In 1839, a child was born in the town of Myriophyto in Eastern Thrace. Very little is known about his early life, apart from the fact that he had a keen ear for music and a very pleasant voice. After completing his studies, he worked as a singer in Constantinople, and later served as a hierodeacon of the Ecumenical Patriarchate.
For unknown reasons, he left the Patriarchate in 1865, travelled to Mount Athos and became a monk at the Dochiariou Monastery.
On Mount Athos, Hierodeacon Synesios soon became something of a ‘musical sensation’. Respected and admired throughout the Holy Mountain, it was said that no all-night vigil was complete without him.
The nineteenth-century scholar Gheorghe Papadopoulos, in his work Contribution to the History of Orthodox Ecclesiastical Music from Apostolic Times to the Present (Athens, 1980), wrote enthusiastically about Synesios, describing him as a ‘remarkable technical master of sacred music’ and a ‘singer unrivalled in vocal agility, capable of performing complex musical passages with perfect intonation and perfect control and mastery of the voice’.
Around the same time, the writer Alexandros Moraitidis – a cousin of Alexandros Papadiamantis, and, like him, a frequent visitor to Mount Athos – recounted an all-night vigil he attended at the Russian monastery of Pantelimon, at which Synesios sang as protopsalt. Moraitidis was amazed by Synesios’s singing, but also by his humility, for he seemed to have not a trace of pride or self-importance, despite his prodigious musical talent.
Moraitidis also noted the reactions of the Russian monks who, he said, were ‘completely spellbound as they listened to Synesios, although most of them probably did not even understand the words’.
The other fellow monks, who knew Synesios, were aware that he had great devotion to Saint Paraskevi, a martyr of the second century who was killed for refusing to worship Roman idols.
One night, Synesios prayed to Saint Paraskevi, asking her: “Please take from me whatever may hinder my salvation” (Πάρε ἀπὸ πάνω μου ὅ,τι ἐμποδίζει τὴν σωτηρία μου). Saint Paraskevi did not delay in responding, and the following morning his voice failed him.
The news spread rapidly throughout the monastery and across the entire Holy Mountain. The monks approached Synesios in a state of bewilderment, unsure how to guide or console him. With what little voice he had left, he told them in hoarse whispers about his prayer to Saint Paraskevi.
In response, the monks urged him to bargain with Saint Paraskevi for a more favourable arrangement: ‘Your devotion to her is so great,’ they argued, ‘that she will surely change her mind and will not be angry if you ask her.’ Synesios remained unmoved by their pleas and refused to take their advice, but the monks themselves began to besiege Saint Paraskevi with prayers, celebrating the Paraclis service daily.
Their efforts were crowned with success. After a relatively short period of time, Synesios’s voice returned, and he resumed his place in the choir, where he continued to sing until his death in 1905. He is still commemorated today in his monastery as one of the greatest chanters and music teachers.
This simple yet profound account offers us an important opportunity for fruitful reflection. Synesios’s ‘dangerous prayer’ is not merely a prayer, but is at the same time a question—or perhaps a series of questions—that we ought to ask ourselves.
What stands in the way of my salvation? What prevents me from feeling the presence of God’s grace in my life more fully? Why do I turn to God through repentance, prayer and gratitude so rarely? If all things shine only in the light of God, why is there still darkness in my heart?
What stands in the way of my salvation? What prevents me from experiencing the presence of God’s grace in my life more fully? Why do I turn to God through repentance, prayer and gratitude so rarely? If all things shine only in the light of God, why is there still darkness in my heart?
My initial response to these questions might well focus on my sins and passions. But what if that is not the whole story? Could it be that I am failing to include in my answer the things I take pride in, the things through which I boost my sense of self-worth and which form the core of my identity—namely, my achievements, my successes, my social status and all the other things I regard as qualities? Could it be that I actually need repentance for what I consider to be ‘virtues’ just as much, or perhaps even more, than for my sins?
Could it be that I actually need to repent for what I regard as ‘virtues’ just as much, or perhaps even more, than for my sins?
We naturally think of our gifts as having been given by God, and we are all familiar with the Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14–30). But precisely because these talents are given to us, it means they are not truly ours, but merely entrusted to us by God, to whom we must give an account for them. How do we see ourselves: as servants or as masters? A servant lives in anticipation of the day when the Master will return and he will have to return the talents with interest. A master believes that everything he possesses is his own and that he may spend it as he sees fit.
In the words of Saint Maximus the Confessor we find that, ‘all things require a cross’ (Theological Chapters 67, PG 90: 1108B). Why should this not also be true of what we consider to be the best and greatest within ourselves? That is why the Saints have said that, whilst the devil seeks to destroy us by making use of our virtues, God seeks our salvation by making use of our passions. This is explained by the fact that everything we see in ourselves as ‘virtues’ can in fact become a cause of pride and lead us into conflict with others, whereas our sins are a cause of shame, humbles us and gives us the opportunity to return to God through repentance.
As priests, we are called to enter into the rhythm of the Liturgy, which is an endless cycle of loss and discovery, of renunciation and letting go, followed by grace and exaltation. To be drawn into this movement means surrendering your self and everything you think you possess, so that you may be restored and fulfilled on a higher level, for we know that ‘we no longer belong to ourselves’ (1 Corinthians 6:19) and that ‘every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights’ (James 1:17).
