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So true Father may Palamas bless the Turks!
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Jay Dyer admits that the Orthodox Church has many clinically insane individuals on psychiatric medication, including priests and monks. He later warns converts “there’s going to be people at your church that are literally on meds and insane.”
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The following is a translation from Lidia Stăniloae's (the daughter of Dumitru Stăniloae) book 'Lumina faptei din lumina cuvântului. Împreună cu tatăl meu Dumitru Stăniloae', on the recently canonized "saint" Arsenie Boca
He became a monk at Sâmbăta Monastery, taking the name Arsenie. For a time, he continued to lead an austere life and gained a certain notoriety. He often visited us and was welcomed as a member of the family. He talked a lot with my father, who spoke to him at length about right judgment and humility, as described in the Philokalia, which my father considered to be two fundamental virtues of a monk.
He would always say to Father Arsenie: “The greatest temptation for a monk is to let himself be led astray by the praise of others.” [...] my father used to say.
Unfortunately, his words of caution, which served as a genuine warning, were ignored. There have certainly been other such cases. Many have failed on the path of spiritual ascent because they allowed themselves to be lured by pride and the treachery of vain glory. On the one hand, it is a mistake to create idols and legends out of the need for the extraordinary and the sensational, which has always driven humanity. On the other hand, praise and admiration are a sweet trap, to which those who are not strong enough to resist fall prey...
At that time, however, Father Arsenie still considered himself my father’s disciple, and for several weeks he wrote down, in his small, neat handwriting, whatever my father was translating from Greek. Later, some admirers — especially female admirers; Father Arsenie certainly had no shortage of them — concocted various little stories, according to which he had influenced my father to translate the Philokalia, etc. We are, in fact, accustomed to such an abundance of my father’s good advisors, his mentors, and the inspirers of his work. So they aren't worth paying attention to.
They stopped, greeted us, and, seeing that a priest was standing before them, asked to be blessed. My father asked them where they were going. “We’re going to the monastery at Sâmbăta,” replied the oldest one. I can still picture him: he was dark-skinned, with a long, half-gray beard. “On foot? But it’s very far,” my father said in surprise. “It must be about eighty kilometers.” “Yes, Father, but the trains are expensive. And we really want to be there for Saint Elijah’s Day, because Father Arsenie starts speaking in the language of the birds and then ascends to heaven in a fiery chariot.”
We couldn’t believe it. The man spoke with indescribable enthusiasm. They left in a hurry to arrive on time.
“Poor people,” my father said. “They’re naive and eager for the extraordinary. They interpret every word however they want. We should be more careful about how we express ourselves in front of them and stop resorting to cheap spectacle.”
He was very disappointed, as he often was. “That’s how dangerous delusions take root among the people,” he said.
A few years later, I went to the Făgăraș Mountains again with my father. In the meantime, Father Arsenie had moved to Prislop. My father, whom he had asked for advice, had opposed the plan to build a convent of nuns there.
I remember that Father Arsenie came to Bucharest for this purpose. The two of them talked at length. My father had a very stern look on his face; I had rarely seen him so adamant. He didn’t agree. He had told Father Arsenie that this could give rise to a great deal of ambiguities and misunderstandings...
Father Arsenie never returned to us. Not even when the convent was dissolved and he settled in Bucharest with Mother Zamfira, in her parents’ home. I ran into him once on the street, he was dressed in civilian clothes, without a beard. He no longer had the white tonsure that gave him such a dignified air. If it hadn’t been for that face with its characteristic, elongated features, I wouldn’t have recognized him. He was no longer the Father Arsenie I knew, the one who, in his youth, would kneel in the snow on a narrow plank, praying.
He became a monk at Sâmbăta Monastery, taking the name Arsenie. For a time, he continued to lead an austere life and gained a certain notoriety. He often visited us and was welcomed as a member of the family. He talked a lot with my father, who spoke to him at length about right judgment and humility, as described in the Philokalia, which my father considered to be two fundamental virtues of a monk.
He would always say to Father Arsenie: “The greatest temptation for a monk is to let himself be led astray by the praise of others.” [...] my father used to say.
Unfortunately, his words of caution, which served as a genuine warning, were ignored. There have certainly been other such cases. Many have failed on the path of spiritual ascent because they allowed themselves to be lured by pride and the treachery of vain glory. On the one hand, it is a mistake to create idols and legends out of the need for the extraordinary and the sensational, which has always driven humanity. On the other hand, praise and admiration are a sweet trap, to which those who are not strong enough to resist fall prey...
At that time, however, Father Arsenie still considered himself my father’s disciple, and for several weeks he wrote down, in his small, neat handwriting, whatever my father was translating from Greek. Later, some admirers — especially female admirers; Father Arsenie certainly had no shortage of them — concocted various little stories, according to which he had influenced my father to translate the Philokalia, etc. We are, in fact, accustomed to such an abundance of my father’s good advisors, his mentors, and the inspirers of his work. So they aren't worth paying attention to.
They stopped, greeted us, and, seeing that a priest was standing before them, asked to be blessed. My father asked them where they were going. “We’re going to the monastery at Sâmbăta,” replied the oldest one. I can still picture him: he was dark-skinned, with a long, half-gray beard. “On foot? But it’s very far,” my father said in surprise. “It must be about eighty kilometers.” “Yes, Father, but the trains are expensive. And we really want to be there for Saint Elijah’s Day, because Father Arsenie starts speaking in the language of the birds and then ascends to heaven in a fiery chariot.”
We couldn’t believe it. The man spoke with indescribable enthusiasm. They left in a hurry to arrive on time.
“Poor people,” my father said. “They’re naive and eager for the extraordinary. They interpret every word however they want. We should be more careful about how we express ourselves in front of them and stop resorting to cheap spectacle.”
He was very disappointed, as he often was. “That’s how dangerous delusions take root among the people,” he said.
A few years later, I went to the Făgăraș Mountains again with my father. In the meantime, Father Arsenie had moved to Prislop. My father, whom he had asked for advice, had opposed the plan to build a convent of nuns there.
I remember that Father Arsenie came to Bucharest for this purpose. The two of them talked at length. My father had a very stern look on his face; I had rarely seen him so adamant. He didn’t agree. He had told Father Arsenie that this could give rise to a great deal of ambiguities and misunderstandings...
Father Arsenie never returned to us. Not even when the convent was dissolved and he settled in Bucharest with Mother Zamfira, in her parents’ home. I ran into him once on the street, he was dressed in civilian clothes, without a beard. He no longer had the white tonsure that gave him such a dignified air. If it hadn’t been for that face with its characteristic, elongated features, I wouldn’t have recognized him. He was no longer the Father Arsenie I knew, the one who, in his youth, would kneel in the snow on a narrow plank, praying.
Or the one who, later on, would speak to the faithful who listened to him with reverence: “Hey, what do you guys know? You don’t even understand what I’m saying in the language of the birds!” He had become a faceless figure, just another passerby on the streets of Bucharest, and that was all.
I wish to emphasize once again, in all sincerity, as someone who was present during those events, that my father held Father Arsenie in high regard, as long as the latter remained within the bounds of the duties mentioned above, strictly adhering to the teachings and precepts of the Holy Fathers and monastic tradition.
And he expected him to bring about a renewal, a revitalization of popular piety, within this well-defined framework. But, at a certain point, when Father Arsenie adopted a different way of seeing things, their relationship cooled; my father no longer approved of his way of life, and Father Arsenie refused to accept my father’s criticism and observations. And Stăniloae’s feelings following this estrangement can be described in a single word: profound disappointment.
I wish to emphasize once again, in all sincerity, as someone who was present during those events, that my father held Father Arsenie in high regard, as long as the latter remained within the bounds of the duties mentioned above, strictly adhering to the teachings and precepts of the Holy Fathers and monastic tradition.
And he expected him to bring about a renewal, a revitalization of popular piety, within this well-defined framework. But, at a certain point, when Father Arsenie adopted a different way of seeing things, their relationship cooled; my father no longer approved of his way of life, and Father Arsenie refused to accept my father’s criticism and observations. And Stăniloae’s feelings following this estrangement can be described in a single word: profound disappointment.
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Forwarded from Cursed Orthodox Nonsense
https://x.com/flid1na/status/2061842655051649411
It's easy to be an Orthodox convert in the West when you can just shield yourself from all accountability like this
It's easy to be an Orthodox convert in the West when you can just shield yourself from all accountability like this
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Forwarded from Cursed Orthodox Nonsense
https://x.com/i/status/2050341254794244474
Seraphim Rose came out as a sodomite in college and had a sodomitic relationship with another man, so naturally he would be the one to ask about the divinely-ordained marriage bed.
Seraphim Rose came out as a sodomite in college and had a sodomitic relationship with another man, so naturally he would be the one to ask about the divinely-ordained marriage bed.
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Cursed Orthodox Nonsense
https://x.com/i/status/2050341254794244474 Seraphim Rose came out as a sodomite in college and had a sodomitic relationship with another man, so naturally he would be the one to ask about the divinely-ordained marriage bed.
all accounts say he knew about Fr Herman’s homosexual activities at the monastery but kept quite due to “meekness”. Yet Orthobros act like only Catholics do this.
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