The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Chanting!

The bell rang out across the mountainside. The clear and even tone marked the time to rise from slumber. It was 6 am. The sun was working its way towards the horizon with clouds displaying rose, and amber, finally transforming into a lively orange. The sun arrived with all the grandeur of a king shining in its brilliance, radiating out to its subjects of trees, rivers and mountains below. I sat up and watched through tired eyes from my perch on the hillside. This was a ringside seat to a normal, yet somehow miraculous spectacle.

Suddenly I heard voices spilling out of the church below as if accompanying the sun on his morning ritual. The songs lifted up higher. I closed my eyes and wondered if this was still a dream? Was I truly sleeping in this small cave above a monastery built in the 12th century AD?

Arnaud, my French travel companion and I reached Sapara Monastery in the heat of the noon day sun. The only thing visible from the road was the basilica poking out among the treetops. As I walked towards this church I felt peace, a tranquility that can be hard to find. There was no noise, no  sounds of engines or industry; the year could have been 1320. A gentle breeze comforted us as we came close to the church itself. Upon entering we caught the attention of the stern faced icons looking down on us. Their sternness was only matched by the gaze of the two monks ab the back of the church. Ignoring them for the moment we were enthralled by the shaft of light that sliced its way across the dome of the basilica. We stayed in a holy hush, filled with anticipation, hoping for an epiphany. After a few moments neither of us had a revelation so we went exploring.

We climbed the hillside toward the tower above the monastery and en route we bumped into a monk, Jora, who was the resident beekeeper. We chatted it up a bit and I asked if I could stay at the monastery. He replied that it was fasting time and that they could not have guests. Arnaud and I spent some time on hillside above the monastery journaling and reflecting. I decided that I needed to stay for the night even though it was not advised.

I spent the night in a small cave overlooking the valley, drifting in and out of sleep. On several occasions I would awake to a generous backdrop of stars. I felt a connection to this place that was somewhere between Earth and space. I wondered how many monks had laid back in this cave and loved these same stars? Did some lay here when the Soviets were rounding up the Georgian intelligentsia and religious leaders killing them one by one? What were the prayers offered up in this cave?

Every so often a shooting star would zip across the sky. Did a wish hold more power in this place?

The view of the church with one of its chapels. (There were four chapels)

Main basilica

The view over the monastery

The view from the cave at sunset

The morning chanting drew me out of bed and down towards the monastery. Thankfully Jora, the only English speaking monk, came out after the liturgy and was surprised to learn that I had slept up on the hillside. “Do you know about the wolf? And the jackals?” he asked. Well I had to admit that I was not aware of the roaming wolf, but thanked my lucky stars that I had not been visited by canis lupus lupus.

His expression of incredulity quickly turned into a smile: “Come with me!” he said and waved me on towards the monastery. I hobbled along behind his quick gait to the monastery. He brought me down to the monastery's kitchen where he offered me a breakfast feast, including an eggplant dish, bean soup, mushroom sauce, bread, and the honey from his bees! He leaned in and asked if I wanted to sample the wine from the region. It was 9:30 am and I was hesitant to accept his offer, but recognized that it would be offensive to turn it down. “Yes, a little please,” I remarked. A young apprentice monk rushed off to collect the fine wine.

He returned a few minutes later with a large goblet of wine and we both smiled. "A little wine for you Marcel!" This was the first time that I had wine from a goblet and also the first time I drank a half litre of wine before 10 am. I raised my goblet. "To the brothers!"

My breakfast goblet of wine

Bread making in the kitchen

Delicious bread

I spent the morning with the monks and learned that in Georgia there are many Georges. There were three in the monastery of 14 monks. I spent time with Jora (a nickname for George) moving a large stone and seeing the chapels. Afterwards I went with "Little George", a 14 year old teenager from the city, to learn candle making. Little George had a keen interest in becoming a monk, having spent the last several summers helping out with candle making and other chores. His heart was open to bringing me into the workings of the monastery and showing me the ropes. We were in one of the caves nestled in hillside preparing to make candles when unfortunately, an older monk walked in and told me I was not welcome there and had to leave.

Little George

I found this happening time and again throughout my short time at the monastery. There were monks who smiled easily and had a welcoming spirit that drew me in; however, at the same time there were other brothers whose spirits felt as cool as the stones at the heart of the church. Religion has a funny way of sneaking up on a person. Initially we are full of energy and spirit, but somehow years later we find ourselves enmeshed with rules and formalities. How do we benefit from the community that religion can provide, while avoiding the dogma?

Jora, or Big George, felt like a brother to me. I heard echoes of my story in his life’s journey. For instance, he had also been a small scale farmer before becoming a monk and was now a beekeeper at the monastery. He took up beekeeping through experimentation in the summer and reading books in the winter. His smile came easily to his bearded face and he had a good level of curiosity and honesty. He made me laugh on several occasions, one of them being when we met one of his brother monks on the lane way. Afterwards we kept walking, he pointed back and said, "Brother Beka, he is a good man, a very good man... [pause, then looks at me] He does give my nerves a lot of pressure though!” His laughed and slapped me on my back.

Jora with a dusty beard post woodworking.

A monk’s life is filled with routine and solitude. There are the daily chores, the liturgy, the readings and the small scale income generating activities. There is also a lot of solitude that include hours spent meditating in caves and chapels. This is interspersed with community work such as building new lane ways or buildings. There were a few periods in my life when I have contemplated being a monk, but have come to realize that although I do appreciate this lifestyle, it is not what I am designed for. What I am called to is still being worked out.

Early in the afternoon I was informed by Jora that the Head of the Monastery had not blessed my time there and it was time to leave. Thankfully, I was able to hitch a ride down the mountain in the monastery vehicle, a soviet-era military jeep, with a fantastically bearded Georgian monk.

Thank you brothers for the time of learning and being! Blessings.

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