Part 1
By the grace of God I am a Christian man, by my actions a great sinner, and by
calling a homeless wanderer of the humblest birth who roams from place to place. My
worldly goods are a knapsack with some dried bread in it on my back, and in my
breast pocket a Bible. And that is all.
On the twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost I went to church to say my prayers there
during the liturgy. The first Epistle of St. Paul to the Thessalonians was being read,
and among other words I heard these—"Pray without ceasing." It was this text, more
than any other, which forced itself upon my mind, and I began to think how it was
possible to pray without ceasing, since a man has to concern himself with other
things also in order to make a living. I looked at my Bible and with my own eyes read
the words which I had heard, that is, that we ought always, at all times and in all
places, to pray with uplifted hands. I thought and thought, but knew not what to make
of it. "What ought I to do?" I thought. "Where shall I find someone to explain it to me?
I will go to the churches where famous preachers are to be heard; perhaps there I
shall hear something that will throw light on it for me." I did so. I heard a number of
very fine sermons on prayer—what prayer is, how much we need it, and what its
fruits are—but no one said how one could succeed in prayer. I heard a sermon on
spiritual prayer, and unceasing prayer, but how it was to be done was not pointed
out.
Thus listening to sermons failed to give me what I wanted, and having had my fill of
them without gaining understanding, I gave up going to hear public sermons. I settled
on another plan—by God's help to look for some experienced and skilled person who
would give me in conversation that teaching about unceasing prayer which drew me
so urgently. For a long time I wandered through many places. I read my Bible always,
and everywhere I asked whether there was not in the neighborhood a spiritual
teacher, a devout and experienced guide, to be found. One day I was told that in a
certain village a gentleman had long been living and seeking the salvation of his soul.
He had a chapel in his house. He never left his estate, and he spent his time in
prayer and reading devotional books. Hearing this, I ran rather than walked to the
village named. I got there and found him.
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"What do you want of me?" he asked.
"I have heard that you are a devout and clever person," said I. "In God's name
please explain to me the meaning of the Apostle's words, 'Pray without ceasing.' How
is it possible to pray without ceasing? I want to know so much, but I cannot
understand it at all."
He was silent for a while and looked at me closely. Then he said, "Ceaseless
interior prayer is a continual yearning of the human spirit toward God. To succeed in
this consoling exercise we must pray more often to God to teach us to pray without
ceasing. Pray more, and pray more fervently. It is prayer itself which will reveal to you
how it can be achieved unceasingly; but it will take some time."
So saying, he had food brought to me, gave me money for my journey, and let me
go. He did not explain the matter.
Again I set off. I thought and thought, I read and read, I dwelt over and over again
upon what this man had said to me, but I could not get to the bottom of it. Yet so
greatly did I wish to understand that I could not sleep at night. I walked at least 125
miles, and then I came to a large town, a provincial capital, where I saw a monastery.
At the inn where I stopped I heard it said that the abbot was a man of great kindness,
devout and hospitable. I went to see him. He met me in a very friendly manner, asked
me to sit down, and offered me refreshment.
"I do not need refreshment, holy Father," I said, "but I beg you to give me some
spiritual teaching. How can I save my soul?"
"What? Save your soul? Well, live according to the commandments; say your
prayers and you will be saved."
"But I hear it said that we should pray without ceasing, and I don't know how to
pray without ceasing. I cannot even understand what unceasing prayer means. I beg
you, Father, explain this to me."
"I don't know how to explain further, dear brother. But, stop a moment, I have a
little book, and it is explained there." And he handed me St. Dmitri's book, on The
Spiritual Education of the Inner Man, saying, "Look, read this page."
I began to read as follows: "The words of the Apostle, 'Pray without ceasing,'
should be understood as referring to the creative prayer of the understanding. The
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understanding can always be reaching out toward God and praying to Him
unceasingly."
"But," I asked, "What is the method by which the understanding can always be
turned toward God, never be disturbed, and pray without ceasing?"
"It is very difficult, even for one to whom God Himself gives such a gift," replied
the abbot. He did not give me the explanation. I spent the night at his house, and in
the morning, thanking him for his kindly hospitality, I went on my way—where to, I did
not know myself. My failure to understand made me sad, and by way of comforting
myself I read my Bible. In this way I followed the main road for five days.
At last toward evening I was overtaken by an old man who looked like a cleric of
some sort. In answer to my question he told me that he was a monk belonging to a
monastery some six miles off the main road. He asked me to go there with him. "We
take in pilgrims," said he, "and give them rest and food with devout persons in the
guesthouse." I did not feel like going. So in reply I said that my peace of mind in no
way depended upon my finding a resting place, but upon finding spiritual teaching.
Neither was I running after food, for I had plenty of dried bread in my knapsack.
"What sort of spiritual teaching are you wanting to get?" he asked me. "What is it
puzzling you? Come now! Do come to our house, dear brother. We have startsi1 of
ripe experience well able to give guidance to your soul and to set it upon the true
path, in the light of the Word of God and the writings of the holy Fathers." "Well, it's
like this, Father," said I. "About a year ago, while I was at the liturgy, I heard a
passage from the Epistles which bade men to pray without ceasing. Failing to
understand, I began to read my Bible, and there also in many places I found the
divine command that we ought to pray at all times, in all places; not only while about
our business, not only while awake, but even during sleep—'1 sleep, but my heart
waketh.' This surprised me very much and I was at a loss to understand how it could
be carried out and in what way it was to be done.
A burning desire and thirst for knowledge awoke in me. Day and night the matter was
never out of my mind. So I began to go to churches and to listen to sermons. But
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however many I heard, from not one of them did I get any teaching about how to pray
without ceasing. They always talked about getting ready for prayer, or about its fruits
and the like, without teaching one how to pray without ceasing, or what such prayer
means. 1 have often read the Bible and there made sure of what 1 have heard. But
meanwhile I have not reached the understanding that I long for, and so to this hour I
am still uneasy and in doubt."
Then the old man crossed himself and spoke. "Thank God, my dear brother, for
having revealed to you this unappeasable desire for unceasing interior prayer.
Recognize in it the call of God, and calm yourself. Rest assured that what has
hitherto been accomplished in you is the testing of the harmony of your own will with
the voice of God. It has been granted to you to understand that the heavenly light of
unceasing interior prayer is attained neither by the wisdom of this world, nor by the
mere outward desire for knowledge, but that on the contrary it is found in poverty of
spirit and in active experience in simplicity of heart. That is why it is not surprising
that you have been unable to hear anything about the essential work of prayer, and
to acquire the knowledge by which ceaseless activity in it is attained. Doubtless a
great deal has been preached about prayer, and there is much about it in the
teaching of various writers. But since for the most part all their reasonings are based
upon speculation and the working of natural wisdom, and not upon active experience,
they sermonize about the qualities of prayer rather than about the nature of the thing
itself. One argues beautifully about the necessity of prayer, another about its power
and the blessings which attend it, a third again about the things which lead to
perfection in prayer, that is, about the absolute necessity of zeal, an attentive mind,
warmth of heart, purity of thought, reconciliation with one's enemies, humility,
contrition, and so on. But what is prayer? And how does one learn to pray? Upon
these questions, primary and essential as they are, one very rarely gets any precise
enlightenment from present-day preachers. For these questions are more difficult to
understand than all their arguments that I have just spoken of, and they require
mystical knowledge, not simply the learning of the schools. And the most deplorable
thing of all is that the vain wisdom of the world compels them to apply the human
standard to the divine. Many people reason quite the wrong way round about prayer,
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thinking that good actions and all sorts of preliminary measures render us capable of
prayer. But quite the reverse is the case; it is prayer which bears fruit in good works
and all the virtues. Those who reason so take, incorrectly, the fruits and the results of
prayer for the means of attaining it, and this is to depreciate the power of prayer. And
it is quite contrary to Holy Scripture, for the Apostle Paul says, 'I exhort therefore that
first of all supplications be made' (1 Tim. 2:1). The first thing laid down in the
Apostle's words about prayer is that the work of prayer comes before everything else:
'1 exhort therefore that first of all ... ' The Christian is bound to perform many good
works, but before all else what he ought to do is to pray, for without prayer no other
good work whatever can be accomplished. Without prayer he cannot find the way to
the Lord, he cannot understand the truth, he cannot crucify the flesh with its passions
and lusts, his heart cannot be enlightened with the light of Christ, he cannot be
savingly united to God. None of those things can be effected unless they are
preceded by constant prayer. I say 'constant,' for the perfection of prayer does not lie
within our power; as the Apostle Paul says, 'For we know not what we should pray for
as we ought' (Rom. 8:26). Consequently it is just to pray often, to pray always, which
falls within our power as the means of attaining purity of prayer, which is the mother
of all spiritual blessings. 'Capture the mother, and she will bring you the children,'
said St. Isaac the Syrian. Learn first to acquire the power of prayer and you will easily
practice all the other virtues. But those who know little of this from practical
experience and the profoundest teaching of the holy Fathers have no clear
knowledge of it and speak of it but little."
During this talk, we had almost reached the monastery. And so as not to lose touch
with this wise old man and to get what I wanted more quickly, I hastened to say, "Be
so kind, reverend Father, as to show me what prayer without ceasing means and
how it is learnt. I see you know all about these things."
He took my request kindly and asked me into his cell. "Come in," said he. "I will
give you a volume of the holy Fathers from which with God's help you can learn
about prayer clearly and in detail."
We went into his cell and he began to speak as follows. "The continuous interior
prayer of Jesus is a constant uninterrupted calling upon the divine name of Jesus
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with the lips, in the spirit, in the heart, while forming a mental picture of His constant
presence, and imploring His grace, during every occupation, at all times, in all places,
even during sleep. The appeal is couched in these terms, 'Lord Jesus Christ, have
mercy on me.' One who accustoms himself to this appeal experiences as a result so
deep a consolation and so great a need to offer the prayer always that he can no
longer live without it, and it will continue to voice itself within him of its own accord.
Now do you understand what prayer without ceasing is?"
"Yes indeed, Father, and in God's name teach me how to gain the habit of it," I
cried, filled with joy.
"Read this book," he said. "It is called The Philokalia,1 and it contains the full and
detailed science of constant interior prayer, set forth by twenty-five holy Fathers. The
book is marked by a lofty wisdom and is so profitable to use that it is considered the
foremost and best manual of the contemplative spiritual life. As the revered
Nicephorus said, 'It leads one to salvation without labor and sweat.'"
"Is it then more sublime and holy than the Bible?" I asked.
"No, it is not that. But it contains clear explanations of what the Bible holds in
secret and which cannot be easily grasped by our shortsighted understanding. I will
give you an illustration. The sun is the greatest, the most resplendent, and the most
wonderful of heavenly luminaries, but you cannot contemplate and examine it simply
with unprotected eyes. You have to use a piece of artificial glass that is many millions
of times smaller and darker than the sun. But through this little piece of glass you can
examine the magnificent monarch of stars, delight in it, and endure its fiery rays. Holy
Scripture also is a dazzling sun, and this book, The Philokalia, is the piece of glass
which we use to enable us to contemplate the sun in its imperial splendor. Listen
now: I am going to read you the sort of instruction it gives on unceasing interior
prayer."
He opened the book, found the instruction by St. Simeon the new theologian, and
read: " 'Sit down alone and in silence. Lower your head, shut your eyes, breathe
out gently, and imagine yourself looking into your own heart. Carry your mind, that is,
your thoughts, from your head to your heart. As you breathe out, say "Lord Jesus
Christ, have mercy on me." Say it moving your lips gently, or simply say it in your
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mind. Try to put all other thoughts aside. Be calm, be patient, and repeat the process
very frequently.'"
The old man explained all this to me and illustrated its meaning. We went on reading
from The Philokalia passages of St. Gregory of Sinai, St. Callistus, and St. Ignatius,
and what we read from the book the starets explained in his own words. I listened
closely and with great delight, fixed it in my memory, and tried as far as possible to
remember every detail. In this way we spent the whole night together and went to
matins without having slept at all.The starets sent me away with his blessing and told
me that while learning the prayer I must always come back to him and tell him
everything, making a very frank confession and report; for the inward process could
not go on properly and successfully without the guidance of a teacher.
In church I felt a glowing eagerness to take all the pains I could to learn unceasing
interior prayer, and I prayed to God to come to my help. Then I began to wonder how
I should manage to see my starets again for counsel or confession, since leave was
not given to remain for more than three days in the monastery guesthouse, and there
were no houses near. However, I learned that there was a village between two and
three miles from the monastery. I went there to look for a place to live, and to my
great happiness God showed me the thing I needed. A peasant hired me for the
whole summer to look after his kitchen garden, and what is more gave me the use of
a little thatched hut in it where I could live alone. God be praised! I had found a quiet
place. And in this manner I took up my abode and began to learn interior prayer in
the way I had been shown, and to go to see my starets from time to time.
For a week, alone in my garden, I steadily set myself to learn to pray without ceasing
exactly as the starets had explained. At first things seemed to go very well. But then it
tired me very much. I felt lazy and bored and overwhelmingly sleepy, and a cloud of
all sorts of other thoughts closed round me. I went in distress to my starets and told
him the state I was in.
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He greeted me in a friendly way and said, "My dear brother, it is the attack of the
world of darkness upon you. To that world, nothing is worse than heartfelt prayer on
our part. And it is trying by every means to hinder you and to turn you aside from
learning the prayer. But all the same the enemy does only what God sees fit to allow,
and no more than is necessary for us. It would appear that you need a further testing
of your humility, and that it is too soon, therefore, for your unmeasured zeal to
approach the loftiest entrance to the heart. You might fall into spiritual covetousness.
I will read you a little instruction from The Philokalia upon such cases."
He turned to the teaching of Nicephorus and read, " 'If after a few attempts you do
not succeed in reaching the realm of your heart in the way you have been taught, do
what I am about to say, and by God's help you will find what you seek. The faculty of
pronouncing words lies in the throat. Reject all other thoughts (you can do this if you
will) and allow that faculty to repeat only the following words constantly, "Lord Jesus
Christ, have mercy on me." Compel yourself to do it always. If you succeed for a
time, then without a doubt your heart also will open to prayer. We know it from
experience.'
"There you have the teaching of the holy Fathers on such cases," said my starets,
"and therefore you ought from today onward to carry out my directions with
confidence, and repeat the prayer of Jesus as often as possible. Here is a rosary.
Take it, and to start with say the prayer three thousand times a day. Whether you are
standing or sitting, walking or lying down, continually repeat 'Lord Jesus Christ, have
mercy on me.' Say it quietly and without hurry, but without fail exactly three thousand
times a day without deliberately increasing or diminishing the number. God will help
you and by this means you will reach also the unceasing activity of the heart." I gladly
accepted this guidance and went home and began to carry out faithfully and exactly
what my starets had bidden. For two days I found it rather difficult, but after that it
became so easy and likeable, that as soon as I stopped, I felt a sort of need to go on
saying the prayer of Jesus, and I did it freely and willingly, not forcing myself to it as
before. I reported to my starets, and he bade me say the prayer six thousand times a
day, saying, "Be calm, just try as faithfully as possible to carry out the set number of
prayers. God will vouchsafe you His grace."
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In my lonely hut I said the prayer of Jesus six thousand times a day for a whole
week. I felt no anxiety. Taking no notice of any other thoughts however much they
assailed me, I had but one object, to carry out my starets's bidding exactly. And what
happened? I grew so used to my prayer that when I stopped for a single moment I
felt, so to speak, as though something were missing, as though I had lost something.
The very moment I started the prayer again, it went on easily and joyously. If I met
anyone I had no wish to talk to him. All I wanted was to be alone and to say my
prayer, so used to it had I become in a week.
My starets had not seen me for ten days. On the eleventh day he came to see me
himself, and I told him how things were going. He listened and said, "Now you have
got used to the prayer. See that you preserve the habit and strengthen it. Waste no
time, therefore, but make up your mind by God's help from today to say the prayer of
Jesus twelve thousand times a day. Remain in your solitude, get up early, go to bed
late, and come and ask advice of me every fortnight."
I did as he bade me. The first day I scarcely succeeded in finishing my task of saying
twelve thousand prayers by late evening. The second day I did it easily and
contentedly. To begin with, this ceaseless saying of the prayer brought a certain
amount of weariness, my tongue felt numbed, I had a stiff sort of feeling in my jaws, I
had a feeling at first pleasant but afterward slightly painful in the roof of my mouth.
The thumb of my left hand, with which I counted my beads, hurt a little. I felt a slight
inflammation in the whole of that wrist, and even up to the elbow, which was not
unpleasant. Moreover, all this aroused me, as it were, and urged me on to frequent
saying of the prayer. For five days I did my set number of twelve thousand prayers,
and as I formed the habit I found at the same time pleasure and satisfaction in it.
Early one morning the prayer woke me up as it were. I started to say my usual
morning prayers, but my tongue refused to say them easily or exactly. My whole
desire was fixed upon one thing only—to say the prayer of Jesus, and as soon as I
went on with it I was filled with joy and relief. It was as though my lips and my tongue
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pronounced the words entirely of themselves without any urging from me. I spent the
whole day in a state of the greatest contentment. I felt as though I was cut off from
everything else. I lived as though in another world, and I easily finished my twelve
thousand prayers by the early evening. I felt very much like still going on with them,
but I did not dare to go beyond the number my starets had set me. Every day
following I went on in the same way with my calling on the name of Jesus Christ, and
that with great readiness and liking. Then I went to see my starets and told him
everything frankly and in detail.
He heard me out and then said, "Be thankful to God that this desire for the prayer
and this facility in it have been manifested in you. It is a natural consequence which
follows constant effort and spiritual achievement. So a machine to the principal wheel
of which one gives a drive works for a long while afterward by itself; but if it is to go
on working still longer, one must oil it and give it another drive. Now you see with
what admirable gifts God in His love for mankind has endowed even the bodily nature
of man. You see what feelings can be produced even outside a state of grace in a
soul which is sinful and with passions unsubdued, as you yourself have experienced.
But how wonderful, how delightful, and how consoling a thing it is when God is
pleased to grant the gift of self-acting spiritual prayer, and to cleanse the soul from all
sensuality! It is a condition which is impossible to describe, and the discovery of this
mystery of prayer is a foretaste on earth of the bliss of heaven. Such happiness is
reserved for those who seek after God in the simplicity of a loving heart. Now I give
you my permission to say your prayer as often as you wish and as often as you can.
Try to devote every moment you are awake to the prayer, call on the name of Jesus
Christ without counting the number of times, and submit yourself humbly to the will of
God, looking to Him for help. I am sure He will not forsake you and that He will lead
you into the right path."
Under this guidance I spent the whole summer in ceaseless oral prayer to Jesus
Christ, and I felt absolute peace in my soul. During sleep I often dreamed that I was
saying the prayer. And during the day if I happened to meet anyone, all men without
exception were as dear to me as if they had been my nearest relations. But I did not
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concern myself with them much. All my ideas were quite calmed of their own accord.
I thought of nothing whatever but my prayer. My mind tended to listen to it, and my
heart began of itself to feel at times a certain warmth and pleasure. If I happened to
go to church, the lengthy service of the monastery seemed short to me and no longer
wearied me as it had in time past. My lonely hut seemed like a splendid palace, and I
knew not how to thank God for having sent to me, a lost sinner, so wholesome a
guide and master.
But I was not long to enjoy the teaching of my dear starets, who was so full of divine
wisdom. He died at the end of the summer. Weeping freely I bade him farewell and
thanked him for the fatherly teaching he had given my wretched self, and as a
blessing and a keepsake I begged for the rosary with which he said his prayers.
And so I was left alone. Summer came to an end and the kitchen garden was
cleared. I had no longer anywhere to live. My peasant sent me away, giving me by
way of wages two rubles, and filling up my bag with dried bread for my journey. Again
I started off on my wanderings. But now I did not walk along as before, filled with
care. The calling upon the name of Jesus Christ gladdened my way. Everybody was
kind to me; it was as though everyone loved me.Then it occurred to me to wonder
what I was to do with the money I had earned by my care of the kitchen garden. What
good was it to me? Yet stay! I no longer had a starets; there was no one to go on
teaching me. Why not buy The Philokalia and continue to learn from it more about
interior prayer?
I crossed myself and set off with my prayer. I came to a large town, where I asked for
the book in all the shops. In the end I found it, but they asked me three rubles for it,
and I had only two. I bargained for a long time, but the shopkeeper would not budge
an inch. Finally he said, "Go to this church nearby, and speak to the churchwarden.
He has a book like that, but it's a very old copy. Perhaps he will let you have it for two
rubles." I went, and sure enough I found and bought for my two rubles a worn and old
copy of The Philokalia. I was delighted with it. I mended my book as much as I could,
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I made a cover for it with a piece of cloth, and put it into my breast pocket with my
Bible.
And that is how I go about now, and ceaselessly repeat the prayer of Jesus, which is
more precious and sweet to me than anything in the world. At times I do as much as
forty-three or four miles a day and do not feel that I am walking at all. I am aware only
of the fact that I am saying my prayer. When the bitter cold pierces me, I begin to say
my prayer more earnestly, and I quickly get warm all over. When hunger begins to
overcome me, I call more often on the name of Jesus, and I forget my wish for food.
When I fall ill and get rheumatism in my back and legs, I fix my thoughts on the
prayer and do not notice the pain. If anyone harms me I have only to think, "How
sweet is the prayer of Jesus!" and the injury and the anger alike pass away and I
forget it all. I have become a sort of half-conscious person. I have no cares and no
interests. The fussy business of the world I would not give a glance to. The one thing
I wish for is to be alone, and all by myself to pray, to pray without ceasing; and doing
this, I am filled with joy. God knows what is happening to me! Of course, all this is
sensuous, or as my departed starets said, an artificial state that follows naturally
upon routine. But because of my unworthiness and stupidity I dare not venture yet to
go on further and learn and make my own spiritual prayer within the depths of my
heart. I await God's time. And in the meanwhile I rest my hope on the prayers of my
departed starets. Thus, although I have not yet reached that ceaseless spiritual
prayer which is self-acting in the heart, yet I thank God I do now understand the
meaning of those words I heard in the Epistle—"Pray without ceasing."
I WANDERED ABOUT for a long time in different districts, having for my fellow-
traveler the prayer of Jesus, which heartened and consoled me in all my journeys, in
all my meetings with other people, and in all the happenings of travel. But I came to
feel at last that it would be better for me to stay in some one place, in order to be
alone more often, so as to be able to keep by myself and study The Philokalia.
Although I read it whenever I found shelter for the night or rested during the day, yet I
greatly wished to go more and more deeply into it, and with faith and heartfelt prayer
to learn from it teaching about the truth for the salvation of my soul.
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However, in spite of all my wishes, I could nowhere find any work that I was able to
do, for I had lost the use of my left arm when quite a child. Seeing that because of
this I should not be able to get myself a fixed abode, I made up my mind to go into
Siberia to the tomb of St. Innocent of Irkutsk. My idea was that in the forests and
steppes of Siberia I should travel in greater silence and therefore in a way that was
better for prayer and reading. And this journey I undertook, all the while saying my
oral prayer without stopping.
After no great lapse of time I had the feeling that the prayer had, so to speak, by its
own action passed from my lips to my heart. That is to say, it seemed as though my
heart in its ordinary beating began to say the words of the prayer within at each beat.
Thus for example, one, "Lord," two, "Jesus," three, "Christ," and so on. I gave up
saying the prayer with my lips. I simply listened carefully to what my heart was
saying. It seemed as though my eyes looked right down into it; and I dwelt upon the
words of my departed starets when he was telling me about this joy. Then I felt
something like a slight pain in my heart, and in my thoughts so great a love for Jesus
Christ that I pictured myself, if only I could see Him, throwing myself at His feet and
not letting them go from my embrace, kissing them tenderly, and thanking Him with
tears for having of His love and grace allowed me to find so great a consolation in His
Name, me, His unworthy and sinful creature! Further there came into my heart a
gracious warmth which spread through my whole breast. This moved me to a still
closer reading of The Philokalia in order to test my feelings, and to make a thorough
study of the business of secret prayer in the heart. For without such testing I was
afraid of falling a victim to the mere charm of it, or of taking natural effects for the
effects of grace, and of giving way to pride at my quick learning of the prayer. It was
of this danger that I had heard my departed starets speak. For this reason I took to
walking more by night and chose to spend my days reading The Philokalia sitting
down under a tree in the forest. Ah! What wisdom, such as I had never known before,
was shown me by this reading! Giving myself up to it I felt a delight which till then I
had never been able to imagine. It is true that many places were still beyond the
grasp of my dull mind. But my prayer in the heart brought with it the clearing up of
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things I did not understand. Sometimes also, though very rarely, I saw my departed
starets in a dream, and he threw light upon many things, and, most of all, guided my
ignorant soul more and more toward humility.
In this blissful state I passed more than two months of the summer. For the most part
I went through the forests and along bypaths. When I came to a village I asked only
for a bag of dried bread and a handful of salt. I filled my bark jar with water, and so on
for another sixty miles or so.
Toward the end of the summer temptation began to attack me, perhaps as a result of
the sins on my wretched soul, perhaps as something needed in the spiritual life,
perhaps as the best way of giving me teaching and experience. A clear case in point
was the following. One day when I came out on to the main road as twilight was
falling, two men with shaved heads who looked like a couple of soldiers came up to
me. They demanded money. When I told them that I had not a farthing on me, they
would not believe me, and shouted insolently, "You're lying, pilgrims always pick up
lots of money."
"What's the good of arguing with him!" said one of them, and gave me such a blow
on the head with his oak cudgel that I dropped senseless. I do not know whether I
remained senseless long, but when I came to I found myself lying in the forest by the
roadside, robbed. My knapsack had gone; all that was left of it were the cords from
which it hung, which they had cut. Thank God they had not stolen my passport, which
I carried in my old fur cap so as to be able to show it as quickly as possible on
demand. I got up weeping bitterly, not so much on account of the pain in my head as
for the loss of my books, the Bible and The Philokalia, which were in the stolen
knapsack.
Day and night I did not cease to weep and lament. Where was it now, my Bible which
I had always carried with me, and which I had always read from my youth onward?
Where was my Philokalia, from which I had gained so much teaching and
consolation? Oh unhappy me, to have lost the first and last treasures of my life
16:
before having had my fill of them! It would have been better to be killed outright than
to live without this spiritual food. For I should never be able to replace the books now.
For two days I just dragged myself along, I was so crushed by the weight of my
misfortune. On the third I quite reached the end of my strength, and dropping down in
the shelter of a bush I fell asleep. And then I had a dream. I was back at the
monastery in the cell of my starets, deploring my loss. The old man was trying to
comfort me. He said, "Let this be a lesson to you in detachment from earthly things,
for your better advance toward heaven. This has been allowed to happen to you to
save you from falling into the mere enjoyment of spiritual things. God would have the
Christian absolutely renounce all his desires and delights and attachments, and to
submit himself entirely to His divine will. He orders every event for the help and
salvation of man; 'He willeth that all men should be saved.' Take courage then and
believe that God 'will with the temptation provide also a way of escape' (1 Cor.
10:13). Soon you will be rejoicing much more than you are now distressed." At these
words I awoke, feeling my strength come back to me and 'I my soul full of light and
peace. "God's will be done," I said. I crossed myself, got up, and went on my way.
The prayer again began to be active in my heart, as before, and for three days I went
along in peace.
All at once I came upon a body of convicts with their military escort. When I came up
to them I recognized the two men who had robbed me. They were in the outside file,
and so I fell at their feet and earnestly begged them to tell me what they had done
with my books. At first they paid no heed to me, but in the end one of them said, "If
you will give us something we will tell you where your books are. Give us a ruble." I
swore to them that even if I had to beg the ruble from someone for the love of God, I
would certainly give it to them, and by way of pledge I offered them my passport.
Then they told me that my books were in the wagons which followed the prisoners,
among all the other stolen things they were found with.
"How can I get them?"
"Ask the officer in charge of us."
I hurried to the officer and told him the whole story.
17:
"Can you really read the Bible?" he asked me.
"Yes," I answered, "not only can I read everything, but what is more, I can write
too. You will see a signature in the Bible which shows it is mine, and here is my
passport showing the same name and surname."
He then told me that the rascals who had robbed me were deserters living in a
mud hut in the forest and that they had plundered many people, but that a clever
driver whose troika they had tried to steal had captured them the day before. "All
right," he added, "I will give you your books back if they are there, but you come with
us as far as our halting place for the night; it is only a little over two miles. Then I
need not stop the whole convoy and the wagons just for your sake." I agreed to this
gladly, and as I walked along at his horse's side, we began to talk.
I saw that he was a kindly and honest fellow and no longer young. He asked me
who I was, where I came from, and where I was going. I answered all his questions
without hiding anything, and so we reached the house which marked the end of the
day's march. He found my books and gave them back to me, saying, "Where are you
going, now night has come on? Stay here and sleep in my anteroom." So I stayed.
Now that I had my books again, I was so glad that I did not know how to thank God. I
clasped the books to my breast and held them there so long that my hands got quite
numbed. I shed tears of joy, and my heart beat with delight. The officer watched me
and said, "You must love reading your Bible very much!" But such was my joy that I
could not answer him, I could only weep. Then he went on to say, "I also read the
Gospel regularly every day, brother." He produced a small copy of the Gospels,
printed in Kiev and bound in silver, saying, "Sit down, and I will tell you how it came
about.
"Hullo there, let us have some supper," he shouted.
We drew up to the table and the officer began his story.
"Ever since I was a young man I have been with the army in the field and not on
garrison service. I knew my job, and my superior officers liked me for a conscientious
second lieutenant. Still, I was young, and so were my friends. Unhappily I took to
18:
drink, and drunkenness became a regular passion with me. So long as I kept away
from drink, I was a good officer, but when I gave way to it, I was no good for anything
for six weeks at a time. They bore with me for a long while,' but the end of it was that
after being thoroughly rude while drunk to my commanding officer, I was cashiered
and transferred to a garrison as a private soldier for three years. I was threatened
with a still more severe punishment if I did not give up drinking and mend my ways.
Even in this miserable state of affairs, however much I tried, I could not regain my
self-control nor cure myself. I found it impossible to get rid of my passion for drink,
and it was decided to send me to a disciplinary corps. When I was informed of this I
was at my wits' end. I was in barracks occupied with my wretched thoughts when
there arrived a monk who was going round collecting for a church. We each of us
gave him what we could. "He came up to me and asked me why I was so unhappy,
and I talked to him and told him my troubles. He sympathized with me and said, 'The
same thing happened to my own brother, and what do you think helped him? His
spiritual father gave him a copy of the Gospels with strict orders to read a chapter
without a moment's delay every time he felt a longing for wine coming over him. If the
desire continued he was to read a second chapter, and so on. That is what my
brother did, and at the end of a very short time his drunkenness came to an end. It is
now fifteen years since he touched a drop of alcohol. You do the same, and you will
see how that will help you. I have a copy of the Gospels which you must let me bring
you.' "I listened to him, and then I said, 'How can your Gospels help me since all
efforts of my own and all the medical treatment have failed to stop me drinking?' I
talked in that way because I had as yet never been in the habit of reading the
Gospels. 'Don't say that,' replied the monk, 'I assure you that it will be a help.' As a
matter of fact, the next day he brought me this very copy. I opened it, took a glance,
and said, 'I cannot accept it. I am not used to Church Slavonic and don't understand
it.' But the monk went on to assure me that in the very words of the gospel there lay a
gracious power, for in them was written what God Himself had spoken. 'It does not
matter very much if at first you do not understand; go on reading diligently. A monk
once said, "If you do not understand the Word of God, the devils understand what
you are reading, and tremble," and your.drunkenness is certainly the work of devils.
And here is another thing I will tell you. St. John Chrysostom writes that even a room
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in which a copy of the Gospels is kept holds the spirits of darkness at bay and
becomes an unpromising field for their wiles.' "I forget what I gave the monk. But I
bought his book of the Gospels, put it away in a trunk with my other things, and forgot
it. Some while afterward a bout of drunkenness threatened me. An irresistible desire
for drink drove me hurriedly to open my trunk to get some money and rush off to the
public house. But the first thing my eyes fell on was the copy of the Gospels, and all
that the monk had said came back vividly to my mind. I opened the book and began
to read the first chapter of St. Matthew. I got to the end of it without understanding a
word. Still I remembered that the monk had said, 'No matter if you do not understand,
go on reading diligently.' 'Come,' said I, 'I must read the second chapter.' I did so and
began to understand a little. So I started on the third chapter and then the barracks
bell began to ring; everyone had to go to bed, no one was allowed to go out, and I
had to stay where I was. When I got up in the morning I was just on the point of going
out to get some wine when I suddenly thought—supposing I were to read another
chapter? What would be the result? I read it and I did not go to the public house.
Again I felt the craving, and again I read a chapter. I felt a certain amount of relief.
This encouraged me, and from that time on, whenever I felt the need of drink, I used
to read a chapter of the Gospels. What is more, as time went on things got better and
better, and by the time I had finished all four Gospels my drunkenness was
absolutely a thing of the past, and I felt nothing but disgust for it. It is just twenty
years now since I drank a drop of alcohol.
"Everybody was astonished at the change brought about in me. Some three years
later my commission was restored to me. In due course I was promoted, and finally
got my majority. I married; I am blessed with a good wife, we have made a position
for ourselves, and so, thank God, we go on living our life. As far as we can, we help
the poor and give hospitality to pilgrims. Why, now I have a son who is an officer and
a first-rate fellow. And mark this—since the time when I was cured of drunkenness, I
have lived under a vow to read the Gospels every single day of my life, one whole
Gospel in every twenty- four hours, and I let nothing whatever hinder me. I do this
still. If I am exceedingly pressed with business and unusually tired, I lie down and get
my wife or my son to read the whole of one of the evangelists to me, and so avoid
breaking my rule. By way of thanksgiving and for the glory of God I have had this
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book of the Gospels mounted in pure silver, and I always carry it in my breast
pocket."
I listened with great joy to this story of his. "I also have come across a case of the
same sort," I told him.
"At the factory in our village there was a craftsman, very skillful at his job, and a
good, kindly fellow. Unhappily, however, he also drank, and very often at that. A
certain God-fearing man advised him, when the desire for drink seized him, to repeat
the prayer of Jesus thirty- three times in honor of the Holy Trinity, and in memory of
the thirty-three years of the earthly life of Jesus Christ. He took his advice and started
to carry it out, and very soon he quite gave up drinking. And, what is more, three
years later he went into a monastery."
"And which is the best," he asked, "the prayer of Jesus, or the Gospels?"
"It's all one and the same thing," I answered. "What the Gospel is, that the prayer
of Jesus is also, for the Divine Name of Jesus Christ holds in itself the whole
Gospel truth. The holy Fathers say that the prayer of Jesus is a summary of the
Gospels." After our talk we said prayers, and the major began to read the Gospel of
St. Mark from the beginning, and I listened and said the prayer in my heart. At two
o'clock in the morning he came to the end of the gospel, and we parted and went to
bed.
As usual I got up early in the morning. Everyone was still asleep. As soon as it began
to get light, I eagerly seized my beloved Philokalia. With what gladness I opened it! I
might have been getting a glimpse of my own father coming back from a far country,
or of a friend risen from the dead. I kissed it and thanked God for giving it me back
again. I began at once to read Theolept of Philadelphia, in the second part of the
book. His teaching surprised me when he lays down that one and the same person at
one and the same time should do three quite different things. "Seated at table," he
says, "supply your body with food, your ear with reading, and your mind with prayer."
But the memory of the very happy evening the day before really gave me from my
own experience the meaning of this thought. And here also the secret was revealed
to me that the mind and the heart are not one and the same thing.
21
As soon as the major rose I went to thank him for his kindness and to say good-bye.
He gave me tea and a ruble and bade me farewell. I set off again feeling very happy.
I had gone over half a mile when I remembered I had promised the soldiers a ruble,
and that now this ruble had come to me in a quite unlooked-for way. Should I give it
to them or not? At first I thought: they beat you and they robbed you; moreover this
money will be of no use to them whatever, since they are under arrest. But afterward
other thoughts came to me. Remember it is written in the Bible, "If thine enemy
hunger, feed him," and Jesus Christ himself said, "Love your enemies," "And if any
man will take away thy coat let him have thy cloak also." That settled it for me. I went
back, and just as I got to the house all the convicts came out to start on the next
stage of their march. I went quickly up to my two soldiers, handed them my ruble and
said, "Repent and pray! Jesus Christ loves men; he will not forsake you." And with
that I left them and went on my way.
After doing some thirty miles along the main road I thought I would take a bypath so
that I might be more by myself and read more quietly. For a long while I walked
through the heart of the forest, and but rarely came upon a village. At times I passed
almost the whole day sitting under the trees and carefully reading The Philokalia,
from which I gained a surprising amount of knowledge. My heart kindled with desire
for union with God by means of interior prayer, and I was eager to learn it under the
guidance and control of my book. At the same time I felt sad that I had no dwelling
where I could give myself up quietly to reading all the while. During this time I read
my Bible also, and I felt that I began to understand it more clearly than before, when I
had failed to understand many things in it and had often been a prey to doubts. The
holy Fathers were right when they said that The Philokalia is a key to the mysteries of
holy Scripture. With the help it gave me I began to some extent to understand the
hidden meaning of the Word of God. I began to see the meaning of such sayings as
"the inner secret man of the heart," "true prayer worships in the spirit," "the kingdom
is within us," "the intercession of the Holy Spirit with groanings that cannot be
uttered," "abide in me," "give me thy heart," "to put on Christ," "the betrothal of the
Spirit to our hearts," the cry from the depths of the heart, "Abba, Father," and so on.
And when with all this in mind I prayed with my heart, everything around me seemed
22
delightful and marvelous. The trees, the grass, the birds, the earth, the air, the light
seemed to be telling me that they existed for man's sake, that they witnessed to the
love of God for man, that everything proved the love of God for man, that all things
prayed to God and sang His praise. Thus it was that I came to understand what The
Philokalia calls "the knowledge of the speech of all creatures," and I saw the means
by which converse could be held with God's creatures. In this way I wandered about
for a long while, coming at length to so lonely a district that for three days I came
upon no village at all. My supply of dried bread was used up, and I began to be very
much cast down at the thought I might die of hunger. I began to pray my hardest in
the depths of my heart. All my fears went, and I entrusted myself to the will of God.
My peace of mind came back to me, and I was in good spirits again. When I had
gone a little further along the road, which here skirted a huge forest, I caught sight of
a dog that came out of it and ran along in front of me. I called it, and it came up to me
with a great show of friendliness. I was glad, and I thought, Here is another case of
God's goodness! No doubt there is a flock grazing in the forest and this dog belongs
to the shepherd. Or perhaps somebody is shooting in the neighborhood. Whichever it
is I shall be able to beg a piece of bread if nothing more, for I have eaten nothing for
twenty-four hours. Or at least I shall be able to find out where the nearest village is.
After jumping around me for some little time and seeing that I was not going to give
him anything, the dog trotted back into the forest along the narrow footpath by which
he had come out. I followed, and a few hundred yards further on, looking between
the trees, I saw him run into a hole, from which he looked out and began to bark. At
the same time a thin and pale middle-aged peasant came into view from behind a
great tree. He asked me where I came from, and for my part I wanted to know how
he came to be there, and so we started a friendly talk.
He took me into his mud hut and told me that he was a forester and that he looked
after this particular wood, which had been sold for felling. He set bread and salt
before me, and we began to talk. "How I envy you," said I, "being able to live so
nicely alone in this quiet instead of being like me! I wander from place to place and
rub along with all sorts of people."
23
"You can stop here too, if you like," he answered. "The old forester's hut is quite
near here. It is half ruined, but still quite fit to live in in summer. I suppose you have
your passport. As far as bread goes, we shall always have plenty of that—it is
brought to me every week from my village. This spring here never dries up. For my
part, brother, I have eaten nothing but bread and have drunk nothing but water for
the last ten years. This is how things stand. When autumn comes and the peasants
have ended their work on the land, some two hundred workmen will be coming to cut
down this wood. Then I shall have no further business here, and you will not be
allowed to stay either."
As I listened to all this I all but fell at his feet, I felt so pleased. I did not know how
to thank God for such goodness. In this unlooked-for way my greatest wish was to be
granted me. There were still over four months before next autumn; during all that time
I could enjoy the silence and peace needed for a close reading of The Philokalia in
order to study and learn ceaseless prayer in the heart. So I very gladly stayed there,
to live during that time in the hut he showed me.I talked further with this simple
brother who gave me shelter, and he told me about his life and his ideas. "I had quite
a good position in the life of our village," said he. "I had a workshop where I dyed
fustian and linen, and I lived comfortably enough, though not without sin. I often
cheated in business, I was a false swearer, I was abusive, I used to drink and
quarrel. In our village there was an old dyachok3 who had a very old book on the Last
Judgment. He used to go from house to house and read from it, and he was paid
something for doing so. He came to me too. Give him threepence and a glass of wine
into the bargain and he would go on reading all night till cockcrow. There I would sit
at my work and listen while he read about the torments that await us in hell. I heard
how the living will be changed and the dead raised, how God will come down to
judge the world, how the angels will sound the trumpets. I heard of the fire and pitch,
and of the worm which will devour sinners. One day as I listened I was seized with
horror, and I said to myself, What if these torments come upon me? I will set to work
to save my soul. It may be that by prayer I can avoid the results of my sins. I thought
about this for a long time. Then I gave up my work, sold my house, and as I was
alone in the world, I got a place as forester here and all I ask of my mir4 is bread,
clothes, and some candles for my prayers. I have been living like this for over ten
24:
years now. I eat only once a day and then nothing but bread and water. I get up at
cockcrow, make my devotions, and say my prayers before the holy icons with seven
candles burning. When I make my rounds in the forest during the day, I wear iron
chains weighing sixty pounds next my skin. I never grumble, drink neither wine nor
beer, I never quarrel with anybody at all, and I have had nothing to do with women
and girls all my life. At first this sort of life pleased me, but lately other thoughts have
come into my mind, and I cannot get away from them. God only knows if I shall be
able to pray my sins away in this fashion, and it's a hard life. And is everything written
in that book true? How can a dead man rise again? Supposing he has been dead
over a hundred years and not even his ashes are left? Who knows if there is really a
hell or not? What more is known of a man after he dies and rots? Perhaps the book
was written by priests and masters to make us poor fools afraid and keep us quiet.
What if we plague ourselves for nothing and give up all our pleasure in vain?
Suppose there is no such thing as another life, what then? Isn't it better to enjoy
one's earthly life, and take it easily and happily? Ideas of this kind often worry me,
and I don't know but what I shall not some day go back to my old work."
I heard him with pity. They say, I thought, that it is only the learned and the clever
who are free thinkers and believe in nothing! Yet here is one of ourselves, even a
simple peasant, a prey to such unbelief. The kingdom of darkness throws open its
gates to everyone, it seems, and maybe attacks the simpleminded most easily.
Therefore one must learn wisdom and strengthen oneself with the Word of God as
much as possible against the enemy of the soul.
So with the object of helping this brother and doing all I could to strengthen his faith, I
took The Philokalia out of my knapsack. Turning to the 109th chapter of Isikhi, I read
it to him. I set out to prove to him the use- lessness and vanity of avoiding sin merely
from fear of the tortures of hell. I told him that the soul could be freed from sinful
thoughts only by guarding the mind and cleansing the heart, and that this could be
done by interior prayer. I added that according to the holy Fathers, one who performs
saving works simply from the fear of hell follows the way of bondage, and he who
does the same just in order to be rewarded with the kingdom of heaven follows the
25:
path of a bargainer with God. The one they call a slave, the other a hireling. But God
wants us to come to Him as sons to their Father; He wants us to behave ourselves
honorably from love for Him and zeal for His service; He wants us to find our
happiness in uniting ourselves with Him in a saving union of mind and heart.
"However much you spend yourself on treating your body hardly," I said, "you will
never find peace of mind that way, and unless you have God in your mind and the
ceaseless prayer of Jesus in your heart, you will always be likely to fall back into sin
for the very slightest reason. Set to work, my brother, upon the ceaseless saying of
the prayer of Jesus. You have such a good chance of doing so here in this lonely
place, and in a short while you will see the gain of it. No godless thoughts will then be
able to get at you, and the true faith and love for Jesus Christ will be shown to you.
You will then understand how the dead will be raised, and you will see the Last
Judgment in its true light. The prayer will make you feel such lightness and such bliss
in your heart that you will be astonished at it yourself, and your wholesome way of life
will be neither dull nor troublesome to you."
Then I went on to explain to him as well as I could how to begin, and how to go on
ceaselessly with the prayer of Jesus, and how the Word of God and the writings of
the holy Fathers teach us about it. He agreed with it all and seemed to me to be
calmer.
Then I left him and shut myself up in the hut which he had shown me. Ah! How
delighted I was, how calmly happy when I crossed the threshold of that lonely retreat,
or rather, that tomb! It seemed to me like a magnificent palace filled with every
consolation and delight. With tears of rapture I gave thanks to God and said to
myself, Here in this peace and quietude I must seriously set to work at my task and
beseech God to give me light. So I started by reading through The Philokalia again
with great care, from beginning to end. Before long I had read the whole of it, and I
saw how much wisdom, holiness, and depth of insight there was in this book. Still, so
many matters were dealt with in it, and it contained such a lot of lessons from the
holy Fathers, that I could not very well grasp it all and take in as a single whole what
was said about interior prayer. And this was what I chiefly wanted to know, so as to
learn from it how to practice ceaseless self-acting prayer in the heart.
26:
This was my great desire, following the divine command in the Apostle's words,
"Covet earnestly the best gifts," and again, "Quench not the Spirit." I thought over the
matter for a long time. What was to be done? My mind and my understanding were
not equal to the task, and there was no one to explain. I made up my mind to besiege
God with prayer. Maybe He would make me understand somehow. For twenty-four
hours I did nothing but pray without stopping for a single moment. At last my thoughts
were calmed, and I fell asleep. And then I dreamed that I was in my departed starets'
cell and that he was explaining The Philokalia to me. "The holy book is full of
profound wisdom," he was saying. "It is a secret treasury of the meaning of the
hidden judgments of God. It is not everywhere and to everyone that it is
accessible, but it does give to each such guidance as he needs: to the wise, wise
guidance, to the simpleminded, simple guidance. That is why you simple folk should
not read the chapters one after the other as they are arranged in the book. That order
is for those who are instructed in theology. Those who are uninstructed, but who
nevertheless desire to learn interior prayer from this book, should take things in this
order. First of all, read through the book of Nicephorus the monk (in part two), then
the whole book of Gregory of Sinai, except the short chapters, Simeon the new
theologian on the three forms of prayer and his discourse on faith, and after that the
book of Callistus and Ignatius. In these Fathers there are full directions and teaching
on interior prayer of the heart, in a form which everyone can understand.
"And if, in addition, you want to find a very understandable instruction on prayer,
turn to part four and find the summarized pattern of prayer by the most holy Callistus,
patriarch of Constantinople."
In my dream I held the book in my hands and began to look for this passage, but I
was quite unable to find it. Then he turned over a few pages himself and said, "Here
it is, I will mark it for you." He picked up a piece of charcoal from the ground and
made a mark in the margin, against the passage he had found. I listened to him with
care and tried to fix in my mind everything he said, word for word. When I woke up it
was still dark. I lay still and in thought went over my dream and all that my starets had
said to me. "God knows," thought I, "whether it is really the spirit of my departed
starets that I have seen, or whether it is only the outcome of my own thoughts,
27:
because they are so often taken up with The Philokalia and my starets." With this
doubt in my mind I got up, for day was beginning to break, and what did I see? There
on the stone which served as a table in my hut lay the book open at the very page
which my starets had pointed out to me, and in the margin, a charcoal mark just as in
my dream! Even the piece of charcoal itself was lying beside the book! I looked in
astonishment, for I remembered clearly that the book was not there the evening
before, that it had been put, shut, under my pillow, and also I was quite certain that
before there had been nothing where now I saw the charcoal mark.
It was this which made me sure of the truth of my dream, and that my revered master
of blessed memory was pleasing to God. I set about reading The Philokalia in the
exact order he had bidden. I read it once, and again a second time, and this reading
kindled in my soul a zealous desire to make what I had read a matter of practical
experience. I saw clearly what interior prayer means, how it is to be reached, what
the fruits of it are, how it filled one's heart and soul with delight, and how one could
tell whether that delight comes from God, from nature, or from temptation.
So I began by searching out my heart in the way Simeon the new theologian
teaches. With my eyes shut I gazed in thought, that is, in imagination, upon my heart.
I tried to picture it there in the left side of my breast and to listen carefully to its
beating. I started doing this several times a day, for half an hour at a time, and at first
I felt nothing but a sense of darkness. But little by little after a fairly short time I was
able to picture my heart and to note its movement, and further with the help of my
breathing I could put into it and draw from it the prayer of Jesus in the manner taught
by the saints, Gregory of Sinai, Callistus, and Ignatius. When drawing the air in I
looked in spirit into my heart and said, "Lord Jesus Christ," and when breathing out
again, I said, "Have mercy on me." I did this at first for an hour at a time, then for two
hours, then for as long as I could, and in the end almost all day long. If any difficulty
arose, if sloth or doubt came upon me, I hastened to take up The Philokalia and read
again those parts which dealt with the work of the heart, and then once more I felt
ardor and zeal for the prayer.
28:
When about three weeks had passed I felt a pain in my heart, and then a most
delightful warmth, as well as consolation and peace. This aroused me still more and
spurred me on more and more to give great care to the saying of the prayer so that
all my thoughts were taken up with it and I felt a very great joy. From this time I
began to have from time to time a number of different feelings in my heart and mind.
Sometimes my heart would feel as though it were bubbling with joy; such lightness,
freedom, and consolation were in it. Sometimes I felt a burning love for Jesus Christ
and for all God's creatures. Sometimes my eyes brimmed over with tears of
thankfulness to God, who was so merciful to me, a wretched sinner. Sometimes my
understanding, which had been so stupid before, was given so much light that I could
easily grasp and dwell upon matters of which up to now I had not been able even to
think at all. Sometimes that sense of a warm gladness in my heart spread throughout
my whole being and I was deeply moved as the fact of the presence of God
everywhere was brought home to me. Sometimes by calling upon the name of Jesus
I was overwhelmed with bliss, and now I knew the meaning of the words "The
kingdom of God is within you."
From having all these and other like feelings I noted that interior prayer bears fruit in
three ways: in the spirit, in the feelings, and in revelations. In the first, for instance, is
the sweetness of the love of God, inward peace, gladness of mind, purity of thought,
and the sweet remembrance of God. In the second, the pleasant warmth of the heart,
fullness of delight in all one's limbs, the joyous "bubbling" in the heart, lightness and
courage, the joy of living, power not to feel sickness and sorrow. And in the last, light
given to the mind, understanding of holy Scripture, knowledge of the speech of
created things, freedom from fuss and vanity, knowledge of the joy of the inner life,
and finally certainty of the nearness of God a