Orthodox America; Issue 9; Vol. I, No. 10
Many are the monastic citadels of Orthodoxy in Greece, Russia, and other lands, and in all of them the Resurrection of Christ is celebrated with special solemnity and festivity, undimmed by the worldly views that usually greet the worshipper in a city parish the moment he leaves the church building on Pascha. Here are three views of Pascha in Orthodox monasteries as it was lived in the 19th century and even up to our own times.
Pascha on Mt. Athos
A description by Constantine Leontiev, a l9th century Russian intellectual and philosopher who was awakened spiritually by his exposure to the thousand-year-old monastic life on Mount Athos.
The strict ascetical practices in most of the monasteries on Athos before the Paschal Festival reach such a point that it is frightening to think about it. Church services fill all day and all night. The taking of food is limited in the extreme. On certain days only the singers in the choir receive a piece of bread once or twice. During this time every-one on Athos must struggle with his body and spirit. When the Greeks greet one another at the commencement of the fast, they say: “I wish you success in swimming across the Lenten sea.” Indeed, the sea of hunger and sadness, of fatigue and forced prayer may not be foregone either by virtue of one’s own conscience or by the monastic regulations, except in cases of extreme exhaustion. In Passion Week the spiritual exertions of men for the glory of Christ and the honor of God become even more intense, the services longer, the food still more limited, the time for sleep and rest still shorter, and the examination of one’s conscience yet more merciless.
The last evening comes. Everywhere there is silence. The cells of the monks are closed; the corridors are quiet and the churches empty. The woods, the mountains, the sea–nowhere can human beings be seen. Then, exactly at midnight resound strong hammer strokes against a board. Suddenly the bells begin to ring powerfully and solemnly. Life springs into being. Doors bang and voices can be heard. Lights flicker everywhere. Illumined by hundreds of candles, the open churches glow. Everyone wakes up happy and full of joy. Even those who were most exhausted experience an inexplicable feeling of excitement. The swimming across the great sea of bodily privation and the sometimes almost unbearable struggles of the soul have ended. We have landed on a joyous, flowering shore. Christ is risen from the dead,. He has conquered death through death. The Paschal Liturgy on Athos lasts from midnight till dawn. Then all the monks go for a time to their cells but come back for an early service.
Vespers is celebrated together with the Greeks in the largest church of the Russian Monastery of St. Panteleimon. This church is high, majestic, stern, dark arid at the same time blinding with gold. The iconostasis is very, very high. The church is completely filled with light. Besides a massive chandelier there is a giant silver ring with a row of candles that draw a garland of light around the pyramid-shaped lights of the chandelier.
Between the lights of the chandelier and the ring hang countless oil lamps and candles. On great feast days the chandelier and the ring rotate. All this blaze Of candles and lamps, of gold and silver–blinds, gleams, sparkles and rotates as though silently rejoicing with the people in an unbroken, festal dance.
Then, the exclamation of the deacon:
That we may be worthy ,to hear the Holy Gospel, let us pray to the Lord. The reading from the Gospel of St. John.
It is the Gospel in Greek· The reading has scarcely ended when suddenly there resounds
a deafening ringing of bells …. Then a moment’s silence …. And in this sudden silence in the church, somewhere in the depths, we hear a strange but pleasant ringing sound as though large drops with musical tone were falling onto metal. The Greeks are striking with their small hammers against metal discs. And again silence.
Then an exclamation in Church Slavonic:
That we may be worthy to hear the Holy Gospel, let us pray to the Lord. The reading from the Gospel of St. John·..
The priest reads in Slavonic. Again, the solemn ringing.., and once again the soft beating of the metal discs. Let us attend. The Gospel in Turkish. After renewed ringing
·..once more the exclamation; Rome speaks:
Cum ergo sero esset die illo una sabbatorum~et fores essent clausae, ubi erant discipli …. (St. John 20:19)
Next I hear a language which I cannot understand. It is Albanian, the language of heros, terrible robbers and faithful servants.
Vespers ends. No more ringing is heard. In the paved court and along the long corridors between the monks’ cells again profound silence holds sway. For a long time I sit at the open window and look at sunny, golden, yellow, brown and white shrubs on the mountain side which is usually dark and bare but now seems to share our joy. I hear the soft tinkling of the bells on grazing donkeys. But other sounds overwhelm my soul on this evening: the exclamations and the ringing, the reading of the word of God, the different languages: Peace to you, Eirene humin, Pax vobiscum, Selam size.
The dark church, the stern appearance of the icons, the flashing gold and silver everywhere–the stillness, the ringing, the . singing–and the wonderful reading to which everyone devoted the closest attention, interrupted only now and again by a smile of joy or an expression or mild surprise. And above our heads in the dark space, the silent, joyous, unceasing dance of countless lights. Truly. this is the Festival of Festivals !
Over a thousand years old, Valaam Monastery is situated on the islands of Lake Ladoga in northern Russia, not far from the Finnish border. In addition to the main monastery there were many small monastic communities (sketes) scattered about the islands. Closed by the communists in 1939, Valaam has since been turned into a museum by the Soviets.
Here in the words of a righteous monk Abbot Philemon, is a glimpse of how he remembered Pascha on Old Valaam
Hardly anywhere else in our Holy Russia was the feast of Pascha celebrated so humbly and quietly as on Valaam. We were left t ourselves in the monastery, for no pilgrim could cross Lake Ladoga whose icy water were ferocious as at no other time of year Each skete had its own services. Only our (main) monastery, having spent the time of Great Lent in the usual labors, fasting an intensified prayer which began with everyone partaking of the Holy Mysteries (likewise o Passion week), would finally, unite on Holy Night in the basement church (of Sts. Sergius and Herman) in anticipation of the Light bearing Paschal Matins.
No one, of course, slept this night. The Acts of the Apostles was read; everyone who so desired took part. And there were man who crowded around the reading stand wanting to take a turn. Everyone would read a bit replacing one another. Twenty years in row I remember this service, and the preparations for it, the expectations and these solemn readings. How I also longed to read the Acts. And I would wait in line with the others, gradually nearing the sacred place But no! Every time something stopped me revealing the demon of vainglory. I didn’t have the courage, and so I never did read the Acts in the middle of the church in the Valaam Cathedral.
A fierce frost. Snow. Around us a wide strip of fragrant firs–darkening on the white path. Here the bannered procession will pass by; here it comes. Here and there bonfires, begin to flicker; they are made by our Finns, our monastery workers who love to light them in this day. Soon will burst forth our thousand-year-old Valaam singing, grand but simple, of the Paschal troparion–I can hear t now! The cathedral is lit with candles and sparkles with gold. The mighty Valaam bells burst out in solemn peals. And a long line of vested clergy shines with gold. The soul trembles and melts before this mighty splendor in glorification of the Risen God, by us poor and humble ones…
Unutterable was the feeling of contrition and awe in which I stood through this service, really going upstairs to the choir loft from here everything could be seen better. Only the last year, already in the rank of deacon, was in the altar–and I must admit, it some how hurt me to be too close to the awesome beauty of what was performed: I didn’t know where to stand, to whom to go for a blessing t order to get vested…I lost peace in trifles..,
The service was conducted at a brisk pace, everyone sang the canon, even the “simpletons.”
Then came the long line of congratulatory brethren, greeting one another with a triple kiss, all servers holding icons, headed by the abbot. Everyone exchanges the Paschal embrace with a kiss. Hundreds, over a thousand monks line up. The first to greet you with “Christ is risen!” is the abbot, while his cell-attendant hands you an egg, and then all the brethren.
Liturgy is conducted strictly, according the typicon, but at a quick pace, joyous and light. There’s scarcely time to take it in before it is all over. Then everybody goes to the refectory to break the fast, solemnly following the abbot in pairs according rank, carrying the holy artos , [A special bread with a cross signifying Christ as the Heavenly Bread (John 6:33)] the singers preceded by those carrying the banners–and it is during the entire week. On the tables · there is a second egg for everyone (these are the only eggs the Valaam monk sees during the entire year), kulich and cheese pascha-but not very much; the Valaam monk’s fast is strict, and even on the Great Feast of Pascha, he consoles himself with little,
Day breaks–the light-bearing Resurrection of Christ! On Valaam it is very special –we are all alone! And everyone is left to himself. The pealing of bells is uninterrupted; everyone is welcome to go and ring. But even here, not once did I make it to the belfry.
I was drawn rather into the expansive wilds of nature, hastening to visit all around –what beauty, what grace abounded! Once you came out to the shore of the lake, you held your breath upon beholding the grandeur of the breaking ice on the wide surface of the lake. And how apparent here was the feeling of our solitude! our being cut off from the world. Then I’d visit all the chapels; there were many of them scattered about. There we’d sing “Christ is risen”, either together with someone else, or alone. Besides ourselves, the brethren, there was no one anywhere.
This state of freedom was so unusual! There was no need to hurry anywhere, to rush; one was not afraid to be late to some obedience, or to miss anything. There was only one day like this in the whole year, long and full, 1asting without end–you can go everywhere, wherever you want, and you feast on it endlessly, wandering and walking to your heart’s content, the soul rejoicing.
At approximately 3 o’clock, a bell is rung, its peculiar short rings calling everyone to tea. At this time many come from the sketes also. Tea is served with milk: three pieces of lump sugar, bread, sweet bread–eat, drink as much as you want.
For the next several days the service is conducted in various churches; the Risen Lord must be glorified everywhere. The service on the third day after Pascha is held in the upper church of the Cathedral. [This church was used only in summer and was unheated.] Everyone dresses as warmly as possible. Clouds of vapor rise from the mouths of the singers. I don’t know how the Holy Gifts do not freeze–it’s so terribly cold ! But the Paschal service proceeds very briskly.
Oh, that Light-bearing joy of Valaam! Oh, that holy Russian simplicity, the thousand-year-old austere simplicity, faithful to its poverty and humility, and magnificent in its triumphant celebration of the Resurrected Christ !
The snow still glistens on the fields and in the dark evergreen forest, where the sun’s rays cannot so easily penetrate, winter still ~ seems to reign, But the noise of rushing water on all sides betrays the truth. The succulent green moss and majestic firs saturated with the spring dampness, give off ‘something just like church incense, the fragrance of a new, rapidly approaching spring. The birches stand as though lifeless, awaiting the secret summons of nature, in order all at once to clothe themselves in spring’s green apparel…’ And suddenly, the entire Sarov forest resounds with the ringing peals of the Paschal bells, whose sound carries from the Holy Monastery, from the churches of the holy Sarov Hermitage, echoing in the surrounding fields, forests, groves, towns and villages.
Throughout the Motherland of Holy Russia the sound of Paschal bells once rang out, proclaiming the joy of Christ’s Resurrection, and promising the universal resurrection. It was then that mighty men of God worked out their salvation in the Sarov forests. Like “a homeless wanderer, the deser’t-dweller” Mark wandered at night among the oak groves which resounded with his continual singing: “Having beheld the Resurrection of Christ…” He said that he felt a special unearthly joy at this time, when all of nature was silent; that at no other time did prayer ascend so easily to God than at this time of peace and quiet. In a solitary cell, the spirit-bearing Elder Nazarius (+1808) ended his days; having gathered on Valaam a whole army of spiritual warriors, and now, beside the river Sarovka, he was at rest already in another world.
Further along the same river, Saint Seraphim, the joy of Holy Russia, for many years : struggled on the path of salvation. How much was thought out, how much was prayed through, in this green “desert”. There also, in a small secluded hut, from the age of 12, the future missionary to America, St. Herman, conducted his spiritual struggles as a cell attendant to the ascetic Elder Varlaam.
There also lived the clairvoyant Anthony of Murom (+1855), a friend of the great Seraphim, and Jonah of Kiev (+1902) who, as a youth, lived in a hut near St. Seraphim. Likewise the restorer of Sanaxar Monastery, Theodore (+1791) who resembled the ancient desert fathers, and Theophan of New Lake (+1832) in his youth, and Moses (+1868), one of the founders of Optina Hermitage, and many others.
All of these friends of God; entirely immersed themselves in the stillness of their hearts, and there beheld the true nature of first-created Adam, that natural state of man, that magnificent and God-like dweller of paradise, for whose sake the whole world was created, a stranger to corruption and death. Carefully watching over themselves in the depth of the forest solitude, these wondrous elders studied through their own experience, all the various movements of the heart, the center of human life. Working to uproot all evil and to plant virtue, they illumined their souls with the know1edge of God. Before their inner sight were opened the mysteries of the invisible world, and they were able to discern what was good and what was evil. How did these spirit-filled elders who exhausted themselves so, experience in their hearts Christ’s Resurrection? Is it possible, even dimly, to apprehend what the soul of a righteous man experiences who has worn himself out with relentless cleansing of his soul–when touched by the bright rays of the rising Sun of Righteousness?
The stars grow dim in the dawning Sarov sky. The dark forest and oak groves reverberate with the turbulent sounds of the life-bearing spring. With the ringing of church bells and the jubilant rejoicing of human hearts, there rises over the sinful earth the splendor of the dawn of Christ’s Resurrection.
Christ is Risen!
Christ Is Risen, O fathers of Sarov!
Christ Is Risen, O Much-suffering Russian land!
But in Russia, Sarov is no more. No one will answer the Paschal greeting. On the holy grounds of Sarov, there was until recently an abomination of desolation, a concentration camp of 20th century slaves and the graves of the monks – innocent sufferers awaiting the general resurrection. One person timidly remarks: There beyond the forest, protected by a dense thicket, rests a forgotten cemetery, deprived of its crosses. The anonymous boards gaze into the cloudy sky. Forsaken by all, the dead quietly narrate to the distant stars, the unending story of their sufferings – the story of unknown people whose lives were discarded as worthless. Around our barracks stood like a wall the thick green of the swaying birches – the unique and unforgettable thick forest of Sarov. All of us involuntarily felt the invisible strength and grace – giving proximity of the Holy Monastery. St. Seraphim himself appeared once in the forest on the road in Soviet times to a prisoner-monk, when his strength had given out under his heavy load and he could go no further. Almost all the believers among the prisoners midst of the severest trials, they felt his protection, At first it was proposed to build a concentration camp in the monastery, But such a spirit of depression fell upon the workers who were sent there from the “special ‘ department”, so many cases of suicide arose among them, that the authorities moved the camp to another location, and in the monastery they built a home for the children of prisoners. They say that at night the children often see the elder in a white peasant’s coat and a short black mantia.” (Memoirs of Nun Veronica, St. Vladimir’s Calendar for 1973)
In another account concerning the new martyr, Abbot Barsanouphius, an organizer of the Josephite catacombs, we read the following: “In Sarov he was beaten until he was half dead; when be came out of the camp he was a completely bent-over invalid who could not walk without crutches, It was hard to recognize the still not so old, well-built, tall batiushka, Father Barsanouphius. After his beating, the Lord granted him the great gift of inner spiritual sight. Likewise, during a time of severe illness, it was as though he were transported into another realm; he had a whole series of visions, which he related as undoubted confirmations of the life to come.” (Russia’s New Martyrs, Fr. Michael Polsky; Vol. II, 1957.)
There is no death in God! All. are alive in God. Christ is Risen and Life Reigns! And although the sufferings of crucified Russia have in no way diminished to this very day, nevertheless it is with new strength that there come forth sounds of an unmistakable, strong renewal. Do you hear, does the sound carry? Is this not the sound of a Paschal spring?
Yes! A great ascetic of our Russian Church Abroad, Archbishop Vitaly of Jordanville, said:
“These are isolated splashes of an awakening national will to freedom. They are now penetrating the, mass, just as the rays of the spring sun Penetrate the frozen earth. They melt the icy fetters of winter; they tear and carry off the ice which binds and deadens the life of the people; just as the spring torrents of the beloved Volga and the wide Dniepr carry and smash into small pieces the ice floes of winter.” (“Motifs of My Life”, Archbishop Vitaly; Holy Trinity Monastery, Jordanville, NY,’ 1958)
Monk Herman, Pascha 1974