” he said softly, “your anger and curses toward the Jews are misplaced. They are, like you and me, children of God. What you need is compassion, not condemnation. Pray for them instead of cursing them. The truth is, your hatred comes from not yet being rooted in God’s love. Without that deep connection, your heart is unsettled, lacking the peace that comes from quiet prayer within.

Let me share with you something from the Holy Fathers. Mark the Ascetic writes, ‘A soul united with God feels a joy so great it makes her gentle and humble, like a kind-hearted child who no longer judges anyone—neither Greek nor pagan, Jew nor sinner. She sees everyone with clear, loving eyes and rejoices for the whole world. Her heart longs for all people, whatever their background, to praise God.’ And Saint Makarios the Great of Egypt tells us that those who contemplate deeply burn with such love that they would embrace all people as if they were their own children, without separating the good from the evil.

So, my friend, having heard these teachings, I encourage you to let go of your anger. See all people and all things as held within God’s loving care. When you face offenses, begin by looking inward—ask if you can grow in patience and humility.”

After more than a week, the starets’ health was restored. I thanked him sincerely for all his wise guidance and said goodbye. He went on his way, and I continued toward the direction I had chosen.

Before long, I was nearing Pochaev. After walking about sixty-six miles, a soldier caught up with me. I asked where he was headed, and he said he was going home to the Kamenets-Podolsky district. We walked together in silence for about six and a half miles, when I noticed he was sighing deeply, weighed down by some sorrow. He looked very troubled.

Curious, I asked, “Why are you so sad?”

He hesitated at first but then said, “My friend, since you’ve noticed my grief, swear to me that you will keep this secret, and I will share my story with you. My death feels near, and I have no one else to turn to for advice.”

I assured him that, as a Christian, I held everything in confidence and was ready to offer any counsel I could, from brotherly love.

He began to speak. “I was drafted into the army from a peasant background. After five years, life became unbearable. They beat me often—for being rebellious, and for drunkenness too. So I decided to run away. It’s now been fifteen years since I deserted. For six years, I hid wherever I could, stealing from sheds and barns. I took horses, broke into shops, doing everything alone. I sold what I stole to shady people and spent the money on drink and wild living. I committed many sins, but I never caused anyone to lose their soul. Things went on like this until I was finally caught and thrown into jail for wandering without papers. But even then, I escaped at the first chance.”

“One day, unexpectedly, I met a soldier who had been honorably discharged and was making his way home to a distant province. He was very sick and barely able to walk, so he asked me to help him get to the nearest village where he could find a comfortable place to rest. I took him there, and the village policeman allowed us to spend the night on some hay in a barn.

That night, I lay down to sleep beside him, but when I woke early the next morning, I saw that he had died and was already stiff. I quickly searched his pockets for his discharge papers—and found them, along with a good amount of money. While everyone was still asleep, I slipped quietly out of the barn, through the backyard, and into the forest. That’s how I escaped.

When I looked through his papers, I saw that he was close to my age and looked much like me. That gave me courage, and I boldly set out for the faraway Astrakhan province.

There, I settled down and found work as a laborer. I connected with an old man, a commoner who owned a house and traded livestock. He was single and lived with his widowed daughter. After a year living with them, I married his daughter. Then the old man passed away.

We didn’t know how to run the business, and soon I started drinking again—and so did my wife. Within a year, we spent all the money the old man had left us. Then my wife fell ill and died too. I sold the house and everything else, and before long, I had squandered all the money.

With nothing left to live on or to eat, I went back to my old ways, stealing once more. But this time I was even bolder, because I had that passport. And so, for about another year, I lived a life of corruption again.”

I was crushed from all sides in a way that’s hard to even put into words—agony, terror, and despair gripping me tightly. It felt as if my very sinews were being torn from my body, and I was suffocating under the weight of pain. The torment was so overwhelming that I thought I might faint if it went on a moment longer.

Then, nearby, a mare kicked me and grazed my cheek, cutting it open. In that instant, jolted awake, horror filled me and I trembled uncontrollably. Around me, the light of dawn was breaking, the sun rising. I touched my cheek and felt the warm trickle of blood. The parts of my body that had been trapped under the earth in my dream felt numb and prickling, like tiny insects crawling beneath my skin.

In my panic, I barely managed to rise, and I made my way home.

“My cheek hurt for a long time, and you can see the scar now that wasn’t there before. After that vision, fear and horror often haunted me. Every time I remembered the torment from my dream, I was overwhelmed with anguish and despair. It was so intense that I didn’t know how to hold myself together.

As time went on, these feelings came more and more often, until I grew afraid of people and ashamed, as if everyone could see all my past wrongs. Eventually, the sadness became so heavy I couldn’t eat, drink, or sleep—I was just a shadow of the man I once was. At one point, I even thought about going back to my regiment to confess everything. Maybe if I were punished, God might forgive me. But I was afraid—terrified, because I knew they would make me run the gauntlet.

Unable to bear it any longer, I thought about hanging myself. But then I realized I didn’t have much time left to live anyway. I was so weak that death felt near. So I decided to go home, to say my goodbyes—there’s a nephew waiting for me there—and to die. It’s been half a year now on this journey, but the sorrow and fear still haunt me.

What do you think, good man? What should I do? I really can’t carry this burden any longer.”

After hearing all this, I was quietly filled with wonder and gratitude for how God’s grace works in so many different ways to bring sinners back to Himself. I said gently, “My friend, it is when fear and anguish feel the heaviest that you should turn to prayer. Prayer is the only true remedy for our pain.”

He replied, “But I can’t. I’m afraid that if I start praying, God will punish me right then and there.”

I smiled warmly and said, “That’s not true. Those fearful thoughts come from the enemy trying to keep you trapped. God’s mercy is boundless, especially toward those who repent. You know the Jesus Prayer—‘Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ Just keep saying it without stopping.”

He laughed softly. “How could I not know that prayer? Even when I was stealing, I said it sometimes to give myself courage.”

I said, “Then listen: God didn’t strike you down when you prayed it on your way to sin. Do you really think He would now, as you begin your path back to Him? Your doubts come from the enemy. Believe me, friend, if you pray this prayer no matter what thoughts come, you will find joy. Your fears and burdens will lift, and in time, you will know peace. Your heart will grow devoted, and your sinful passions will fade. I speak from experience, having seen this transformation many times.”

I shared with him stories of how the Jesus Prayer had worked miracles in the lives of others. Then I invited him to come with me to honor the icon of the Pochaev Mother of God, Refuge of Sinners. There, he could confess and receive Communion.

He listened carefully, and I could see a spark of joy. He agreed to everything.

We set out for Pochaev, deciding to walk in silence and pray the Jesus Prayer without ceasing. For a full twenty-four hours, we moved forward quietly. The next day, he told me he felt better—calmer than before. On the third day, we arrived in Pochaev, and I encouraged him once more to keep praying the Jesus Prayer day and night, even until sleep took him. I assured him that the Holy Name of Jesus, though unbearable to the enemy, held the power to save him.

I also read to him from the Philokalia, explaining that while we should pray the Jesus Prayer always, it is especially important to do so with care when preparing to receive Communion, the Mystical Gifts of Christ.

He took my advice right away—going to confession and then receiving Communion. Though troubling thoughts still came now and then, the Jesus Prayer quickly pushed them away. To make sure he could rise early for matins, he went to bed early that night, praying the Jesus Prayer without stopping. I sat nearby, reading my Philokalia by the soft glow of a night lamp.

After about an hour, he fell asleep. I began to pray quietly. Then, about twenty minutes later, he suddenly woke, startled, and sprang up. With tears in his eyes and joy in his voice, he said, “Ah, my friend, what I have just seen! I am filled with such bliss! Now I truly believe that God does not torment but shows mercy to sinners. Glory to You, O Lord, glory to You!”

I was filled with wonder and joy and asked him to share what he had experienced.

He said, “As soon as I fell asleep, I found myself back in that meadow where I had suffered. At first, I was afraid. But then, instead of the dark cloud, a bright sun rose, bathing the whole meadow in beautiful light. Flowers and grass blossomed all around. Suddenly, my grandfather appeared, so handsome that I couldn’t look away. With warmth and love, he quietly said, ‘Go to Zhitomir, to the Church of Saint George the Conqueror. They will hire you as a church watchman there. Live out your days in prayer, and God will be merciful to you.’ Then he made the sign of the cross over me and vanished.

I was overwhelmed with joy—words can’t describe it. It felt as though a great weight was lifted, and I soared toward heaven. When I woke, my heart was bursting with happiness.

So now, what else can I do but go straight to Zhitomir, just as my grandfather told me? And with prayer, the journey won’t be hard at all.”

“Mercy, good man! And where do you think you’re going in the middle of the night? At least stay for matins, pray, and then go with God.”

So, though we didn’t get any sleep, after our conversation we went to church. He prayed deeply and tearfully through all of matins, feeling a sweet inner joy as the Jesus Prayer flowed from his heart. Then he received Communion at the Divine Liturgy.

After lunch, I walked with him as far as the road leading to Zhitomir, where we parted with both joy and tears.

Later, I thought about where I should go next. I decided to return to Kiev, drawn by the wise counsel of my spiritual father who lived there. I hoped that while staying with him, some kind-hearted benefactors might help send me on to Jerusalem or, at least, Mount Athos.

So, after spending another week in Pochaev reflecting on my journey and recording meaningful moments, I prepared to leave. I packed my knapsack and went to church to venerate the icon of the Mother of God as a parting gesture, then planned to pray at the Liturgy before setting off.

Standing at the back of the church, a man entered who looked like a nobleman, though his clothes were a bit worn. He asked me where the candles were sold, and I showed him. After the Liturgy, I stayed to pray before the icon of the Miraculous Footstep of the Mother of God, then headed out.

A little way down the street, I noticed an open window where a barin was sitting, reading a book. It was the same man who had asked about the candles. I tipped my hat as I passed, and he called me over.

“You must be a pilgrim, am I right?” he said.

He invited me in, asked about me, and where I was going. He served me tea and said, “Listen, friend, I suggest you visit the Solovetsky Monastery. There’s a quiet, peaceful skete there called Anzersky. It’s like another Athos, and everyone is welcome. The only request is that you take turns reading the Psalms in church for about four hours a day. I’m headed there myself, traveling on foot as I vowed. We could go together—that would be safer since the road is lonely. I have money to feed us on the way. We could even walk about seven yards apart so we won’t disturb each other while we pray. Think about it, friend. Say you’ll come! It’ll be good for you, too.”

I took this unexpected invitation as a clear sign from the Mother of God, answering the prayer I had offered for guidance on where to go next. So without hesitation, I agreed immediately.

The next day, we set out together. For three days, we walked one behind the other, just as we had agreed. He carried a book he never let out of his hands, day or night. Often, he would be lost in thought, quietly turning its pages even as we paused to eat.

I noticed it was the Bible, and I asked him gently, “If I may be so bold, Batyushka, why do you never put the Bible down? Day and night, you hold it close like that.”

“Because,” he answered, “I spend almost all my time studying from it.”

I asked, “What exactly are you studying?”

He replied, “The Christian life, which is centered on prayer. I believe prayer is the heart of salvation and the essential duty of every Christian. Prayer is both the first step on the spiritual path and the highest point of a holy life. The Bible commands us to pray always and without ceasing. While other acts of devotion have their appointed times, prayer is not limited to certain hours. No good deed can be done without prayer, and true prayer can only be learned through the Bible.

That’s why those who have reached salvation through the interior life—prophets who spoke God’s words, hermits, ascetics, and all faithful Christians—were taught to pray by continually and deeply studying Scripture. Reading the Bible was their most important task. Many never let it leave their hands, and when others sought their advice on salvation, they said, ‘Sit quietly in your cell and read, and read again, the Bible.’”

I was moved by his devotion and love for prayer, and I asked, “Which specific parts of Scripture taught you about prayer?”

He answered, “All four Gospels, really. The whole New Testament, read from beginning to end. After reading and reflecting on it for a long time, I realized there is a clear progression and connection in how the Gospels teach prayer. It begins with an introduction, then moves to its form—the outward words we say. Next, it explains the conditions needed for prayer—the method of learning to pray, with examples. Finally, it reveals the deeper, mystical teaching about unceasing, interior prayer in the Name of Jesus Christ, which is higher and more fruitful than formal prayer.

After that, the Gospels explain why prayer is necessary, what fruits it bears, and more. In short, everything needed to learn how to pray is laid out carefully and systematically in the Gospels, step by step from start to finish.”

After hearing this, I asked him to show me everything in detail.

“There is nothing I enjoy more,” I said, “than speaking and hearing about prayer. I would love to see for myself this mystical order and progression you speak of. For the Lord’s sake, please show me exactly where I can find it in the Gospels.”

He gladly agreed. “Open your New Testament,” he said, handing me a pencil. “Mark everything I tell you.”

“First,” he began, “go to Matthew chapter 6, verses 5–8. There you will find the introduction to prayer—how to prepare for it. It teaches that prayer should be free from vanity, not performed in noisy places, but in seclusion and peace. It says we should pray for the forgiveness of sins and union with God, not for excessive worldly things as the pagans do.

“Then, in the same chapter, read verses 9–13. Here you find the Lord’s Prayer—the form and words to be used, containing all that is truly necessary in life.

“Next, verses 14–15 in the same chapter show the conditions for true prayer—if we do not forgive others, God will not forgive us.

“Now turn to chapter 7, verses 7–12. This teaches the right way to pray—asking, seeking, knocking with persistent hope. These words emphasize the repetitive, continual nature of prayer, showing that it should accompany all we do until it becomes the first and highest concern of our life.”

“This,” he continued, “is the chief characteristic of true prayer. You see it in Mark 14:32–40, where our Lord Himself repeats the same prayer several times. Luke gives similar examples—Luke 11:5–14 tells of the friend who is persuaded by persistence, and Luke 18:3–7 tells of the widow who wears down the unjust judge with her constant pleading. In both, Christ bids us to pray always, everywhere, and never lose heart—that is, never grow idle.

“But the Gospel of John goes still deeper. It shows the mystery of the inner prayer of the heart. First, in His conversation with the Samaritan woman (John 4:5–26), the Lord teaches that true worship must be in spirit and in truth, springing up like living water into eternal life—unceasing, inward communion with God.

“Then, in John 15:4–8, we are shown the power and necessity of this prayer: the soul abiding in Christ, holding Him in constant remembrance. And finally, in John 16:23–25, a great mystery is revealed.

“Think of it—Jesus had already taught the disciples the Our Father early on, yet before His Passion He tells them, ‘Until now you have asked nothing in My Name… whatever you ask the Father in My Name, He will give you.’ That was the missing key. Once they learned to pray in the Name of the Lord Jesus Christ, they worked wonders and were filled with light.

“Do you see now the perfect order and fullness in the Gospels’ teaching on prayer? And if you turn from there to the Apostles’ Epistles, you will find their further counsel on the same holy work.”

He went on:

“To finish what I’ve been telling you, let me show you the passages that speak of what must accompany prayer.

“In the Acts of the Apostles, you see how the first Christians—newly enlightened by faith in Jesus Christ—prayed with constancy and fervor [Acts 4:31]. From this we learn not only the diligence of their prayer, but also its fruits: the outpouring of the Holy Spirit and His gifts upon those who pray. Something similar is found in Acts 16:25–26.

“Then, if you read through the Apostles’ Epistles in order, you will find:

1. The necessity of prayer in every circumstance of life —[James 5:13–16].
2. The help of the Holy Spirit in prayer —[Hebrews 13:20–21; Romans 8:26].
3. That one must always pray in the Spirit —[Ephesians 6:18].
4. The importance of inner peace for prayer —[Philippians 4:6–7].
5. The command to pray unceasingly —[1 Thessalonians 5:17].
6. The duty to pray not only for ourselves but for all people —[1 Timothy 2:1–5].”

“Thus,” he concluded, “when you read the Scriptures often and attentively, you begin to uncover ever deeper revelations of the mystical wisdom hidden in God’s word—treasures you would miss with only rare or casual reading. From what I’ve shown you, do you see now the wisdom and the harmony—the systematic, mystical interconnections—by which the New Testament presents our Lord Jesus Christ’s teaching on prayer? We have gone through it step by step:

“In the Gospel of Matthew, you find the preface—the introduction to prayer, its form, its conditions. In Mark, you see concrete examples. In Luke, the parables that illustrate it. In John, the mystical practice of interior prayer. And though all four Gospels contain all of these elements in varying degrees, you can see how each has its special emphasis.

“Then, in Acts, we read of the practice and fruits of prayer. And in the Apostles’ Epistles—and even in Revelation—we find conditions inseparably bound up with prayer itself. This is why I accept only the Bible as my source for learning all the ways that lead to salvation.”

As he spoke, I marked each passage in my New Testament, eager not to forget a single one. Everything he showed me seemed so remarkable and edifying that I thanked him with all my heart.

We walked on in silence for about five more days. But my companion’s feet, unused to such long journeys, began to ache terribly. In the end, he hired a cart drawn by two horses and took me along. In this way, we arrived here, planning to stay three days to rest before continuing straight to the Anzersky Skeet, which he longed to reach without delay.

Starets: “What a remarkable companion you have! Judging by his devotion, he must be highly educated. I would like to meet him.”

Pilgrim: “We are sharing an apartment. If you wish, I will bring him to you tomorrow. But for tonight—it is already too late. Forgive me!”

Chapter 6

“Brother helped by brother is like a city, strong and tall; it is fortified as a firmly established kingdom.” —PROV. 18:19

Pilgrim: As I promised when I saw you yesterday, I brought along my esteemed traveling companion—the man whose bright conversation made the road more pleasant, and whom you said you wanted to meet.

Starets: I am very glad to see both of you, and I hope my honored guests share that joy. It is a blessing to hear of your experiences. These are my guests: a venerable skhimnik and a Reverend Father. Where two or three are gathered in the name of Jesus Christ, He promised to be present; now that five of us are gathered in His Name, His grace will surely be poured out even more abundantly.

Good friend, the story your traveling companion told me yesterday about your deep devotion to the Holy Gospel was remarkable and enlightening. I would be glad to hear how this devout mystery was revealed to you.

Professor: In His great mercy, the abundantly loving Lord—who desires that all be saved and come to the knowledge of the truth—revealed this knowledge to me in a wondrous way, without any human intervention. I was a professor at the Lyceum* for five years, living a degraded life, swept away by empty secular philosophies rather than by Christ. I might have utterly perished if not for the steady, godly influence of my devout mother and my sister, a serious, unmarried young woman with whom I lived...

“One day, while walking along the main boulevard, I met an extraordinary young man. He told me he was French, well-educated, and had just arrived from Paris in search of a tutoring position. I was impressed by his refinement and his high level of learning. Since he was new in town, I invited him to my home, and we quickly became friends.

For about two months, he often visited me, and sometimes we went out together—seeking amusements and visiting places that, as you can imagine, were not known for their moral atmosphere.

One day, he invited me to join him at such a place, trying to entice me by describing its “special attractions.” But in the middle of his lively description, he suddenly stopped and asked if we could leave my study, where we were sitting, and go to the drawing room.

This struck me as odd. I told him I had noticed before that he seemed reluctant to stay in my study, and I asked him why. I also wanted to keep him there, since the drawing room was next to my mother’s and sister’s rooms, and it would have been inappropriate to have such a conversation within earshot of them.

He tried to offer various excuses, until at last he admitted honestly: “Among the other books on your shelf, I see a New Testament. I respect it so much that I find it difficult to speak of immoral things in its presence. Please, take it out of here, and then we can talk freely.”

Foolishly, I laughed and said, “You should have told me sooner!” I took the New Testament from the shelf, handed it to him, and added, “Here, you put it in the other room.”

The moment the Holy Book touched his hands, he began to tremble violently—and in an instant, he vanished.

I was struck with such horror that I collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. The servants, hearing the commotion, rushed in and tried for half an hour to revive me. When at last I regained consciousness, I was seized with an indescribable fear. My whole body trembled, my hands and feet were numb, and I could not move them. A doctor was called, and he declared that I was suffering from paralysis brought on by a sudden and powerful shock.

“For an entire year after this strange incident—and despite the devoted care of many skilled physicians—I lay bedridden, with no relief in sight. In time, I was forced to resign from my teaching post. My dear, elderly mother passed away during this period, and my sister resolved to enter a monastery. All these sorrows only deepened the weight of my illness.

The only light in those dark days was the New Testament. From the very first moments of my sickness, it had never left my hands. It became both my comfort and my constant reminder of that extraordinary event.

One day, a hermit whom I had never met before appeared at my door, collecting alms for his cloister. He spoke to me gently but firmly, urging me not to rely solely on medicine—“for medicines have no power without the help of God,” he said. “Ask God, and pray diligently, for prayer is the strongest remedy for every illness, both of body and of soul.”

I protested in confusion: “But how can I pray in this state? I can’t even make a single prostration or raise my hand to bless myself with the sign of the cross!”

“At least try to pray somehow,” he replied simply. He offered no further explanation, and soon departed.

Yet his words lingered. My mind began to dwell on prayer—its meaning, its power, its fruits—and I recalled, almost as if by providence, the theology lectures I had once heard as a student. The memory of those spiritual truths warmed my heart. At once, I felt a faint easing of my illness.

The New Testament lay at my side, and since that miraculous encounter I had held a firm faith in its words. I remembered, too, that all those lectures I had heard about prayer were drawn entirely from its pages. It seemed clear to me that the best way to learn about prayer—and about Christian piety itself—was to go straight to the source.

So I began to read the New Testament slowly, carefully, attentively—turning it into a deep and abundant spring from which I drew understanding of the full path to salvation and the true way of interior prayer. I marked every passage that touched on the subject. From that day forward, I have tried to study these divine teachings regularly and to put them into practice as best I can, though not without struggle.

And as I did so, my illness gradually lessened—until at last, as you see now, I was completely restored. Alone in the world, I resolved that in gratitude for God’s fatherly mercy—for His healing and His guidance—I would follow my sister’s example and the call of my own soul. I would consecrate myself to an ascetic life, so that, free from worldly hindrance, I might seek and embrace those sweet words of eternal life which the Scriptures had so generously revealed to me.”

“So now,” the professor continued, “I am making my way toward the secluded skete at the Solovets Monastery by the White Sea—the one called Anzerskiy—which I have heard from a most trustworthy source is perfectly suited for the contemplative life.

I’ll tell you frankly: While the holy New Testament has been my constant comfort on the road, illuminating my still-unripe mind and even warming my cold heart, I cannot hide from you the truth of my weakness. I am afraid—afraid because my heart is both frail and damaged, and because the Gospel sets before us such great demands for doing good works and attaining salvation. It calls for complete self-denial, for tireless spiritual struggle, for a humility deeper than I can yet fathom. And so, I stand between despair and hope… and I do not know what will become of me.”

The skhimnik looked at him earnestly and replied,

“After such a clear and miraculous sign of God’s mercy toward you—and with your level of learning—it is not only wrong but utterly inexcusable for you to give in to despair, or even allow the faintest shadow of doubt to enter your heart about God’s providence and help!

Do you know what the holy ‘Golden-Mouth’—St. John Chrysostom, enlightened by God—teaches about this? He says: ‘No one should ever despair, nor imagine the Gospel commandments to be unattainable or impossible to fulfill! For when God appointed the path for man’s salvation, He did not set down commandments so hard that man would be driven to sin. No! Rather, they were given so that, through their holiness and their life-giving necessity, we might be blessed both in this present life and in eternity.’”

The skhimnik nodded, his eyes warm but serious.

“Of course,” he said, “to our fallen nature, the steadfast and constant keeping of God’s commandments feels impossibly hard, and so salvation itself may seem out of reach. But the same divine Word that gave us these commandments also gave us the means—not only to fulfill them with ease, but to find consolation in fulfilling them.

“If at first this truth is hidden from you, that is no accident. It is meant to lead the beginner into deeper humility, and to draw him more closely to God, teaching him that his safest refuge is not in his own strength, but in prayer—in calling on His Fatherly help. That is where the mystery of salvation lies—not in trusting our own willpower, but in relying entirely on Him.”

The pilgrim’s face lit up with longing.

“Weak and powerless as I am,” he said, “how I wish I could know this mystery well enough to put it to use—to stir my lazy soul, even a little, toward the glory of God and my salvation!”

The skhimnik smiled gently.

“But you do know it, dear brother,” he replied. “You’ve learned it already from your Philokalia. It is the mystery of unceasing prayer—that very prayer you have come to know so well, that you practice so fervently, and that you find so much comfort in.”

The pilgrim bowed his head.

“Reverend Father,” he said with emotion, “for the love of God, let me hear it from your own lips. Speak to me of this mystery of salvation and of this holy prayer, which more than anything else I hunger to hear about, and love to read of—for it strengthens and comforts my poor, sinful soul.”

Although I cannot share much from my own experience about this beautiful spiritual practice, I do have a very helpful work written by a wise spiritual teacher on this very subject. If it pleases you all, I can bring it now and read it to you—if you would like me to.”

“Please do!” everyone replied. “Do not deprive us of such knowledge for our salvation!”

The Mystery of Salvation as Revealed through Unceasing Prayer

“How can a person be saved?” This is the natural question that arises in the heart of anyone who has glimpsed their own weakness and brokenness, yet still feels the pull of truth and righteousness. When someone has even a small seed of faith in eternal life and turns their eyes toward heaven, they cannot help but wonder about the path to salvation.

Unable to answer on their own, they look to those wiser and more experienced, who point them toward the writings of spiritual teachers. Reading these guides, the seeker finds a consistent message: salvation requires a devout life, the courage to engage in spiritual struggle, and the willingness to lay aside the self. Through this surrender, one learns to live in good works and to keep God’s commandments faithfully—showing a heart that is firm and steadfast in faith.

Then he learns that all these conditions for salvation must be carried out together, and always with deep humility. For just as every virtue leans on the others, so too must they strengthen, refine, and inspire one another. It is like the rays of the sun—only when gathered and focused through glass onto one point do they reveal their power and kindle a flame. Without this focus, they scatter without effect. In the same way, the one who is careless with small things will also stumble in greater ones.

To further impress this truth upon him, he hears praises of the beauty of virtue and stern warnings about the misery of vice. The mind cannot help but remember the promises—of eternal joy for the faithful, and eternal loss for the disobedient.

Such is the way preaching often sounds in our day.

Encouraged by such teaching, the eager seeker gladly sets out to put it into practice, striving to live by all he has read and heard. Yet, very quickly, he finds himself failing. What he had hoped for, and now painfully experiences, is this: his broken and weakened nature has more power over him than the good intentions of his mind. His will is bound, his motives are mixed, and his spiritual strength soon runs dry.

After tasting this helplessness, he begins to wonder if there might be another way—a hidden strength—that could help him live out God’s commandments and the life of true piety, which so many before him had somehow fulfilled.

Seeking peace between his longing for holiness and his inability to reach it, he turns again to the preachers and asks: How can I be saved? How can I make sense of my failure to live as I ought? And—can the one who preaches these things truly live them out himself?

“Ask God! Pray to Him for help!”

So the seeker begins to wonder: would it not be better, from the very beginning—and indeed at every moment—to learn about prayer itself? For prayer is the strength that makes it possible to live a life of piety, and it is the very path toward salvation.

With this thought, he turns to study. He reads about prayer, reflects on it, and searches through the writings of those who have taught about it. And he finds much wisdom: one speaks of the need for prayer, another of its power and benefits, another of the duty to pray. Still others speak of the diligence prayer requires, the attention of mind, the warmth of heart, the need for humility, contrition, reconciliation with others, and purity of thought.

All of this is good and inspiring. Yet he cannot help but ask: What is prayer itself? And how does one actually pray?

Strangely, though these questions are so basic and essential, clear and practical answers are rarely given. And so the seeker remains confused. From all his reading, he remembers mostly the outward expressions of prayer: attending church, making the sign of the cross, bowing to the ground, kneeling, chanting psalms, canons, akathists. These, while holy, are not the heart of prayer itself.

And indeed, this is how prayer is commonly understood by those who do not yet know the writings on inner prayer or the wisdom of the Holy Fathers.

At last, he discovers the Philokalia, a treasury in which twenty-five holy teachers reveal the art of true prayer of the heart. Here, at last, the veil begins to lift. He sees that real prayer is to hold the mind and memory steady in the remembrance of God—to walk always in His presence, to stir the heart to love Him by turning thoughts to Him, and to let the name of Jesus be carried on the breath and in the beating of the heart.

And so, prayer is not confined to times or places, nor to postures or rituals alone. It becomes a way of life: the continual calling on the most holy Name of Jesus, the Jesus Prayer, offered unceasingly, everywhere, in all things, and at all times.

These clear truths awaken the seeker’s understanding and open the path for him to learn how to pray rightly. He is eager to begin, and he sets out at once to put these instructions into practice. Yet even with such wisdom before him, he soon finds himself struggling. His prayer is inconsistent, and he falters often.

It is only when an experienced guide, using that same book—the Philokalia—steps in to help, that the seeker begins to see more deeply. The guide explains that the heart of the mystery lies not in lofty thoughts or special techniques, but in constancy—unceasing repetition of the prayer, no matter how weakly or imperfectly it begins. This steady rhythm of prayer is the only true path toward the fullness of inner prayer and the salvation of the soul.

Constancy becomes the foundation of everything else. As Saint Simeon the New Theologian declares, “The one who prays unceasingly has gathered everything good into this one work.”

To make this even clearer, the guide begins to unfold the teaching in full:

First of all, true faith is needed for the salvation of the soul. As Scripture says, without faith it is impossible to please God, for the one without faith stands under judgment.

And yet, in that same Scripture, it is written that a person cannot produce faith on their own—not even faith the size of a mustard seed. Faith is not born from our efforts, but is itself a gift of God, a grace bestowed by the Holy Spirit.

What then should a person do? How can we hold together our deep need for faith with our inability to create it on our own?

The answer is found in Scripture itself: Ask, and you will receive. Even the apostles, on their own, could not stir up perfect faith within themselves. So they turned to Jesus and prayed, “Lord, grant us faith.” Their example makes it clear: faith is received through prayer.

But faith alone is not enough. For the salvation of the soul, good works—acts of love and virtue—are also needed. As the Apostle James reminds us, faith without works is dead. And Jesus Himself said, If you want to enter into life, keep the commandments: Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not bear false witness, honor your father and mother, and love your neighbor as yourself. And this is not optional—for whoever fails in even one commandment is guilty of all.

Yet here lies the struggle. Paul, in his deep honesty, admits that though he longs to do good, he finds himself unable. The law is spiritual, but I am weak and bound by sin. The good I want to do, I cannot carry out; and the evil I do not want to do, that I end up doing. In my heart I love God’s law, yet in my flesh I am captive to the law of sin.

How then can anyone keep the commandments? How can one walk in God’s way if the will alone is not enough? Paul gives the answer: you do not have because you do not ask.

Our weakness is not final—it is only weakness when we do not pray. For Jesus Himself said, Without Me, you can do nothing. And again, Abide in Me, and I in you. Whoever abides in Me will bear much fruit.

To abide in Him is to remain in His presence—to walk with Him moment by moment—and to ask in His Name without ceasing. For He promised, If you ask anything in My Name, I will do it.

Thus it is through prayer that we gain the strength to live in good works. Even the Apostle Paul shows us this: he prayed three times to be freed from temptation; he bowed before the Father asking to be strengthened inwardly; and in the end, he taught that prayer must come first, and that one must pray about everything—unceasingly.

From this, it becomes clear: the salvation of the soul depends on prayer. Prayer is the root and the breath of faith, and through it every virtue takes form. In short, everything can be accomplished through prayer—and without it, no true Christian life is possible.

This is why only prayer is given the command to be constant. Each other virtue has its time, but of prayer it is said: pray without ceasing. We are called to pray always, everywhere, in every circumstance.

Yet true prayer is not merely words. It asks for a heart that is pure, a mind that is clear, a spirit that is attentive and aflame with love, filled with humility and awe. And here we must admit, if we are honest: how far we often are from such prayer. So often, we pray out of duty rather than delight, forcing ourselves rather than being carried by love.

Scripture itself tells us that on our own, we cannot clear the mind or purify the heart. The thoughts of man are evil from his youth. Only God can give a new heart and create a new spirit within us. Even the will to pray, and the act of praying itself, come from Him.

Paul himself confessed: My spirit prays, but my mind is unfruitful. And again he writes, We do not know what we should pray for as we ought.

From this we see: left to ourselves, we cannot even grasp the very essence of true prayer.

Faced with such helplessness, what remains within a person’s own will? What strength does one truly have to save the soul? He cannot bring about faith by himself, nor good works, nor even true prayer. What, then, is left? What power belongs to his free will so that he might not perish, but live?

Here is the mystery: since every action has its own essence, the Lord has kept the essence of prayer for Himself, giving it as a gift of grace when He wills. Yet, to show that we depend on Him entirely, He has left to us the quantity of prayer—the practice of praying unceasingly. He has commanded us to pray always, everywhere, and at all times. In this command is hidden the path: through constancy in prayer, the soul is led into true prayer, and with it comes faith, the keeping of God’s commandments, and salvation itself.

The Fathers of the Church speak clearly on this. Saint Macarius the Great says: To pray in any manner, so long as it is constant, is within our power; but true prayer is a gift of grace. Hesychius teaches that constancy in prayer becomes a habit, and habit turns into second nature—so much so that the heart cannot be cleansed apart from the continual calling on the Name of Jesus.

Callistus and Ignatius counsel that before any ascetic struggle or act of virtue, one should begin with unceasing prayer in the Name of Christ. For even an impure prayer, when offered with constancy, is purified by its very persistence. Blessed Diadochus adds that if one were to call on God’s Name continually, he would not fall into sin.

How wise and practical are these words of the Fathers! Their teaching is simple, flowing from their lived experience, and it shines like a lamp upon the way of the soul.

How different their words sound from the reasoning of mere moral philosophy! Human reason says: Do this or that; strengthen your will; fight for virtue; cleanse your thoughts of distraction and fill them with noble ideas; live well, and you will be respected, and your conscience will be at peace.

But alas—how often even our best efforts fall short! For without the constancy of prayer, and without the help of God that prayer calls down, all such striving remains powerless.

Let us listen again to the Fathers and see what they teach about the purification of the soul.

Saint John of the Ladder writes, When the soul is darkened by unclean thoughts, strike your enemies with the Name of Jesus, repeating it constantly. You will find no stronger weapon in heaven or on earth.

Saint Gregory of Sinai teaches, Know that no man is able to master his own mind. But when unclean thoughts appear, call upon the Name of Jesus Christ with greater frequency, and the thoughts will quiet themselves.

What a simple and mercifully accessible method this is—and how proven by experience! And how different it is from the advice of reason alone, which demands purity through sheer effort of will.

So then, from the lived teaching of the holy Fathers, we can reach this firm conclusion: the most direct, the most reliable, and the most accessible way toward salvation and perfection of soul is found in the frequency of prayer—the steady, unbroken rhythm of calling on the Lord, even if our prayer feels weak.

O Christian soul! If you do not yet feel within yourself the ability to worship God in spirit and in truth… if your heart has not yet tasted the warmth and sweetness of inward prayer—then still, do not despair. Offer what you can. Give to God what lies within your reach. Begin with your lips. Let them form the prayer, however simple, however small. Let them accustom themselves to the continual calling on the mighty Name of Jesus Christ.

This is not beyond anyone. It asks for no great strength, only persistence. And through it, the promise of Scripture comes alive: Let us continually offer the sacrifice of praise to God—that is, the fruit of our lips, giving thanks to His Name.

The constancy of prayer will eventually become a habit, a natural part of life. Over time, it shapes the mind and heart in the right way. Imagine if a person were to faithfully keep just this one commandment—praying without ceasing. In this single act, he would fulfill all the commandments.

If he called on the Name of Jesus constantly, in the secret place of his heart, at all times and through all activities—even at first without warmth or zeal, even by sheer effort of will—there would be no room for sinful pleasures. Every wandering or impure thought would meet resistance before it could take root, and no sinful act would seem appealing, as it might to an idle mind. Idle chatter would fade, and the grace contained in the Name of God, invoked continually, would quickly erase each transgression.

Through constant prayer, the soul is drawn away from sin and toward what is most important of all—union with God. This is why quantity matters so deeply in prayer. Unceasing prayer is the surest way to reach true, pure prayer. It is the most reliable path to prepare the heart, to achieve the goal of prayer, and to draw closer to salvation.

To deepen your understanding of the power and necessity of constant prayer, consider this: first, every stirring in your heart, every thought of prayer, comes from the Holy Spirit and the voice of your guardian angel. Second, the Name of Jesus itself, when called upon, carries its own living, active power. And third, do not be discouraged by the dryness or weakness of your prayers—patiently continue, trusting that the fruits of calling on God’s Name will come in their own time.

Do not heed the idle suggestions of the world, which claims that a single, simple, persistent prayer is too small or too long-winded to matter. The truth is, the power of God’s Name and your faithful repetition of it will bear fruit, in its own way, in its own time.

One spiritual writer expresses this beautifully: he says that many so-called wise people, who seek grandeur and act according to the proud reasoning of the world, look down on the simple, constant practice of prayer. They consider it insignificant, even trivial. But how mistaken they are! They forget what Jesus taught: Unless you become like little children, you will by no means enter the Kingdom of God.

They invent complicated methods and rely on reason, yet what does it really take to say with a sincere heart, “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me”? This simple, steady prayer is exactly what Christ praised. Even miracles were wrought through such brief but constant invocations of His Name.

O Christian soul, take heart! Do not hold back the steady cry of your prayers. Even if your prayer rises from a heart still distracted, still touched by worldly concerns, do not worry. Simply continue. Do not give up, do not be afraid—for prayer itself is purified through persistence. Remember: “He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world” (1 John 4:4). God is greater than your heart, and He knows everything, as the Apostle reminds us.

So, with this in mind—since unceasing prayer is powerful despite human weakness, and always within reach—decide to spend just one day watching over yourself and praying without ceasing. Let the name of Jesus Christ fill more of your day than anything else. By giving prayer the first place over worldly matters, you will see that your day was not wasted but used for your salvation. On God’s scales of justice, such prayer outweighs all weakness and sin, wiping away the sins of that day from the book of life. It sets you on the path of righteousness and gives you hope of receiving light even in eternity.

Pilgrim: I thank you with all my heart, Father! You have filled my soul with joy through this reading. For the Lord’s sake, and with your blessing, please allow me to copy this manuscript for myself—I could do it in just a few hours. What you read is so beautiful and so comforting, and it is as clear to me as the writings of the Holy Fathers in the Philokalia. For example, John of Karpathos in the fourth part says that if you lack the strength for strict fasting or great ascetic struggles, remember that the Lord still desires to save you through prayer. And here in this manuscript, it is expressed so simply and clearly. I first thank God, and then you, for the gift of hearing it!

Professor: “Most honorable Father, I also listened with great pleasure and attention to your reading. By the highest reasoning, everything you said is true, and I find it deeply moving. Yet, it seems to me that unceasing prayer depends on having the right conditions—quiet and solitude. I agree that constant prayer is powerful, that it is the true way to receive grace in all good works and to bring light to the soul, and that it is possible for people to practice. But I believe this can only really be done when a person has the chance for peace and stillness. When there are no duties, no pressing cares, no distractions, then one can pray without ceasing. The only struggles then are against laziness or wandering thoughts. But if a person is weighed down with constant responsibilities, with matters that demand attention, and if they must live in the noisy company of others, then—even if they have a strong desire to pray constantly—it seems impossible because of these unavoidable interruptions. Therefore, I think that a method of unceasing prayer that depends on solitude cannot be available to all, and was not intended for everyone.”

Elder: “Ah, what an unfortunate conclusion! Leaving aside the fact that a heart trained in inner prayer can call upon God without hindrance in any kind of activity, whether work or thought, and in any noisy surroundings—(those who have practiced this know it well; those who have not must be taught step by step)—we can say for certain that nothing outside of us can interrupt the prayer of someone who truly desires to pray. For our innermost thoughts are free, not chained by anything external, and are always within reach, always able to be turned toward prayer. Even the lips can whisper the words of prayer silently, while among others or while busy with work. And honestly, our tasks are not so important, nor our conversations so weighty, that we cannot find at least a little space to call on the Name of Jesus again and again. Even if the mind has not yet learned the full habit of unceasing prayer, we can still begin. Of course, solitude and freedom from distractions are the best setting for deep, attentive prayer. But if we cannot have that, we must not use it as an excuse to abandon constant prayer. Both constancy and frequency are within everyone’s reach—whether strong or weak—and they lie within the power of our will.”

This has been shown again and again by people carrying heavy responsibilities, burdens, cares, and endless work. Not only did they continually call on the name of Jesus Christ, but through this they learned and came to know the unceasing prayer of the heart.

One such example is Patriarch Photius. Raised from senator to patriarch, while guiding the vast church of Constantinople, he never ceased calling on the name of God—and through this he even came to the self-moving prayer of the heart. Callistus of holy Mount Athos found the same gift, learning unceasing prayer while working in the busy and distracting service of the monastery kitchen. And Lazarus, a simple-hearted man weighed down with unending tasks for the brethren, prayed the Jesus Prayer in the midst of his noisy work and was strengthened by it. So it was with many others who practiced the continual calling on God’s name. If it were truly impossible to pray amid distraction and work, then surely it would never have been commanded.

Saint John Chrysostom, the Golden-Mouthed, says this in his teaching on prayer: “No one should say that it is impossible for a person caught up in worldly affairs, or one who cannot come to church, to pray always. Wherever you are, you can offer sacrifice to God in your heart through prayer. You can pray in the marketplace, while traveling, while selling goods, while working at your trade—anywhere, everywhere. If only a person would keep watch over himself, and become convinced that prayer must be the chief work among all his duties, he would find it natural to pray anywhere.

“He would set his affairs in order with more purpose, speak with others only as needed, keep silence, and avoid empty talk. He would not be crushed by worries and cares, and so would make more room for prayer in quietness. Once prayer becomes his aim, the power of calling on the name of God would crown all his work with blessing. In the end, he would train himself to invoke the name of Jesus Christ unceasingly. Then, through experience, he would discover that constant prayer is indeed within human strength and will—that one can pray at all times, in all places, in every circumstance. And that from spoken prayer one may easily pass into prayer of the mind, and from the mind into prayer of the heart, which opens within us the very Kingdom of God.”

Professor: “I agree that during routine tasks it’s possible, even convenient, to pray constantly, since they don’t demand much concentration and allow the mind to sink into unceasing prayer while the lips recite it. But when something requires real focus—like careful reading, deep thinking, or writing—how can I do both at once? Since prayer is mainly an act of the mind, how can one single mind be fully engaged in two things at the same time?”

Skhimnik: “The answer is actually quite simple if we remember that people who pray without ceasing fall into three groups: beginners, those still growing, and those who are already skilled in prayer. Even beginners, while their minds are busy with something else, sometimes feel their hearts being drawn to God, and they can still whisper a short prayer constantly—though usually only for short stretches.

Those who are growing, and especially those who have gained the habit of prayer as a natural state of mind, can be writing or reflecting deeply and yet remain always aware of God’s presence. And that awareness itself is the essence of prayer.

Think of it this way: imagine a stern king commands you to write a difficult treatise while standing before his throne. No matter how focused you are on the writing, you cannot forget—even for a moment—that the king is right there, watching, with power over your very life. That constant awareness of his presence shapes everything you do. In the same way, a steady awareness of God’s nearness makes unceasing inner prayer possible, even during demanding mental work.

And for those who have advanced from the prayer of the mind to the prayer of the heart—whether through long practice or by God’s mercy—prayer flows without ceasing, even in sleep. The Scripture bears witness: ‘I sleep, but my heart is awake.’ In such people, the heart itself has learned to call on the Name of God, stirring the mind and the whole soul into an unending stream of prayer, no matter what else they may be doing.”

Priest: “Venerable Father, may I share my thoughts? The article you read says beautifully that the only path to salvation and perfection is constant prayer—‘however it may sound.’ But I find this difficult to understand. What is the point of always praying, of calling on the Name of God with my lips, if my mind is not attentive and I don’t even grasp what I am saying? Wouldn’t that be just empty words? In that case, my tongue would be worn out, and my mind—resisting with its own thoughts—would only become more troubled.

God does not ask for words alone. He asks for an attentive mind and a pure heart. Would it not be better to pray less often—perhaps only at set times—and to pray briefly but with focus, warmth, and understanding? Otherwise, you could spend day and night saying prayers, but without a pure heart and good works, it would not bring you any closer to salvation. If it becomes only meaningless repetition, you’ll end up exhausted, discouraged, and ready to give up prayer altogether.

Even Scripture itself warns us about this. For instance: ‘These people honor Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me’. Or again: ‘Not everyone who says to Me, Lord, Lord, shall enter the Kingdom of Heaven’. And also: ‘I would rather speak five words with understanding than ten thousand words in a tongue’. All of this shows that inattentive, verbal prayer is of no use.”

Skhimnik: “Your concern would be valid, if not for something important: the guidance given about verbal prayer is that it must be constant and regular. Prayer in the Name of Jesus Christ carries its own inner power, and attention and warmth of spirit are slowly gained through the practice itself. That is why, when the matter is one of frequency, duration, and perseverance in prayer—even if at first it seems dry or distracted—your conclusion does not quite stand.”

Let’s look at this more closely. After defending the great benefits and rich results of constant prayer—prayer that uses the same words again and again—one spiritual writer says:

“Many people who think themselves wise dismiss the steady repetition of a single prayer. They call it useless, trivial, mechanical, or even mindless—fit only for simple folk. But what they don’t understand is the mystery hidden inside this practice. They don’t see how the outward, steady reciting of words quietly joins itself to the true cry of the heart. They don’t realize how it sinks deep into the inner person, until prayer becomes sweet and natural to the soul—like breathing. It nourishes, enlightens, and draws the soul into union with God.

To me, these critics are like children learning their letters. At first they grow bored and complain: ‘Wouldn’t it be better to go fishing, like our fathers, instead of chanting ABC over and over or scribbling on paper with a quill?’ But the value of reading, which can only come through that boring repetition of letters, is hidden from them.

In the same way, the simple but steady calling on God’s Name is a hidden treasure to those who lack experience and trust in its great fruits. They rely only on shallow reasoning, forgetting that a human being is made up of both body and spirit.

Think about it: when you want to purify your soul, don’t you begin by disciplining your body? You fast and give up food that strengthens or stimulates you. Why? Not because the body itself is evil, but so it won’t interfere with—and even more, so it will help—the work of purifying your soul and enlightening your mind. The constant feeling of hunger becomes a reminder of your resolve to seek inner growth and spiritual practices that otherwise slip so easily from memory.

And experience shows you this: through bodily fasting, your mind becomes clearer, your heart more peaceful, your passions more subdued, and you are gently urged to continue your spiritual work. In this way, outer practices lead to inner benefits.”

Understand this: the same principle applies to unceasing, steady prayer spoken with the lips. Over time, that simple verbal repetition blossoms into true interior prayer of the heart. It gently leads the mind toward union with God.

Some people think that constant repetition tires the tongue, or that boredom from repeating words without feeling proves the practice is useless. But experience shows the opposite.

Those who commit to always calling on the Name of Jesus—or praying the Jesus Prayer without ceasing—do face difficulty at first. They feel resistance, laziness, even frustration. But if they keep going, something remarkable happens. Slowly and almost without noticing, the prayer begins to carry itself. The mouth and lips take on the work as if by their own power. The words flow naturally, with no strain, and sometimes even in silence.

The very muscles of the throat seem to adapt, so that the act of praying feels as if it has always belonged to you—like breathing. And when you stop, you feel a lack inside, as if something essential were missing.

At that point, the mind yields and begins to listen to this quiet, involuntary recitation. It gives its full attention, and from that listening springs sweetness in the heart—the true prayer of the heart.

This is the genuine fruit of unceasing prayer. And it is the very opposite of what critics imagine when they judge without having tasted its reality.

Regarding the passages from Scripture you mentioned, a closer look makes their meaning clear. Jesus condemned hypocritical worship—those who shouted “Lord, Lord!” while their hearts remained far from God—because the Pharisees showed faith only with their lips and not through their actions or inner devotion. That criticism was aimed at them, not at sincere prayer. Christ’s teaching on prayer is direct: we are meant to pray always and not grow discouraged. Likewise, the Apostle Paul values a few meaningful words spoken with understanding far more than a multitude of empty words spoken thoughtlessly, even in foreign tongues. His guidance applies to prayer as well: “I desire that men pray everywhere” [I Tim. 2:8] and, in general, “Pray without ceasing” [I Thess. 5:17]. Now you can see how powerful constant prayer is in its simplicity—and how careful we must be in reading Scripture rightly.

That is so true! I’ve seen many people practicing the unceasing Jesus Prayer on their own, without guidance and without fully grasping the need for attentiveness. And yet, over time, their mouths and tongues could not help but keep reciting the prayer, bringing them delight, illumination, and transforming them from weak, careless individuals into steadfast ascetics and champions of virtue.

Skhimnik: “Yes! Prayer has the power to make a person feel reborn. Its strength is such that even the fiercest passions cannot resist it. If you like, friends, before we part, I can share a short but insightful piece I brought with me.”

Everyone: “We would love to hear it!”

Skhimnik: On the Power of Prayer

“Prayer is so powerful and alive that you can continue with your daily activities, and yet it will guide you to act rightly and justly.

“All that God requires is love—love, and then do as you wish, says the blessed Augustine, for one who truly loves cannot desire to harm the beloved. Since prayer is the expression and work of love, we can also say this: nothing more is needed for salvation than unceasing prayer. Pray, and act as you will, and you will fulfill the purpose of prayer and gain illumination through it.

“To make this clearer, let’s consider some examples:

(1) Pray and entertain any thoughts you have, and prayer will purify them. It will illuminate your mind and quiet or remove all inappropriate thoughts. Saint Gregory of Sinai advises, ‘If you wish to drive away thoughts and purify your mind, drive them away with prayer; for only prayer can control thoughts.’ Saint John of the Ladder says similarly, ‘Banish hostile thoughts with the Name of Jesus; you will find no other weapon than this.’”

(2) Pray, and live as you will, and your actions will be pleasing to God, bringing both benefit and redemption to you.

No prayer is ever empty, no matter how weak or distracted it may seem, because within it lies the power of grace. “Holy is His name… and everyone who calls on the Name of the Lord will be saved” [Acts 2:21].

For example, there was someone who prayed without much devotion and with no apparent result. Yet through that prayer, light came, leading to repentance. Or consider an unmarried woman, once living carelessly—she began to pray, and through prayer she found the path to chastity and obedience to Christ’s teaching.

(3) Pray, and do not strain yourself in your own struggle against the passions. Prayer will overcome them within you. As Scripture says, “He who is in you is greater than he who is in the world” [1 John 4:4]. Saint John of Karpathos adds, if you do not yet have the strength of abstinence, do not be distressed—God asks only for diligence in prayer, and prayer itself will save you.

We see this in the story of a holy elder in the Lives of the Fathers. He could not overcome his weakness and fell into sin, yet he did not despair. Instead, he turned again to prayer, and it restored his inner peace.

(4) Pray, and be free from anxiety. Do not fear misfortune or calamity, for prayer will shield you and drive them away. Remember Peter, sinking in the waves, rescued through prayer; Paul praying in prison; the monk delivered from temptation through prayer; the young woman saved by prayer from an attacker. Stories like these show the power, the strength, and the boundless reach of prayer in the Name of Jesus Christ.

(5) Pray always, in whatever way you can, and let nothing trouble you. Keep joy in your heart and peace in your soul, for prayer will guide you and teach you. Remember the words of the saints—John Chrysostom said, “Even if we pray while still burdened by sin, prayer immediately begins to cleanse us.” And Saint Mark the Ascetic said, “Even the smallest prayer is within our reach, but pure prayer is the gift of grace.” So, give what you can to God. Offer the prayers that are possible for you, and His strength will meet your weakness. Even prayer that feels dry and distracted, if offered faithfully and often until it becomes like second nature, will gradually be transformed into pure, bright, fervent, and life-giving prayer.

(6) And finally, when your spiritual efforts are carried along with prayer, you will find there is no time left—not only to commit sin, but not even to think about it.

Do you see now how much wisdom is contained in the simple saying: “Love, and do what you will. Pray, and do what you will”? What comfort this brings to a weary sinner weighed down by weakness, to the one who sighs under the heavy struggle of inner battles!

Prayer—this is the gift given to us as the all-embracing path to salvation and the perfecting of the soul. This is certain! But prayer also carries its own condition: God has commanded us to “pray without ceasing.” It follows, then, that prayer shows its full power and bears fruit only when it is constant and unbroken. For while the practice of constant prayer is within our reach, the purity, fire, and perfection of prayer are the gifts of grace.

So let us pray as much as possible. Let us dedicate our whole lives to prayer—even if, at first, our prayer is distracted. Prayer offered often will teach us to be attentive, and the habit of quantity will, in time, blossom into quality. As one wise teacher once said: to learn to do anything well, one must do it often.

Professor: “Prayer is truly a great gift! And the desire to pray without ceasing is the very key that opens up its treasures. Yet so often I find myself caught between eagerness and laziness. I long to find the means and the strength to overcome this weakness, to gain conviction, and to stir myself to steady, constant prayer.”

Skhimnik: “Many spiritual teachers give us different helps, grounded in good sense, to encourage faithfulness in prayer. For example, they suggest:

1. To think deeply about how necessary, how excellent, and how beneficial prayer is for the salvation of our souls.
2. To be convinced that God Himself asks us to pray, and that His command is heard everywhere.
3. To remember always that laziness and carelessness in prayer will not lead to success in doing good or finding peace and salvation, but will surely bring sorrow in this life and suffering in eternity.
4. To strengthen our will by looking at the examples of God’s saints, who all found light and salvation through unceasing prayer.

“All of these counsels are true and valuable. But still, a careless and self-indulgent soul often finds little power in them. They seem bitter to its spoiled taste, and too weak for its wounded nature. For what Christian does not already know that we are called to constant and faithful prayer? That God requires it? That neglect will bring loss and sorrow? And that the saints themselves found joy and holiness through tireless prayer? Yet this knowledge so seldom bears fruit! Each of us knows, deep down, how rarely our reason and conscience are matched by our actions. And because we fail to remember this, we go on living in weakness and idleness.”

This is why the Holy Fathers, full of wisdom and experience, gave so much attention to this matter. They knew well the weakness of the human will and how easily the heart can be drawn into distraction and desire. Like skilled doctors who cover a bitter medicine with honey to make it easier to take, they offered the simplest and most reliable practices—always rooted in hope and in God’s help—to overcome laziness in prayer and to guide us toward perfection and joyful trust through loving communion with God.

They encourage us to often reflect on the state of our soul and to read carefully what the Fathers have written about prayer. With confidence they assure us how simple and attainable these inner experiences can be: the sweetness that rises from the heart, a gentle warmth and light shining from within, a joy that cannot be described, freedom of spirit, deep peace, overflowing happiness, and a sense of contentment in life—all of these are gifts that come through the prayer of the heart.

When a person contemplates these things, even a weary or indifferent soul is warmed and strengthened, stirred with courage to believe it can truly pray. It is drawn, almost enticed, into the practice itself. Saint Isaac the Syrian speaks of this when he says, “The soul is lured on by joy, born of hope that blossoms in the heart. The heart flourishes when it reflects on this hope and trust.” He also writes, “From beginning to end in this exercise, one leans on hope and trusts that there is a way to succeed. This very hope sets a goal before the mind, and the mind finds comfort in pursuing it.”

In speaking about laziness as a great obstacle to prayer and the need to rekindle one’s zeal, the venerable Hesychius says plainly, “We seek the inner stillness of the heart for no other reason than the sweet consolation and joy it brings to the soul.”

So then, this Father teaches that the motivation for prayer should be “its gentle comfort and joy.” In the same way, Saint Makarios the Great says that we should take on our spiritual practice of prayer with the hope of experiencing its fruit— the joy and delight that fills the heart.

The Philokalia is full of examples of this—rich descriptions of the sweetness of prayer and the inner peace it brings. Someone who struggles with laziness or dryness in prayer should read these passages often. At the same time, they must remember their own unworthiness and continually humble themselves for their lack of zeal in prayer.

Priest: “But wouldn’t this line of thinking lead a beginner into what theologians call ‘spiritual gluttony’? That restless hunger of the soul that craves excessive comfort and spiritual gifts, instead of simply doing good works out of obedience and duty, without expectation of reward?”

Professor: “I think what the theologians warn against here is excess—desiring consolations too greedily. But they don’t forbid us from seeking sweetness in prayer or consolation while practicing the virtues. It’s true that longing for reward isn’t a mark of perfection, but God Himself doesn’t forbid us from looking toward reward and comfort as encouragement. In fact, He often frames His commandments with the promise of reward.

For example, ‘Honor your father and your mother’—a clear commandment—comes with a promise to encourage its keeping: ‘that it may go well with you’ [Deut. 5:16]. Or take these words of Jesus: ‘If you want to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor’—perfection itself is commanded, and yet even here a reward follows: ‘and you will have treasure in heaven’ [Matt. 19:21].”

“Blessed are you on the day when people hate you, when they cast out your name as evil because of the Son of Man” [Luke 6:22]. This is a call to a heroic act, one that demands extraordinary strength of spirit and unshakable patience. And for this reason, great rewards and consolations are promised—rewards strong enough to stir and sustain that kind of strength: “for great is your reward in heaven” [Luke 6:23]. That’s why I believe that a longing for the sweet consolations found in the prayer of the heart is necessary. It becomes the very means by which diligence and power in prayer are born. All of this, without question, confirms the reflections we just heard from Father Skhimnik.

Skhimnik: “Saint Macarius of Egypt, one of the great teachers, speaks very clearly about this. He says: just as when planting a vineyard, all the effort and labor mean nothing if no fruit grows, so it is with prayer. If you do not find within yourself the fruit of the Spirit—love, peace, joy, and the like—then all your labor has been in vain. That is why we must practice prayer with the aim, or at least the hope, of receiving its fruit: the delight of sweet consolation in our hearts.”

Do you see how clearly this Holy Father settles the question of whether consolations are needed in prayer? … It reminds me of something I recently read from another spiritual writer about the very reason man is drawn to pour himself out in prayer—it is natural to him. And because prayer springs from our very nature, reflecting on this inner impulse can itself become a powerful way of stirring up diligence in prayer—the very thing our professor here longs to find.

Let me summarize briefly what stood out to me from that article. The writer explained that both reason and nature lead a person to the knowledge of God. Reason argues that there can be no action without a cause, and as it climbs upward from lower causes to higher, it finally reaches the First Cause—God Himself. Nature, for its part, reveals everywhere a marvelous wisdom, harmony, and order, a gradual unfolding that forms a ladder from the finite to the infinite. In this way, even a natural man can arrive at a sense of God.

That is why, in all of history, there has never been a nation nor even the most primitive tribe that lacked some concept of God. Because of this, even the most uncultured islander instinctively lifts his eyes to heaven. Without anyone teaching him, he falls to his knees and lets out a sigh—a sigh that is mysterious, yet deeply natural. In that moment, he feels something draw him upward, something within him reaching toward the unknown. From this root, all natural religions have sprung. And what is most remarkable is that everywhere, at the heart of these religions, prayer appears as their essence and soul—though often clothed in external rites, sacrifices, or practices, sometimes distorted by the ignorance of undeveloped peoples.

And the more we observe this universal phenomenon, the more strongly we are compelled to seek the mystery behind it—this inborn inclination of the human soul to pray.

Psychology offers a straightforward explanation: the source, guiding force, and energy behind all human passions and actions is an innate love of self. The universal drive for self-preservation confirms this. Every desire, effort, and action ultimately seeks to satisfy this love of self and pursue personal gain. Yet the human spirit cannot find fulfillment in anything purely tangible, and self-love never strays from its aim. Desires deepen, the search for personal gain intensifies, and imagination and emotion become swept up in this drive.

These inner stirrings and the self-directed longing they create naturally push a person toward prayer. They are the calls of self-love, striving to achieve its aims, often with great difficulty. The less a person succeeds, the more focused he becomes on personal gain, and the more passionately this longing pours out in prayer, appealing to the Unknown Source of All Being to satisfy it. In this way, self-love—the very core of life—is the fundamental spark that draws natural man to pray.

The all-wise Creator built this capacity for self-love into human nature precisely as a means, as the Fathers describe it, to entice and lift fallen humanity toward heavenly communion.

Oh, if only people did not distort this capacity, if only they preserved its true purpose for their spiritual life! Then they would carry within themselves the powerful encouragement and resources needed on the path toward moral perfection. But, alas, all too often, this noble capacity is twisted into the corrupt passion of selfishness, turning it into a tool of the lower nature.

My dearest visitors, I thank you from the bottom of my heart! Your discussions, so redemptive for my soul, have delighted me deeply and been most instructive for someone as inexperienced as I am. May the Lord reward you with His grace for your edifying love.

All present bid their farewells.

Chapter 7

“. . . pray one for another that you may be healed.” —JAMES 5:16

Pilgrim: “My devout traveling companion, the professor, and I could not leave without fulfilling our mutual wish to bid you a final farewell and to ask you to pray for us.”

Professor: “Yes, we have felt the sincerity of your heart and the redemptive conversations that brought us joy in your home and in the company of your friends. This memory will remain with us always, a pledge of communion and Christian love, even in the distant country where we are headed.”

Starets: “Thank you for remembering me and for your love. You have arrived at the perfect moment! There are two travelers staying with me: a Moldavian monk and a hermit who has lived in solitude in the forest for twenty years. They would like to meet you—I’ll go get them. . . .

“Here they are!”

Pilgrim: “Ah! How blessed is the life of a hermit! How it draws the soul wholly to union with God! The silence of the forest is like the Garden of Eden, where the sweet tree of life grows in the prayerful heart of a hermit. If only I had enough to support myself, I think I would always live as a hermit.”

Professor: “From a distance, everything often seems exceptionally good. Yet experience teaches that every place of advantage carries its own challenges. Of course, for those inclined toward solitude, the hermit’s life is appealing. Yet how perilous it can be! The history of asceticism shows many examples of hermits and ascetics who, having abandoned all contact with others, fell into megalomania and deep delusion.”

Hermit: “It amazes me how often one hears in Russia, not only in monasteries but even among devout laypeople, that anyone wishing to live as a hermit or to practice interior prayer is warned away from it for fear of falling into delusion. Those who say this usually point to examples that confirm their own way of thinking. And since they themselves avoid the interior life, they encourage others to avoid it too.

I believe this comes from either a lack of understanding and spiritual light, or from laziness when it comes to the hard work required for a life of contemplation. Sometimes it even springs from envy—when they see others who may not appear as ‘wise’ as they are, yet who might surpass them in reaching higher levels of spiritual knowledge.

It is unfortunate that such people fail to grasp what the Holy Fathers have taught on this subject. They clearly and firmly say that we must never be afraid or doubtful about calling on God. If someone does fall into self-deception or mental confusion, it is usually because of pride, or because they lacked spiritual guidance, or because they mistook certain thoughts or visions as coming from God. And even then, the Fathers say that when such temptations occur, they can lead to valuable experience and even a crown of glory, since God swiftly comes to help in such struggles. ‘Fear not, for I am with you!’ says Jesus Christ, as Saint Gregory of Sinai reminds us.

So it is pointless to avoid the inner life out of fear of delusion. A humble awareness of one’s own sins, a willingness to open the soul to a spiritual guide, and the practice of pure prayer—free from thoughts and images—these are the sure and safe protections against the delusion so many dread, and which often keeps them from a contemplative life. In fact, Saint Philotheus of Sinai goes so far as to say that those who avoid the interior life for fear of delusion are already themselves deceived. From his own experience, he writes: ‘Many monks do not recognize the delusions of their own minds by which demons torment them. They throw all their efforts into outward acts of virtue, while neglecting the mind, the inner contemplative life, because they lack enlightenment and true knowledge of it.’

Saint Gregory of Sinai confirms this as well: ‘When they hear others speak of having experienced the grace of God within themselves, they become envious and dismiss it as delusion.’”

Professor: “Allow me to ask this: surely anyone who pays attention to the inner life can come to a realization of their sins. But what should one do if there is no spiritual guide, no director experienced in the interior life who, once you bare your soul to him, can give reliable counsel for living it? In such a case, would it not be better to avoid the contemplative life altogether, rather than attempt it alone without guidance? … And another thing: I find it hard to understand how one can place oneself in God’s presence and yet remain entirely free of all thoughts and images. That seems unnatural, because the human mind cannot imagine anything without some shape or form. And if one is focusing on God, why not imagine Christ, or the Holy Trinity, and so on?”

Hermit: “The guidance of an experienced spiritual elder—a starets—to whom one can freely and trustingly open one’s soul, thoughts, and experiences each day on the path of prayer, is indeed the main condition for someone under vows who desires to practice interior prayer.

But when such a guide cannot be found, the Holy Fathers who stress the importance of guidance also grant an exception. The Venerable Nicephorus the Solitary teaches very clearly: ‘A true and knowledgeable guide is necessary for practicing the inner work of the heart. But if there is none, then one must diligently seek for one. If you cannot find one, then appeal to God with a contrite heart, asking Him to grant you instruction and guidance through the writings of the Holy Fathers, and to verify and test yourself always against the words of God in Holy Scripture.’”

At the same time, one must remember that anyone who seeks with sincerity and true longing can learn something valuable, even from simple people. The Holy Fathers affirm that if you turn with faith and the right intention, even to a Saracen, you could receive helpful advice. But if you approach even a Prophet without faith or pure intent, you will not gain anything from him. Saint Macarius the Great of Egypt is an example of this—he once received a lesson from a humble peasant that helped him overcome a passion.

As for being free from thoughts and images—that is, not imagining or accepting any vision of light, any angel, Christ, or any saint, and rejecting all thoughts during contemplation—the Holy Fathers insist on this from their own experience. They knew how easily the imagination can invent or produce thoughts in the mind. For this reason, someone without discernment could be drawn in by these images, mistake them for revelations of grace, and fall into deception, especially since Scripture itself warns that “even Satan can present himself as an angel of light.”

The mind is indeed capable of resting in a state without images or thoughts, even while standing in God’s presence. This is possible because the imagination itself can grasp what is formless, and it can hold to that while perceiving things invisible to the physical eye and free of any shape or form.

“Take, for example, how we perceive our own soul—or things like air, warmth, and cold. When someone is chilled, he can easily picture warmth in his mind, even though it has no shape or form, cannot be seen, and cannot be touched by the one who is cold. In the same way, the mind can perceive the presence of God, that spiritual and ungraspable Being, and the heart can know Him, even in the complete absence of thoughts or images.”

Pilgrim: “On my journeys I have also met devout people seeking salvation who told me they were afraid to attempt the inner spiritual life because of warnings about falling into delusion. Some of them were helped when I read to them from Saint Gregory of Sinai in the Philokalia: ‘The activity of the heart cannot be the work of delusion, as mental activity can. Even if the enemy tried to twist the warmth of the heart into his own burning heat, or to replace the joy of the heart with sensual pleasure, time, experience, and the very feeling itself would expose this trick, even to those not well-versed in his deceptions.’

“I also met others who, after experiencing the silence of solitude and the prayer of the heart, sadly fell into despair and abandoned this prayer they had learned, because they ran into obstacles or felt the weakness of sin.”

Professor: “But isn’t that quite natural? I have experienced the same—sometimes I let myself be carried away by distractions or fall into sin. Since the prayer of the heart is holy work, true union with God, is it really fitting to bring such a sacred practice into a sinful heart, without first cleansing it with silent, humble repentance and preparing properly for communion with God? Wouldn’t it be better to stand silently before Him than to let empty words pour out from a distracted heart filled with darkness?”

Monk: “How unfortunate that you think this way! Despair—worse than any other sin—is the chief weapon of the powers of darkness against us. Our Holy Fathers, who had great experience, teach very differently. The venerable Nikitas Stithatos says that even if you were to fall into the very depths of hell itself, you must not despair, but immediately turn to God, and He will raise up your fallen heart and give you greater strength than before.

So after every fall, after every wound of sin to the heart, you must place yourself at once before God, so that He may heal and cleanse you. It is like something impure that becomes less corrupt when exposed to the rays of the sun. Many spiritual teachers insist on this. While fighting against the enemies of salvation—our passions—we must never abandon the life-giving practice of calling on the Name of Jesus Christ, who dwells in our hearts! Our sins must not drive us away from God’s presence or from interior prayer—that only leads to anxiety, despair, and sorrow. Instead, our sins should drive us even more quickly into God’s arms. Just like a child guided by his mother: when he stumbles, he immediately turns back and clings tightly to her.”

Hermit: “I believe that despair and restless, doubtful thoughts arise most easily in a distracted mind, where there is no guarding silence. But in peaceful solitude, in quiet stillness, the ancient Fathers—filled with the wisdom of God—overcame despair and were given light within and the strength to place all their hope in God. They even left us this wise advice: ‘Sit in the silence of your cell, and it will teach you everything.’”

Professor: “Since I trust you, I would very much like to hear your thoughts on silence and the benefits of a solitary life, which you speak of so highly and which hermits value so much. Here is my concern: God created human nature so that people depend on each other, are obligated to help each other, to work for each other, and to contribute to one another’s well-being. This mutual reliance is the basis for humanity’s good and for love of neighbor. But when a hermit cuts himself off from others, how can he serve his neighbor or contribute to the good of society? Isn’t he breaking the Creator’s law of loving communion and the call to be a positive influence on his fellow man?”

Hermit: “Since your view of the solitary life is not correct, your conclusion is also mistaken. Let’s examine it more closely.

(1) A hermit living in silence does not live an idle or empty life. On the contrary, he is far more active than if he were living among society. He works tirelessly on the level of his higher, rational nature—observing, discerning, and keeping watch over the state and progress of his inner life. This is the true purpose of the solitary life! And just as he benefits himself through this pursuit of perfection, so too his neighbor benefits from it. For those who cannot live undistracted lives themselves receive help from the hermit’s experience, whether through his rare spoken words or more often through his writings. In this way, the solitary contributes to the spiritual good and salvation of his brothers and sisters.

He accomplishes this even more effectively than if he devoted himself to outward charitable works, because acts of social charity are limited by the few who can carry them out. But one who performs what we might call ‘moral charity’—acquiring knowledge and experience for the sake of the spiritual life—becomes a benefactor to entire nations. His insights and teachings are passed down from generation to generation, and we ourselves still benefit from them, even from ancient times. This is no different from the works of mercy done in Christ’s name and out of Christian love—indeed, it surpasses them in how far-reaching and enduring the good becomes.”

(2) The good and beneficial influence of a hermit on others is shown not only through his insights into the inner life, but also through the example of his solitary way of living. The very witness of his silence has power. When a devout layperson hears of a pious hermit, or even passes by his simple dwelling, something stirs within: a reverence, a memory of who man was created to be, and the realization that it is possible to return to the original contemplative state in which God first fashioned him. In this way, the hermit teaches without words. His very life instructs. He leads others to self-knowledge, to reverence, and to a longing for God.

(3) The blessings just described come from a true solitary life, one filled with silence and sustained by grace. Yet even if a hermit were not graced with such gifts, even if he chose a life of solitude merely to withdraw from people—because his laziness and negligence might otherwise tempt and harm others—still, even then, he would have a positive influence. His very separation from society would act like a gardener trimming away dry branches or uprooting harmful plants to allow healthier growth. Simply by removing himself from becoming a stumbling block, he serves the greater good. This in itself is of great benefit to the community—that by his ascetic life he avoids being a source of temptation, something that would be far harder to achieve if he remained in the midst of society, where temptations abound and where his weakness could corrupt the morality of those around him.

“Saint Isaac the Syrian says this about the life of silence: ‘If we gather all the activities of the world on one side, and place silence on the other, it is silence that will tip the scales. Do not compare those who perform miracles and great signs with those who live in true solitary silence. Love the stillness of silence more than feeding the hungry of the world or converting many nations to God. It is better to free yourself from the bonds of sin than to free others from slavery.’

Even the ancient wise men knew the value of silence. Under the teaching of the philosopher Plotinus, the Neo-Platonic school, followed by many renowned thinkers, emphasized developing the contemplative inner life—a life attained chiefly in the silence of solitude.

One spiritual writer even said that if a government were to reach the highest level of education and morality, it would still need more than civil servants; it would need contemplatives, too—those who carry the spirit of truth, inherit it from past generations, preserve it, and pass it on to the future. In the Church, such people are its hermits, ascetics, and anchorites.”

Pilgrim: “It seems to me that no one has expressed the greatness of silence better than Saint John of the Ladder: ‘Silent solitude,’ he says, ‘is the mother of prayer, a release from the prison of sin, a hidden progress in virtue, and a steady ascent to heaven.’ Even Jesus Christ Himself, at times, withdrew from the crowds and from teaching in order to pray alone and find peace—showing us the value and necessity of silence and solitude.

“Those who live in solitude are like pillars holding up the spiritual life of the Church with their unceasing prayers. From ancient times, we know that devout laypeople—even tsars and their officials—would go to hermits and anchorites to ask for their prayers, so that they might be strengthened and saved. So it is clear that a solitary hermit does serve his neighbor and contributes to the good of others through his prayer in silence.”

Professor: “And yet here is something I find difficult to understand. We Christians are used to asking for one another’s prayers, and I, too, feel the desire to be prayed for by others, especially by someone I trust as a member of the Church. But is this not simply an expression of self-love, or perhaps only a habit we’ve picked up from others, something we say without much thought?

“Does God really need our petitions, when in His providence He has already foreseen and arranged everything—not according to our desires, but according to His all-good will? Scripture even says that God already knows what we need before we ask Him. Can the prayers of many be more persuasive to Him than the prayers of one? Would that not make Him partial? And can another person’s prayer truly save me, when my own actions are what honor or condemn me?

“This is why I think that asking others for their prayers is only a kind of pious courtesy—a humble way of showing respect and love to one another—but nothing more.”

Monk: “It might look that way if you view it superficially, with ordinary reasoning. But when spiritual reason is illuminated by faith and shaped through the experience of the inner life, it sees more deeply, considers more clearly, and reveals a truth quite opposite to what you have said.

“To make this easier to understand, let’s use an example, and then we’ll see how it is confirmed in Scripture. Imagine a student who goes to learn from a teacher. Because of his weak abilities—and also his laziness and lack of focus—he makes no progress. He falls behind, gains a reputation as lazy, and grows discouraged, not knowing how to overcome his weaknesses.

“One day he meets another student, a classmate who is more capable, diligent, and attentive. The struggling student confides in him about his difficulties. The stronger one shows compassion and suggests, ‘Let’s study together. It will encourage us both, and make it more enjoyable. We’ll learn much more this way.’

“So they begin to work side by side, sharing what each learns. And what happens after just a few days? The weaker student grows diligent. He develops a love for study, his laziness fades, and he begins to understand what once was beyond him. This change even shapes his character and strengthens his moral life. Meanwhile, his more capable classmate becomes even stronger and more industrious. By helping each other, both receive benefit.”

“But that’s only natural, for man is born into community. It is through others that he learns to think and understand, from them he acquires his habits, his emotions, and his goals. In short, he learns everything from the example of others like himself. Since people’s lives are woven tightly together and powerfully influence one another, a calm and passionless person can become inflamed, a dull one can become wise, and a lazy one diligent, simply through interaction.

“A spirit can pass from one person to another, inspiring prayer, urging vigilance, lifting someone out of despair, or turning them from sin toward devotion. In this way, the one who strengthens his neighbor also grows stronger himself, becoming more devout, more steadfast in ascetic struggles, and more pleasing to God. This is the mystery of praying for others. It explains that cherished Christian custom of interceding for one another and asking our brothers and sisters for their prayers.

“It is clear, then, that prayer is not about satisfying God with a flood of petitions, as though He were an earthly ruler swayed by numbers. No, it is the very spirit and power of prayer that cleanses and stirs the soul of the one for whom prayer is offered, making it ready for union with God. And if prayer for the living has such power, then surely prayers for the departed are just as fruitful. The deep bonds between this life and the next unite the souls of the Church on earth with the souls of the Church in heaven.

“Though everything I have said may sound like psychology, we can be certain of its truth by turning to Holy Scripture. (1) Jesus said to the Apostle Peter, ‘But I have prayed for you, that your faith should not fail’ [Luke 22:32]. Here, the power of Christ’s prayer strengthens Peter in his trial. (2) When Peter was in prison, the Church prayed for him, showing us how communal prayer can sustain us in hardship. (3) And the command to pray for one another is expressed most clearly by James: ‘Confess your trespasses to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The fervent prayer of a righteous man has great power’ [James 5:16]. The truths reason suggests are here confirmed in Scripture.”

“And what shall we say of the Apostle Paul, who stands before us as an example of praying for one another? One writer notes that his example should convince us how truly necessary it is to intercede for each other—since even such a holy man, such a mighty spiritual champion, admitted his own need for the prayers of others. In his letter to the Hebrews, he makes this request plainly: ‘Pray for us; for we are confident that we have a good conscience, in all things desiring to live honorably’ [Heb. 13:18].

“After hearing this, how foolish it would be for anyone to rely only on his own prayers and efforts, when even this humble, grace-filled apostle asked his brethren to join their prayers to his. If such a saint welcomed the prayers of the Hebrews, how much more should we receive, with humility and sincerity, the prayers of even the weakest among us! For Paul himself did not draw distinctions—he asked for the prayers of the whole community, knowing that the power of God is revealed in weakness and can shine even through prayers that appear small or feeble.

“Once we are convinced by this example, we also see how praying for one another upholds the unity of Christian love commanded by God. It becomes the proof of humility in the one who prays, and the proof of love in the one prayed for. And it stirs up mutual prayer, weaving together the fellowship of all believers.”

Professor: “Your explanation and all the evidence you’ve given are wonderful and precise. But I would like to hear from you about the very method, the formula, for praying for others. If the power and encouragement of prayer come from our relationship with our neighbor—and especially from the influence that the one praying has on the soul of the one being prayed for—wouldn’t such a focus distract us from unceasing prayer, from placing ourselves continually before God, and from pouring out our own needs to Him? Yet if I only remember my neighbor once or twice a day and ask God to help him, is that really enough to strengthen his soul and draw him into communion? In other words, I want to know: how, and by what means, should I pray for others?”

Monk: “When prayer is offered to God, no matter what the request, it never distracts us from being in His presence—because prayer is always an outpouring to God, and so it must take place before Him.

“As for how to pray for one’s neighbor, the power of such prayer lies in the sincerity of one’s Christian relationship with him. The effect it has on his soul depends on the depth of that bond. So when you remember someone—or when you set aside time for it—turn your heart to God and pray like this: ‘Merciful Lord, may Your will be done, You who desire all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. Have mercy on and save Your servant (name). Accept this prayer as an offering of the love You Yourself command us to have for one another.’

“These words are usually said when the soul feels a special stirring, or when one is praying with the chotki (prayer rope). I have personally seen the good that such prayer brings to those for whom it is offered.”

Professor: “I will always remember this wise conversation and the light I’ve received from hearing your words. I thank you deeply from my heart.”

Pilgrim and Professor: “And now the time has come for us to leave. We ask you sincerely to keep us in your prayers, that they may go with us on our journey.”

Skhimnik: “Now may the God of peace, who raised our Lord Jesus Christ from the dead, that great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you complete in every good work to do His will, working in you what is pleasing in His sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.” [Heb. 13:20–21]

Three Keys to the Interior Treasure - House of Prayer

Found in the Wealth of the Spiritual Teachings of the Holy Fathers

Your word I have hidden in my heart… —PS. 119:11

It behooves the mind to be on guard against every deception and to strive for the sublime. —KATAPHIGIOTA, CH. 19

Since every person has his own unique character, inclinations, and abilities, he will follow different paths to reach the same goal. In the same way, there are many approaches to attaining the inner work of prayer, as we see in the writings of the Holy Fathers.

Some of the universal ways that lead both to prayer and to the Christian life are these: unconditional obedience, as taught by Simeon the New Theologian; the labor of good works and the effort of spiritual struggle, as the Church sings in its hymns: Inspired by God, you dedicated yourself to good works and were raised to the pinnacle of contemplation (troparion to a holy martyr); formal prayer, as when the disciples asked, “Lord, teach us to pray” [Luke 11:1]; and the special gifts of grace, as in the life of Kapso Kalivitis, who after two years of praying to the Mother of God venerated her icon and suddenly felt sweetness and warmth filling his heart; or the young George, whose simple prayers brought him the unexpected gift of unceasing prayer of the heart.

Beyond these, the Holy Fathers also give us other essential methods directly related to interior prayer. They can be summed up in three keys:

1. Constancy in invoking the Name of Jesus Christ.
2. Attention while invoking His Name.
3. The mind entering the heart.

These three practices open the Kingdom of God within us and unlock the treasure of interior prayer in the heart. They are rightly called the keys to this hidden storehouse.

The First Key

If repetition shapes habit, and habit shapes nature, then frequent and steady calling on the Name of Jesus Christ—even if distracted at first—will in time lead to attentiveness and warmth of heart. Human nature is capable of forming a disposition through constant repetition. As one spiritual writer put it, if you want to learn to do something well, you must do it often. Saint Hesychius says it plainly: constancy creates habit, and habit becomes second nature.

This can be seen in the practice of interior prayer. The one who longs for it resolves to call on the Name of God constantly, almost without interruption. He begins by verbally repeating the Jesus Prayer: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Sometimes he may use the shorter form: Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. Saint Gregory of Sinai teaches that the shorter invocation is easier for beginners, though he does not forbid the longer form. His counsel is simple: fewer words make it easier to grow accustomed to the prayer and to let it take root.

To stir oneself more deeply into unceasing prayer, the one who prays sets a rule: within a given time, he will repeat the prayer a set number of times—hundreds or even thousands throughout the day and night—using the chotki. He does not rush but carefully forms each word with his lips and tongue. After a while, the lips and tongue grow so accustomed that they speak the Name of God with almost no effort, as though on their own, even silently.

Then the mind begins to listen to the words being spoken and is slowly drawn away from distraction, turning its focus to the prayer. In time, as the Fathers say, the mind may descend into the heart. When the mind returns to the heart, it warms it with the fire of divine love, and the heart itself—freely, without strain and with indescribable sweetness—begins to call on the Name of Jesus in an unbroken stream of tenderness: “I sleep, but my heart is awake” [Song of Sol. 5:2]. Saint Hesychius describes it beautifully: just as heavy rains soften the earth, so the frequent calling on Christ’s Name softens and gladdens the soil of the heart.

Though this method—handed down through the experience and wisdom of the Fathers—is enough to lead a person into interior prayer, there are also higher ways: attention, and the mind entering the heart. The first is best for beginners, who have not yet learned how to fix their attention or how to work with the heart. It also serves as a preparation for those more advanced practices. But as Nicephorus the Solitary reminds us, because people have different talents and abilities, each must choose the way that suits him best.

The Second Key

Attention is the guarding of the mind, as Nicephorus the Solitary says. It is the act of gathering the mind into oneself and fixing it firmly on one subject, cutting off every stray thought and imagining. Saints Callistus and Ignatius, quoting the venerable Nilus, show us how essential this is for prayer: “Attention that seeks prayer will unfailingly find it. For prayer comes from attention more than from anything else, and so we must guard our attention” (Dobrotolyubiye, part II, chapter 24).

Saint Hesychius teaches the same: “The more you guard your mind against thoughts, the stronger will be the desire with which you pray to Jesus” (Text 90). He also writes: “The air of the heart is filled with joy and stillness as a result of intense attention” (Text 92). And again: “Attention is as necessary to prayer as a candle is to a lantern” (Text 102).

In his teaching on interior prayer, Nicephorus the Solitary concludes that if his guidance does not yet help someone enter the heart, then one should simply pray with as much attention as possible. This, he says with certainty, will in time open the door of the heart and lead to interior prayer. His assurance is drawn from experience.

And Holy Scripture confirms it: union with God cannot be without attention. “Be still and know that I am God” [Ps. 46:10].

And so, the one who desires to reach interior prayer through attention must stay in solitude as much as possible, avoiding unnecessary conversations. He should not rush through his prayers or take on too much at once, but instead go slowly—focusing his mind on the words of prayer as carefully as if he were reading a book. He must push away wandering thoughts and do his best to keep his mind fixed on Jesus, whose Name he invokes, and on His good will, which he seeks. At times, after saying a prayer, he should pause in silence, as though waiting for God’s response, and even when distracted he must strive to return to attentiveness. Above all, he must remember that it is for the Lord’s sake that he has chosen to practice this continual watchfulness, emptying his mind of other thoughts.

The Third Key

The third key is entering one’s self—or entering into the heart. Instead of offering our own reflections, let us turn directly to the Holy Fathers and their teaching on this mystery. From their own experience, they have left us clear instructions and reliable guideposts for the way of true interior prayer. For clarity, we can gather their teaching into three groups:

The First Category: Fathers who have passed on to us full teachings on the Jesus Prayer—Simeon the New Theologian, Gregory of Sinai, Nicephorus the Solitary, and the monks Ignatius of Xanthopoulos and Callistus.

The Second Category: Fathers who have given us brief sayings on interior prayer—Hesychius the Priest of Jerusalem, Philotheus of Sinai, Theoleptus the Metropolitan of Philadelphia, and Barsanuphius with John.

The Third Category: The Most Edifying Narrative of Abba Philemon, which presents the complete way of a courageous, ascetic, spiritual life.

The Teachings of the Holy Fathers on the Interior Prayer of the Heart

A. First Category

(1) The Teaching of Saint Simeon the New Theologian

Saint Simeon the New Theologian explains the way of entering the heart in what he calls his third method of prayer (Article 68, page 163, Russian translation, 2nd edition):

“The third method of prayer is truly splendid and difficult to explain. For those who have not experienced it, it is not only hard to understand but even seems impossible. In our time, very few practice this way of prayer, though it alone destroys the traps and snares that demons use to draw the mind toward countless thoughts. For only when the mind is free from all things can it, unhindered, examine the suggestions of the demons, resist them with ease, and offer its prayers to God with a pure heart.”

After naming the conditions for this prayer—perfect obedience and a clean conscience toward God, people, and all things—and urging us to act as if always standing before the face of God, he continues:

“By doing this, you will prepare a sure and reliable path to this third way of prayer, which is this: while the heart prays, the mind must guard it, and it must steadily keep its attention within, offering prayers to God from the depths of the heart.

“Everything lies in this: work at it until you truly experience and taste communion with the Lord. When the mind is firmly established in the heart, when it tastes and knows with the heart how good the Lord is, it will not want to leave that place. Then the mind will say, as Saint Peter once said: ‘It is good for us to be here’ [Matt. 17:4]. And it will always gaze into the heart, and always commune with it there, while driving away every thought sown by the enemy.”

“To those who do not understand this practice and who have no experience of it, it may seem difficult or burdensome. But those who have tasted its sweetness and felt its delight deep in their hearts cry out with Saint Paul: ‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?’ [Rom. 8:35].

“For the Lord Himself has said, ‘Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies… These are the things which defile a man’ [Matt. 15:19–20]. And again, ‘Cleanse the inside of the cup and the dish, that the outside of them may be clean also’ [Matt. 23:26]. Because of this, our Holy Fathers set aside all other forms of spiritual activity and gave themselves wholly to this one thing: guarding the heart. They were convinced that through it they would quickly acquire every virtue, but without it they would not gain even one.

“They all practiced this above all else, and they wrote about it. Whoever wishes can read what Mark the Wrestler taught, or John of the Ladder, or Hesychius of Jerusalem, Philotheus of Sinai, Abba Isaiah, Barsanuphius the Great, and others.

“And if you wish to learn the way to do this—how to enter the heart and dwell there—I will tell you.

“Before all else, you must keep three things: freedom from every care—whether good, bad, or vain—so that you are, in a sense, dead to all things; a clear conscience in everything, so that it does not accuse you; and complete dispassion, so that your thoughts are not drawn to anything. Then sit alone in a quiet place and close the door. Turn your mind away from thoughts of all worldly and passing things. Bow your head, rest your chin on your chest, and direct your attention inward—not into your head, but into your heart. Fix both your inner gaze and even your outward eyes there, and regulate your breathing. With your mind in this place, try in every way to find the seat of the heart, so that once you discover it, your mind will remain there.

“At first, you will feel darkness and hardness inside. But if day and night you keep practicing this, you will gradually discover a hidden joy. By compelling the mind to persist in this exercise, it will find the place of the heart, and there, within, it will see things it had never before seen or known. From that moment, no matter where a thought arises or how it tries to appear—before it can enter or be entertained—the mind will instantly reject it and drive it out with the words of Jesus’ Name: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.’

“Then the mind will even acquire a holy anger toward the demons, and it will begin to chase them away and defeat them. As for the other fruits of this practice, with God’s help, you will come to know them yourself, through keeping watch over your attention and clinging to Jesus through His prayer: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me!’”

(2) The Teaching of Saint Gregory of Sinai

Saint Gregory of Sinai gives his teaching on the interior prayer of the heart—and on how it becomes a steady and natural practice—in three of his writings on silence and prayer, found in the Dobrotolyubiye (part I, pages 112–119). What follows is a summary of his counsel.

Having received the Spirit of life in Jesus Christ, we are called to live like the cherubim—conversing with the Lord through the pure prayer of the heart. Yet we often fail to recognize the greatness and honor of this gift of rebirth. Neglecting our growth in the commandments, our minds never rise to true contemplation. Instead, we slip into negligence, give in to our passions, and sink into darkness and insensitivity.

We forget God, or remember Him only rarely. Though we believe, our faith remains inactive. Baptized into new life, we still live according to the flesh. Even when we repent, our obedience is shallow, not spiritual, and we drift so far from the true life of the Spirit that, when we see others living it, it can appear strange—or even like delusion. And so, many live out their days with a dead spirit, not in Christ, though what is born of the Spirit must be spiritual.

This gift, given at Baptism, is never destroyed—but it lies buried within us like a treasure hidden in the ground. Wisdom and gratitude call us to uncover it. How do we do this?

There are two ways:

1. By striving with great effort to keep the commandments. The more faithfully we keep them, the more brightly this hidden gift will shine.
2. By unceasingly invoking the Name of Jesus Christ, or by constant remembrance of God, which amounts to the same thing.

The first path is strong, but it finds its full power in the second. Therefore, if we truly desire to uncover the blessed seed planted in us, we must not delay in taking up this second way—this rule of the heart. By persisting in the unseen and formless prayer of the heart, it will begin to grow warm, until it bursts into flame with an inexpressible love for the Lord.

The activity of this prayer in the heart can happen in two ways. Sometimes the mind leads, clinging to the Lord in the heart through constant remembrance. Other times, the prayer itself stirs first, awakening with the flame of joy, and draws the mind down into the heart, holding it there before the Lord.

In the first case, the practice of prayer begins to show itself as the passions weaken—through keeping the commandments and through the warmth that grows in the heart by calling on the Lord Jesus. In the second case, it is the Spirit who draws the mind into the heart, uniting them in the depths and restraining the mind from its usual wandering.

In both forms, prayer works in two modes: sometimes active, sometimes contemplative. Active prayer fights, with God’s help, against the passions; contemplative prayer fixes its gaze on God, as much as is possible for us.

Active mental prayer of the heart is practiced in this way: Sit on a low stool, no higher than about seven inches. Draw your mind down from your head into your heart and hold it there. Then, with both mind and heart, call out: Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me! Keep your breathing steady, not uncontrolled, so that your thoughts are not scattered. If you notice thoughts appearing, pay them no attention—whether they seem simple and good or vain and impure. By confining the mind in the heart and patiently repeating the Lord’s Name, you will overcome them. You will drive them away with the unseen power of Christ’s Name. As Saint John of the Ladder says: “With the Name of Jesus flog your foes, for there is no surer weapon against them, in heaven or on earth.”

If the mind becomes weary during this practice, and if the body and heart ache from the strain of uniting mind and heart in the constant invocation of the Lord Jesus, then stand and chant the psalms, or reflect on a passage of Scripture, or meditate on death. You might also read a little, or take up some manual work, or find another task to steady yourself.

When engaging in this work of prayer, it is best to read only books that deal with the inner life—sobriety and prayer. Read John of the Ladder, Isaac the Syrian, the ascetic writings of Maximus the Confessor, Simeon the New Theologian, Hesychius, Philotheus of Sinai, and other similar Fathers. For a time, set aside other writings—not because they are harmful, but because while you are pursuing this practice, they can distract your mind from prayer. Do not read excessively; rather, take in what you read carefully and make it your own.

Do not abandon prayer books entirely. Some keep many rules of prayer with strictness; others leave them behind altogether and turn only to the prayer of the mind. You should walk a middle path. Do not take on too many prayers, which will only scatter your attention, but do not neglect them altogether in times of weakness or illness. If you find that prayer has begun to work within you, flowing in the heart on its own, do not put it aside to take up the prayer book. That would be to leave God within, only to go outside and speak to Him from afar.

Those who have not yet received this gift of self-acting prayer should keep many prayers, even to the point of weariness, so that their hearts remain constantly immersed in prayer until, at last, the warmth of grace sparks the true prayer of the heart. The Fathers teach that when this gift of grace is received, one should reduce formal prayers and give more space to the prayer of the mind. And when the heart is weak, one can lean on prayers or on the writings of the Fathers. For just as oars are used when the wind fails, but laid aside when the sails are full, so written prayers are for when the Spirit seems quiet—but when the Spirit fills the heart, prayer itself carries you forward.

He who weeps with true contrition in prayer holds a mighty weapon against his enemies and against slipping from the joy of prayer into pride. Whoever guards this mingling of sorrow and joy will be kept safe from harm. Genuine interior prayer—free from delusion—radiates a gentle warmth born of the Jesus Prayer, a fire that burns in the soil of the heart and scorches away the passions like weeds. It fills the heart with peace and joy, not from left or right, nor even from above, but rising from within, like a spring flowing from the life-giving Spirit. Love this prayer above all else, guard it carefully within, and protect your mind from fantasies and daydreams. Fear nothing when this prayer is with you, for the One who said, “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid,” is with us.

(3) The Teaching of Nicephorus the Solitary

Nicephorus the Solitary sets out his teaching on entering the heart in his Discourse on Sobriety and the Guarding of the Heart (Dobrotolyubiye, part II, pages 36–43):

“You who long to feel the divine fire in your heart and to experience the Kingdom of God within—draw near, and I will teach you the art of eternal life. It is an art that leads those who practice it, without toil or sweat, into the haven of dispassion. Through the Fall we went outside of ourselves; let us now return inward, turning our backs on what is outside. We cannot be reconciled with God or united with Him unless we first return to ourselves, coming back within from the life we live outwardly. The interior life is the only true Christian life. All the Fathers testify to this.”

A brother once asked Abba Agathon, “Which is more important, physical labor or guarding the heart?” The elder replied, “Man is like a tree. His physical labor is like the leaves, and guarding the heart is the fruit. And since Scripture says, ‘Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire’ [Matt. 3:10], it is clear that the focus must be on the fruit—that is, guarding the heart. But we also need the covering of leaves—that is, physical labor.”

From Saint John of the Ladder Saint John says, “Close the door of your cell to your body, the door of your lips to conversations, and the inner door of your soul to evil spirits. When you are in control—that is, when your attention is fixed on your heart—watch, if you are able, how many and what kind of thieves try to enter the vineyard of your heart to steal its clusters of grapes. When the guard grows tired—that is, when the one guarding the heart weakens—let him get up, pray, and then sit down again, returning with courage to the same task of guarding the heart and praying.”

From Saint Macarius the Great Saint Macarius teaches, “The greatest work in all ascetic struggle is to enter into your heart, to hate Satan, and to wage war against him by rejecting his thoughts.”

From Saint Isaac of Syria Saint Isaac writes, “Strive to enter the innermost secret place within yourself, and there you will see the treasures of heaven. The ladder to the Kingdom of God is hidden within you—that is, in your heart. So cleanse yourself of sin, gather yourself inward, and within your heart you will find the rungs by which you may ascend to what is above.”

From Saint John of Karpathos Saint John of Karpathos says, “Great effort and perseverance in prayer are needed to achieve a clear and undisturbed state of mind—that other heaven within the heart where Christ dwells. For as the Apostle says, ‘Do you not know that the Spirit of God dwells in you?’ [1 Cor. 3:16].”

From Saint Simeon the New Theologian Saint Simeon the New Theologian writes, “From the time when man was banished from Paradise and cut himself off from God, the devil and his demons have been given the freedom, day and night, to stir up the thoughts of all people invisibly. There is no other way for the mind to guard itself against this than through the constant remembrance of God. Whoever keeps this remembrance engraved within himself is able to protect his thoughts from confusion.”

All the Holy Fathers affirm this.

From Nicephorus the Solitary “Almost everyone who learns this greatest spiritual work does so by being taught by others. Rare are those who, because of their fervent faith, receive it directly from God without a human teacher. That is why it is important to seek an experienced guide. If you cannot find such a one, then turn to God with a contrite heart and tears. Ask Him to help you, and follow what I now tell you.

“You know that when we breathe through our lungs, the air passes through the heart. So, sit down, gather your mind, and guide it inward along the path of your breath. Force your mind to go down with the air you inhale, into your heart, and keep it there. Do not let it wander, as it wishes to. And while you hold it there, do not leave the heart empty—fill it with these words: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me. Let your mind repeat them without ceasing, day and night.

“Work hard to grow accustomed to dwelling in this inner place with this prayer, and guard your mind so that it does not leave too soon. At first, the mind will resist, as though it were imprisoned in this inner chamber. But once it grows used to remaining there, it will begin to delight in it. It will rejoice in staying there and will no longer want to leave. Just as a man who returns home from a far-off land is overwhelmed with joy to see his wife and children again, so too, when the mind finds its home in the heart, it is filled with indescribable joy and gladness.”

“If you succeed in entering the place of the heart by the method I have shown you, give thanks to God and keep practicing it; the exercise itself will teach you things you never imagined. But if, after much effort, you are unable to enter the heart by this method, then do what I now tell you, and with God’s help, you will find what you seek.

“You know that a man’s faculty of speech—the inner words with which we speak to ourselves—resides in the chest. It is there, when the lips are silent, that we carry on conversations with ourselves; there we silently recite prayers; there we chant psalms and speak inwardly. It is this inner faculty of speech that you must always use to repeat, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, without allowing any other thoughts to intrude. You must compel yourself to use these words alone and nothing else. Persist patiently in this exercise, and soon, without fail, it will open for you the door into the heart, as we ourselves have found by experience.

“Together with this blessed and joyful entering into the heart—and guarding it with your attention—you will also receive the fullness of the virtues: love, joy, peace, patience, meekness, and the rest.”

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The Teaching of the Monks Ignatius of Xanthopoulos and Callistus

Ignatius and Callistus, monks of Mount Athos, set forth their teaching on the inner activity of the heart in one hundred chapters (Dobrotolyubiye, part II, pp. 56–131). For our purposes, the following points are most important:

The beginning of life in God is zeal and careful diligence in living according to the commandments of Christ. The end is the perfection intended for us by divine grace in baptism—what Scripture calls “putting off the old man with his former conduct and lusts and putting on the new man” [Eph. 4:22–24]. This is what Saint Paul meant when he said, “My little children, for whom I labor in birth again until Christ is formed in you” [Gal. 4:19].

Saint John Chrysostom writes that when we are baptized, our soul, cleansed by the Holy Spirit, shines brighter than the sun. Just as polished silver gleams when struck by sunlight—not from its own nature, but from the light it reflects—so too, a soul washed in baptism shines with the rays of the Spirit’s glory and radiates beauty from within. But alas, this indescribable radiance remains with us only briefly. Soon, we extinguish it with the storms of worldly cares and passions.

We received this grace in fullness at the baptismal font, but if later we bury it under passions and distractions, we can uncover and renew it through repentance and the keeping of God’s commandments, so that its original splendor shines forth again. This renewal happens according to the measure of each person’s faith and zeal, but most powerfully by the blessing of Christ Himself. Saint Mark the Ascetic says: “Christ, being perfect God, bestowed perfect grace of the Holy Spirit in baptism. It requires nothing from us then; yet its light is revealed in us according to how we keep the commandments, until we attain the full measure of the stature of Christ” [Eph. 4:13].

And so, since the beginning and root of salvation lie in living according to the Lord’s commandments, and the end and fruit of salvation are the restoration of the perfect grace of the Spirit—bestowed on us in Baptism, hidden within us, yet darkened by the passions, and revealed again by keeping the commandments—we must be zealous in keeping these commandments. Only then will we cleanse the gift of the Spirit within us and see it more clearly.

The Apostle John, who leaned on the Lord’s breast, tells us that the one who keeps the commandments of the Lord abides in Him, and He in them. And the Lord Himself says more plainly: “He who has My commandments and keeps them, it is he who loves Me. And he who loves Me will be loved by My Father, and I will love him and manifest Myself to him. . . . If anyone loves Me, he will keep My word; and My Father will love him, and We will come to him and make Our home with him” [John 14:21, 23].

It is impossible, however, to fulfill these life-giving commandments without Christ. As He Himself declares: “Without Me, you can do nothing” [John 15:5]. And as Peter proclaims: “Nor is there salvation in any other” [Acts 4:12]. Christ is for us the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

This is why the holy guides and teachers—those filled with the Spirit—so wisely urge us that before undertaking anything, we must first pray to the Lord, set aside all doubt, and ask for His mercy. We must keep His all-holy and sweetest Name always in our hearts, our minds, and upon our lips; and we must live with it unceasingly—in sleep and in wakefulness, in walking, eating, and drinking. For when we fail to invoke His Name, we become filled with evil and corruption. But when His Name abides in us, all evil is banished, every good thing flows abundantly, and nothing is impossible—just as the Lord Himself says: “He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit” [John 15:5].

And so, after admitting our weakness and placing all our hope in the Lord—after cultivating such love for His commandments that we would rather give up our lives than break even one of them—we must focus all our energy on establishing within ourselves the unceasing invocation of the saving Name of Jesus. This Holy Name destroys all evil and brings forth all good. To aid us in this, the Fathers have handed down a practice, an art—indeed, the art of arts.

Here is the method of the wise Nicephorus, who teaches how to enter the heart in rhythm with the breath, a way that helps gather the scattered thoughts. His rule is this: Sit quietly in solitude. Gather your mind and draw it down into your heart along the path by which the breath enters as you inhale. Keep it there with the power of your attention, and with every breath repeat: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me. Continue until this invocation becomes one with the beating of your heart and flows without ceasing. This, the Fathers say, is the way to prayer of the heart.

Saint John Chrysostom exhorts us: “I implore you, brothers, never abandon this prayer.” Elsewhere he teaches: “Whether eating or drinking, sitting or serving in church, traveling or doing anything at all, let everyone cry unceasingly: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me! The Name of Jesus will descend into the depths of the heart, subdue the serpent within, save the soul, and fill it with life. Continue unceasingly in this invocation until your heart itself embraces the Lord, and the Lord embraces your heart, and the two are one.”

And again he says: “Do not let your heart drift away from God, but guard in it the remembrance of the Lord Jesus Christ, until His Name is rooted firmly within. Think of nothing else, but only that Christ is glorified in you.”

Saint John of the Ladder says: “May the remembrance of Jesus unite with your breathing.” And Saint Hesychius writes: “If you want to put to shame the thoughts that are foreign to you, and if you wish to guard your heart unceasingly, let the prayer to the Lord Jesus be joined with your breathing; and in just a few days, you will see your desire fulfilled.”

Know this: when we train the mind to descend into the heart in rhythm with the breath, we may notice that once inside, the mind feels solitary, holding fast to only one thing—the remembrance of Christ Jesus. But when it wanders outside and scatters among external things, it becomes divided by many thoughts, ideas, and memories. To keep the mind whole and undistracted, the Fathers who practiced this art instruct those beginning this work to remain in a quiet, dimly lit place, especially in the early stages. For the eyes are doors through which thoughts scatter outward, and when outward sights are closed off, the mind more easily gathers itself within. As Saint Basil the Great says: “A mind not fixed through the senses on the outside world returns into itself.”

But remember: the true value of this practice lies not in breathing methods or in sitting in silence in a dim place, but in the single-minded, pure, undistracted calling of the heart upon the Lord Jesus Christ in faith. The Fathers only taught these outer techniques as tools, ways of helping the mind to collect itself and return inward from its usual distractions. Once the mind learns the habit of inward watchfulness, it gives birth to the habit of pure prayer—a prayer where the mind and the heart are joined in one.

Know, too, that all these bodily exercises are prescribed with care and are only needed until the grace of pure, undistracted prayer of the heart is granted. Once you receive this gift through the mercy of the Lord Jesus Christ, you can set aside the many external methods and remain quietly united with Him in the simplicity of heart-prayer.

If you desire to live a life in Christ, strive to pray with your heart—purely and without distraction—at every time and in every place, during every activity. In this way, you will grow into maturity, becoming “a perfect man, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ” [Eph. 4:13]. And remember: if you are ever granted the gift of self-acting prayer, never interrupt it with your own planned rules of prayer. As Philemon teaches: “If, by day or by night, the Lord grants you pure and undistracted prayer, then set aside your own rule and cling with all your strength to the Lord God; and He will illumine your heart in the spiritual life.”

When the unceasing prayer of the heart is given, then—as Saint Isaac of Syria says—you have reached the height of all virtues and become the dwelling place of the Holy Spirit. Whether you sit, walk, eat, drink, or do anything at all—even in the depths of sleep—the fragrance of prayer will continue to flow effortlessly from your heart. Even in silence, it will go on unbroken, fulfilling its sacred work in the innermost secret place.

B. Second Category

(1) The Teaching of Saint Hesychius (Priest) of Jerusalem

(1) Attention is the steady silence of the heart, untouched by thoughts—a stillness where the heart breathes only the Name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and true God. In that silence, it calls upon Him, fights with Him against its enemies, and confesses its sins to the One who has the power to forgive (Text 5, On Watchfulness and Holiness).

(2) Watchfulness is the steadfast stance of the mind as a guard at the door of the heart. From there it observes the approach of hostile, foreign thoughts—those thieves and robbers. From there it listens to what these destroyers whisper; it sees the tricks they attempt and the images demons create to lure the mind into dwelling on them. If we apply ourselves diligently to this work, it will become a teacher, training us in the art of warfare against thoughts (Text 6).

(3) There are several forms of watchfulness: The first is to carefully examine every mental image or tempting suggestion. The second is to keep the heart deeply silent, still, and free of thoughts, while praying. The third is to continually and humbly call upon the Lord Jesus Christ for help. The fourth is to keep the soul mindful of death at all times. The fifth, the most effective of all, is to fix the gaze of the soul only on heaven and to treat everything of this world as nothing (Texts 14–18).

(4) The one who wages spiritual warfare at every moment must practice four things: humility, attention, refutation of thoughts, and prayer. Humility—because he battles arrogant demons, and so his heart must always lean on Christ’s help, for the Lord resists the proud. Attention—so that his heart remains clear of all thoughts, even those that seem good. Refutation of thoughts—so that the instant his sharp-sighted mind recognizes the intruder, he repels it at once, as it is written: “So shall I have an answer for him who reproaches me…” [Ps. 119:42], and “Truly my soul silently waits for God” [Ps. 62:1]. And prayer—so that, after resisting, he cries to Christ from deep within, with sighs beyond words. Then the struggler will see how the venerable Name of Jesus scatters the enemy and his illusions like dust in the wind, or makes them vanish like smoke (Text 20).

(5) The one whose prayer is still mingled with thoughts does not yet carry true weapons for the fight. The prayer that arms the soul is the one that works unceasingly in the secret place of the heart, scorching the enemy and his hidden assaults by calling on the Lord Jesus Christ (Text 21).

(6) You must watch inwardly with a sharp and steady mind to recognize the invading demons. The moment you see them, crush the head of the serpent with immediate refutation, and call on Christ with those same wordless cries. Then you will experience God’s unseen help (Text 22).

(7) If you humbly strive to keep your attention within your heart—reflecting on death, reproaching yourself, rejecting thoughts, and calling on Jesus Christ—and if, armed with these weapons, you daily walk the narrow yet sweet and joyful road of the mind, you will come to behold the Holy of Holies. Then you will be illumined in the knowledge of hidden mysteries through Christ, “in Whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” [Col. 2:3]. For through Christ Jesus you will sense and know that the Holy Spirit has descended into your soul, enlightening your mind so that it beholds “with unveiled face…the glory of the Lord” [2 Cor. 3:18] (Text 29).

(8) The devil, with his army, “walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour” [1 Peter 5:8]. Therefore, we must never relax in guarding our hearts, in watchfulness, in rejecting thoughts, and in prayer to Jesus Christ our God. In all your life, you will find no greater help than from Jesus, for He alone, as Lord and God, knows the snares, the subtlety, and the deceit of the demons (Text 39).

(9) Just as salt seasons bread and other food and preserves meat from decay, so too the watchfulness of the mind preserves the spiritual joy of the intellect and the wondrous activity within the heart. In a divine way, it seasons and sweetens both soul and body, dispelling the stench of evil thoughts and keeping us always in goodness (Text 87).

(10) The more carefully you watch over your mind, the stronger will be your desire to pray to Jesus. But the more carelessly you watch over it, the more distant from Jesus you will become. As attentiveness brightly illumines the mind, so carelessness—falling away from watchfulness and from the sweet remembrance of Jesus—darkens it entirely (Text 90).

(11) The sweet and unceasing invocation of Jesus, joined with a warm desire and filled with joy, gently settles the heart in peace. It is Jesus Christ Himself—the Son of God, true God, and Source of all that is good—Who completely purifies the heart. For He says, “I am God who makes peace” [Isa. 45:7] (Text 91).

(12) A divine state takes root within through the constant remembrance and invocation of the Lord Jesus Christ—if we do not neglect continual supplication and steadfast watchfulness, holding these as the only truly necessary works. Indeed, we have but one task above all: to call on Jesus Christ with a burning heart, begging to taste the blessings of His holy Name. For constancy is the mother of habit, both in virtue and in vice; and habit becomes second nature. Once the soul reaches such a state, the mind begins to hunt down its enemies on its own, just as a hound searches for a hare in the brush. But while the hound seeks to feed itself, the mind seeks to strike and to drive away (Text 97).

(13) The great spiritual teacher David said to the Lord, “I shall preserve my strength through You” [Ps. 59:9]. So it is with us: we rely on the Lord’s help to preserve the strength of stillness in the heart and in the mind, from which all virtues spring. For He gave us the commandments, and when we call on Him constantly, He drives out from us that foul forgetfulness which, above all, corrupts the heart.

(14) When, though unworthy, we are allowed to receive with fear and awe the Communion of the Divine and Most Pure Mysteries of Christ our God and King, we must show the highest vigilance, sobriety of mind, and strict attention. In this way, the divine fire—the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ—will consume our sins and iniquities, both great and small. For when He enters into us, He immediately drives out the cunning spirits of evil from the heart and forgives us our past sins; and then our intellect is freed from the restless harassment of evil thoughts. If after this you continue to guard the door of your heart and carefully watch over your mind, you will be made worthy again to receive the Holy Mysteries, and the Divine Body will shine ever more brightly within you, making your intellect gleam like the stars (Text 101).

(15) Care must be taken to guard what is truly precious. And the only thing truly precious for us is that which protects us from all evil that enters through the senses and the mind. This is the guarding of the intellect while calling on Jesus Christ: the continual turning inward, keeping stillness in the heart, a constant silence of the mind—not broken even by thoughts that seem good—and striving to keep the mind free of all thoughts altogether, so that demons cannot slip in hidden behind them (Text 103).

(16) The Name of Jesus Christ must always be repeated in the heart, just as flashes of lightning return again and again in the sky before the rain. Those who have experience in inner spiritual battle know this well. This warfare must be carried out as in real combat. First comes watchfulness: then, when a hostile thought approaches, we strike at it with sharp rebuke from the heart. The third step is to direct prayer against it, fixing the heart on the invocation of Jesus Christ, so that the demonic presence is instantly scattered, and the mind is not carried away after it like a child being lured by a deceitful sorcerer (Text 105).

(17) This is the great gain that the intellect receives from stillness: all sins that first attack only as thoughts—which, if welcomed by the heart, would soon become gross sins of outward acts—are cut off within the inner man through the virtue of watchfulness. And with the help and intercession of our Lord Jesus Christ, this watchfulness does not allow such thoughts to enter or to become deeds (Text 111).

(18) As valleys bring forth abundant wheat, so too does the Jesus Prayer bring forth abundant blessings in the heart. Or rather, it is the Lord Jesus Christ Himself who grants them, for without Him we can do nothing. At first, prayer appears like a ladder, then like a book to be read, and finally—as one advances further and further—it appears as the heavenly Jerusalem itself, the city of the King of Hosts, who is with the Father—of one Essence with Him—and with the venerable Holy Spirit (Text 117).

(19) When the soul is released from the body at death and approaches the gates of heaven, it will not be put to shame by its enemies if Christ is with it. Rather, it will stand boldly against them, just as it does now. But the soul must not grow weary, day or night, of calling upon the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, until its appointed time comes to leave this life. Then He will swiftly come to its aid, both in this life and in the life to come, according to His true and divine promise in the parable of the unjust judge: “I tell you that He will avenge them speedily” [Luke 18:8] (Text 149).

(20) If we strive to guard our mind and join sobriety with humility, refuting thoughts with prayer, then we walk the right spiritual road with the venerable and holy Name of Jesus Christ as our lantern. But if we rely only on our own vigilance and watchfulness, we will be struck down at the first assault of the enemy. Then these crafty deceivers will try to overpower us in every way, entangling us in their webs of evil desires, or else they will swiftly destroy us, since we lack the victorious sword of the Name of Jesus Christ. For only this glorious sword, ever watchful in a heart free of thoughts, has the power to strike and drive back the enemy, to scorch and consume him like fire devours dry straw (Text 152).

(21) The task of constant watchfulness, so beneficial and fruitful for the soul, is to notice the first stirrings of imaginary thoughts as they arise in the mind. The task of refuting thoughts is to unmask and cast out, in shame, any thought that tries to slip into the mind disguised as the image of some material thing. It is the invocation of the Lord that instantly extinguishes and scatters every scheme of the enemy—every word, every fantasy, every idol, every dark form. And with our own intellect we can see clearly how mightily they are conquered by Jesus, our great God, who defends us, the humble, the poor, the ones who are nothing without Him (Text 153).

(22) A ship cannot sail where there is no water; in the same way, guarding the mind cannot succeed without attention joined to humility and the unceasing Jesus Prayer (Text 168).

(23) The unceasing prayer of the mind clears away the storm clouds of evil spirits. When the heart is pure, nothing prevents the divine light of Jesus from shining within—unless we let self-esteem, doubt, or a grasping for the unreachable creep in. Such things drive away His help, for Christ abhors pride; He Himself is the perfect example of humility (Text 175).

(24) Just as words carved into stone endure, while those traced in the air vanish, so too must our vigilance be firmly joined with the Jesus Prayer, so that this splendid virtue of watchfulness remains steadfast in us, preserved forever by His Name (Text 183).

(25) When guarding the mind is done for God alone and becomes rooted in the soul, it grants the intellect a wisdom that guides all struggles and words according to God’s will. It equips the spiritual warrior to act with discernment that is flawless and sure (Text 194).

(26) Blessed is the one whose mind has become one with the Jesus Prayer, and whose heart cries out to Him unceasingly, as air fills the body and fire burns within a candle. Just as the rising sun lights the earth, so the holy and precious Name of the Lord Jesus, shining constantly within the soul, gives birth to boundless contemplations, radiant as the sun itself (Text 196).

(27) Just as dispersing clouds clear the air, so when Jesus Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, drives away the fantasies of passion, a light is born in the heart—brilliant as the sun and radiant as the stars—for Christ Himself has illumined it (Text 197).

(2) The Teaching of Philotheus of Sinai

(1) Whoever strives toward righteousness should fix in his heart the remembrance of God as his one true treasure, cherishing it like a pearl of great price or a precious jewel. He should set aside everything else—even disregard his own body and scorn this passing life—in order to possess only God within (Text 1).

(2) Each day must begin with courage: the mind must take its stand at the door of the heart, unwavering, keeping God’s remembrance and the prayer of Jesus alive within the soul. With such attentiveness, he slays “the sinners of this world”—that is, he cuts down the rising force of thoughts and resists their attacks with the firm remembrance of God (Text 2).

(3) Watchfulness is rightly called both a way and a workplace of the mind. It is a way because it leads into the kingdom—both the one within us now and the one to come. It is a workplace because it shapes the mind, fashions spiritual habits, and transforms passions into dispassion. It is like a narrow window through which God looks in and reveals Himself to the intellect (Text 3).

(4) The dwelling place of God—the heaven of the heart—is where humility abides, where the remembrance of God is kept with sobriety and watchfulness, and where constant prayer rises up against evil. The hosts of demons do not dare approach this place, for God Himself dwells there (Text 4).

(5) The first door into the Jerusalem of the mind, or watchfulness of the mind, is the wise silence of the lips, even if the mind itself has not yet found silence. The second door is temperance in eating, drinking, and sleeping. The third door, which purifies both mind and body, is the constant remembrance of and reflection on death (Text 6).

(6) The delightful remembrance of God—Jesus Christ—together with holy anger and righteous hatred against sin, usually destroys every temptation of thoughts, words, fantasies, and shameful images. In short, it destroys every weapon of the enemy who seeks to devour our souls. When His Name is invoked, Jesus Himself easily scatters them all, for there is no salvation apart from Him. The Savior said: “Without Me, you can do nothing” [John 15:5] (Text 22).

(7) Therefore, each hour and at every moment, let us guard our hearts zealously against the thoughts that cloud the mirror of the soul, which should reflect only the holy image of Jesus Christ, the Wisdom and Power of God. Let us continually seek the Kingdom of Heaven within our hearts, and in the end, if we purify the eye of our intellect, we will mystically discover within ourselves the seed, the pearl, the leaven, and everything else. This is why the Lord Jesus Christ said: “The Kingdom of God is within you” [Luke 17:21], speaking of the Divine Presence that dwells in our hearts (Text 23).

(8) Interior spiritual warfare should be conducted in this way: Combine prayer with watchfulness—let watchfulness strengthen prayer, and let prayer strengthen watchfulness. By keeping guard over everything that arises within, watchfulness will see how the enemy tries to enter. At the same time, it will call upon the Lord Jesus Christ, Who drives away the demons and their fantasies. In this way, watchfulness blocks their entry, while Jesus Himself, when invoked, scatters them (Text 25).

(9) Guard your mind with great vigilance. The moment you notice a hostile thought, reject it at once, but also call quickly upon Christ the Lord to act on your behalf. Even as you cry to Him, the sweetest Jesus answers: “Here I am, with you, to defend you.” Yet once your enemies have been subdued by prayer, you must not relax, but keep guarding your mind diligently. For new waves of thoughts will rush at you, more numerous than before, until the soul feels nearly drowned by them and on the verge of perishing. But Jesus, like He did for the disciples, rebukes the storm of evil thoughts, and suddenly there is calm [Luke 8:23–24]. And having been delivered, whether for a short while or for a longer rest, you must glorify the One who saved you and return to meditating on death (Text 26).

(10) Continue in your struggles with earnest watchfulness, guided by wisdom. When joined daily, watchfulness and prayer become like Elijah’s fiery chariot, lifting the one who practices them up toward heaven. What do I mean? The pure heart, established in watchfulness, becomes itself a heaven for the intellect—with its own sun, moon, and stars. And through mystical contemplation and ecstasy, the heart becomes a living vessel of the uncontainable God (Text 27).

(3) The Teaching of Theoliptus, Metropolitan of Philadelphia (Dobrotolyubiye, part II, pages 44–50)

(1) When the sun sets, night comes; and when Christ withdraws from the soul, it is covered by the darkness of passions, and wild beasts of thoughts rise up to torment it. Just as the physical sun makes the beasts hide in their dens, when Christ rises and shines upon the praying mind, worldly concerns fade away, and the mind devotes itself to divine knowledge until the “setting of the sun.”

(2) Avoid idle conversations and resist interior thoughts until you reach pure prayer and the dwelling-place of Christ, who enlightens and fills you with His knowledge and presence.

(3) Footprints in snow vanish when the sun melts the snow or when water washes them away. In the same way, the memory of sensual acts is erased by Christ, who illumines the heart through prayer, and is washed away by tears of contrition.

(4) When prayer is filled with ardent tenderness, it blots out the memories of past sins. Constant remembrance of God, joined with faith and a contrite heart, cuts away bad memories like a razor.

(5) Find a quiet place and strive to enter into the innermost secret chamber of your soul—the watchtower—where Christ dwells, and where peace, joy, and stillness are always present. There, Christ, the Sun who shines upon the intellect, bestows His gifts, which radiate from Him like rays, as a reward for the soul that welcomes Him with faith and love for all that is good.

(6) Sit in your cell and keep your mind fixed on God alone. Set aside every other thought, pour out your heart to Him, and cling to Him in love. To remember God is for the mind to contemplate Him, drawn by His presence and illumined by His radiance. When the mind turns to God free from all images and forms, its contemplation becomes pure and imageless.

(7) Prayer is the mind speaking with the Lord—uttering words while holding its attention on Him. When the Name of the Lord is repeated with focus and the mind listens clearly to this invocation, the light of divine contemplation embraces the whole soul like a radiant cloud.

(8) Believe me, if everything you do is united with prayer—the mother of all virtues—prayer will not rest until it has led you into the bridal chamber of Christ, filling you with indescribable joy and delight. Prayer removes obstacles, smooths the path to virtue, and makes it open and accessible to all who seek it.

(9) As you walk the spiritual path, recite the words of prayer without ceasing. Cry out to the Lord and never give in to despair. Be persistent, like the widow who moved the unjust judge. Then you will walk in the Spirit, overcome the desires of the flesh, and keep your prayer uninterrupted by worldly distractions. In this way, your soul becomes a temple of God, silently filled with His praise. Eventually, this prayer of the mind will lead you into unceasing remembrance of God, into the hidden treasures of the spirit, and into the vision of the Unseen through mystical contemplation. Alone in your solitude, you will worship the one true God with a love that flows from your heart and is known only to you.

(4) The Teachings of Saint Barsanuphius the Great and Saint John the Prophet

(1) The enemies of the soul are weakened when the Name of God is invoked. Knowing this, we must never cease to call upon His Name for help. This is true prayer, as Scripture teaches: “Pray without ceasing” [1 Thess. 5:17].

(2) Remember that God knows the heart and sees into it. Call on Him there, for Scripture says: “Shut your door and pray to your Father who is in the secret place” [Matt. 6:6]. Seal your lips and pray inwardly; he who does this fulfills the command.

(3) Your spiritual effort must center on unceasing prayer from the heart. If you desire to succeed in this, commit yourself, seek without weariness, and hold fast to hope. Then God will grant success.

(4) The constant invocation of the Name of God is healing. It destroys not only the passions but also their activity. Just as a physician prescribes the right treatment to heal a wound—though the patient does not understand how it works—so too the Name of God, when invoked, heals the soul and eradicates the passions in ways beyond our comprehension.

(5) The Lord said, “Ask, and it will be given to you” [Luke 11:9]. So pray to the all-good God to send you the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, who will teach you everything and reveal every mystery. Make Him your guide, and He will not allow deception or confusion to enter your heart. He will keep your thoughts from falling into laziness, negligence, or sleepiness. He will open your eyes, strengthen your heart, and lift up your mind. Cling to Him. Trust Him. Love Him.

(6) If you see that the enemy’s cunning snares are disturbing your prayer, do not argue with him. Instead, call on the Name of God, and He will help you and scatter the enemy’s schemes.

(7) Perfect prayer is speaking with God in a mind that is gathered, still, and undistracted. A person enters such prayer when he becomes dead to people, the world, and everything in it. In such a state, while praying, he thinks only of standing before God and speaking with Him.

C. The Most Edifying Narrative of Abba Philemon

(1) It is said about Abba Philemon the Hermit that he enclosed himself in a cave not far from a lavra called Romyeva and gave himself wholly to ascetic struggle. Following the example of the great Arsenius, as tradition tells, he would regularly ask himself: Philemon, why have you come here?

He stayed in this cave for a long time, spending his days twisting twine and weaving baskets, which he exchanged with a steward for small loaves of bread. His food was only bread and salt, and not even every day. Clearly, he gave no thought to bodily comfort but devoted himself entirely to contemplation. He lived in divine illumination, gaining knowledge of mysteries beyond words and dwelling in spiritual light.

On Saturdays and Sundays, on his way to church, he walked in deep contemplation, allowing no one to approach him, so his mind would not be pulled away from the interior life. In church, he stood quietly in a corner, head bowed, tears streaming from his eyes in unceasing sorrow, while his mind rested in his heart, fixed on the example of the Holy Fathers, especially Arsenius the Great, whose path he sought to follow.

(2) When a heresy arose in Alexandria and its surroundings, Philemon departed and went to the Lavra of Nikinarov, where the God-loving Paulinus welcomed him and gave him his own secluded dwelling so that Philemon might live in complete silence. For a full year, Paulinus let no one visit Philemon and did not trouble him himself, except to bring him bread. Then, on the holy Feast of the Resurrection of Christ, they met and began to speak together about the hermit’s life. It was then Philemon saw that the devout Paulinus also had the noble desire for solitude, and that the teachings—spoken and written—about the ascetic way had taken deep root in his heart. For all such teachings testify that without complete solitude it is not possible to please God.

The divinely inspired Moses once said: “Silence gives birth to great ascetic feats, which in turn give birth to tears; tears give birth to fear, and fear to humility. Humility opens the eyes, and then love is born. It is love that makes the soul healthy and free from passion—and then man knows he is not far from God.”

(3) Philemon then said to Paulinus:

“You must purify your mind completely by embracing silence and using it only for spiritual exercises. Just as the physical eye marvels at what it sees when it looks upon something in the world, so too does a purified intellect marvel when it turns its gaze to the unseen. The soul becomes enraptured with what the spiritual eye beholds, and nothing can tear its attention away. To the extent that the mind is made dispassionate and cleansed through silence, to that same measure will it be granted knowledge of heavenly things.

A mind reaches perfection when it partakes of divine knowledge and union with God. In such dignity it becomes royal in stature, lacking nothing, and even if it were offered all the kingdoms of the world, it would not be drawn to earthly desires.

If you desire such blessings, flee quickly from the world and follow earnestly the path of the saints. Do not be concerned with outward appearance; instead, clothe yourself in poverty and adorn yourself with humility. Let your way of being be plain and unpretentious. Speak with sincerity. Avoid arrogance and pomp in your manner of life. Learn how to live in poverty and how to be unnoticed by others.

Above all, guard your mind with watchfulness. Be patient in trials, and strive to preserve undefiled the grace that you have already received. Keep strict watch over yourself, rejecting every secret delight that seeks to creep inside. For although silence subdues the passions, if you give them fuel, they will flare up violently and overpower you more fiercely than before—just as bodily wounds, when scratched and torn, cannot heal.

A single word can turn the mind away from the remembrance of God, if the demons press upon you and the senses give way. Therefore, the guarding of the soul demands an awesome and extraordinary effort!”

“And so, you must completely withdraw from the world and free your soul from being tied to the body. Become as one with no city, no home, no possessions or wealth, no desire to own anything. Let go of all cares and companions, and keep yourself unaware of worldly affairs. Be humble, gentle, kind, meek, and quiet in spirit—ready to receive the imprint of divine knowledge in your heart. For, as Saint Basil the Great teaches, you cannot write on a wax tablet unless the earlier writing is first erased.

So too with the saints: by renouncing the ways of the world and keeping within themselves the quiet contemplation of heavenly things, they were illumined by divine law and became shining examples of righteous words and deeds. They put to death the earthly passions through fasting, the fear of God, and love. Through unceasing prayer and meditation on the Scriptures, the inner eyes of the heart were opened, gazing on the Lord of Hosts with great joy.

A divine, irresistible longing is kindled in the soul, and by the Spirit it even lifts the body, so that the whole person becomes spiritual. This is what is given to those who embrace holy stillness and walk the narrow path of the ascetic life: having given up human consolations, they enjoy unceasing communion, alone with the Lord of heaven.”

(4) After hearing this, that brother’s heart was pierced with divine love. He left his home and went with Philemon to the skete where the great holy fathers had lived in righteousness. Together they made their home in the Lavra of Saint John Kolobos. Because they longed for a life of silence, they entrusted their needs to the steward of the Lavra. And so, by God’s grace, they lived in deep stillness—leaving their cells only on Saturdays and Sundays for the services, and spending the rest of the time in prayer and quiet. Each followed the monastic rule privately, devoting himself to prayer.

(5) Philemon, the holy elder, kept this pattern: at night, with patience, he chanted the entire Psalter along with the nine canticles, and then read the beginning of a Gospel. Afterward, he sat and for a long time silently repeated, Lord, have mercy. When at last he could no longer pray these words, he would rest in sleep. At dawn, he chanted the First Hour, then turned to the East and alternated between chanting psalms and reading from the Epistles and Gospels. In this way his whole day was filled with psalmody, prayer, and the sweetness of divine contemplation. At times his mind was caught up so deeply in God that he no longer knew whether he was in heaven or on earth.

(6) Seeing how earnestly he prayed, how faithfully he kept the rule, and how at times his very face seemed to shine in mystical contemplation, a brother once asked him, “Father, is it not hard for you, in old age, to burden your body so much?” He answered, “Believe me, God has placed such zeal and love for prayer in my soul that I cannot even keep up with its desire. Love for God and the hope of future blessings overcome all weakness of the body.” And so his deep longing lifted his mind into heaven—even during meals, not only at other times.

(7) A brother who lived with Philemon once asked him, “What mysteries does mystical contemplation reveal?” Seeing the man’s persistence and his sincere longing, Philemon answered gently, “My child, to the one who has fully purified his mind, God grants visions of the Powers and the angelic ranks who serve Him.”

(8) Another time, the same brother asked, “Father, why do you delight so much in the Psalter above all other books of Scripture? And why, when you chant quietly, does it seem as though you are speaking with someone?” Philemon replied, “God has pressed the psalms into my soul with the same power He gave to David. I cannot pull myself away from the joy of the hidden revelations within them. For in truth, they hold within themselves the fullness of all Scripture.”

(9) One day a brother named John, who had traveled from the coast, came to visit the holy elder. Bowing at his feet, he said, “What must I do, Father, to be saved? My mind wanders everywhere it should not.” Philemon paused in silence, then answered, “This sickness belongs to those who are overly fixed on what is external. It afflicts you because you have not yet come into a perfect love of God—you have not yet come to truly know and love Him in intimacy.”

The brother asked, “Then what should I do, Father?” Philemon said, “Go and learn the hidden knowledge of the heart, and it will cleanse your mind of this sickness.” Not understanding, the brother asked, “What is this secret knowledge, Father?” Philemon replied, “Practice watchfulness within your heart, and with attention, with reverence and humility, pray: Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. This is what the blessed Diadochus teaches all who are beginning the path.”

(10) The brother went away, and with God’s help through the prayers of the elder, he found peace and even a measure of delight in what he had been taught. But soon the sweetness faded, and he could no longer keep watch over his heart or pray as before. So he returned to the elder and told him what had happened.

The elder said, “Now that you have tasted the silence and the prayer of the mind, and have known the sweetness it brings, you must hold it close in your heart at all times—whether you are eating or drinking, speaking with someone, traveling, or sitting in your cell. With focused thought and an undistracted mind, do not cease from repeating that prayer, from chanting the psalms, and from learning their wisdom. Even in the midst of your daily needs, let your mind never lie empty, but train it in hidden study and prayer.

“If you do this, you will come to see the deeper meaning of Holy Scripture and discover the hidden power within it. Your mind will learn to pray without stopping, and you will fulfill the Apostle’s command: Pray without ceasing. Be diligent in watchfulness. Guard your heart from all vain, idle, or harmful thoughts. In secret, let your heart alternate between learning from the psalms and praying, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me. Do this always—when you sleep and when you wake, when you eat, drink, or speak with others. And when your lips chant the psalms, take care that it is not only your mouth that speaks, while your mind drifts elsewhere.”

(11) The brother then said, “Father, I am troubled by many vain dreams in my sleep.” The elder answered, “Do not be afraid, and do not give in to laziness. Before you sleep, fill your heart with many prayers. Resist the thoughts and temptations of the devil, and God Himself will shield you. Do all you can to fall asleep with the psalms still on your lips and your mind resting on what you have learned. Never let your mind drift into careless or foreign thoughts. Go to bed with the same thoughts that shaped your prayers, so that they may stay with you through the night and greet you again when you awaken. And before sleep, recite the Creed, for confessing the true faith in God is both the source and the safeguard of every blessing.”

(12) Again the brother asked, “Father, will you tell me the spiritual exercises you practice in your heart? Teach me, so that I too may be saved.” The elder hesitated, asking, “Why do you want to know this?” But the brother rose, embraced his feet, and pleaded with him earnestly. After some time, the elder said, “You are not yet ready to bear such things. To discipline each of the senses rightly belongs to the one who is strong and tested, who already lives in the blessings of spiritual truth. It is not possible for one still entangled in worldly thoughts to receive such a gift.

“But if you truly desire this, then hold fast to what you already know—guard the secret knowledge of the heart in purity. If you persevere in unceasing prayer and meditation on the Scriptures, the eyes of your soul will open. You will know a great joy and a burning sweetness that cannot be put into words, even a warmth in your body that comes from the Spirit—until your whole being is made spiritual. And if God grants you, whether by day or night, the grace to pray with a pure mind, then set aside your prayer rule and give all your strength to clinging to God. He Himself will illumine your heart and show you the way of the life you have begun.”

Then the elder added, “A holy elder once came to me, and I asked him about the state of his mind. He said, ‘I prayed before God for two full years, begging Him with all my heart to grant me the gift of unceasing, undistracted prayer—the very prayer He gave to His disciples. And the generous Lord, seeing my labors and my patience, granted my desire.’”

And this is what else he told him:

“Vain thoughts that rise up in the soul are the sickness of an idle heart weighed down by negligence. This is why the Scriptures teach us to guard the mind with care, to chant the psalms with understanding, and to pray with a pure heart. Brother, God desires that we first show Him our zeal—through effort, through spiritual struggle, through good works—and then through love and unceasing prayer. In this way He shows us the path of salvation. Truly, there is no road to heaven except this: to turn away from all evil, to embrace what is good, to love God with all our heart, and to live in communion with Him in reverence and truth. Whoever attains this will rise to join the choirs of heaven.

“But the one who wishes to ascend must put to death what is earthly in himself. For when the soul tastes the joy of true blessedness, it no longer desires the passions that sinful pleasures stir up. Instead, it lays aside bodily and sensual cravings, and receives the vision of God with thoughts that are pure and undefiled. Therefore, we must keep strict watch over ourselves. We must endure hardship of body and cleansing of soul, so that God may find a dwelling place in our hearts. Then, keeping His commandments without falling into sin, we will learn by His grace to remain faithful. For it is the Spirit Himself who teaches us, and His light in the heart shines out as naturally as the rays of the sun.”

“We must labor diligently and endure many trials in order to purify within ourselves the image in which we were first created—as beings capable of receiving God’s light and growing into His likeness. By cleansing our senses through the furnace of trials, we keep them pure and undefiled, and so we are raised into the dignity of a royal calling. God made human nature able to share in every blessing, with an intellect fit to behold the unapproachable Light and the surpassing Glory, even the ranks of angels—the dominions, powers, principalities, and thrones.

“But when you gain any virtue, take care not to think yourself greater than your brother who has not, for that is the seed of pride. And when you are battling a passion, do not fall into despair or fear because it presses you so hard. Instead, set your heart to resist it, then fall down before God and cry out as the prophet did: Plead my cause, O Lord, with those who strive against me, for I am powerless against them! In your humility, He will quickly come to your aid.

“And if you are traveling with a companion, do not waste yourself in idle talk. Keep your mind at work with its familiar spiritual exercises. In this way it will keep its good habits, forget worldly pleasures, and remain in the safe harbor of dispassion.”

After speaking of these things, and many more, the elder let the brother go.

(13) After a short time, the brother returned and said, “Father, what should I do? When I try to keep my prayer rule at night, I become so sleepy that I cannot continue with attention or keep vigil for long. I feel like I need some work for my hands while I chant the psalms.”

The elder answered, “When you are able to pray with attention, do not distract yourself with work. But when drowsiness overtakes you, resist it as best you can, and then take up some work with your hands.”

The brother asked again, “Father, do you not also become sleepy during your prayers?” The elder replied, “Not so easily. But if sleepiness lingers and I begin to feel its weight, I take up the Gospels, beginning with John, and read while lifting my mind’s eye to God. Then the drowsiness disappears. I treat thoughts in the same way—when they assail me, I quench them with my tears as one puts out a flame, and they vanish. You are not yet able to resist thoughts like this, so it is better for you to hold fast to your spiritual lessons and to recite faithfully the daily prayers given by the Fathers—the Hours, the Third, the Sixth, the Ninth, and Vespers, along with the night services.

“With all your strength, avoid doing anything merely to please others. Guard your heart against any animosity toward your brothers, for such things cut you off from God. Keep watch over your mind so it does not scatter, but instead learns to dwell on what is within. When you are in church preparing to receive the Holy Mysteries of Christ, do not leave afterward until you are filled with peace. Choose one place to stand and do not move until the Dismissal. And within yourself, remember that you are in heaven among the holy angels, standing in God’s presence, preparing to receive Him into your heart. Approach this with fear and trembling, lest you find yourself unworthy of such communion with the heavenly host.”

After strengthening the brother in this way and entrusting him to the care of the Lord and His Spirit of grace, the elder let him go.

(14) A brother who lived with the elder later shared this story:

“Once, while sitting with him, I asked if he had ever been attacked by the revilement of demons during his time in solitude. He replied, ‘Forgive me, brother, but if God were to allow you to suffer the same temptations I have endured, I do not believe you could withstand their bitter sting. I am more than seventy years old now and have suffered many trials in various solitary places. It would not benefit those who have never lived in solitude to hear about the sharpness of these wounds.

‘But I will tell you this: through it all I held to one rule. I placed my whole trust in God and vowed to renounce everything else. And God swiftly rescued me from calamity. For this reason, I no longer worry about providing for my needs. I can endure temptations more easily now, for I know He will provide. The only thing I can give Him is my unceasing prayer. And remember this, brother—it is no small thing to believe that every sorrow and misfortune adds to the weaving of a crown of glory for the one who suffers, for the Righteous Judge weighs them out in perfect balance.

‘So do not fall into faintheartedness. If you have entered the arena to fight—then fight! Take courage, knowing that those who stand with us against the enemies of God far outnumber the enemy hosts. For how could we even dare to stand against such a terrible foe of the human race if the strong hand of the Lord were not upholding us, guarding and shielding us? How could human weakness ever endure such assaults of evil? As Job describes: Who can open the doors of his face, with his terrible teeth all around? Out of his mouth come fiery torches; sparks of fire shoot out. His nostrils belch smoke like a boiling cauldron. His breath kindles coals, and flames issue forth. His heart is hard as stone, unyielding as a millstone. He churns the depths like a pot and leaves the sea fuming like incense. He leaves a glittering path behind him… He looks the proud in the eye; of all the sons of pride, he is king [Job 41].’”

“This, brother, is the one we are up against! These are the words that describe that tyrant. Yet those who live the solitary life as it is meant to be lived overcome him with ease—because there is nothing of his evil left in them, because they have renounced the world, because they have gained strength through virtue, and because we have One who fights for us. Tell me, whose nature has not been changed by turning to the Lord and holding the holy fear of Him in mind? Who, by filling himself with God’s law and good works, has not clothed his soul with light so that it shines with wisdom and holy thoughts? Such a one never leaves his soul empty, for God dwells within him, stirring his mind to reach endlessly toward the Light.

“And the Spirit will not allow such a soul, so active and alive in God, to falter under the pull of passions. Rather, with royal authority and fierce power, the Spirit rises up against them—driving them off and forbidding them to intrude, striking them down without mercy. A man in such a state will not turn back, but with hands lifted in prayer and with virtues in practice, he will stand victorious in the fight.”

(15) The same brother also shared another virtue of Abba Philemon:

“He could not bear to listen to empty talk. If anyone began speaking of things with no profit for the soul, he would not reply at all. In the same way, when I went out, he never asked why I was leaving; and when I returned, he did not question where I had gone, what I had done, or how.

“Once I had to sail to Alexandria for important business, and from there I went on to Constantinople for church matters. I did not even tell the elder, this servant of God. After being away for a long time, visiting devout brothers in those cities, I returned to the skete. The elder was filled with joy to see me. He welcomed me in his usual manner, prayed, and sat down. Yet he asked me nothing at all, but quietly went on with his spiritual exercises.”

(16) “Once, I decided to test him. For several days I brought him no bread to eat. He never asked for it, nor did he say a word about it. At last I bowed before him and said, ‘Father, forgive me—were you offended that I did not bring you bread as I usually do?’ He answered, ‘Forgive me, brother! Even if you deprived me of bread for twenty days, I would not ask you for it. For as long as my soul endures, so also will my body endure.’ Such was the depth of his absorption in the contemplation of heavenly realities.”

(17) “He would often say, ‘Since the time I came to the skete, I have never allowed my thoughts to wander beyond the walls of my cell. I never let my mind entertain anything except the fear of God and the judgment that awaits us beyond this life. I have never forgotten the final reckoning of sinners, the eternal fire, or the darkness of hell; nor have I forgotten how the souls of the righteous and the unrighteous live after death. I continually reflect on the blessings that await the righteous and how each person is rewarded according to his deeds—one for the labor of spiritual struggle, another for mercy and love, another for generosity and silent solitude, still another for obedience or for a pilgrim’s life. In thinking on all these things, I guard myself from other thoughts, and I can no longer spend time with people or occupy myself with them, lest I be drawn away from my contemplation of the divine.’”

(18) “He once told a story of a solitary ascetic who had reached such freedom from passion that an angel himself brought him bread. But when the man grew lazy and let his watchfulness slip, that gift was taken from him. For when the soul relaxes its careful guard, night falls upon it. Where God’s light does not shine, all becomes dim and shadowed, and the soul can no longer behold the One True God or tremble at His words. As the Lord says: Am I not God when I am near, and not God also when far away? Can anyone hide in secret places without My seeing him? Do I not fill heaven and earth?

“He recalled many others who had suffered the same fate. He spoke even of Solomon, who for the sake of a fleeting lust lost the greatness of his name. Though Solomon had been given wisdom that lit up the world as the dawn brightens the morning sky, even he stumbled and fell.

“Therefore, it is dangerous to yield to laziness. We must pray without ceasing, so that no stray thought may draw us from God and take His place in our minds. Only the heart made pure, the heart that becomes the dwelling place of the Holy Spirit, can look within itself like a mirror and behold the God who made all things.”

(19) “After hearing this and watching the way he lived,” said the brother who dwelt with Abba Philemon, “I understood that the passions of the flesh had completely lost their hold on him. He loved perfection with such zeal that he seemed continually transfigured by the Spirit, sighing with inexpressible sighs. He was always turned inward, examining himself, keeping a careful balance within as though weighing everything on scales, determined not to let a single stray thought cloud the purity of his mind or leave even the faintest stain upon him.

“Seeing this, I was filled with longing to live as he did. I begged him, ‘Father, how can I gain the purity of mind that you have?’ He replied, ‘You must work hard, my child, for this requires much struggle and suffering of the heart. Spiritual treasures, which are worth all effort and zeal, will not come to us while we lounge in comfort. Whoever wishes to succeed in the spiritual life must first renounce all desires, must seek tears of repentance, and must crave nothing. He must overlook the sins of others and grieve only for his own, weeping over them day and night. He must avoid vain dealings with people. For the soul that laments its own poverty and remembers its transgressions dies to the world, and the world dies to it. Then the passions lose their power.

‘The one who renounces the world, who clings to Christ, who dwells in silence and solitude, loves God. He preserves God’s image within himself and grows into His likeness. Such a one will receive the gift of the Spirit from above, becoming a dwelling place for God, not for demons, offering all his works as a gift to the Lord. The soul that lives in this purity, undefiled and uncorrupted, will at last be crowned with the crown of truth and shine with the beauty of virtue.

‘But hear this also: if one begins the spiritual life without sorrow of heart, without true tears of repentance, without the memory of eternal judgment burning within him; if he does not hold to silence, unceasing prayer, psalmody, and the study of divine Scripture until they become second nature—engraved on his soul so that even against his will his mind is compelled toward them; if the fear of God does not reign in him—then such a one is still bound to the world and cannot pray with a pure heart. For only reverence and the fear of God cleanse the soul of passions. Only then is the mind set free to do what is most natural to it: to contemplate God, and to taste the blessing of which Christ spoke: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. For the one who has received this vision, it becomes a pledge of what is to come, preserving his inner state unshaken.

‘Therefore, with all our strength, let us strive to live by the rule of the spiritual life. This life of virtue and holy struggle raises us into the purity of mind, and the fruit of that purity is contemplation—the natural work of the intellect. The practice of the rule is nothing less than the ascent itself, as Gregory the Theologian, filled with divine light, has said. If we neglect this practice, we estrange ourselves from true wisdom. Even the one who climbs to the height of virtue must continue to labor tirelessly, taming the impulses of the flesh, guarding his thoughts with exactness. And even then, it is only with effort and force that we make room for Christ to dwell within our hearts.

‘For the more we grow in righteousness, the stronger and more mature we become, until the mind at last is perfected. Then it clings wholly to God and is illumined by His divine light, which discloses mysteries beyond words. The mind comes to a true, intimate knowledge of all things—where wisdom dwells, where power abides, where the knowledge of all truth resides, where length of days and life itself are found, where the light of the eyes and perfect peace are given.’”

“For as long as a person still struggles with the passions, he cannot yet taste these delights. Both virtues and vices veil the mind—vices keep it from seeing virtue, and even virtues can keep it from recognizing its own hidden faults. But when the soul finds peace after its battles and is granted the gifts of the Spirit, then grace works upon it constantly. It is transfigured by light, lifted into a steady vision of spiritual realities. Such a soul is no longer chained to the things of this world, but has passed from death into life.

“The one who longs to live this way, who zealously seeks God, must keep both heart and lips pure. Then the words that rise from his mouth will also be pure, and they will glorify God rightly. For the soul that clings to God converses with Him continually.

“So let us desire this perfection of virtue. Let us cut the cords that bind us to the passions. The one who labors and comes near to God—who shares in His holy light and is wounded by love for Him—that person rejoices in a spiritual delight beyond words. As the psalmist says: Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart… He will make your righteousness shine like the light, and your justice like the noonday sun.

“And what love is stronger, more irresistible, than the love God pours into a soul cleansed of evil? It is such a soul that can cry with truth and purity: I am lovesick [Song of Songs 2:5]. The splendor of God’s beauty cannot be spoken. Words fall short; ears cannot contain the sound of it. The light of day, the brightness of the moon, the radiance of the sun—all are nothing in comparison. In the presence of that true light, even the noonday sun is dimmer than the darkest night before it. Saint Basil, marvelous among teachers, taught us this truth—for he himself had seen it with his own eyes.”

(20) The brother who lived with Abba Philemon shared many things, but he said this as well, which shows the elder’s deep humility. Though he had long ago been ordained a priest, and though his life and mind had already risen heavenward with sincerity, he still avoided serving at the altar. He considered it a heavy burden. In all his years of ascetic struggle, he rarely agreed to officiate at the Divine Liturgy. And even though he lived in constant watchfulness, he often refrained from receiving Communion if he had spoken with others beforehand—even when his words were only of spiritual benefit and not at all worldly.

When he did prepare to receive the Holy Mysteries, he gave himself first to long prayer, to psalmody, and to heartfelt confession, begging God for mercy. At the moment of hearing the words, The holy things are for the holy, he was seized with fear and awe. He would say that, in that moment, the whole church was filled with angels, and that the King Himself presided invisibly, consecrating the bread and wine as His own Body and Blood. And through Holy Communion, He came to dwell in our hearts.

For this reason, the elder would say, we must dare to approach the Mysteries only with purity and chastity—as though free from every tie of the flesh—and without doubt or hesitation, so that we might receive the light poured out through them. Many of the saints even saw angels guarding them after Communion, shielding them from all harm. It is for this reason they remained in silence afterward, speaking with no one.

(21) And here is something else the brother remembered: when the elder himself had to go out to sell the work of his hands, he would stand in silence and feign being simple-minded. In this way he avoided lies, oaths, idle talk, or any other sin that might arise from bargaining and conversation. Whoever wished to buy what he made would simply take it and give him whatever payment they chose.

This great lover of wisdom wove only small baskets, and whatever he received for them, he accepted with gratitude—without a word.

A Summary of the Teachings of the Fathers

In conclusion, here is a brief summary of what the Fathers teach us about prayer, and the conditions for it to bear fruit:

Constancy: the steady, regular repetition of the Jesus Prayer.

Attention: keeping the mind fixed on Christ, gently but firmly resisting all other thoughts.

Variations in praying: saying the Jesus Prayer in its full form or in a shorter form, as the heart is able.

Sequences in a rule of prayer: alternating prayer with psalmody, sitting in quiet, standing with arms lifted, returning again to the Jesus Prayer, and reading from the Fathers after meals.

Walking in the presence of God: living in constant awareness of His nearness, keeping Him in mind whatever you may be doing.

Renunciation of the world: remembering death often, reflecting on the sweetness of prayer, and letting go of attachment to worldly concerns.

Unceasing invocation of the Name of Jesus: doing so always, whether aloud in solitude or silently in the heart when among others.

Falling asleep: ending the day with the Jesus Prayer on your lips and in your heart.

Formal prayers: asking God directly for the gift of inner prayer, entreating Him to grant sincerity and zeal so that the heart itself may be lifted into prayer.

Therefore, O soul, if you desire to taste the interior prayer of the heart, if you long for unbroken union and the sweet companionship of Jesus Christ—come forward. Make your resolve, and put into practice these teachings of the holy Fathers.

1. Sit down—or better yet, stand—in a quiet, dimly lit corner, placing yourself in a posture of prayer.
2. Begin with a few prostrations, steadying the movements of your arms and legs.
3. With your imagination, find the place of the heart beneath your left breast, and set your attention there.
4. Draw your mind down from your head into your heart, and begin to pray: Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. Say the words softly with your lips, or silently within, whichever is easier. Speak them slowly, with reverence and holy fear.
5. As you do this, guard your attention as best you can. Do not allow any thoughts to enter—whether they seem bad or good.
6. Be calm, patient, and determined to stay with this for a long time, setting aside all else.
7. Do not strain beyond your strength, but use moderation. Kneel as often as you are able.
8. Keep silence.
9. After your meal, read from the Gospels, and also from the Fathers who speak of the hidden life of the heart and of prayer.
10. Sleep no more than five or six hours each day.
11. From time to time, test the growth of your prayer by reciting the formal prayers of the Church.
12. Do not take up any work that scatters the mind or leads to distraction.
13. Continually measure your own experience against the instructions of the holy Fathers.

Long ago the Prophet David cried out: Lord, strengthen my resolve. So must you, O my soul, cry out as well: Lord, grant me a steadfast will to keep watch! For both the desire and the strength to do it come from You. With Your help, may I cleanse my mind and heart through watchfulness, and prepare them as a dwelling place for You—the Triune God.