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| Icon of St. Panteleimon and relics, Abustamani |
I am now securely back at home and in my regular routine, consisting mainly of long talks with my wife while sipping coffee in
the sun room, teaching my college classes and going to the office a
little, weekly lunches with my oldest friend, the occasional visit with my
hard-to-catch nephew, and finally, working my way back into the comfortable and
necessary cycle at church. I am truly
glad to be home, for this is and will
be my home. For better or worse, I am rooted
to a very particular place. But as I am
wont to do, whenever I am here, my mind returns there, and by there I mean the Caucasus. I will always be just a visitor when in Georgia,
but at least I am one who feels at home.
In some ways, I am more comfortable in my own skin over there than I am in
Texas. No doubt I will return as often as I can, and for as long as I am able to do so.
In thinking back over recent Georgian travels, it has given me no little pleasure to realize that I have an increasing connection with St. Panteleimon. I was heretofore
only vaguely familiar with this 4th-century saint, and not at all in
the habit of invoking him in my intercessory prayers. In short, I was not primed in any way to expect
any interaction with this particular saint.
He has now become, however, a touchstone for me in Georgia. I will explain.
***
Back in 2014, I spent two nights in the Black Sea resort of
Batumi, Georgia’s showcase to the rest of the world. The city combines a bit of New Orleans-like
charm and Miami beach appeal, with a too generous dose of Las Vegas glitz. There’s enough here to enchant or offend most
any sensibility. I love the place. The fact that Donald Trump would probably
love it too ought to concern me more than it does. But on this particular Sunday morning, I
accompanied my friends Jay, Poti, Soso and Misha up into the semi-tropical
hills behind the city. We attended
Divine Liturgy at the Church of the Transfiguration--built in 1912 by the city’s
Greek community, closed during the Soviet period, and reopened in 1995. The
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| Fr. Vaseli and friends, Batumi |
iconography was about 60% complete at that time, now being done
in the Georgian style. For those who are
interested in such things, about 125 worshippers were in attendance, of which about
55% were women and 45% men, about 10% were elderly, 30% were middle-aged, and
60% were young adults and their children.
After the service, Poti introduced me to Fr. Vaseli, and we had a nice
visit considering the not-insubstantial language barrier. He gave me the following blessing: “As this is the Church of the Transfiguration,
may Christ transfigure your life.” I had
forgotten that until I reread my journal, and was a bit ashamed that I had neglected
to remember perhaps the most important thing I could take away from there. Fr. Vaseli also gave me two icons and a
plastic jug of wine. Later that day, I
found myself walking down a Batumi street carrying said jug of wine and two
icons. How Orthodox is that? The first icon was of Sts. Gabriel, Ioanne,
and Giorgi-Ioanne. This is not
surprising, as these 20th-century saints—one a “Fool for Christ” on
the streets of Tbilisi, and the other two beloved monks at nearby Betania monastery--
are among the most popular in Georgia today.
The other icon was a small painted wooden block of St. Panteleimon. At the time, I thought this an odd choice, as
I would have expected one of the Georgian saints, or perhaps St. George. I was quite pleased with it, nonetheless. At that time,
I intended to give it as a gift to one of my godsons, who had chosen St.
Panteleimon as his patron saint. But I never
followed through with that. I grew
attached to it and found something else for my godson, keeping this icon for
myself.
***
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| The ossuary at Zarzma Monastery |
Later on that same trip, I made a return trip to Zarzma
Monastery, in remote Samtskhe-Javakheti.
This very active monastic complex is one of my favorites, and one I now try
to visit every trip. The monastery dates
from the 8th century. The
oldest extant church was built in the 10th century, complete with a
inscription over the entrance commending the Georgians who helped Basil II put
down the revolt of Bardas Phokas in 979.
The main church—the Church of the Transfiguration—is the newest, constructed
in the 14th century. The
iconography within is exquisite,
having never been whitewashed during the
tsarist years. I particularly appreciate
the murals depicting the donors—rather sly-looking Chorchanelis and/or Jaqelis
who do not appear at all reverent.
The monks open a small chamber to the right of the altar and show the
uncorrupted remains of an unknown 9th century monk from Atskuri. Somewhat obscured behind the main church is
the ossuary, containing the bones of countless monks, staked neat as cord
wood. To top it off, the courtyard
contains—along with the garden and bee hives—several ancient animalistic stone
sculptures, which may in truth be pre-Christian.
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| Old Abustamani |
In researching Zarzma’s history, I became acquainted with the
story of Grand Duke George Alexandrovich.
I am generally well-disposed towards monarchy (except, of course, for
the last three centuries of its English manifestation). That said, royalty in particular often
disappoints, leaving my sympathies stranded much more in the theoretical realm,
than in the actual. But Grand Duke
George, son of Alexander III of Russia, and younger brother of Nicholas II, is
a classic case of “poor little rich boy”—and in this particular instance, I mean
the richest family in the world at that time.
Witty and outgoing, George was considered the most intelligent of the
Tsar’s children.
Unfortunately, he developed
tuberculosis at age 20 while on a diplomatic mission to Japan, and his health
remained touch and go until his death at age 28. The Romanovs maintained a small palace—Likani—just
outside the resort town of Borjomi, and young George was dispatched there to
recuperate. Like many visitors before
him, the young man immediately took to the region, and as they say “went native,” or
as much as it is possible for a grand duke of Russia to do so. He preferred to remain in Georgia and resolutely
refused to leave, being lured from his adopted country only rarely, and then only at
the command of his mother, the Dowager Empress.
Grand Duke George constructed a modest hunting lodge at Abustamani, located at the base of
the forested mountains that divides Kartli and Kakheti from western Georgia. The village is remote--or as my friend Dato would say "remoted"--located quite some
distance south and west of Likani—though much closer to Akhaltsikhe and Zarzma
Monastery. Here George was free from
even the limited protocol at Likani.
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| George Alexandrovich in Georgian attire |
He
enjoyed the lodge, his Georgian companions, and frequent visits to the
monks at Zarzma. Grand Duke George
oversaw the cleaning of the iconography within the Church of the
Transfiguration at the monastery. The impression it makes
today is due in large part to the work he authorized in the 1890s. In fact, he decided to build a replica
of Zarzma at Abustamani, and started construction of same, though it was only finished
after his death. Because of his presence
there, the village shortly developed as a resort area in the last years of
the tsarist regime, and would continue as such during much of the Soviet era. All that ended by the fall of Communism, if
not long before, and from what I could gather, the village was now largely derelict, the old sanatoriums and resort facilities crumbling with neglect. Even the hunting lodge was no more—or at
least partially so. A fire had broken
out and consumed most of the building.
I learned that there was some interest in rebuilding,
but no one had any clear idea about how that would ever be done, or paid for. A women's monastery came to occupy the grounds after the fall of Communism. I also read a brief reference to a 9th-century chapel
on the grounds as well. Clearly,
Abustamani appealed to my curiosity and warranted a detour to check it out.
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| The hunting lodge before the fire |
My excursion turned out to be well worth the time. The old resort town in the forested foothills
is tumble-down to be sure. But the decaying
gingerbreaded pavilions and summer houses, and extensive galleried sanatoriums attested to its former glory. The church of “New Zarzma” was in fact, the
Church of Alexander Nevsky. From the
outside it was indeed an exact replica of Zarma. But the similarities ended once one stepped
inside. The iconography was unlike any I
have ever seen, the epitome of the romanticized 19th century Russian
style. These murals were in fact the
work of the famous Mikhail Nestorov. To
my untrained eye, the saints and angels looked as if they could have been
copied from what one would expect to see in illustrated fairy tale books. Though not my preference, the iconography is
certainly unique, and in its own way, a bit stunning.
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| In the Church of St. Alexander Nevsky |
Leaving the church, we ventured up to the far end
of the village, finding the monastic complex, including the ruins of the old
hunting lodge and the small 9th century chapel. The gate was locked shut, however, and there
was no way for us to enter the grounds.
And so, we turned around and left without having visited the monastery,
though I had every intention of returning one day.
This year, I did that very thing. I was traveling with friends Michael, Adam
and Dato. Frankly, I was doing a bit of
apologizing in advance to Michael and Adam, as Abustamani seemed an obscure
destination in an introductory trip to Georgia.
As it turned out, there was no need for apologies. They got it.
We visited the ruined pavilion, and the Church of St. Alexander Nevsky, which
impressed my friends as much as it did me the previous year. We were pleased to discover that the gates to
the monastery were now open. Dato
started conversing with a novice nun who came out to be our escort. I did not know before, but now learned that this was in fact the Monastery of St. Panteleimon. A few
rooms of Grand Duke George Alexandrovich’s old hunting lodge remain, with much of the
burned out sections exposed to the elements, and the occasional pecking
chickens. The nuns have constructed a
new annex onto the back of the house. We
were told that they wish to rebuild the lodge, but there is no money to do so.
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| Our guide at the Monastery of St. Panteleimon |
The young novice escorted us to the 9th century chapel, accessed by a footbridge that spanned a fast-flowing mountain stream.
Dato conversed with her all along the way, and made occasional
translations. As it turned out, he was
telling her about us. Georgians are surprised to learn that there are actually
American Orthodox Christians, and it gives them great pleasure to hear of
us. She was probably no older than 25,
and had a radiant smile—something I have noticed time and again in the presence
of Georgian nuns.
At first, I was a
little disappointed in the small chapel.
I had mistakenly thought that some old iconography remained inside. This was not the case. The old chapel had been newly plastered on
the inside. Except for the large icon of
St. Panteleimon on the stand in the center of the church, the only other
iconography consisted of a few framed prints hanging on the walls. We all took our turns venerating the icon of
St. Panteleimon. The young novice
continued to beam and talk at length with Dato.
He would occasionally translate to us the gist of their conversation. She then went to the icon stand and carefully
opened the cover, removing a small rounded capsule. Dato explained that this contained an actual relic
of St. Panteleimon—a small piece of his skull (I understand the main relic is
on Mount Athos.) She held it her palm
and each of us had the opportunity to come forward and venerate it. Simply writing these words cannot convey the emotion that was running through us all at that time. I turned my face to the wall for a while and
struggled to retain my composure. I
realize that this is incomprehensible to those who are not Orthodox--this connection
with the saints and their relics. But they
are real and vital to us, and wherever I encounter them--whether in Abustamani,
Georgia, or in Macon, Georgia—I feel connected to the Faith of the Ages, and deeply humbled by its saints and martyrs.
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| All that remains of the hunting lodge |
We walked back outside and the young novice had us linger while she retrieved some gifts from the Abbess.
We stood in the courtyard of the old hunting lodge, and after a while she
returned, still smiling, and gave us each bags with holy oil and large candles
made personally by the Abbess. She even prepared a separate package for my godson back in the U.S. who took the name Panteleimon. We took our leave, with the four of us—Dato,
Michael, Adam and myself—all on something of a spiritual high. On the drive down from Abustamani, we each tried to give voice to that which we had just experienced. We knew that something quite special had come our way, and that it would be hard to explain, as my
grasping for words here clearly demonstrates.
After I had been home for a couple of weeks, I enjoyed a quiet
lunch with two of my best and oldest friends.
We have a favorite restaurant, and always opt for a quiet table near the
bar. One of my friends wanted to hear a story about Georgia. With some misgivings, I decided to tell about my visit to the Monastery of St.
Panteleimon, for this made as lasting an impression on me as anything I experienced while there. I had doubts about
my audience, however. I could easily relate
the experience to other Orthodox ,while sitting around at coffee hour after Liturgy, but I was afraid it would
not translate well in Protestant circles.
One friend was an old-school Anglican, now refugeed out to the Reformed
Episcopal Church or some such; the other a staunch Calvinist. When I got to the part about venerating the
relics of St. Panteleimon, the latter almost snorted in derision. I halfway expected this, and made some lame attempt
at a clever reply. I felt like saying
that he could hang with John Calvin if he wanted, but I would take my stand with the likes of St. Panteleimon. Not only did he
not recognize the name, but was proud that he knew him not. Despite this brief brush with replaying the
Reformation, the conversation soon moved on into more familiar territory. I can’t fault my friend without condemning
myself. For there was a time in my life when
I would have been equally derisive and dismissive.
***
Months later in 2015, I found myself in Tbilisi again on two
separate occasions. I have been to
Tbilisi any number of times, and have visited at least a dozen churches in the
center of the city. Each has a special
attraction to me, but over time I have become especially drawn to Mamadaviti
church (Church of St. David). The church
was originally founded by St. Davit Gareji, one of the thirteen Syrian Fathers
of the 6th century. The
current church, however, is much newer.
The iconography is largely from the Russian period of the 19th
century. But the church has an
impressive vantage point, perched on a slope of Mtatsminda, with Tbilisi spread
out below. The National Pantheon is located in
the churchyard as well. This began in 1829, with the murder of Alexander Griboyedov and his subsequent entombment here. His grave and that of his Georgian wife, Nino
Chavchavadze, are in a special crypt in front of the church. The tomb of St. Ilia the Righteous is hard up
against the side of the hill, close to the church. I enjoy walking through the cemetery and
seeing how many people I can identify by reading the Georgian script. This visit I was able to pinpoint the graves
of both Lado Gudiashvili and Otar Chiladze.
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| In the crypt for Alexander Griboyedov |
From the writings I share here and elsewhere, I present myself as something of an even-tempered sort, not wildly excitable,
nor subject to deep depressions. But I am subject to flashes of anger, and can tumble into the depths of despair in short order. I tend not to write about those times. A particular recent Saturday in Tbilisi was
as dark a day as I ever remember having.
These touchstones remain alive in my memory, if not the exact day, then certain the
month and year: July 2005, November
2011, and now July 2015. I didn’t exactly
wander the streets that day, but I wasn’t far from it. I felt a need to keep moving, however, and so it is
no surprise that I eventually found my way to Mamadaviti church. I wandered among the graves for a while, and
viewed the city from the railing next to the retaining wall. I heard chanting, and realized that this was
Saturday afternoon and vespers were beginning.
My friend Soso chants here, but was not in town this particular
Saturday. I quietly entered the sanctuary, and eyed the small group of worshippers that was beginning to form. I was the oldest person there. When it was my turn, I went forward and
venerated the icons of Jesus Christ and the Theotokos in front of the iconostasis, and then found a quiet dark place to stand near the southwest corner. I felt much better for being
there, of course. Just listening to the Georgian chant and letting my eyes
wander to the various icons in the sanctuary calmed my soul and soothed my
weariness.
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| In the Mtatsminda Pantheon |
In time, I came around to
noticing the icons in my back corner, and went around to each one to venerate. One thing you notice about Georgian iconography
is their attention to contemporary saints.
Mamadaviti Church was no exception, with an icon of St. Ekvtime just
behind me, and a large icon to Ilia Chavchavadze—“St. Ilia the Righteous” to my right. To my right and slightly in
front was another large icon, but to one of the early saints. He was, of course, St. Panteleimon. I was half beginning to expect him, and it gave me great comfort to venerate his icon and ask his intercession. I knew I was in good company, and there was no cause for despair.
