Anonymous

ANONYMOUS LIFE OF SAINT LUKE THE YOUNGER

ADMONITION

THE LIFE OF OUR HOLY FATHER AND WONDERWORKER LUKE THE YOUNGER, BURIED IN HELLAS, SELECTED AND ABBREVIATED

EXCERPTS FROM THE LIFE OF OUR HOLY FATHER AND WONDERWORKER LUKE THE YOUNGER, BURIED IN HELLAS

^A The good and great Luke in all respects is a scion of Hellas, or rather its ornament, and, I might add, its highly desirable delight and crown of glory. For he was not seen to be ungrateful toward his motherland; rather, he repaid it with noble and illustrious marks of distinction. His ancestors, moreover, originated from the island of Aegina—Aegina, I say, which is situated in the Aegean Gulf. Deeming the continuous raids of the Hagarenes to be intolerable, they, together with all the other inhabitants,

^A becoming wanderers, they dispersed one by one into various cities, treating them as stepmothers instead of a mother; and some, having occupied the lands of Cecrops, others those of Pelops, others of Cadmus, and still others other regions and places, were forced to settle in them.

Divine Luke’s ancestors, however, having migrated to the province of Phocis, or Chrysus, pitched their tents as sojourners upon a certain seaside mountain called Joannes. Yet because at that time—for reasons known to Him whose judgments are a great abyss ^B—the descendants of Ishmael, who held sway over the sea and were plundering every bay, harbor, and coast, attacked that region as well—alas!—they were forced to yield the place once more. They sought, therefore, a certain harbor called Bathys, which was convenient and tranquil, and made it their home. Having spent no little time there, they were found worthy to beget the father of the divine Luke, and, honoring him with the name of the first of the martyrs, they took care to educate him in a manner consonant with that name. But moving from there again to a certain village named Castorium, they settled their households, putting an end to their wanderings there for a while, and thinking they might find some solace for that exile in which they had wandered outside their homeland. And this, if it did not happen immediately, at least did not ^C occur after a long delay. For He who was a companion and helper to Jacob in his travels, and who made him rich instead of poor; and who, having previously caused him to cross the streams of the Jordan with only a staff, brought him back wealthy in herds of cattle and flocks of sheep—He Himself clearly blessed the livestock and all the remaining substance of these people as well, and endowed them with such increase that they were not only seen to be inferior to no one in their possessions, but even surpassed the local inhabitants by a great deal.

But the boy Stephen, having passed childhood and attained the vigor of youth, when the time for marriage had also arrived, was betrothed by them to a woman named Euphrosyne, who was of the same homeland and of equal station by birth. From her, seven children were born to Stephen: the first, Theodore; the next, Maria; the fourth, moreover, ^D is called Cale, and she remains even now to recount these things and still cultivates the exercises of the monastic life; Epiphanius is the fifth, who, himself also having undertaken the monastic life and established a way of living consistent with his profession, departed to Him whom he had loved. While the rest

^A of the children, not yet having exchanged an untimely age for a mature one, changed this present life and departed to the human end. But that third one, he is the most divine Lucas in all things.

When, furthermore, the love of God and of stillness having again seized him, caused him to forget all things, to be entirely His alone; and his mother having just then not opposed this, he reaches that aforementioned mountain, which the local peasants in their rustic speech call Joannitza; and having traversed the part of it which looks toward the sea, where also there is a shrine of the wondrous brothers Cosmas and Damian, he fixes in it the tabernacle of his ascetic life. But as to what and how great were his struggles and labors there, and his contest against his belly and sleep, or rather against the savage demons warring against us through these, it is impossible either to describe with accuracy, nor would undoubted faith follow those who speak of it, due to the ^B excess of the matter.

But since he had never yet obtained the perfecting grace of the divine and great habit, and was feeling a great desire for it, he is deemed worthy of this also, according to the providence of Him who is good. And he is deemed worthy in this way. Two monks, adorned with the gray hair of old age, but rather adorning their gray hair themselves with virtue, making a journey toward the elder Rome, as if on some mission, he entertained well and kindly, and then shared his intention with them, and very fervently begged them concerning the matter. And they, for they saw the vessel capable of receiving this, did not delay at all, but having done what is customary with haste over him, they vest him in the apostolic and blessed habit; and they place upon him the symbols of the narrow and compressed way, that is to say, of the one that leads to life *; ^C or rather, what he was already in deeds before, this indeed they show afterward through the habit.

But I will say also what miracle occurred concerning the ministers of this holy matter, I mean the monks. For they were returning; but at least for the time being, of those who are first introduced, which custom is pleased to call— [* Matt. vii, 14.]

Notes of Fr. Combefis

(3) Nor let the mother contradict the matter. For since all things which look to the beginnings of Lucas, in which the author nods, he exhibits Nicholas, or the one on the 4th and 6th feria, as being in fasts; and Abraham, Martin, and Francis in his piety toward the poor, the naked, and pilgrims: as also that he first, fleeing into Thessaly with the intention of assuming the monastic life, as a servant and fugitive was captured by soldiers ^D acting as guards, and having been beaten with blows, was finally recognized and sent back to his own. As also, that two monks returning from Rome, and asking to go to Jerusalem, he gave himself as a companion, lying that he was entirely his own master, by which fraud also, and hiding that he had a widowed mother, he was gifted with the monastic habit at Athens, when his companions, leaving him having commended him to a certain authority there, were about to pursue their intended journey. That finally, the mother interceding with God, and through a vision many times demanding her son back from the authority, he was ejected from the monastery, and sent back to her: he nevertheless yielding to nothing, so that in a nearby mountain, and place, he might be able to live the ascetic life separately himself. These things were going to fill more pages; and I preferred to summarize thus. So therefore having returned, nor, as it seems, having been stripped of the monastic habit, where he had obeyed his mother for some time, he at last repeats his former exercises in agreement, and seriously institutes to act as a monk. He gave that authority at Athens, says the author, up to this point indeed, of the habit of those who are being introduced, and as it were of tyros and novices, which it is custom to call the little habit: he accepted the greater one long afterward, from two elder monks who were likewise traveling to Rome for certain matters. Saint Theodore the Studite disapproves of the great habit in his testament, as being contrary to the rules of the Fathers, and he established that all should be content with one common habit in his monastery in the rules, which he hands down there to his successor superior. But the tradition of the great habit prevails even now, and they put them on, not everywhere all, but those who profess a more austere life, and one more dead to the world, and are and are called particular ascetics.

^A There was nothing near blessed Luke that was worthy of his magnificent spirit and intention, and especially for such invited guests, and for providers of such a good. What, then, does He do, who opens His hand bountifully and fills every living creature with blessing? [* Psal. CXLIV, 19.] They sit there upon the shore, when now the sun had stretched forth its pure rays, and they were intent upon the marine waves stirred by softer breezes: when a great fish, having been lifted up for a long time by the rowing of its fins into the air, lies before their feet, flapping most pleasantly and leaping, and as if inciting those present to prepare it for themselves. ^B They therefore gave thanks to God, the curator and provider of food, and marveled at His providence.

The great man says to all who were listening: “There comes to us someone carrying a great and heavy burden upon his shoulders, and laboring much.” He says this; and shortly after, leaving the assembly, he rises, enters the mountain, and makes darkness his hiding-place. [* Psal. XVII, 12.] But as they wondered and pondered what the power of the word was, and what sort of person this was who was burdened, and what sort of burden he was carrying—for they thought he was speaking of the weight of bodily mass—he himself at last came into the sight of all, alone, light, unencumbered, carrying not even the least bit of a burden; yet calling upon the saint by name, and saying that he had need of his necessary aid. The sister of the saint, and his companions, ordered him to wait: “For he has departed,” she said, “as you see, and is not with us now; and if you intend to see him, you must wait.” And when he affirmed that he would not depart sooner than he was permitted to speak with him, the seventh day passed, and with difficulty at last he comes forth as if out of a certain mist from the inner chambers of quietude, another Moses. ^C But as soon as he looked upon the man, composing his eyes to terror, and in a voice grave and abhorrent from his usual gentleness, he utters: “What business have you,” he says, “with this inaccessible desert? Why, having abandoned the cities, have you retreated to the mountains? Why, leaving the shepherds and the princes of shepherds [(4)], whom the Church has, have you betaken yourself to rustic men and those unlearned in letters? How, moreover, have you presumed to come into sight, and have not shuddered at divine vengeance, being guilty of such enormous crimes?” ^D At these words, he being seized with dread, and pouring forth rivers of tears from his cheeks, and his tongue being restrained by the bonds of fear; the saint, adding to it, said: “Until when will you be silent and not triumph over sin in the presence of all?”

so that you might in some small way appease and propitiate the divine nature, which is by essence averse to evil, by becoming your own accuser?” ^A And he, having with difficulty composed himself, with a continuous and broken breath said: “What do you seek to hear from me, O man of God, or what is it that you have not yourself learned beforehand through the grace dwelling within you? For what I have done in secret was not hidden from you. But nevertheless, I yield to your command and I speak, and I triumph over what was evilly done.” Having spoken thus, he openly confesses the sin, having gone through each detail, how and where, and for what cause he had killed his own traveling companion. ^B Then he falls at the feet of the saint, begging not to be despised. But the saint takes pity on him, and quickly raises him up, and admonishes and exhorts him, and fortifies him with rules, such as he appeared able to bear, instructing him in this above all: that going to the tomb of the one slain, he should there shed a wealth of tears, and for him at the third, ninth, and fortieth day perform the sacred rites sumptuously; and that he should perform bows of the knees there, if possible no fewer than three thousand, or rather that he should weep for the sin throughout his life, and keep it before his eyes, inscribed upon the tablets of his soul. Having commanded these things, he dismisses him homeward, having instilled in him a clear knowledge of the good and a condemnation of the sin, and the man having promised to bring forth much repentance.

^C Having completed the seventh year in the desert at Joannitzes, he, too, is compelled against his will to migrate with all the others. For Symeon, the prince of the Scythian nation (whom we are accustomed to call Bulgarians), having broken the treaties with the Romans, was marching across the entire continent, having girded himself with our sins as if with a battle-ready force; enslaving and plundering, and depriving some of life, others of liberty, and making others tributary. ^D Hence, some were shut up as if in prisons or garrisons within the circuit of the cities; others consulted their safety by flight into Euboea and the Peloponnese. Then, indeed, those also in the company of the man of God migrated to the neighboring islands; although envy, having anticipated them, brought upon them an unexpected danger. For while they thought they were living safely with the just man, the Bulgarians, having snuck upon them by means of a ship they had seized, attacking them suddenly, almost destroyed them all, with only a few swimming ashore, among whom was the great man, and thus they were able to escape their hands. Then, having returned in such a state, once he obtained a ship, that man, with his whole family and acquaintances, crosses over to Corinth,—with his beard by now

^A filling his cheeks, and having the beauty of youth, which permits the bloom of virtue, yet having reached that age, a love for learning nevertheless carried him along for the sake of reading the holy scriptures. Therefore, he gives himself to a teacher; but he was going to receive little benefit from that source. For seeing the boys acting disgracefully, and though they were receiving instruction quite well, they were not preparing their own souls well for the reception of such things, he by no means endured it, but withdrew immediately.

Therefore, he goes out to the country towns, and since in Patras of Achaia a certain Stylite monk was heard of as pursuing a more sublime way of life, an impulse took hold of him to go there and serve him. While he was turning these things over in his mind, an embassy is dispatched to him from the Stylite at Zemenos, requesting him to come to him and enter into his company; and that it might not seem burdensome, to live under him and take up the duty of a server. He willingly accepts the embassy, ^B since it was more acceptable to him to be under authority than to command, and he knew that this was more advantageous for a young man; and because, having perceived the excellence of high humility, he approaches willingly, and submits himself to the ministry with total cheerfulness. And from that time on, there was no kind of service which he did not hasten to perform diligently by himself, thinking it a very great loss, or even a disgrace, for anyone else to be more devoted to the service.

And once, when someone with an incontinent tongue was reviling him and attacking him with reproaches, because it happened that he was present, he took it so heavily and was inflamed in his soul with such zeal, that, forgetting his silence and decorum and that great modesty and tranquility of his, he was compelled ^C to use harsh words against that impudent fellow who was eager to convict him; with a well-trained tongue, stirred at the opportune moment, he was correcting the petulant and slanderous tongue. But that man, being exceedingly impudent, and suffering from a malady neither light nor easy to heal, but rather one requiring a stronger castigation, showed himself at once. For, not bearing the rebuke, he strikes the holy man on the cheek with a profane hand. But immediately vengeance was present, and God "from heaven made judgment to be heard," and concealed virtue was brought to light, and the man’s wickedness was clearly punished. For scarcely had he struck him in his injury, when he himself was struck by a much heavier punishment, a demonic one; and he was thrown prostrate to the ground, and was being tossed about and torn apart, and suffering wretchedly the things that those who are obsessed by demons are wont to suffer. Why should I not say what is more ^D horrible, and worthy of many tears, and able to strike fear into those who do not spare their tongues? He continued in that state until the end, "delivered to Satan for the destruction of the flesh," as Paul says, "that the spirit might be saved." And what was the reason? Because he who ought to have been the corrector of others who were thought to be senseless—for he was a priest, and was in word and life making his exhortations—was himself the senseless one. As also

^A to be lying for the harm and evident shame of his office.

But it was utterly foreign and entirely ^B alien to the enemy’s envy to allow the divine Luke to minister to the Stylite until the end; rather, he would move every stone to prevent him from this good occupation. So he did not desist from doing everything until he succeeded, and that adversary who opposes the good separated them from each other. What, then, was the occasion of this separation and rift? Namely, the one to whom the care of the ports was entrusted, since he was forbidding them from sailing to the borders of Hellas due to the incursions of the enemies, finding him prepared to cross over in a boat, beat him with the most cruel blows. ^C Therefore, he decided to live privately; and henceforth, as one living under God and always embracing the peace he loved, he occupied the oratory of the noble martyr Procopius. But even from there a heavier rain rushing in, and overturning the little dwelling in which he lived, drove him away again, even though he did not wish it: God perhaps arranging these things for his benefit, so that he might not, by dwelling longer in the Peloponnese, harm his fatherland, depriving it of such a plant and offspring.

For it was not long before that wretched Symeon, who had been the cause of the shedding of much Christian blood, departed from ^D among men; and Peter, his son, succeeded to his rule—a son, yet not in the sense that he appeared an heir of his cruelty and inhumanity in the same way as of his glory and substance; but he was clearly far removed from them; for as far as he was concerned, he had nothing of that blood or connection. He immediately, bidding farewell to blood and wars, made peace with the Romans; when, to use the words of the prophet [†], the sword and the spear and all weapons made of iron were forged into a sickle and a mattock: when likewise all were returning in safety to their own cities and towns and hearths, the divine Luke also returned longingly to the much-desired solitude at Ioannitzis; indeed, he pursued for himself the same or even greater labors of virtue, yet he was zealous to refresh the labors of others, and especially those undertaken from travel, with kind hospitality.

Therefore, also, having heard that the bishop of Corinth was going up to the Queen of Cities, and was resting nearby to end his toil and to relax for a little while, he approached him—not with empty hands, but bringing gifts, small indeed, but with a great and generous intention, as he offered the very things that he had, and than which he had nothing better kept in store: vegetables of various kinds from the garden which he cultivated, to the bishop as well as to the clerics and noblemen with him; by whom, having also been taught who he was, and where he lived, and what kind of life he led—as a man who loved virtue—

^A he acted with devotion. Regarding pomp and the measure of status as base, he esteemed it highly to visit the hut of a poor man, even if he were not poor in spiritual things. Coming, therefore, and examining all things of his, he marveled at what was truly worthy of marvel, not at wealth and ostentation, but at voluntary and self-chosen poverty; wherefore he also became eager to honor the man with gold. For it is our custom to give more readily not so much to those in need, but to those who are higher than the need for such things. He therefore ordered one of his chief attendants to provide it. But he refused to receive it, saying, "By no means, master, did I come in need of gold, but of prayers and instruction. For what is gold to me, who have chosen to live in this way? Give, therefore, that of which I am in need and for which I have an intense thirst, teaching me, unlearned and rustic as I am, in what way I must be saved." ^B The archbishop was deeply saddened by the rejection of the gift, considering it not a slighting of what was given, but rather a disdain for himself; and not as though he were in need, but as though he did not approve of the archbishop's gifts, he had pushed them away. And for this reason, being very pained in heart, he said, "Why, pray, did you push away us along with the gift? For I too am faithful, even if a sinner; and a bishop, even if unworthy. How, therefore, desiring to be an imitator of Christ in all things, do you not admit this imitation in this instance? For He Himself used to receive the offerings of the pious who wished it, and you have the money-box as a witness of this fact. For altogether, even if you yourself do not have need of what is given, you would distribute it to others who are in need. Now, however, as far as you are concerned, ^C you censure the command of beneficence as something foolish and irrational, and thus you censure the nobility of mind of every religious spirit that possesses a kindness toward neighbors. And, to speak in a word, you take away the very thing by which comfort can be provided for heavy poverty, and by which a way is opened for many to be saved."

Having heard these things, the man of God did not think it right to refuse the acceptance of the gift any further, so that he might not create a display of vanity for himself, nor an excessive sorrow for the prelate. He accepts, therefore, only a single coin, and pays back the riches of prayers.

Then he asked the archbishop, with a sense most contrite and humble: "I beseech you, tell me, master, in what way can we who dwell in the mountains and solitudes on account of our many sins, in what way, I ask, ^D can we partake of the divine and awesome mysteries? For you see that we are in want not only of a congregation, but even of a priest." He, however, accepting his question with great gratitude, said, "Well, Father, you have asked about a good and very great matter. For a good thing, they say, is not good when it is not done well. First, therefore, and principally, it is proper for a priest to be present; but if, by every necessity, he is absent, one must place upon the holy table the sanctified

^A vessel, if it is an oratory, or if it is a cell, upon a very clean bench. Then, spreading out a small veil, you shall place upon it the holy portions; and having burned incense, you shall chant the psalms of the typicon, or the Trisagion, along with the Symbol of Faith, and having bowed your knee three times, you shall hold your hands together, and shall partake with your mouth of the precious body of Christ our God, saying "Amen." And instead of the drink, you shall drink a cup of wine. The cup, however, shall not be shared with anyone else for their need after this. Again, you shall collect with the veil the remaining portions in the vessel, bringing every safety to bear, so that not even a pearl might fall out and be trampled upon. The great man heard this, and in return for these things gave thanks. The archbishop then proceeded on his intended journey, while the saint returned to his prayers and the quiet of solitude.

It was the practice of the great man, on the feast of Palms, at the very first light, to ascend to the summit of the mountain, bearing the divine weapon of the cross in his hands, and crying aloud, "Lord, have mercy." Once, then, as he was ascending, the enemy who is always envious of good, and wishing in some way to obstruct this pious intention, prepared a viper that had come out of its hole to fasten onto the finger of his foot. And the wicked one acted thus, having used the reptile as an instrument. But how did the good man act? And what were his deeds, consistent with a person of good and God-loving intent, stemming from a soul endowed with goodness? For the great man immediately stooped down, and taking hold of the foot and the beast at the same time, he said, "Neither may you harm me, nor I you. Let us each go our own way; for we are both creatures of one Creator, by whose prohibition and will, we are unable to do anything at all." ^B

^A Once he had spoken, the snake immediately withdrew from his foot and made its way to its own den; the divine man remained unharmed, having suffered no evil at all from the bite.

A certain royal official ^B is sent to the regions of Africa by the one holding the scepter of the Roman Empire. When he had already arrived in Corinth, someone stole the sum of gold which he was carrying on account of royal business. Because the theft had been committed in the dead of night and the wicked deed was obscure, as is usually the case in such matters, crossroads were searched, streets were searched, and all suspected individuals were called in for questioning. Finally, when all efforts had been tried in vain and no hope remained of finding the money, a heavy sorrow burdened the man.

After many other things, when they had already feasted sufficiently, and were mindful of God—more than they were delighted by food—the great man suddenly opened his eyes, and fixing his gaze upon one of those standing by, called him by name and summoned him to himself. ^C When he stood nearby, "Why," said the seer, "were you intending to bring death upon yourself and danger upon your master by rashly stealing royal funds? But go now, quickly, and bring to us the gold that you have buried in the earth, if indeed you desire to obtain mercy and forgiveness." He heard this, and as if his tongue were bound by a fetter, and being unable to contradict him at all, since his conscience testified against him and spoke along with him, he hastened to correct the work of darkness with the light of repentance. Falling down immediately, he touched the saint’s feet, as if cleansing his hands, which were defiled by theft, with that touch; he confessed what had been wickedly committed and fervently begged for pardon. Having obtained it—for such was the character of his soul: not only to point out the wound, but to apply the remedy as quickly as possible—he departed at once and, before the eyes of all, brought back the sum of gold intact.

^D Since he was suffering many annoyances in that place from those who came and went daily, and who were disturbing his desire for stillness and tranquility, he indeed wanted to depart from there and migrate to more solitary places; yet he did not make himself more compliant with those thoughts, knowing how to contradict his own will and never to consent rashly. Therefore, he deemed it worth his while to send the monk who served him, whose name was Germanus, to Corinth, to a man most celebrated for the praise of his virtue; a wise man, I say, Theophylact, who, though a doctor of secular wisdom, nevertheless imparted virtue to those who loved what was honorable through his works. Having sent to him, he sought to be taught what he ought to do: whether to remain here and thus bear being troubled by many, or to prefer places inaccessible to most and lacking human society. But he said, "One ought to hold to the counsel of the divine Arsenius, as it is best. For he said, 'Flee...'"

be silent, be quiet.'" ^A

When the admirable Luke heard these things, he departed from the parts of Joannitza and moved to a place called Calabium by the locals—a place which he embraced very much, for it was not only suitable for quiet but also well-situated in its temperate air, and living there he rejoiced in his soul. They say the blessed man spent three years there; then, when the Turkish people ^B began to invade Attica, he withdrew to a nearby small island called Ampelus, together with those who lived around that place. Now that island is extremely desolate and destitute of water. Thus it became a gymnasium of virtue and an occasion for good fruits for the noble man. For he would go out every day, draw water, and give it to the crowds. He shared not only water, but also wine and food whenever he had it; and sometimes, by fishing, he provided fish for free. However, when the people wanted to cross over into the Peloponnese, as they did not expect to see Greece free from the nations ever again, he restrained them, saying, "The cloud is a vernal one, brothers, and it will be dispersed before long, and the clear sky will shine upon us more brightly. Even if you are not allowed to enjoy ^C deep peace in the Hesperian parts, the same thing will happen to you as to the Israelites. For God, who knows all things, having observed their inclination toward evil and how difficult it is to heal—and I might even say, altogether incurable—did not allow the son of Nave to destroy the nations bordering on Zion entirely, so that they, in their sinning, might have those at their gates to discipline them. Not that God lacked another way of punishing them; but so that, by always beholding the impending scourge, they might live more cautiously." ^D

The man of God, however, lived on this island for yet another three years, suffering a lack not just of food often, but of water itself for drinking. For if ever wild winds blew and the sea became impassable, refusing him passage so that he could not go to fetch water, he would remain thus for a long time, wasting away with thirst. Nor was this all, but the enemy devised another plague against him; for he inflicted such a severe and savage itching on his genital parts that he was almost driven to cut them off. What remedy, then, did he use to heal such a great evil? Certainly, continuous prayers to God...

and to the holy man whose body was buried there. ^A For the latter appeared to him in his sleep and pointed out an herb, saying, "By this means you will find a cure for that which afflicts you; yet you must know clearly that you will be deprived of the reward of patience which is due for the sake of this struggle." Upon waking, that man proved himself no poor judge of what was beneficial; nor did he prefer a small interval of relief from what was bothering him to eternal recompense. Instead, he chose to suffer as he was, until the Lord of all knowledge—who attributes the completion of an action to the intent alone—having healed the wound in the way He alone knew, might store up for the athlete the perfect rewards in the future.

It is time now to speak of his migration from there, and how he left that island and moved to the place which saw him both in life and at his death, and which currently possesses his holy remains. ^B Those who had been his companions in flight, and who had received much healing and service from him on that island, being well aware of the tested virtue of the man and wishing to have him close by, approached him. What did they not say? What did they not do to persuade a soul that loved its customary habits and was distressed by changes of place, bringing him to a spot that, for the time being, he would only visit as a spectator, with the understanding that if it did not please him, he would return to his former abode? They then surrounded him, saying: "How long will you remain in these coastal regions, likely to suffer much annoyance from ships and from those passing by? ^C Do you see what kind of place this is where you are standing? How temperate, how delightful, free from all noise, and almost inaccessible to men? Furthermore, it possesses an abundance of the purest water, sufficient both for the need of thirst and for the irrigation of vegetables and plants. You will find nothing lacking or unworthy of your desire; and you will also have us ready and eager to serve you in every ministry."

Blessed Luke, gladly accepting both their goodwill and the site of the place as one manifested by God, likewise became fond of it and decided to dwell there from then on. ^D Moreover, by clearing away the woods that shaded the water, he made it at once clearer and more abundant. Tending and cleaning the place at every hour, and planting it with every kind of tree, he fashioned a most beautiful garden, pleasing not only to the taste but also to the eyes. He built his cell, however, not near the garden and the spring, but rather further away and among the thorny thickets, so that it might not easily be known to many. For his purpose was always to cut off occasions for vainglory, and that he might be, and be thought by those present, as one dead rather than living.

Pothus, whom everyone knows, who also happened to be entrusted by the emperor with the prefecture of Attica—this man, while residing in Thebes, by the actions of his own wife and...

^A her kindness, experienced his benefit. For since Byzantium was experiencing no minor storm, as it were, through the onset of a rebellion against the emperor then reigning—this Constantine was the good one—it caused all who were under even the slightest suspicion to gather there.

Pothus, the aforementioned, was therefore recalled by the letters of his wife: “That, setting aside as nothing all the business he had in hand, he should come as quickly as possible to the imperial city. For your arrival, she says, as well as the illness of your most beloved son, are matters of great concern and care to the emperor.” He accelerates his return, although these things made him mournful and cast him into much conflict of thought. The illness of his son indeed weighed upon him, and he was eager to return; yet he feared the timing, and suspected that by returning he might fall into dangers; especially because he had been ordered to return not by the emperor at all, but by his wife alone. ^B While he was thus wavering in mind, divided by two passions, longing and fear, someone of rank approached him and made mention of the divine Luke: “But if you were to come to him for an interview, and consult with him about the matters at hand, you will no longer be uncertain about what must be done, but will know clearly what is beneficial.”

The governor, having heard this, did not give the matter over to time and delays, but made it his highest priority to come into the sight of the saint. And having attained this, he heard, not anything like the slippery and ambiguous things that the Pythian oracles used to play with, but what was beneficial, clearly and plainly. For he spoke with appropriate character and bearing, neither looking toward display, nor, on the other hand, regarding the prefecture he held as something great and divine: ^C “Go up, my lord governor, to Constantinople, free of all sadness and fear, and the Lord will turn all your crooked paths into straight ones. For the emperor will look upon you with kindly eyes; and before that, he will deem you worthy of honor; and you yourself will see your child healthy and free from every malady.” ^D The governor, having heard these words as if from a prophetic and divinely inspired tongue, and wavering not at all about what he had heard, set out on his journey. And when he arrived and saw that everything had turned out [as predicted], he does not hide the miracle in silence, but delivers a beautiful account to the ears of many.

And as for what happened in the person of the illustrious and renowned Crinites, who would not, by entrusting it to writing and memory, escape the mark of envy and malice, or of laziness? For he, too, having been similarly entrusted with the governorship of Greece, was traveling toward it, and when he had approached Larissa, upon hearing the accounts of the holy man,

^A his ears were filled with them, and he conceived a longing to see him and to converse with him. As soon, therefore, as he was in the vicinity of Thebes, he immediately sent to him and summoned him. The holy man, without delay, followed the servant who had been sent and found the man reclining at the table, for it was the time for the midday meal. Then, having learned of the situation and giving his permission, he also entered and became one of the guests; and when they rose, he rose with them and began to return, and it so happened that he had not even been permitted to exchange a brief word with the one who had so fervently summoned him. This caused the saint great distress—not on his own account, for who was more of a lover of obscurity than he?—but on the man's account, and for the sake of the venerable monastic habit and name, which had been so slighted in his person. ^B Going out, therefore, to one of the prefect’s servants, he said: “As you value your life and salvation, fulfill this without any hesitation and report the following to the prefect: 'Why did you compel me to leave my cell and come here? Why did you make yourself the cause of so many empty labors for me? Why did you force a lover of solitude to enter the city? You did not deign to speak to me, you did not offer me a kiss, and you did not perform any of those things which it was proper to show to a man who is a lover of virtue and who lays some small claim to piety.' ^C Having said these things, the great man instructed him to explain everything again to the prefect, and he went out to the monastery which was in the suburb to the monk Antony.

When all these things had been reported, since the man was in truth gentle and humble, and understood that he had not acted as he should have, he accused himself of great negligence concerning matters that required his attention. He hastened, therefore, with the quickness of repentance, to heal what had been sinned through carelessness, and straightway mounting his horse, he went to the saint; and first, having offered a warm and labored apology for his fault, he was deemed worthy of a speedy pardon. ^D Then, ordering those standing by to withdraw, they conversed alone, prolonging the talk until evening.

What then came of this? He was joined to the holy man with such warm affection that his soul was glued to him, to use the phrase of David, and he would not willingly bear his absence even for a brief moment. Indeed, he served and supplied his needs and requests most readily, and just as he had contributed of his own resources, he was the primary donor for the raising of the holy shrine of the victorious martyr Barbara.

Since he had to return to Byzantium, as his term in the province was now nearly at an end, he approached the holy man, asked to receive his prayers as companions on his journey, and supplicated him not to let him fall into oblivion after his departure. But he said to him, “Truly, you shall not see the royal city; for God still desires you in the West.” Thus he spoke. The other proceeded on his journey, and when he had already arrived at Larissa, turning back, he confirmed the truth of those words beyond doubt; for an imperial decree came immediately, which...

^A appointed him to be leader and praetor of the Peloponnese and commissioned him to rule; and these things, too, are worthy of admiration.

But his prediction concerning Crete is not far from being incredible, although it has much evidence to attest to its truth. For almost twenty years beforehand he predicted concerning it that it would be captured, and under which prince the capture would take place, saying thus clearly: "Romanus is about to subdue Crete." But ^B since Romanus the elder was at that time administering the empire, when he made this prediction, and one of those present asked: "Is this the one who is now ruling?" He replied: "Not this one, but another (11)."

Pancratius the monk told me that the Father was accustomed to be warned by a voice from heaven whenever there was an impending incursion of foreign nations, so that he was the first of all to withdraw and go into hiding, out of concern for the capture of the neighboring inhabitants, as he himself admitted when asked. For everyone was intent upon him as upon a prophet; and if they had not first seen him turn to flight, no one at all would have desisted from their tasks or left their house, but they would have scorned the message as false and having nothing sound in it.

When such a voice had occurred, and we had once taken flight, I myself being with the Father, and both of us together had entered into a certain cave, two wandering women come to us as the sun was already ^C declining toward the west. The Father, having pity on them—since in addition to the flight, it was also winter—did not think they should be turned away; but they were received with us, and were granted provision as far as circumstances allowed. And when it was time for sleep, having placed us in one part, and reclining himself in the other, he let them remain in the middle on account of the cold; and he passed the time just as if a son were approaching his mother, or as if some stones or logs were lying there, not even the slightest carnal thought having entered his mind: to such a degree did simplicity and a certain supreme vacuum of the passions cause the earthly angel to be embraced like a mother.

Philip was the own brother of Theodosius the monk, who was also one of the monks accompanying the saint. Therefore, this Philip, being a layman and honored with a worldly dignity—for we are accustomed to call them ^D *spatharioi*—was accustomed to visit the great man quite frequently on account of the closeness he had with his brother.

Once, therefore, when he was coming as was his custom, the great man, seeing him with those eyes with which he saw such things, said to Theodosius in a pleasant manner: "Prepare such things as are necessary for a meal; for your brother is coming to dine with us." When the Father had said this, both joy and astonishment seized Theodosius, and immediately he began to watch the public roads, the crossroads, and the thoroughfares in expectation of his brother. Evening having now arrived, he comes, and the great man...

^A and his attendants provided whatever was needed. A table is therefore prepared, and all recline together with the great man. Then there was nothing among the things set before them that was not equally edible for all, because of the surpassing goodness of love. Having eaten in this way and been mutually refreshed, and having completed the customary rule after supper, they went to sleep. Having enjoyed a little sleep, the Father immediately rises; the assembly held the others, but the brother permitted Philip, inasmuch as he knew he was unaccustomed to such a station, labor, and vigil, to sleep again at least until the end of the opening hymns and the so-called chanting of the psalms. ^B However, once the bed had taken him again, it caused him to wrestle with many thoughts; to conceive labor and bring forth, in the words of David, iniquity; assuming the divine man to be a glutton and a wine-drinker, and one feigning piety. And this was, first of all, the work of him who secretly sows evil seeds in our souls; but it was also the work of his own small and base mind, which simply judges everything by external appearances and is unable to contemplate anything great or more sublime; nor did it perceive that the consumption of the things set before him was not a matter of gluttony or appetite, but of a greater economy—an acceptance of the food offered, partly because of the abundance of love, as we have already declared above, in the gain of the greater, the lesser being disregarded. For what is abstinence from food compared to such a preeminence of love? ^C And partly because he might appear as such out of an excess of humility, a thing which he himself appeared to have because of his great dullness and senselessness. And that these things were so, and that Philip was dreaming badly and greatly straying from the truth, the vision offered to him clearly showed, and the witness in heaven is faithful. For while he was thus turning and lingering on these thoughts, sleep seizes him; and in a dream he sees two youths. The beauty of these, and the radiance that shone from their faces, was such as neither speech can explain nor eyes bear. And they stood by him with a hostile expression, an index of bitter spirit, and said: "Why do you disturb yourself, ^D with these thoughts? Why do you drag the innocent into crime? Lift up your eyes, you who look at the ground, and see how much honor this man has merited, who according to your judgment is a deceiver and a hypocrite, and fakes the holy habit of monks." Then he, raising his eyes to whom he was pointing, sees something great and marvelous. A certain most precious purple was spread upon the ground. Standing above it was the great man, shining forth as something marvelous and ineffable, both in form and in habit, and he seemed to be entirely nothing but light. After Philip was released from sleep, he approaches trembling and with a changed expression, to the place where the Fathers had their assembly; and explaining everything, both what he had pondered in his mind while sitting on his bed during the wake, and all that he had seen in his dream, he...

having seen, and having obtained forgiveness, he remained ^A a miracle, still preaching; and he was condemning himself for those things for which he had very wrongly condemned the righteous man.

When the divine man had said farewell to the coastal regions, he reached the place of Soterius, and fixed his monastic hut in that spot; and having spent seven years there, he foresaw his blessed death as being at the doors—though he made this known to no one. But going out of his cell as if for some necessity, and visiting all his friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, he said farewell, ^B and kissed with his lips, eyes, and face each one. “Pray, brothers,” he said, “pray for me; for it is uncertain henceforth whether we shall see one another again.”

Then, having gone around to everyone thus, and having returned to his own cell, he lived for three months after. At first, a mild illness befell him; but as the fever grew more violent, and when the eighth day had passed, it became clear to all that he was being separated from the body and was journeying to God, whom he had loved. When those who inhabited the surrounding villages learned of this—although the winter was severe and immense snow had fallen, so that the roads were almost impassable and the houses inaccessible—nothing could stop them from proceeding to him. Rather, they all flowed together as a whole populace; and they remained with him even unto the ninth hour, taking no thought at all for food, nor for returning to their own homes. ^C But they all stood, attending to him, and watching his cheerful countenance, and desiring to hear his most beloved voice, and his final words and prayers; and they could not endure the separation—I mean, the one from his bed—so as to leave off seeing him and return home. For as for that final separation, even after death, they would only accept the blow—how much their souls suffered for his sake, their tears that flowed without ceasing signified—until, having embraced them all and bestowed blessings upon them, he dismissed them, though they were unwilling, groaning mournfully and affected by dire grief.

When, however, the presbyter Gregory remained, that great man inquired of him the time. When he said that the sun was toward the setting, knowing that he himself, that beautiful star, was now also setting: “Go,” he said, “and perform the evening prayers as quickly as possible.” ^D Having done as he was commanded, he then, thinking it necessary to ask, inquired where he should be buried after death. But he, taking the matter ill, said: “What truly? Is it not a shame to speak clearly and seem ignorant about this, that one must bind me by the feet with ropes and cast me into some chasm? If I am useless for anything else, I shall at least serve as food for the beasts.” But when the presbyter, not at all terrified by this answer, still asked very fervently to know about the burial, so that tears flowed with his words—for he wished not even after death to do anything contrary to his will—he said, “The place in which I lie, digging, you will find baked bricks; having removed them, and having moderately prepared the space...”

take care to return the dust to the dust. Then, place the bricks upon the surface of the earth. For it is God’s ^A concern,” he said, “in ways known only to Him, to glorify the place, even until the consummation, as crowds of the faithful gather there and glorify His divine name.”

Having said these things, and having kissed both him and those who were with him, he finally lifted his eyes to heaven and, uttering those abundant words, “Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit,” he emitted his blessed soul.

Mane, the presbyter, summoning the neighboring inhabitants, dug the place and prepared it honorably according to his means. Having completed the customary office, he deposited his sacred body therein as if it were some treasure—not greedily or sordidly, so that the treasure might be hidden away for himself alone, but so that it might be common for the enjoyment of those who love Christ. Then, having laid the bricks above the ground ^B in accordance with what he was commanded, he departed.

When, however, six months had passed since the Father’s falling asleep, a certain eunuch monk, originating from the region of the Paphlagonians and called Cosmas, who was making his journey toward Italy, arrived at the regions of Chrysos and thought to rest his body there for a short time. While he was sleeping, a certain divine dream appeared to him, which, when he recounted it to the inhabitants of the place, he heard from them that he ought to cease his journey there. “For it has seemed good to God,” they said, “that you should serve the admirable and younger Luke, and for this reason He caused you to undertake this journey.”

He, doubting nothing at all, as if drawn by some divine hand, was led to the cell of the holy man. And when he had arrived ^C and perceived the spot, which was so delightful and disposed for quiet, he was filled with great joy and promised to God that he would live there from then on. Immediately, then, seeing that the casket of the sacred pledge was unadorned and uncared for, he expended moderate care in the interim on its arrangement; for he raised it and lifted it high from the ground. Then, he adorned the place with planks and, having placed lattices in a circle with garlands, he made it inaccessible and untouchable, except only for those who wished to approach it more closely with faith and much veneration.

Two years later, some of his disciples, observing the healings springing forth there no differently than fountain streams, as the not-so-good children of a good Father—^D

^A considering that they should not, as if they were mere pupils, fail to render to him after his passing the honors due after death, immediately set themselves to build cells and a temple. And first, indeed, they zealously complete the temple of the divine martyr Barbara, which had been simply constructed, adorning it as much as they were able. Then they construct several modest dwellings and secondary rooms, both for the common use of the brethren and for the reception of guests. Afterward, even the very cell in which the tomb of the great man was placed, they change from its previous appearance, and transform it most beautifully into a holy oratory in the shape of a cross; so that the word spoken by the blessed man might attain its end, concerning this place, and concerning those who in great numbers were to gather there.

A certain woman was immobile in her hands as well as her feet; they appeared to hang from the rest of her body and to keep their proper structure, but as far as concerned their activity, they were as if alien, and each refused its own proper function—so that, coming to such a state, she was thought to be dead and not alive. And to the accumulation of such great evil, there was an even graver affliction added, that the son whom she expected to have for her relief and the replenishment of her needs, he himself was possessed by a demon, and was constantly thrown to the ground and torn apart. ^B

Those who were related to her by birth, having pity on her calamitous state and having placed her like an inanimate burden upon an ass, and supporting her with their hands, brought her to the new Siloam, the tomb of the blessed Luke, with her son also following her; and having left them there, they returned. But what are the judgments of God! The saint overlooked her, and for a long enough time delayed the healing. Finally, the woman herself, weary from the delay and having cast away the hope of a cure, thought of returning. ^C But oh, for your secret goodness, O Christ, and the ineffable excellence of the miracle performed upon her! Not long before, the casket of the holy man had bubbled over like a fountain with sweet-smelling oil, which the sexton, diligently keeping, had taken and, placing it into a certain lamp-vessel, had hung it from the sacred tomb.

Therefore, as the woman was waiting by this, at midday, with no one present except her son, he said to her in a low voice: "But I, arising, will drink what is in this lamp." The mother, however, was trying to deter him from the attempt, saying, "Do not, my child, for the sexton is irritable, lest perhaps he might drive us away having beaten us." "Not so," he said, "but I will fulfill the desire of my heart"; and at once he rose, and grasping the lamp, he immediately poured it into his mouth, and nothing else happened thereafter. But the boy immediately began to roll on the ground and be torn apart. The mother, however— ^D