Mysteries of the Jesus Prayer by Norris Chumley

Author:Norris Chumley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

The Breath of the Heart

The morning after our conversation with Father Teofil I awoke very early, around 5:30 A.M., to find two members of our group, Pat Gallo and Dwight Grimm, already set up with cameras, filming the sunrise against the lovely sculpted wooden columns that stood outside the rows of the monks’ cells.

On this day we would be driving to a monastery that had special significance for Father John: he was ordained a deacon there. We were traveling in the thick of winter, and the roads were slick with ice, so it took many hours to cover the 300 miles from Brâncoveanu to St. Ana’s Monastery in Rohia, but it proved to be a marvelous drive through the remote land of the snowcapped Carpathian Mountains. We shared the road with horse-drawn carts driven by predominantly elderly Romanian farm couples. We passed old farmsteads with chickens in the yard, cows grazing for scarce tufts of grass in the pastures, and barns piled high with bales of hay that had been hand-gathered and carted in from the frozen fields. This felt more than rural—it was as if we had stepped back in time.

At last we arrived at a little village tucked in the crevices of the mountain range, in the middle of the deepest forests of Transylvania. In the center of the village stood a wooden gateway painted white and bearing an icon of Christ at the center of the arch. A little hand-painted sign read, “St. Ana’s Monastery.” As we traveled up the drive we saw a collection of old chapels and churches, along with newly built cells for the monks, a refectory for meals, and a lovely guesthouse, all embellished with beautiful wood carvings.

Father John was greeted like a returning rock star. Although it had been fifteen years since he lived at Rohia, all the monks turned out to welcome him home.

Because it was late afternoon with the sun about to set, the monks could not dawdle to chat with us after that hearty welcome, but had to hurry to vespers. We unpacked our cameras and followed them through a maze of corridors to a tiny underground chapel, its walls covered with icons, the air thick with incense as the monks chanted heavenly chords in Romanian harmony. Carrying one of the cameras, I flicked off my shoes and wandered around filming. Right up to the altar I went; right through the monks, singing and chanting (they gave me most curious looks); past icons with glowing eyes; round the corners of carved antiquities.

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