The Three-Day-Fasting Monks of Mount Athos – A Story of Grace for Great Lent

With a typikon that has been preserved uninterruptedly for more than ten centuries, the monks of Mount Athos enter Holy and Great Lent immediately after the Vespers of Forgiveness.

On the evening of Cheesefare Sunday, after the completion of Vespers and Compline, the fathers in the Holy Monasteries and in the Huts withdraw to their cells, limiting their movements only to what is absolutely necessary. For three days their life is devoted entirely to prayer and spiritual watchfulness.

The refectory is not set for the monks during this first three-day period of Lent; only for visitors is a simple refreshment offered, usually a little tea and some rusks. Most observe complete abstinence from food until Wednesday at noon, while many refrain even from water — except, of course, those who face health problems.

Throughout these days, the monks leave their cells only to participate in the long sacred services. Silence is a fundamental element of their struggle, and many remain awake as much as possible, dedicating their time to unceasing prayer.

Some pray standing, others kneeling or making continual prostrations. Even the sick or bedridden monks take part in this common spiritual struggle, holding the prayer rope in their hands and whispering the Prayer - a Prayer that embraces the whole world.

A Prayer that begins from their mortal lips and reaches up into the heavens and unto eternity.

This strict typikon of Great Lent prescribes more intense fasting, more prostrations, and a deeper life of prayer, whether in the church or in the stillness of the cell. The aim is not only bodily restraint, but above all the purification or cleansing of the heart.

The fruits of fasting grant each striving believer the opportunity to diminish the passions and thereby to attract the grace and blessing of God.

The Three-Day-Fasting Monks of Mount Athos – A Story of Grace for Great Lent

A story about the three-day — absolute — fast observed by the fathers at the beginning of Holy and Great Lent.

By Fr. Pavlos Papadopoulos

His lips, numb, were craving water. He had gone three days without eating or drinking anything. Long services, prostrations, study, his rule in his cell, solitary vigil — all together they gave him a small taste of the asceticism of the great desert ascetics who lived this way not for a few days, but for almost their entire lives.

It was the typikon of his monastery for the fathers to keep a three-day — absolute — fast until the first Presanctified Liturgy. It was their tradition to make a strong beginning to Holy and Great Lent.

Thirst. This feeling was terrible. It was now Wednesday afternoon. The Presanctified was drawing to a close. The moment was approaching when, after nearly three days of complete fasting, he would open his mouth to eat. The priest called the faithful: “With the fear of God, with faith and love, draw near.”

A slight dizziness made him grasp the pillar of the church. One by one, the monks, like little birds, opened their mouths, waiting for their mother, the Church, to feed them. His turn came. He opened his mouth.

As the priest said, “…for the remission of sins and life eternal,” he gave him Communion of the Body and Blood of the Lord. His mouth was filled with heavenly food. For the first time, at that moment, as if he had received a divine visitation, he understood that he was eating God. A monk for years — yet at that moment the spiritual world opened within him, before him. At that moment he understood. He had believed — but then he understood. He understood without explanations, without himself being able to comprehend how he understood.

He blinked, filled with fear, joy, anguish, peace — full comprehension. He was flooded with gratitude. He stepped away from the Holy Chalice. He went and sat again in his stall. His eyes were different. His body now stood like the icons on the wall. He was and at the same time was no longer there. Everything had vanished: the fatigue, the thirst, the hunger, the thoughts — all disappeared. One thing alone reigned over his being: that taste of Christ.

The first Presanctified Divine Liturgy of Holy and Great Lent had just ended. As they were all leaving the katholikon of the monastery, some of the fathers heard him murmuring: “How is it possible that I have eaten God? What have I received within me? I ate Christ, I was quenched by His Blood, I was filled by His Body…” His step was swift, as though he were hurrying somewhere.

He managed to enter his cell. There, alone now, he knelt. He did not remove his cassock, nor his kalimavkion, nor his koukoulion. Just as he was, he knelt to the ground. He stretched out his hands upon the wooden floor like a beggar asking for mercy.

Silence. Night had fully fallen. He remained like that for quite some time. Suddenly he rose slightly.

“Enough, Lord… enough,” he said, bursting into sobs. “I cannot endure Your love… withdraw, for my heart cannot bear it.”

Gradually the sobs subsided, and he remained with silent tears streaming down his face. He stood upright in his robes, his koukoulion crooked upon his kalimavkion, his eyes clear, his beard disheveled, his hands trembling.

His little cell was fragrant with a sweet scent he had never before smelled in his life. Yet upon his lips there still lingered that taste of God — that taste which would now accompany him for the rest of his life. “Taste and see that Christ the Lord is good,” he longed to cry out to all the people of the earth.

“O my Christ… I want to eat and drink You until I cease to exist,” he whispered softly, and sealed his body with the sign of the Cross.

He heard doors opening. After a while he opened his own door to see what was happening. It was dawn — that was what had happened. The whole night had passed without his noticing. He felt no fatigue, no hunger. He felt fed with eternity, with incorruption.

Two fathers met him as they were going to the church to prepare it for the morning service.

“So early, Father — did you rest?” they asked cheerfully.

He straightened his koukoulion. He looked them in the eyes. They were taken aback, as if they were seeing another man.

“Glory to God, I am well,” he said, lowering his gaze.

The fathers paused in puzzlement, looking at one another, searching for an explanation for their brother’s radiant, altered expression — but they did not pursue it. They went into the church and began lighting the oil lamps. He stood motionless in the middle of the courtyard. He lifted his eyes to the sky. He made the sign of the Cross. He took a deep breath and also entered the church for the morning service.

Another day had begun — another day closer to Life, to Love. Another day closer to the end that will be the beginning.

As he ascended to his stall, his whole body shuddered, as though divesting itself of that entire experience. He smiled gently. “Until the next time, then…” he murmured, and took the prayer rope from the pocket of his belt.

The talanton sounded; the bell rang. The fathers began to enter the katholikon in order and silence. The monks took their places. The priest put on his epitrachelion and intoned, “Blessed is…”

He stood in his stall, his gaze passing over each of the fathers one by one. “I wonder how many brothers have experienced something like what I experienced for the first time yesterday…” he reflected.

At that moment, a brother was passing in front of him. He stopped. He turned toward him and took his hand.

“Do not analyze it too much… these are things of God…” he said gently, and went toward the analogion to read the Kathisma from the Psalter.

Great Lent had just begun. Another journey toward the Resurrection — which this year had come from the very beginning…

Source: Translated by John Sanidopoulos.