Interview conducted by Fr. Ștefan Zară and Monk Gherasim Prodromitul
Most Reverend Abbot, what led you, many years ago, to leave the community of Sihăstria Monastery and come to the Holy Mountain? What attracted you so much to the Holy Mountain, given that in the years when Your Holiness left Sihăstria Monastery, there were many fathers there leading a more refined life?
Firstly, I would like to recall that I regarded my admission to the community of Sihăstria Monastery as a blessing from God and from the Mother of God, for whom I had great devotion, which I had held ever since I was first able to understand such things, as far as my age would allow. At that time, Sihăstria Monastery held a place of honour amongst the spiritual monasteries of the country, with virtuous fathers and rules in keeping with the Paterikon.
It was by chance, or rather by God’s providence, that my spiritual father from the secular world, who lived in the Brașov area, retired to Sihăstria Monastery upon his retirement. It was through him, therefore, that I first became acquainted with this spiritual oasis.
This beginning was of real benefit to me; I considered myself privileged and unworthy of such a blessing which the Good Lord had bestowed upon me. Having undertaken significant spiritual disciplines during the four years I spent at Sihăstria Monastery, I was profoundly shaped, laying the foundation of my soul upon the rock of faith and hope, through God’s providence and the saving protection of the Mother of God.
At that time, in the years 1974–1975, times were still quite turbulent. Young people were not allowed to enter the monastery, and those who attempted to do so were subjected to all manner of compromising harassment by the authorities of the time. Sihăstria Monastery had the status of a care home for the elderly, which meant it could also admit young people, who were employed as carers for the elderly or as security guards. That is how a place was found for me too, and I was able to be admitted to Sihăstria Monastery, though not without considerable difficulties and investigations of all kinds, which caused real anxiety and uncertainty about the future. Yet, in those turbulent times, it was as though something gave you courage and hope that dispelled fear, and you feared nothing, driven by a strong zeal for prayer and faith in God.
As those years passed – though the uncertainty remained – one day news reached us that the Romanian Patriarchate was seeking experienced monks, who also possessed practical skills, to be sent to the Holy Mountain. The Romanian monasteries, including the Prodromu Skete, were teetering on the brink of collapse, both in terms of personnel and material resources.
The monks of these settlements were making desperate efforts, appealing both to the authorities and to the leadership of Mount Athos and the Romanian Patriarchate to send aid and monks to repopulate the Romanian cells and, by extension, the Prodromu Skete. The appeal made by the Romanian Patriarchate also reached Sihăstria Monastery, which had a large monastic community. And amongst those whose names were on those lists was I, in my unworthiness, but also many other monks, both old and young – some twenty in number from Sihăstria Monastery alone.
It had been proposed that, over a period of five years, groups of five monks each, carefully selected, should be sent to the Holy Mountain. All manner of rumours were circulating, some news arriving from the Acropolis of Mount Athos was increasingly discouraging, highlighting the hardships and deprivations of every kind that those wishing to submit to this inevitable outcome would have to face. Nevertheless, the fear of the unknown was not so great, for freedom—which promised far more than deprivation—gave rise to the priceless longing to serve God with hopes that only those who realise them through action can know.
When fate fell upon me, the unworthy one, as the group of five was formed, I responded with great confidence and gratitude to God and the Mother of God. This group also included the great spiritual father and spiritual guide, Protosinghel Petroniu Tănase, who strengthened us in the good choice we were making, especially as His Holiness had visited all the Romanian, Greek and other monastic communities in the Athos region a year earlier. I believe with all my heart, even now, that the arrival of His Reverence, Father Petroniu (who was sixty-four years old at the time), was a providential act of God and the result of the persistent prayers of the founders who had sacrificed themselves at the Romanian Prodromu Skete, so that we Romanians might no longer be deprived of the only monastic settlement in the Garden of the Mother of God where services are held in the beautiful and pure language and dialect of the Romanian people—perhaps the only one of its kind in the world at that time. And I say this because the others that existed, apart from the Prodromu Hermitage at that time, lacked the security and popularity that could give you the certainty and confidence of tomorrow.
Now let me return to the first question.
Sihăstria Monastery, at that time, was one of the most spiritual monasteries. I say this not because I come from the community of this spiritual oasis, but because reality showed it to be so: with the fathers, refined and enriched through prayer, in their knowledge of God and of ourselves as human beings on this earth, and, above all, pious men devoted to obedience—the very foundation and cornerstone of the monk’s life. One cannot progress spiritually or ascend the ladder of virtues without this step and cornerstone, which undoubtedly complements the love, humility and simplicity that must characterise us as monks.
Of course, there were also temptations, which could temper the monk in patience and, above all, in steadfastness; I mean the labouring monk, who fights like a valiant soldier when cornered by the hostility of the evil one, the world and the flesh. Or, what was even worse, by removing the monk from the struggle—which happens either through excessive self-confidence or through reliance on those in whom they place their hopes— those others who live in disobedience, following their own whims, and who neglect prayer, occupying their time with idle speculation.
Those who realised why they had come to such a high level in monastic life stood firm as a rock, heeding the counsel and, above all, having living examples, mentors and guides to the spiritual life. There were plenty of such examples at that time: pious fathers, confessors and even martyrs who withstood communist persecution and the secret police, preserving their nobility and spiritual integrity, their faith in God, and imploring God’s help through prayers and labours, all-night vigils—some of which I witnessed first-hand, filling me with the utmost esteem and respect for these holy fathers.
It is no sin, nor do I say this to boast, but meeting these fathers instilled in me a sense of spiritual awe that worked within my soul in such a way that I did not even dare, in those moments, to entertain any extraneous thoughts or anything that might have grieved these holy fathers. The examples wove together as one, in that they complemented one another. Some excelled in love, others in patience and perfect obedience, whilst most were steadfast in prayer—the unceasing prayer of the heart—and in the singing of the psalms, which soothed their gaze that their faces came to resemble those of innocent infants. One could not deceive or lie to the spiritual authority of these pious and holy fathers.
The spearhead and central pillar of this spiritual circle was Father Cleopa, followed by the equally luminous figure of Father Hieroschemamonk Paisie Olaru, with his vast experience of the complexities of the spiritual life, a holy father worthy of the Paterikon. Together they kept the spiritual wheel of Sihăstria turning, sometimes in secret and with great modesty, at other times more openly, as was the case with His Reverence Father Protosinghel Ioil Gheorghiu, Father Veniamin Barbacaru, Fathers Cosma and Damaschin, blood brothers, His Most Reverend Protosinghel Ambrozie Dogaru, Hieromonk Grigorie, my former spiritual father whom I mentioned at the beginning, Hieromonk Nazarie, Protosinghel Caliopie, and the monk Marcu, who had endured the communist prisons and was now a living example of integrity, simplicity, modesty and a true man of prayer.
The list could go on, for they were all true servants and defenders of the faith, unfading flowers of Romanian monasticism. And we, who consider ourselves their successors by faithfully interpreting and following their guidance, have hope that the good seed may bear fruit at the right time and in due season. Our discernment and choice compel us to do so, especially now that, having passed into eternity, they pray for us who remain, that we may follow their faith in this valley of tears.
Living and existing in my unworthiness, during those few years spent alongside these holy fathers I became deeply attached to their company, and it was now difficult for me to part from them. The spiritual bond that forms between a spiritual father and his spiritual son is stronger than that between a physical father and his son, but the will of God takes precedence, for He has ordained our physical separation from them, yet the spiritual bond, washed with tears, has remained, like an unhealed longing that I still carry within me.
The spiritual bond that is formed between the spiritual father and the spiritual son is stronger than that between a flesh-and-blood father and his son, but God’s will takes precedence, for He has ordained their physical separation, yet the spiritual bond, washed with tears, has remained, like an unhealed longing that I still carry within me.
Taking up the cross which the Lord had prepared for us, we set out on the path of exile from our homeland and from our beloved parents, together with our venerable spiritual guide, His Reverence and Holiness Archimandrite Petroniu Tănase and three other companions: Brother Ioan, who later became a monastic brother of mine – Monk Prodromu; Father Macarie from Sâmbăta de Sus Monastery; and Hierodeacon David from Secu Monastery.
The parting was very difficult, because, on the one hand, we were leaving behind a spiritual bond that had only just begun to take shape, and, on the other hand, because we were setting out on an unknown path. Only one light gave us courage: faith in God and hope in His help. Reading the Akathist Hymn to the Mother of God, we set off. Sadness and joy were with us and travelled alongside us. Unfortunately, the ‘angels’ of the secret police were also present; from the shadows they accompanied us with precise instructions, heightening our sense of uncertainty about the success of our departure. They were determined to silence us, so that we would not speak of the situation in the country.
Sadness and joy were with us and travelled alongside us. Unfortunately, the ‘angels’ of the secret police were also present; from the shadows, they accompanied us with precise instructions, heightening our sense of uncertainty about the success of our departure. They were determined to silence us, so that we would not speak of the situation in the country.
On arriving in Bucharest, we awaited the blessing of Patriarch Iustin Moisescu and Metropolitan Antonie Plămădeală, who was in charge of the Romanian Patriarchate’s external relations, whilst staying at Antim Monastery. Finally, when we were handed all the necessary documents, we received their blessing and words of encouragement for our new mission.
All the Romanian identity documents and papers we had held until then were retained, leaving us with only our travel passports and the certificate issued by the Romanian Patriarchate, which certified our authorised presence in Greece and on the Holy Mountain. We set off by train from Bucharest on 4 March 1978, the day marking the beginning of the Great Lent leading up to Holy Easter. Praying and giving thanks to God, we prepared ourselves for what was to be revealed to us on our journey.
We did not escape the checks carried out by the Bulgarian customs officers who, seeing us in these black robes, searched us from head to toe, taking particular notice of some of our luggage, which was crammed full of belongings. They insisted on opening some of the bags that caught their attention the most. As they had been packed to be opened only at our destination, now that they were being inspected in such minute detail, it was difficult to rearrange them, given that the carriage was cramped and it was a struggle to repack our belongings. Father Petroniu, amidst all these trials, encouraged us, giving us energy and spiritual strength to overcome these unpleasant situations. Passing through Sofia, after a night and a day, we finally arrived in Greece, in Thessaloniki, where Romanian monks from Mount Athos were waiting for us, eager to welcome us into their cells and monasteries, where they needed disciples and successors to their lifelong endeavours.
As all five of us had a specific destination in mind—namely, the Prodromu Skete—they were left with a sense of sadness in their hearts, which was clearly evident on their faces. They were elders who had endured hardships, bearing the burden of so many years of asceticism, and they too hoped that their life’s work would not go to waste.
Although we were filled with natural compassion, there was nothing we could do to help them. The Prodromu Hermitage was our top priority, requiring a special effort and an immediate response that could not be delayed. After meeting with Their Holinesses and learning, to no avail, of their requests, everyone withdrew, though not without hope for the groups being organised for the coming years. Unfortunately, it was not to be, for once our group had been sent, the sending of new monks to Mount Athos ceased. If, however, any monks did arrive who were keen to remain on Athos, they did so on their own initiative and by means that allowed them to do so, with sacrifices and efforts known only to themselves. Their faith and their desire to serve the Lord with the zeal and piety to which we are all bound were rewarded with the saving hope that each of them experienced.
After handing over the documents to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Northern Greece—documents through which we were granted our status as new inhabitants of Mount Athos—we continued our journey towards the Athonite peninsula, towards the Holy Mountain. The closer we got, the more our longing was kindled in our hearts, as we came into contact with a reality that was now unfolding before our very eyes. Travelling by bus from Thessaloniki to the port of Ouranopoli, from where we were to take the caique to disembark on the Holy Mountain, we were amazed by the faith and piety of the Greek people towards the clergy, in that they would offer you their seat and kiss your hand, asking for a blessing, something rarely seen in Romania in those days, where you could not step out onto the street without being subjected to an indecent insult and where only God’s grace could protect you in those moments when you had nothing else at your disposal but to pray for them.
On arriving in Ouranopoli, a rather poor village at the time, where the locals made their living from fishing and welcoming the few pilgrims and worshippers who came to worship on the Holy Mountain, the accommodation and catering left much to be desired. We were fortunate that on that day a wooden caique was operating, providing a link to the Holy Mountain and carrying a limited number of visitors, worshippers or monks – about thirty people, plus their luggage.
After a journey of over two hours by sea, with a stop at each of the monasteries situated on the south-western slope of the mountain, we arrived at the port of Dafni, where everyone disembarked.
We were overcome with emotion, we who were now setting foot on Mount Athos, the Garden of the Mother of God. The joy of setting foot on Mount Athos and taking our first steps there left us speechless; we each hid our tears whilst making the sign of the cross, and some even kissed the ground in gratitude that God and the Mother of God had bestowed such a calling upon us.
Overcome with emotion, we boarded a rudimentary, old bus, which was intended to make the journey between the Port of Dafni and the so-called capital of Athos, Karyes.
It was midday when we arrived in Karyes, on a Wednesday, during the first week of Great Lent. After presenting the referral documents and the permit to enter Mount Athos that we had received in Thessaloniki, and following their verification by the police, we were handed the diamonitirion, a document which granted us, the five newcomers, the right to stay on the Holy Mountain until the final documents were drawn up – namely, the identity card known as the taftotita – through which we automatically acquired Greek citizenship.
Having completed the formalities required of every newcomer to Mount Athos, we hurried to reach the Prodromu Skete.
As there were no roads at that time apart from the one from Dafne Harbour to Careia, the capital of Athos, which ended at the Monastery of Iviron on the eastern (north-eastern) side of the peninsula, we had to retrace our steps back to Dafne Harbour and from there, bypassing the southern part of Athos, reach the arsanaua of the Prodromu Skete, which was only possible the following day.
That afternoon and the following night we stayed at Cutlumuș Monastery, situated near the centre of Karies. There we had our first encounter with an Athonite monastery. The abbot at the time, Archimandrite Hristodul—who still heads the monastery today—and the monastic community were very kind and welcoming.
After all these initial experiences that followed during our journey, we rested, though not with the peace of mind one feels when finally arriving home. The night service, which took place at the appointed time, roused us with the wake-up bell, which made no exception for anyone, in accordance with the Athonite order and that of monasteries in general—a practice also observed at Sihăstria Monastery in those days.
The following morning we were finally ready to set off for our destination, which we proceeded to do after being served tea in the monastery’s guesthouse. Thanking the monks for their hospitality—more through gestures than words, as none of us spoke Greek—though Father Petroniu knew Ancient Greek, albeit with some difficulty, we took the bus again from Careia to Dafne, where we had left some of our luggage, then continued our journey on a wooden caique that ran the route from Dafne Harbour to Lavra Monastery and back.
We boarded this boat along with other pilgrims: monks and lay worshippers who were heading for the monasteries of Simonopetra, Grigoriou, Dionysios, St Paul’s, the Hermitage of St Anne, Capsokalivia, the Hermitage of Prodromos and Lavra. Upon arriving at the arsanaua (harbour) of Prodromos, only the five of us disembarked.
The sea and the air were in a state of utter tranquillity, which seemed to draw us into a new world. And indeed it was. The dolphins seemed to be racing to welcome us as friendly guests, as if they were saying ‘welcome’ through the games they played around the caique.
The harbour of the Prodromu Hermitage, which seemed as though it were a thousand years old, provided us with an indirect link to what was to be our destination: the Romanian Prodromu Hermitage. The arsanaua was imposing, with noble architecture and a Romanian design that set it apart from the other ports of Athos.
I would remind you that, until the road to the Great Lavra was opened, this arsana was the only link to the outside world, and its harbour was the main connection between our skete and the means of transport and supply. All supply routes—for materials, food and fishing gear—passed through this small but important maritime hub of the Prodromu Skete. Even connections with the mainland and other administrative and spiritual centres, such as Thessaloniki, the island of Thassos, and other surrounding areas, were maintained via this port, the construction of which required significant expenditure.
Once we arrived at the port of the Prodromu Skete, we were pleasantly surprised by those waiting for us there, as if by a breath of Romania – namely, the monks who were to guide us to the Romanian Athonite skete known as Prodromu. Their means of transport was a Romanian tractor, specially fitted out to make the journey from the port to the skete and back along a stony track. The journey was undertaken with the utmost caution, as they were exposed to the imminent danger of falling into the abyss. This path was initially used only for mules (beast of burden, half-horse, half-mule) used to transport materials and supplies for the hermitage’s needs. So, meeting these monks was, on the one hand, a joy, and on the other, a real help to us, as our many bags were too heavy a burden for us to have reached the hermitage on our own.
I would like to mention that the two monks who welcomed us and helped us were part of the group of five monks who had been sent two years earlier, as agreed upon. These were Father Ioanichie, a hieromonk who is now in Israel, serving within the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, and Father Mihail, a monk who passed away at the Romanian Cell in Provata, also situated within the grounds of the Holy Monastery of the Great Lavra, both of whom were originally from Sihăstria Monastery.
The arduous and precipitous path climbing from sea level to an altitude of 360 metres, the altitude at which the Prodromu Hermitage was situated, now filled us with a sense of mystery that grew as we climbed and caught sight of the church’s domes and crosses glistening in the rays of the setting sun.
Unfortunately, the first sight, which we had in a way been expecting, was a sad and desolate one. The more the true appearance of the monastic complex was revealed to our eyes—at least to mine—the more our bewilderment grew at the ruins visible everywhere; this feeling took hold strongly in my soul, though not with despair. I noticed this unpleasant surprise in my companions too, though less so in Father Petroniu, who had visited the Prodromu Hermitage a year earlier and was familiar with the place. We made our way towards the monastery gate, which was perpetually ajar.
There we were greeted by Father Matia, whom we were to learn was the hermitage’s archondar, the one responsible for welcoming worshippers. He was an imposing figure, tall and well-built. He sat on a bench by the monastery gate, his gaze fixed on those who came or sought shelter there, even if only for a day and a night. He took us all in with a single glance, and as he looked us up and down, none of us could find the words to speak. After a minute that seemed like an eternity, he greeted us with the question: ‘Tell me, who sent you: the Communists or the Church?’ At which, struck by the question as if by a bolt of lightning, we lowered our heads, and the eldest among us, Father Macarie, who had come from Sâmbăta de Sus Monastery, replied: ‘Yes, you will have the opportunity to see us, to examine us…. but it’s good to see you, Father...” and we entered the monastery gate, led by our guide, Father Ioanichie.
Coming face to face with reality left us with a bitter taste, and not just for a short while. Father Petroniu was already well-acquainted with the situation, and the expectations no longer weighed on him; he simply said: ‘Glory to God and to the Mother of God’, with a hope and faith that still amaze us today.
Leaving our luggage near the church doors, we went inside to worship and give thanks to the Mother of God for helping us arrive safely. The appearance of the church, however, both inside and out, was grim. It looked as though a war had raged there; no Divine Liturgy had been celebrated for years. Upon entering the church, to our amazement, there was a path winding its way through the rubble that had fallen from the interior walls, past the deteriorated frescoes, a path leading to the miracle-working icon of Our Lady of Prodromița, where a worn-out and dirty candle stood, lit by someone. The atmosphere surrounding this holy icon was one of sorrow, but also of humiliation. The icon’s candle had been lit, as we learnt the following day, by Father Vlasie, a blind priest who went to light it more out of instinct and by following the path that led him unerringly to the Holy Icon.
We paid our respects – or rather, we wept with grief – and we were overcome with deep sorrow at the sight of the state of disrepair in which everything found itself.
We paid our respects – or rather, we wept with sorrow – and deep grief came over us at the sight of the state of disrepair in which everything found itself.
In silence, we withdrew and were led to the rooms in the so-called Sinodicon, where in days gone by only people of distinction, pilgrim guests or prominent church figures were received. And here too (by now we were no longer surprised – what was there left to be surprised about!) everything could be summed up in a single word: disaster. That is to say, upon entering the southern wing of the building—for that was where we were staying—instead of a door at the entrance there were simply some planks propped upright; there was no heating, even though it was still quite cold (6 March 1978). Without even bothering to inspect the shabbiness of the rooms, we retired to rest. There was no question of a meal, as we were in the first week of Great Lent.
What were Your Holiness’s first years like in the community at Prodromu?
There is much to say, and it would take pages and pages to write about everything that followed, right from the very beginning. These memories are not hard to recall, for they remain deeply etched in the soul of the newcomer who, at that time, encountered a reality that was by no means insignificant. Every day you encountered something new, scenes straight out of the Paterikon, or events unfolding at that very time.
Continuing the sequence of events, the following day—a Friday in that first week of Great Lent— we had to gather our strength and find our spiritual footing so that we could begin our work and ministry there in the order of priorities as they arose, with Father Petroniu to guide and support us; he had vast experience gained whilst still in the country, where, as is well known, he had served as abbot and founder of the community at Slatina Monastery in Moldova, in addition to the years he spent at Sihăstria Monastery as a teacher and skilful mentor in monastic life. Now the efforts had to be even greater: a truly unique beginning.
As we stepped out into the daylight the following day, to our surprise we encountered other monks who were also part of the community of the Prodromu Hermitage; they were, of course, elderly—over eighty years of age—with infirmities that brought to mind a care home, five of them in total. When we met them, we tried to ask for their blessing, but they never replied. Not knowing the reason, we later found out, on the same day, that they were Old Calendarists, though they had no connection with those who still followed the Old Calendar but commemorated the Patriarch of Constantinople, His Beatitude Dimitrios, at that time. Worse still, they would not even enter the church, claiming that it had been defiled by the ‘new’ believers, among whom we also found ourselves.
So, faced with this new trial, we did not lose heart, but sought the help of the Mother of God and looked for answers to the situation at hand, and so on. I recall that the de facto abbot of the hermitage at that time, Archimandrite Veniamin Popa, was not a Zealot, but he was away from the hermitage on personal business.
Seeking within ourselves for resources and spiritual strength, we tried not to lose heart, for everything seemed like chaos to us: no church, no kitchen, no refectory, no service, no cells. Solutions simply had to be found. So we began with the essentials: we looked for a place in the former kitchen to prepare something to eat, and likewise in the former refectory, where everything lay in ruins, we tried to set up a table, all in a hurry, to give at least some semblance of normality. We had to find a place to hold the service, as it was Great Lent. We prepared the Chapel of the Dormition of the Mother of God, which is situated at the entrance to the hermitage alongside the bell tower, so that we could begin our church services and rites. We had the liturgical books with us, and we began to obtain the prosphora and wine from the Lavra Monastery, which distributed these offerings free of charge as a blessing to all the cells and hermitages within its grounds. And, from that Sunday, 11 March 1978, the Divine Liturgy has continued uninterrupted to this very day, 11 December 2017, by the grace of God, the Mother of God and Saint John the Baptist, the patrons of this holy settlement.
We had prepared the living quarters—which were a necessity—by Holy Easter. What followed after that was all a matter of dedication and sacrifice that one had to make without rest, and above all an effort that drove you to the point of total exhaustion, close to the brink of discouragement, and inevitably made you think of turning back—something which some of the fathers actually did.
…it was a commitment and a sacrifice that you had to make without rest, and above all an effort that brought you to the point of total exhaustion, close to the brink of discouragement, and inevitably made you think of turning back, which some parentsdid indeed do.
Father Macarie, who was part of our group, returned after only three months of trials. The priests who had arrived at the hermitage before us also left just one week after our arrival. The hardships, and especially the privations, had sapped their hope, not to mention their faith, whilst the strict routine we had begun was yet another challenge for them.
Nevertheless, the tranquillity that gradually settled in strengthened us spiritually, so that we were better able to cope with our needs. Then, Christians and acquaintances from across the world—and especially from the so-called ‘free’ world of that time—who had learnt of us and the situation we found ourselves in began to send us modest aid, though sufficient for our needs. We, too, were often amazed because, unexpectedly, they arrived just in time when we needed them, thus strengthening our faith and hope in the help of God and the Mother of God, made manifest through such marvellous signs.
Then, even the zealous monks at the hermitage began to reconsider their views of us, including Father Matia, the archondar who had welcomed us on our arrival. Now they too realised that we had but one aim: the service of God and the salvation of the soul, a goal towards which we all strive and work. What remained incomprehensible, however, was the fact that they could not return to the church or join us for meals, nor did they respond to the ‘blessed’—as they put it—for fear of becoming defiled. Instead, they helped us with our duties, with baking bread in the kitchen and with whatever else we asked of them. They were simple in their education, yet they were free from malice and nevertheless observed their monastic order and rules in their cells with extraordinary zeal, keeping all-night vigils and prayers according to the Paterikon. Despite all our explanations—to which they were receptive and listened attentively—they lacked the strength to discover the truth, being constantly anxious not to lose their souls. We found that their understanding had been led astray by those who claimed to be experts in all the canons and rules of the Church, and to whom they submitted blindly.
Tragic was the passing into eternity of those who had led them astray. As for those who followed them, out of simplicity and ignorance, their judgement will be different. They all passed away before our very eyes; we gave some a fitting burial, whilst for others we were explicitly asked not to do so. Amongst them were some who claimed that they alone stood in the truth and that they alone would be saved, refusing to allow anyone to worship in their chapel or little church, lest it be defiled if anyone were to enter it, even if they did so by mistake.
This situation cast a dark shadow over our skete, as none of the Athonite monasteries were afflicted by this fanaticism, apart from the Esfigmenu Monastery, which, unfortunately, remains in the same situation to this day.
Returning to our situation at that time, everything was unfolding rapidly, both spiritual and administrative matters, each with its own burdens. Few as we were, we had to conduct the church services, including the Divine Liturgy every day, which were sometimes attended by Greek monks and other Romanian Athonites, and which took place in harmony and with spiritual dignity, even sharing a communal meal on feast days and imperial feasts. The only drawback was that whenever Father Matia came to the Divine Liturgy, he would disrupt the service by his behaviour in arranging the liturgical order and the hymns at the choir stalls, which was at odds with the proper order that must be maintained, especially during the Divine Liturgy.
We bore with it patiently and prayed that the Good Lord and the Mother of God might somehow, if possible, relieve us of this distressing temptation which affected us all. The miracle was not long in coming, for one feast day, whilst Father Matia was singing the Axion of the Mother of God before her icon, whilst under a demonic influence, out of the blue a piece of timber broke loose—one of the beams supporting the arches of the dome—and, amongst the candles, O wonders of the Lord, without touching any of them, it fell upon the priest’s right leg, breaking it at the hip. Naturally, as he fell to the ground and was still bewildered, he cried out to the icon of Our Lady Prodromița: ‘Come and let me sing to you some more!’, in a defiant tone.
We struggled to lift him off the floor because the pain had overcome him and, being a well-built man, he was heavy to carry. We called for a helicopter, as there was no other emergency option, and he was flown to Thessaloniki, where he stayed for about three months. And it was there in hospital that he was diagnosed with cancer.
After everything that had happened, his conscience was stirred, and he realised that this had been God’s plan to bring about his repentance and return to Him, which he did, with tears of repentance that even we marvelled at, a repentance that few of us have ever witnessed.
After some time had passed, when it became clear that there was nothing more the hospital could do for him, he was sent back home to the monastery. After a further two months of suffering, he was called to the Lord. Knowing the day of his passing and asking forgiveness from everyone, he spoke his final words: ‘See you in Heaven!’
Behold how the Good Lord, the Mother of God and Saint John the Baptist arranged for his salvation in this marvellous way, for he had spent years of steadfast and patient toil in the service of God at the Romanian Prodromu Hermitage.
What is it like at Prodromu now? Is it difficult to be Father Petroniu’s successor as abbot of the Prodromu Skete?
These first few years spent at the Prodromu Hermitage were demanding in every respect, especially with the trials and temptations we had to face, relying solely on God and the Mother of God for help. They were so intense that they brought one to the brink of utter discouragement, and had we not had this spiritual support and unshakeable pillar, Father Petroniu – truly the unexpected one – the outcome could have been tragic.
During those times, a transformation and a new spiritual breath were evident throughout Mount Athos.
The Monastery of Philotheou, under the leadership of Archimandrite Ephrem—a spiritual figure endowed with charisms who inspired many to the zeal and way of life found in the Paterikon— ensured that this monastery became a spiritual oasis and grew to such an extent that, from the community of these fathers, three further communities were formed which settled in the monasteries of Xiropotamos, Caracalu and Costamonitu, which at that time were self-governing but had been left without inhabitants. The example set by this monastery, and by those born from its community, was followed in turn by other monasteries: the Lavra Monastery, the Vatopedi Monastery, Iviron Monastery, Pantocrator Monastery—all embracing this holy way of life, holding all things in common, with the monastic communities that gradually re-established themselves and followed in the footsteps of the holy fathers of old. Now they strengthened one another and grew in spiritual matters, having worthy leaders and guides, whilst those who followed them did so with zeal, obedience and steadfastness, following them as spiritual and salvific guides.
Those holy times gave you hope, for seeing that you had someone from whom to take the path that could lead you to your destination and help you achieve your desired goal, you too had hope and confidence that you were on the right path.
Among the most distinguished spiritual fathers who were active thirty-five years ago were: Archimandrite Vasile, abbot of Stavronichita Monastery; Archimandrite Gheorghe, abbot of Grigoriu Monastery; Archimandrite Ephrem, abbot of Filoteu Monastery, and Archimandrite Emilian, abbot of Simonospetra Monastery. Then there was Hieroschemamonk Efrem Katunachiot, a great ascetic and contemporary of many other hermits who held in high esteem and regarded as their leader the Venerable Paisie of Panaguda Cell near Karies, now recognised throughout the world as Saint Paisios the Athonite of Suroti, a miracle-worker and seer.
The Athonite chronicle of these holy fathers and ascetics can also bear witness to many other ascetics, both known and unknown, who undoubtedly enriched and inspired the spiritual climate of those times.
I recall with respect and joy how, whenever one had to pass through Karies (the capital of Athos) on business of any kind, one was invariably required to wear the monastic habit and conduct oneself with propriety, both outwardly and inwardly. Respect was universal, just as you will recall we demonstrated upon our arrival in Greece, whether as laypeople or church officials. This dress code and rule were observed in all the Athonite monasteries. In those days there were no access roads between the monasteries, only footpaths and trails, some of which were cobbled, like a kind of pavement, for those travelling with pack animals carrying provisions or even on horseback. It was a beautiful and uplifting sight, with every monk travelling whilst prostrating and with his mind turned to prayer.
Among the Romanian saints and monks, examples of a life of high virtue, worthy of all remembrance and respect, were, in particular, Archimandrite Dometie Trihenea of the Cell of Saint Hypatius at Vatopedi Monastery (who was called for a time to serve as abbot at Zografu Monastery), the monastic Ghedeon, the hieromonk Ioan of the Colciu Cell of Saint John the Baptist, the hieromonk Veniamin of the Provata Cell of Saint John the Theologian, and others who added to the stature and number of these holy Romanian fathers. May God grant them eternal rest, and may we follow their faith and ascetic endeavours. It was the most flourishing period of spiritual life on the Holy Mountain. Monastic rules were observed and took precedence. Any deviation from these rules was penalised without delay, to leave no room for misinterpretation or erroneous positions.
And the community of Prodromos also had to align itself with the de facto position of Mount Athos. As our skete had an abbot in name only—one who was more concerned with personal matters and had been away from the skete for months—the main focus was now on establishing a truly monastic community structure that needed to be realised and put into practice. We, for example, the new arrivals, were not introduced to the Lavra Monastery by anyone; we had to do this ourselves in order to be registered in the monastery’s Monachologion and, by extension, that of the Prodromos Hermitage.
The goodwill shown by Lavra Monastery, however, exceeded our expectations. The registration was carried out immediately, and the documents were submitted to obtain Athonite status and Greek citizenship, processes which did not take too long. We truly organised ourselves in such a way that, few as we were (leaving aside the zealots we found in the skete), we could lead a life entirely as a community: church, meals, kitchen, outbuildings – in all of which we were guided by Father Petroniu, for Father Veniamin, the skete’s abbot, was as good as non-existent.
As there was no library, no chancellery and no reception office for pilgrims and officials, there was an urgent need to sort these matters out. As necessity dictated, we approached Lavra Monastery, which was very receptive to our request, as they too wished for Prodromu Hermitage to be self-governing, whilst also resolving the issue of zealotry that still persisted.
The Exarchate, acting on behalf of the Lavra Monastery—which at that time was still functioning independently—summoned us all, both the newcomers and those who had been there before us, and reached an agreement that Father Veniamin should tender his resignation. As none of us met the minimum requirement to be accepted as abbot, a request was made for Father Ilarion the hieromonk, who had settled at Xiropotamu Monastery, at the Romanian Skete of the Protection of the Mother of God, to return to the skete to take over the Dicheat (as abbot) of the Prodromu Skete.
The installation took place in 1980, two years after our arrival on Mount Athos.
Things had begun to return to normal. In the meantime, other monks and brothers had also arrived, eager to spend time at the Prodromu Skete, naturally taking circuitous routes via Jerusalem and Rome, and through pilgrimages to those holy places. This was because the programme and agreement to send five monks annually to the Holy Mountain had been suspended by the Romanian State upon our arrival, as part of the 1978 cohort, as expectations had presumably not been met. However, these brothers and monks who had arrived through such channels were at risk of being unable to return to the country and of having their Romanian citizenship revoked. Through various arrangements and agreements with the Romanian Patriarchate, ways were eventually found to integrate these newcomers as well.
Meanwhile, we too, the two brothers who had come as part of a group with Father Petronie from Sihăstria Monastery, were tonsured as monks, with Aurel taking the name Atanasie and Ioan taking the name Prodromu, through the close ties now maintained with the Great Lavra of St. Athanasius and the Prodromu Hermitage of St John the Baptist, thereby compelling us to greater spiritual maturity, as we explored zeal and steadfastness as an addition to the ascetic struggle that lay before us.
Things seemed to be going quite well, very well indeed, yet there was no shortage of temptations and attempts to discourage us, for the tempter did not give up easily—he who had feasted to his heart’s content for 40 years on this situation which had brought the Prodromu Hermitage to the brink of the abyss.
But the lack of experience on the part of the new abbot, Ilarion, and a more libertine outlook on the part of some, as I mentioned earlier, led to differing viewpoints emerging regarding the administration of the community and, more generally, of the skete; indeed, at times there were even disagreements. Thus a kind of spiritual chill set in, causing the state of tranquillity and peace to gradually decline once more.
After only four years, due to the scale of the disagreements, measures were taken which led to the abbot Ilarion being asked to resign. The procedure was carried out in accordance with the statutes and operating regulations of the Romanian Prodromu Monastery. The Lavra Monastery was now awaiting a new proposal from the community, which now numbered 13 monks.
After much prayer and consultation, Father Petroniu Tănase was elected as the new abbot; he accepted the position with some reluctance, given his hearing impairment, for which he uses a hearing aid. At that time, there were also other proposals and attempts to take over the hermitage—attempts that were downright shameful—but the Mother of God and Saint John the Baptist did not allow them.
Once this truly new phase of communal life at the Prodromu Hermitage had begun, both spiritual and administrative matters began to run smoothly. All this was achieved, above all, through the wise counsel and guidance of Father Petroniu, who was enlightened by God, and with the direct help of the Mother of God and Saint John the Baptist, the protectors and patrons of this holy settlement.