Down at the foot of Mount Athos, in the morning silence you hear the first prayer: ‘Glory to God in the highest’. The chirps of birds accompany the Elder’s trembling voice and gradually increase in intensity along with the first rays of sunlight that are already gently and timidly caressing the northern ridge of Mount Athos, as if to wake it up as lightly as possible, as quietly as they can, the “old man” him together with his children, because they know that even in its sleep this heavenly, and no longer earthly, escort sucks the eternal profit of the heavenly reward from the uninterrupted and perpetual supplication: “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me.” In the hands of the Elder, in the hands of the fathers, or rather angels, in the rubbed rosary full of tears and sighs. …Down on the waves of the Indian, on the blue-purple sea of Soalary, on Ankilibe, on Beravy, Madio Rano, and even further on Androka, on Mahatsandry, and wherever your gaze can reach now, in the desolate but never forgotten by my heart south, the first Vezo fishermen have already dipped their pirogues into the blue-purple waters of the Indian, and are making the first prayer with hands and faces high in the sky. Eyes tear up watching the still red sun as it rises on the horizon, and lips monologue, “Lord for our children.” And immediately that morning breeze blows, the breeze of Peace, the Breath, you might say, of God, who like a loving Father, not wishing to spoil the joy of his children, nor to frighten them, sends this morning’s first blessing. “Lord, help me today.” With the wooden paddle in his hands he binds himself. He binds the father with a burnt face from the sun and salt. His hands clutch the paddle, the shovel “agadi”, the axe. The hands of our fathers, the rubbed and stained hands, the hands full of pain and toil, sweat and sighs. …the eyes can’t get enough of the beautiful landscape now. A natural amphitheatre the Skete of St. Anne. Our Skete. Lush green, with the magnificent historic Huts of the most renowned Brethren, which have marked the modern asceticism of the last four centuries, have a multitude of known and unknown, old and modern Saints to highlight. Each Calyva seated in this natural amphitheatre, with the Kyriakon of St. Anne occupying a separate and prominent, prominent position, has been listening for centuries to the sounds of the sea on one side, the Athos on the other, and the daily prayers of the Fathers on the other. The spectators, witnesses of a performance without end, a performance of martyrdom and martyrdom. Witnesses to the only Truth that cannot be disputed by the modern day planeswalkers, who roam the streets and television sets, trying in vain to smear the truth and hide the gold so well kept here. …After the day-long march, the catechism, the vespers under the village’s fragrant “kili” tree, I am now sitting with some of our faithful of this new parish. Some of them are already baptized. Others are awaiting catechism and next time they will be, Lord willing, the ones who will now enter the bath of regeneration. I see and hear them now, though the dusk no longer allows me to discern faces.
But now this is the most beautiful time really. The silhouettes of the people alone can be seen, but their voices, the voices of the soul, can be heard so clearly. Truly there is nothing more beautiful than this moment in the late afternoon, after the weariness of the day, when you hear your brothers and sisters, their voices, coming out as if from eternity, as if you have known them for years, as if something supernatural unites you with them. “Thank you, Father. You are truly our brother and our father. You are no longer a stranger to us. You are what we are. Come again as soon as possible.” Here there is also no longer any room for doubt. Here the hearts bear witness. The trees, the squares, the children, the old people, the mothers. All are on fire in the miracle and in the Faith of the Holy Spirit. The African land, the land of Madagascar is a spectator and a witness. …I am now ascending the slope of Athos. And my legs are shaking. For I know that I am treading on these same stones that our holy Fathers walked, wept, sweated for the salvation of their souls. And I want to kneel and kiss these lifeless stones, each one of which is a talisman and an heirloom.
…My feet are now sinking in the mud and in a moment the river water has reached my waist. We are marching towards Antsarogaza. I must see the church that is being built. Talk to our people in our parish about it. Support them in their faith. To comfort them in their pain and sickness. But the fatigue of the trek, the water that has already seeped in and soaked my robes, and the pain in my back make it difficult. But the heart flutters. For in a moment I will see my brothers and sisters. You can hear this water now speaking to you: ‘every step you take here is a testimony, every pain I note and will carry it from every village I pass. Your every sweat for my people I will cool you and heal the wounds of the thorns and stones at your feet.” …With reverence now and tears I worship the icon of our Saint Annie. Kneeling before the Mother of the Mother of Life, our Grandmother, I bow. … “Thy will be done from thee”. At a Mass in the temporary church of grass, I kneel and the wooden hut fills with life. “We praise thee, we bless thee, we thank thee, O Lord, and praise thee, my God.” From the mouths of our newly-converted brothers at their first Mass. And you are bound. At the altar of St. Cyriacus now at Mass, we offer you this reasonable and bloodless worship… At the temporary altar, table under the tree, in the land of Madagascar, and again “that we offer you this reasonable and bloodless worship”… And we bind and entreat. Send down thy Holy Spirit upon us…. This is the miracle of faith. Two worlds of strangers. Two worlds so far away. Yet united under the umbrella of God’s Love. They witness and confess daily the miracle of our living Faith. Here in Athos. Here at the Mission.
Αρχ. Polycarp Agiannanitis
Madagascar – Tuliar
