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“Prison Bride” Flock of Dimes
I once visited a remote monastery at which an Eastern Orthodox monk gave me the below literature. The piece was written as a reflection on death by a monk who often visited a mountain chapel where fellow monks’ bones are laid to rest.
We Shall Be Even As They Are…
“From time to time I like to go where the mystery of our life is concealed, where it may be that I myself shall be concealed when I have drunk the cup of death. Here I spend some time when I am worn down incurably by despair, and it is here that I find refreshment for my soul that is sorrowing unto death. Here the tumult of life is silent, and in place of prideful thoughts there comes a series of severe considerations of the Judgment that knows no hypocrisy, that is righteous.”
“Before me is a simple chapel, a charnel house where the bones of the dead are laid to rest. These bones testify for us what we ourselves shall also be.”
“A few years ago, when these visitors to earth were still alive, they also did not have the strength to control themselves at times, and being human, they argued over dust. But now they have gone ‘to their own city,’ leaving behind only these bones. Now they are content with fate and lie there without bothering one another; they don’t argue over whose shelf is whose.”
“We, too, are visitors on earth, and our path leads to the same place. But we walk in a kind of haze, without seeing the threshold of eternity. We pursue happiness, and are unhappy. Every day we are rushing off somewhere and forget what is important. We are afraid of death and judgment; we want to live here all the longer, taking our ease and hoarding our wealth. We cannot endure a single offensive word, not even a slightly unfriendly glance, and the cross of sorrow-filled tribulations is more tortuous that hell for us. We are forever blaming others, while we ourselves are angering God, and do not dare to blame ourselves even in the smallest things. We are prepared to exert ourselves to the utmost, to go without sleep for nights on end and risk any danger in order to satisfy our whims. We twist our conscience and grab at whatever tickles our fancy. We are prepared to defend our own ‘honor,’ to value our efforts and knowledge, and if anyone slights them, our soul is tormented.”
“Such is man, a creature of passion, the boastful god of earthly paradise! He spends his time in vanity, with no rest day or night, and holds everything here so dear – as long as he is in good health. But when illness brings him down, then he becomes entirely different.”
“The terrible hour of death strikes. The sinful soul panics. We must bid farewell to all that is dear to us – and forever. Of no use are the kindnesses of friends, the value of property; they cannot add a single moment to our lives. In vain they rush for help, and doctors summon all their expertise. The ailing man breathes heavily and, in the end, he dies. His breast grows cold, his gaze is fixed, his senses cease to function. The remains are disposed of, buried in the ground.”
“After that, there is not much you need to know about what happens to us. These bones tell it all; our conscience trusts them. A single instant and life is but a dream. And what were all the worries and vanity and bitter pleasures for? We forget the lesson that death repeats for us, that life is given to us for a set time, and only once.”
“O death, who is not afraid of you? Who desires you? Blessed is the one who awaits you like sleep, who remembers that his soul is immortal. By contrast, there is no one more hapless than the person who is afraid to think about you; all his life is torment and even this, in the end, he will lose. On the one side – the repose of the righteous and eternal rejoicing with the saints; on the other – for the sinners, hell in outer darkness and eternity in the company of evil demons.”
“The time and the road for that departure into eternity are not far away. Remember the wise old saying: Know yourself and you will know God. Remember where you came from, who you are, where you are going and why; remember that you are great, that you are nothing, that you are immortal, and that you must die.”
—Monk Vitaly; Athos, 1905
