Do You Hear The Ringing Bells?

A Young Man and His Yearning for the Desert

Be on your guard lest, having been exalted, you fall.

The words repeated in the young man’s head as he tossed and turned on his hard bed, covered in a thin sheet and even thinner pillow.

“Exalted... I’m not even allowed in the main chapel. What is he even getting at?”

He could hardly sleep that entire night after Compline when all of the others went back to their cells. His restless mind found it easier to read and entertain itself, trying to understand and condense yet another text for future discussion, but upon reaching the end of the small book suggested by the elder, he was troubled. The text itself was completely understandable, almost to a fault; the most simple and straightforward reading so far; and yet, somehow, the summation of the contents was entirely impenetrable to him to the point of utter frustration. He knew that he did not have long to address his questions before the Midnight Services were to be held and the day would start, and in fact, he was more concerned that this kind of repeated questioning as of late may become a nuisance to the elder; it had been a few months of growing piles of books strewn about and invading much of the open space in his own cell before the elder suggested that he rest more and read less: between the Gospels, the lives of saints, their homilies, theological expositions, and many other forms of writings suggested to those in the monastery, he had attempted to take in every bit and morsel of information that he could. He felt foolish that he was stuck on what he considered only a small portion of the text, but instead of pestering the elder once again at untimely hours, he decided that he would take a walk through the gardens that evening and try to reflect through his own means.

Sneaking out of the cells and passing into the main courtyard, he stopped to looked at St. Nicholas’ Chapel, adorned in orange and white off to the right, before turning and going left. The usual beauty held within the monastery grounds meant nothing to him as he passed through: the multitudes of fronds and palms, the marigolds and zinnias and hyssops and bellflowers, were all hardly visible under the starlit sky; the fountains sprinkled around the grounds that brought a certain serenity in the daylight could barely be heard among the incessant and pulsating roar of crickets in the otherwise still and cool evening air; a few wild animals scurried and scampered about the grounds, jostling the low lying plants upon noticing the young man approach. He wanted so deeply to walk into the desert, just as Saint Anthony, the very namesake of the monastery itself, as he had done, as had all of the other great ascetics, and show to other monks that he was not some child or some errand boy; but the outlying desert was obscured by the fauna and chapels of the monastery, with only the peak of a nearby mountain visible through a small opening in the trees behind alluring the glow of the falling moon.

For many months now he had struggled daily. Before this moment, and even before he pulled up to the monastery (which he had found wholly on accident while driving north up from Tucson, laughing and taking the exit at the Miracle Mile sign, to again be delighted that it led to Oracle Road before taking a left at Oracle Junction). He had realized that his relatively short life had amounted to a penniless and vapid existence, and rather than persevere through and find another wall to inevitably crash into, he decidedly drove around a while with aimless ambitions before stumbling upon that small enclave in the desert which, to him, was irresistibly comical as a destination more than anything else. After a number of years meddling in a form that could be best stated as failure to launch, he had given up on most of his dreams, but he was not bold enough to abandon everything and live truly on his own as he now desired. Upon entering the monastery, the young man had told the abbot that he had no belief in God, or any divine creature for that matter, but that he needed somewhere to be for an indefinite period of time, reiterating that he “was not on the run as a fugitive or some sort of vagabond looking for a temporary stay”, like a floating, formless transient. To his utter surprise, he was accepted gracefully that very day, and was told that “all things have their seasons”, being put to work the very next day just the same as the others. His greatest motivator was to go back to an earlier, simpler time, before phones or the internet or any form of modern convenience, and find a way to build himself back from the ground up, away from all of the fast paced and quickly decaying society that he had so sorely turned from. And in the beginning, the daily tasks of tending to the gardens, servings the other monks, and attending the services had a uniqueness that attracted him: all of the iconography, all of the hymns and chanting, the brotherhood, and the close community all appealed to him in the very way that he knew it would. It was real and present; there was little fakery outside of a few monks that he believed to be overly pious, and the rhythm and routine of the day helped keep things on track. There was never a day that he couldn’t find something to dissect and discuss with the other monks, despites their occasional groans at his analysis. But as the days continued, the luster of serving others had been lost, turning the once voluntary act into a begrudged obligation in his mind; he had hoped that he would at least find something that would appeal to him or show him why these men had taken such a serious vow of monasticism. Nothing had done it. “Continue coming to the services, do not hesitate,” the elder would insist, and he did so because there was little else to do. Eventually in his free time, he took to reading. On every level, he could understand all of the symbolism, all of the thoughts and patterns, the messages trying to be portrayed, but in spite of all of his efforts, he felt next to nothing outside of a few moments of direct conviction while reading The Ladder of Divine Ascent, which he near instantly forgot about when moving on to the next piece of text to devour. But those few words in that small book stuck out to him so terribly.

Be on your guard lest, having been exalted, you fall.

“If I ask the elder why he gave me this, he is going to ask me if I had read it; but he knows I’ve done that and come to bother him about it. And it’s not as if I don’t understand it... but why? How? I didn’t say anything to him about this...” The more that he tried to understand and rationalize, the less he could convince himself of the elder’s motives or even how he would have known about his desire to leave, as it had only recently occurred. A flash of anger like a hot coal rose in his chest, but in his mind, an image of the elder appeared to him, and initially felt a great deal of guilt and shame in his desire to flee; the elder’s eyes were always meek and gentle, and he would respond with the utmost sincerity and compassion. The young man had even had an experience where, upon meeting eyes with the elder during one of his previous meetings, it was as if his chest were on fire that could not stop it's spread; there was something in his look that could speak to a man’s very soul without dampening it, looking beyond all of his poorly constructed masks. Before he realized it, he was standing across the way from the Chapel of Saint Seraphim of Sarov, with the light of a few solitary candles gently swaying in the distance. He was unsure how much time had passed outside and figured if he was going to speak to the elder at all that day, now would be the time.

Just before reaching the threshold of the cell door, the young man stopped. Breathy, repeated whispers could be heard from within. For a moment, he again felt a sense of regret, standing still and hoping for a reason to turn around. But before he could move, the small and whistling voice from within the cell spoke:

“Do not linger about. Come in!”

Entering the elder’s cell, he could see that it was just as sparse as usual: a small bed with no sheet; a small desk and chair with a neat pile of his writings on it; the smell of incense was on the brink of overwhelming, and the walls, covered in icons, were arranged in such a way that it gave a feeling of living, breathing people in the flickering light of the candle. Upon getting up from his prostration before an icon of Theotokos holding a child Christ, the elder turned around slowly and with some difficulty. He was extremely short of stature, with a long black cassock that fell past his feet, his black skufia with a red cross stitched to the forehead covering his hair, a great grey beard, and beaming eyes and an ever-present smile, wrinkled and radiant.

“Well? Have you come to stand around with me or ask something?” he asked eagerly but without harshness, almost laughing as the words came out.

“I’ve read what you gave me,” said the young man. He was reluctant to reveal too much too soon.

“Ah! and what did you think of it?”

The elder’s smile grew ever greater. But the young man, still standing and looking down at the elder, was holding onto the possibility that it was all some convoluted and contrived joke of sorts.

“Did you give this to me because I don’t believe in all of this?” he asked as he waved his finger towards the icons on the walls. “Because believe me, I understand the whole point of this story with Nicetas: his pride and want to perform miracles made him fall to temptations beyond his control. Fairly basic, but universal lesson.”

“What did you think of the Ethiopian eunuch?” The elder responded abruptly, ignoring the previous statement, still smiling.

The young man stood before the elder deeply confused. He could not remember reading anything of the sort.

“’How can I, except a man should guide me?’” The elder gestured to the young man, as if to encourage the words to come out of him.

“Ah, yes, yes, in Acts, I remember now. What of it?”

The elder took a seat on his bed, inviting the young man to sit at his desk.

“Why do you think I gave this to you to read?”

As he took his seat, the young man involuntarily laughed, attempting to disguise it as a cough, thinking of something witty in response, but held his lips. All of the thoughts he tried to push away before entering the elder’s cell began to flow back into him. He avoided looking directly at the elder, and instead tried to look past him.

“Well, I would assume it would be to have some ‘spiritual awakening’ of sorts— considering the title of the book, if that is any indication—but the conclusions that Father Seraphim Rose comes to seem absolutely ridiculous to me in some sense: he even acknowledges the fact that too many people will see whatever suffering God seems to impose on man as useless and for nothing, and that man recognizes that and becomes bitter; but the Russian’s that he used for his example have been as nasty a lot of people as anyone, haven’t they? I’m sure the modern Solzhenitsyn would just be some sort of solitary man of his own making, complaining about modern day woes to a group of like minded folks. Oh, but that whole bit about Saint John and his twenty-dollar bill under the pillow of that woman in the hospital was rather cute and charming—like a grown up tooth fairy almost—and you know, I could almost believe it too, or at least the feeling of it, but it’s just as easy to make up—”

“’Be on your guard lest, having been exalted, you fall,’ are the words, no?”

The young man’s eyes met with the elders. The usual smile was now flat, and his eyes were aflame. The young man could feel his breath quicken and chest tighten, invigorated with that same fire that he had felt before.

“Why those words? Do you think anything of why perhaps those words may have stuck out to you?”

The young man collected himself for a moment, the many faces of the icons seeming to lean in to hear his response.

“I don’t know how you find these things out, but I’m sure you heard, or saw, or figured out that I don’t really care to be here anymore. And I thought to myself: ‘well why not join the ranks of the real ascetics and go into the desert?’”

The elder sat quietly, nodding with his words and looking back at the young man, as if begging him to continue until he found something true to say, which only agitated the young man further.

“And if you were to go,” the elder began, “what exactly do you think you would find other than some cacti and scorpions? As you have said: you do not believe in anything, and so there should be nothing like what Saint Anthony, a real ascetic, encountered in the desert, correct? So, then what is out there for you to fight, to struggle against, to suffer for? Perhaps you think that we would be impressed with the idea that you could live in such a place? Even the most wild and lowly of animals can do that, and furthermore, they certainly would not make a fuss about their position.” He paused for a moment, standing up and taking small steps around his space, crossing himself before turning back to the young man. “I have seen you look with such deep longing, with passion, with zeal and vigor into the desert in moments when you think no one is looking. What do you think you will find? I know you’re knowledgeable on many things; anything you pick up becomes instant information to call upon on a whim. I’ve heard your points in discussions; you’re keen and poignant! Many could only hope to get to a level of your knowledge! You could be asked on the spot many things about the Scriptures, and even get the interpretations correct; but just as easily as you could do that, it seems as if you could not work even a single day without lingering on thoughts of yourself. Just like everything else, you are too busy in your mind to live in any of it; you wanted to be dead to the world by being here, but you still stand at the threshold waiting for someone to take the next step for you or be pushed; where is your ability to leap? What good is licking your wounds and keeping them open: just to have something to talk about, a self-condemning, contradictory commentator? The same fire that destroys purifies in the same instant. You cannot take the reality before you, and so you become wrapped in the fantasy; what, then, of the fantasy when it, too, becomes reality? Where is the next place to run? But that look; yes, that very look! The dream is still in your eyes; hold on, and never lose that glimmer.”

The young man could not properly formulate how to respond, doing his best in his decrepit state of mind, but thoughtlessly he did so anyways:

“But this is all ridiculous! I have been here for months: I have done each task I have been asked; I attend your services—outside of the main hall like a second-class citizen might I add; I have even read all these texts that you all pass around just to gain a minor understanding why you all do what you do. And I will admit, I have had moments where maybe I felt a flutter of the heart and thought to myself, ‘is this it?’ before it disappeared just as quickly as it came. It doesn’t make sense to me and I doubt it ever will. It’s you all who keep me out and away; no wonder your beliefs are of a dying breed. So, I suppose, in reading that book, I was stuck wondering to myself where in any way am I being exalted here. So please, show me.”

“Do you pray?”

“For what?”

The young man was irate; absolutely none of the elder’s statements seemed to lead to one another.

“Anything: well-being of others, happiness, at the very least, for yourself; there is always much to give thanks to the Lord for providing in this life.”

“And what, I’ll just get what I ask for?”

“My child, God is not just some magic to be called upon for your convenience, but your persistence in knocking—”

Growing terribly impatient, and having forgotten his original intent to speak on, the young man realized that nothing in the conversation had felt profitable to him.

“Look, I’m sorry for bothering you, I will go back to—”

“No! Do not apologize! I have brought this great ache upon you; please, forgive me! I see what you desire, and truly you are not bound to me in any way.” The elder fell on his face before the young man and continued to beg for his forgiveness. The young man insisted that the elder get up off the floor, but the old man stubbornly would not cede his lowly position. Only after a few minutes did he rise, looking back at the icon he was in front of earlier, as if hearing whispers through a window, only to bring the smile back to his face, only now with his eyes shining brightly from the light. “The services begin in a little over an hour. I would like for you, for one hour, to go out into the desert. No, don’t think I’m looking to deceive you! Go, please! And once that is finished, come back, attend the services as usual, and take the rest of the day off; I can see that you have not rested well. I will not bother you, and neither will any of the others in the monastery, I will make sure of that. But when you come back, during the Liturgy tonight, I want you to watch as if none of us who serve it are here; watch as if Christ himself is present and performing the Liturgy, each of us participating only in body, outwardly. We are but positive zeros made to serve those who are present; we are all made in the image of God—including you. I would like for you to see that.”

And just like that, the elder dismissed the young man, going back to his prayers as if the encounter had never even occurred. The young man did not move for a while, stunned and still holding onto the idea that this was all done with dubious intent. Before exiting the cell, the elder told the young man to try and relax, not to rush things, and that he would be awaiting the moment he returns. “Tell me of the desert!” he cried out a few times as he interrupted himself to shoo the young man out of his cell and proceeded to go back to his prayers.

With that, his sojourn in the Sonoran began. He passed back into the main courtyard, this time walking directly past the same chapel as before for Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, and out onto a main trail of the monastery. He found it exceedingly difficult to pick a direction to walk: west was not an option, as the town was that direction; he was disappointed with the view to the north; seeing that towards the northeast with Pinal Mountains off in the distance, or to the southeast towards the Mount Lemmon were his only options, a slight panic came about him. Neither option was remotely close enough to make any real progress or fruitful journey. Thinking on it and trying to wrestle with his limited time, he set off to the northeast, where the moon was shining high and bright.

Much of his walk, to his dismay, was spent trying to make heads or tails of the conversation with the elder. How did he know the very words? And if he knew, why would he state them and then completely ignore them? His eyes surveyed the ranges in front of him, but he could not focus on what he wanted. A thick haze seemed to fall upon him, walking with half opened eyes. The arid winds beat his skin with cool precision. The foliage of sparsely decorated sands were small inconveniences. The same crickets from before were scattered around him, chirping from all different directions, speaking around him, mocking him. His pace was languid, and after fifteen minutes of walking, he came upon a tall and thick cactus with many arms. He took a break, sitting beneath in the shadow of the moon’s light. He sat for a very long time, his back to the mountains. He wanted anything; where is my sign?

Pieces of the story of Nicetas played involuntarily in his mind, over and over. He hated how beat by beat the story matched his own, yet one was destined to be a saint, and the other had no destiny.

It is not good for you who are young to be idle!

He pleaded with himself, groaning over his racing mind. He only wanted to enjoy the silence.

By serving them you will not lose your reward.

“What reward? More work? Where is my peace?”

The deluge of words continued to pour into him in an inaudible, ever-present pervasive background. Before long, whispers of the demon's words taunted him, unable to be kept away.

I will not appear to thee because thou art young, lest, having been lifted up, thou fallest down.

“No, no, I need sleep. Think of something else, anything else.”

It is impossible for a man while still in the flesh to see me.

But look…

The young man closed his eyes and covered his ears. He could not distinguish whether the shivers were from the cold of the desert or a natural reaction to the realization that his will was not of his own accord in that moment. His heart felt as if it were crushing his blood, pulsating the pain from his chest to his extremities, and his eyes as if they were bulging to get past his eyelids.

I am sending my angel to stay with thee. Carry out his will.

He felt like a little boy again, cowering in fear over a boogeyman of his own making. He repeated to himself that none of it was real, that it will never be real, and wished for himself to disappear. He had no home to return to, he had no family that would bail him out, and the desert was absent to his sorrow.

He sat for what felt to be an indefinite amount of time, suspended in a state of inescapable exhaustion, both in body and spirit. Nodding off, his head fell forward, and eyes shot open, gaze fixed upon the sand. Slowly uncovering his ears, and hearing the whipping winds over the nearby mounds, he could make out the faintest sound of church bells ringing far off in the distance. A mild paranoia set in, fearful that he had just ruined his only promise to the elder, and subsequently his living conditions. Something in him screamed to get back to the monastery, and like a burning bush, the pain in his chest began to fuel his return, propelling him back through his fatigue.

As he entered the main chapel, panting like a dog, things were proceeding just as usual, and not a second too late on his part.

“Evlogimeni i Vasilia tou Patros ke tou Iou ke tou Agio Pnevmatos, nin ke a-i, ke is tous eonas ton eonon.”

“Amin.”

The Liturgy was all quite the same, standing in the narthex. He actually quite enjoyed himself, despite his tiredness; the elder’s idea of many Christs all running around, chanting, singing psalms about himself, swinging the censers covered in little bells, passing out his own body and blood, was all terribly comical to him, but in a beautiful way. He even found himself humming along to each “kyrie eleison”, though assuredly it was more of a call for mercy to remain awake than anything else. It was nearly three in the morning before he went back to his cell. He eyed the piles of books around him, shook his head, and slept for nearly twelve hours straight.

When the young man awoke, the elder had already been standing outside cell, seemingly waiting for the moment that he rose.

“How was it? I take the desert was just as empty and lifeless as in here, no?” Again, he had the same piercing smile as the night before.

“It was... it was alright. I was actually scared I wasn’t going to make it back in time for a little bit, but I heard the bells ringing and assumed that was my call.”

The elder returned a strange look to the young man, as if hearing a memory.

“Did I say something strange?”

“The bells? We did not play any bells last night. You heard them in the desert?”

A panicked look came about the face of the young man. The elder, seeing his unease, assured him that stranger things had happened. “In fact,” he began, “now that I think on it, the very day we picked this as the very site of the monastery...” He paused, looking upwards, then “Ah, what are the chances? Did you ever hear that story?”

“I haven’t heard a lot of stories.”

His smile was beaming, and he seemed almost giddy to tell his little tale.

“Well, the very day we chose this to be the site of our monastery, I and a few others were walking about, trying to find the proper place; nothing had stuck out. And in a moment, like the heavens opening up to us, we all heard the sound of bells ringing, and we knew that this was the very place to be, and we raised the cross there that very day. What are the chances? Oh, what am I saying, is there such a thing as chance? No, no, I’m sure in your case, it was just desert playing tricks!”