John damascene. The Monk John of Damascus John of Damascus lived in the 7th century
Arab. يوحنا الدمشقي Juhanna ad-Dimashki; Greek Ἰωάννης ὁ Δαμασκηνός; lat. Iohannes Damascenus- John of Damascus; also known as Greek. ὁ Χρυσορρόας, that is, "golden stream"; nee (Arabic: منصور بن سرجون التغلبي)
Christian saint, venerated among the saints, one of the Church Fathers, theologian, philosopher and hymnographer
OK. 675 - c. 753 (or 780)
short biography
(the name given at birth - Mansur ibn Serjun At-Taglibi) - the most famous Byzantine theologian, one of the Fathers of the Church, Christian saint, philosopher, poet, hymnographer - was born in the Arab Caliphate, Damascus, around 675 was the son of an Arab Christian noble and a wealthy family. His father served as a minister under the caliph Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan, later this position was taken by his son John. The education that the children in this family received was versatile, truly encyclopedic for that time, including the study of mathematics, philosophy, music, astronomy, etc.
In the biography of John Damascene there is no exact date of his tonsure as a monk, perhaps it was around 706 or in the 10s; it is possible that he was ordained a priest. Since then, his life has been associated with the monastery of St. Sava, located near Jerusalem.
John Damascene was not just an extraordinary person - his talents were versatile. He is credited with creating the foundations of scholastic methodology, which was later developed by Western medieval theologians. But this does not exhaust his scientific and spiritual heritage. Being a great poet not only of Byzantium, but also of the rest of the Christian world, he acted as the author of the most famous church chants, which have not lost their beauty, wisdom, soul-saving power until now. He penned the canons of Easter, Christmas, some other holidays, sermons about the Virgin Mary. The first ecclesiastical musical system was also created by John Damascene, who was not devoid of musical talent.
His main theological work is "The Source of Knowledge", which consists of three sections - philosophical, accusatory and dogmatic. The significance of this fundamental work, systematizing Christian teaching, for future theologians is difficult to overestimate. It still has not lost its relevance and is one of the main sources of the foundations of the Christian faith for the Orthodox Church.
John Damascene was a staunch opponent of iconoclasm; the theory of the Sacred Image created by him formed the basis for the subsequent canonization of icon painting. A dramatic episode of his life is associated with one of the icons. By order of the caliph, who suspected that John was spying in favor of Byzantium, his right hand was cut off. Having applied it to the bleeding wound, the theologian prayed all night long to the icon of the Mother of God, and in the morning the hand had grown together with the rest of the hand. As a sign of immense gratitude and in memory of the miracle shown to him, he put his hand, poured out of pure silver, to the silver frame of the icon. This is the story of the appearance of the iconographic image of the Three-Handed Mother of God, which is now kept in one of the Moscow monasteries.
By the iconoclastic council of 754, John Damascene was anathematized four times as a man who distorted Scripture, slandered Christ, and preached impious ideas. His good name was returned to him by the VII Ecumenical Council, which recognized that Damascene's teaching was true.
The famous theologian and philosopher died in the monastery in about 753, after his death he was numbered among the host of saints.
Biography from Wikipedia
John Damascene(Arabic: يوحنا الدمشقي Juhanna ad-Dimashki; Greek Ἰωάννης ὁ Δαμασκηνός; lat. Iohannes Damascenus - John of Damascus; OK. 675, Damascus, Arab Caliphate - c. 753 (780), Lavra of Sava the Sanctified), also known as Greek. ὁ Χρυσορρόας, that is, "golden stream"; born Mansur ibn Serjun at-Taglibi(Arabic: منصور بن سرجون التغلبي) - Christian saint, venerated in the face of the saints, one of the Church Fathers, theologian, philosopher and hymnographer.
Remembrance in the Orthodox Church is celebrated on December 4 (according to the Julian calendar), in the Catholic Church from 1890 to 1969 it was celebrated on March 27, after 1969 it is celebrated on December 4 (according to the Gregorian calendar).
The medieval way of calculating Easter (Easter dates) is known as "Hand of John of Damascus" ("hand of Damascene").
His namesake-grandfather and his father Serjun ibn Mansur served in Damascus in the rank of "great logofet", that is, tax farmer, both under the Roman (Byzantine) dominion and under the Persian occupation, the grandfather participated in the transfer of power to the Arabs, and his father served at the court of the Caliph Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan. Subsequently, he was replaced by John himself.
According to legend, John studied the exact sciences and music together with his brother Cosma (later - Bishop of Mayum) from a certain captive monk from Calabria (also named Cosma). After the introduction of the Arabic language (instead of Greek) as the only state language, including the tax administration, in about 706 or in the 710s he was tonsured at the monastery of Saint Sava near Jerusalem and was probably ordained a priest.
During the period of iconoclasm, he defended the veneration of icons, the author of "Three Protective Words in Support of Icon-veneration", in which iconoclasm is understood as a Christological heresy, and for the first time there is a distinction between "worship" that befits only God and "veneration" given to created things, in number and icons. The iconoclastic council of 754 subjected John to anathema four times, but the VII Ecumenical Council confirmed the fidelity of his teaching.
He died about 753 (according to other sources, about 780) and was buried in the Lavra of Sava the Sanctified near the shrine with the relics of the Monk Sava. During the reign of Emperor Andronicus II Palaeologus (1282-1328), his relics were transferred to Constantinople. At present, it is known about the finding of the relics of St. John in the Lavra of Sava the Sanctified, the monastery of George Alaman (near the village of Pendakomo, Cyprus), the monastery of St. John the Evangelist on Patmos (Greece) and in the church of San Giorgio dei Greci (Venice).
Already at the end of the 8th century, John the Jerusalemite compiled his first biography. In the 11th century, when Antioch was conquered by the Seljuks, a monk of the monastery of St. Simeon in the vicinity of Antioch, Michael, who was familiar with the Greek and Arabic languages, wrote the life of John Damascene in Arabic, based on various useful stories, about which he himself speaks in the introduction.
Icon "Three-handed"
According to legend, the emergence of one of the images of the Mother of God is associated with the name of John. When the heresy of iconoclasm arose in Byzantium, supported by the emperor Leo III the Isaurian, John wrote three treatises in defense of the veneration of icons and sent them to the emperor. Leo the Isaurian was furious, but could not do anything, since John was a subject of the Caliph. To prevent John from writing works in defense of icons, the emperor resorted to slander. On behalf of John, a forged letter was drawn up, in which the Damascus minister allegedly offered his assistance to the emperor in the conquest of the Syrian capital. This letter and the emperor's reply to it were sent to the caliph. John was removed from office and punished by cutting off his right hand, which was hanged in the town square. After some time, John received the severed hand back and, shutting himself up, put a brush to his hand and began to pray in front of the icon of the Virgin. After a while, he fell asleep, and when he woke up, he found that his hand had miraculously grown. In gratitude for the healing, John put a hand made of silver to the icon, which is reproduced on many copies of the icon, which received the name "Three-handed". In gratitude for the healing, he also wrote the hymn "In Thee rejoices ...".
Essays
John Damascene is known as the largest taxonomist of the Christian doctrine; he owns the fundamental work "The Source of Knowledge", which includes the philosophical ("Dialectics"), accusatory ("On Heresies") and dogmatic ("Exact exposition of the Orthodox faith") sections.
The polemical writings include "Three Words in Defense of Icon-veneration" (against the iconoclasts), words against the Nestorians, Monophysites (Akephals, Jacobites), Monothelites, Manichaeans and, possibly, "Conversation of a Saracen with a Christian" (against Islam).
In addition, John belongs to a number of sermons about the Mother of God.
John Damascene was relatively little involved in exegetics; he made non-independent interpretations of the epistles of the Apostle Paul, which, possibly, were used by Bishop Icumenius and Blessed Theophylact of Bulgaria.
The life of Barlaam and Joasaph is attributed to John, but, according to Archpriest George Florovsky, it was compiled back in the middle of the 7th century at the monastery of Saint Sava by another John.
John wrote a number of canons, special hymns of the Palestinian type, which have come into use in the Eastern Church since the 9th century. He wrote the Canon for Easter, Christmas and a number of other Christian holidays. In addition, it is believed that John compiled the Sunday "Oktoich" (Osmoglasnik, Oktay). Some prayers are inscribed in the name of John Damascene, which were included in the sequence of evening prayers and for Holy Communion.
In art
Cantata for choir and orchestra "John Damascene", written by the Russian composer Sergei Ivanovich Taneyev to words by A. K. Tolstoy (op. 1) in 1884.
John (John-Mansur) Damascene (c. 675- to 753)
The great poet, the greatest theologian and fighter for Orthodoxy. Born in Damascus, into a wealthy and distinguished Christian family, he received a versatile education. Under the guidance of a teacher, he studied philosophy, mathematics, astronomy and music.
At first, John served at the Umayyad court, then withdrew to the monastery of St. Sava (near Jerusalem), where he lived until his death.
John Damascene was an exceptionally gifted man, interesting in many ways. His spiritual heritage is immense and constitutes an invaluable treasure of the Church. Tradition calls John the author of wonderful church hymns, in which Christendom still draws wisdom, strength and consolation. Laconicism and liveliness of language, touching lyricism and depth of thought - all this makes Damascene the greatest poet of Byzantium and the entire Christian world. It is no coincidence that he was called "gold-jet". He was one of the first to compile a calendar of days for the memory of Christian saints and ascetics.
His musical activity is also closely connected with the poetry of John. He owns the first ecclesiastical musical system and the design of most Christian chants in the collections "Typikon" and "Octoichus".
Even better known as a theologian. He created the fundamental work "The Source of Knowledge", consisting of three parts: "Dialectics", "The Book of Heresies" and "An Exact Statement of the Orthodox Faith." This system of ideas about God, the creation of the world and man, determining his place in this and the other worlds. This work had a tremendous impact on future generations of not only Orthodox, but also Catholic theologians (for example, Thomas Aquinas). For the Orthodox Church, the work of John is still the primary source of the foundations of the Christian doctrine.
From the point of view of art criticism, Damascene is interesting as a fierce opponent of iconoclasm and the creator of the theory of the Sacred Image, which marked the beginning of the canonization of icon painting.
According to his theory, it is possible and necessary to depict what was in reality (scenes from Scripture, the Lives of the Saints). You can paint Christ in the form in which he was on earth, but you cannot paint the image of God the Father.
The Caliph suspected John-Mansur of espionage in favor of Byzantium and ordered to cut off his right hand. John put the severed brush in place, all night praying fervently for the healing of the icon of the Mother of God, according to legend, written by the Evangelist Luke himself. The next morning the brush grew. In commemoration of this miracle and as a token of eternal gratitude, Damascene attached a hand cast of pure silver to the silver frame of the miraculous icon. Now she is in the Khilardar monastery (Athos, Greece). This is how one of the canonical icon-painting images of the Mother of God appeared - the Mother of God of the Three Hands.
The Monk John Damascene was born about 680 in the capital of Syria, Damascus, into a Christian family. His father, Sergiy Mansur, was a treasurer at the court of the Caliph. John had an adoptive brother, the orphaned youth Cosmas, whom Sergius took into his house. When the children grew up, Sergius took care of their education. At the Damascus slave market, he ransomed the learned monk Koemu from Calabria from captivity and instructed him to teach children. The boys showed extraordinary ability and easily mastered the course of the secular and spiritual sciences. After the death of his father, John took up the post of minister and governor at the court.
At that time, the heresy of iconoclasm arose in Byzantium and quickly spread, supported by the emperor Leo III the Isaurian (717 - 741). Defending the Orthodox veneration of icons, John wrote three treatises "Against those who condemn holy icons." John's wise, inspired writings infuriated the emperor. But, since their author was not a Byzantine subject, he could neither be imprisoned nor executed. Then the emperor resorted to slander. By his order, a forged letter was drawn up on behalf of John, in which the Damascus minister allegedly offered the emperor his assistance in the conquest of the Syrian capital. Leo the Isaurian sent this letter and his hypocritical-flattering answer to the Caliph. He immediately ordered to remove John from office, cut off his right hand and hang it in the city square. On the same day, in the evening, the severed hand was returned to John. The monk began to pray to the Most Holy Theotokos and ask for healing. Falling asleep, he saw the icon of the Mother of God and heard Her voice, informing him that he was healed, and at the same time commanding him to work tirelessly with the healed hand. When he woke up, he saw that his hand was unharmed.
Learning about the miracle that testified to John's innocence, the caliph asked him for forgiveness and wanted to return him to his former position, but the monk refused. He distributed his wealth and, together with his foster brother and fellow student Cosmas, went to Jerusalem, where he entered the monastery of Sava the Sanctified as a simple novice. It was not easy for him to find a spiritual guide. Of the monastic brethren, only one very experienced elder agreed to this, who began to skillfully instill in the disciple the spirit of obedience and humility. First of all, the elder forbade John to write, believing that success in this field would cause pride. Once he sent the monk to Damascus to sell baskets made in the monastery, and he instructed them to sell them much more expensive than their real price. And so, having made a painful journey under the sultry sun, the former nobleman of Damascus found himself in the market in the tattered clothes of a simple basket seller. But John was recognized by his former steward and bought all the baskets at the appointed price.
Once one of the monks died in the monastery and the brother of the deceased asked John to write something in consolation. John refused for a long time, but out of mercy, yielding to the requests of a grief-stricken one, wrote his famous tombstone troparia. For this disobedience, the elder expelled him from his cell. All the monks began to ask for John. Then the elder entrusted him with one of the most difficult and unpleasant tasks - to remove impurities from the monastery. The monk here also showed an example of obedience. After some time, the elder was instructed in a vision by the Most Pure and Most Holy Virgin Mary to remove the ban from the writings of John. The Jerusalem Patriarch learned about the monk, ordained him a priest and made him a preacher at his pulpit. But the Monk John soon returned to the Lavra of the Monk Sava, where until the end of his days he spent time writing spiritual books and church hymns, and left the monastery only to denounce the iconoclasts at the Council of Constantinople in 754. He was subjected to imprisonment and torture, but he endured everything and, by the grace of God, remained alive. He reposed about 780, at the age of 104.
The life of St. John Damascene (c. 675-753), the greatest theologian and hymnographer, would not it strengthen the hearts of boys thirsting for the heroic, and girls striving for beauty?
According to church tradition, he, an important person in the state, according to a forged letter allegedly testifying to his betrayal to the Caliph, was popularly chopped off his right hand, hanging it in the bazaar. Through fervent prayer to the Mother of God, the hand given to him by the Caliph grew.
The saint sang the enthusiastic hymn of thanksgiving "Rejoices in Thee, Graceful, every creature," which was later included in the liturgy of St. Basil the Great. The image of the saint's hand was constantly held by the icon of the Mother of God (hence the well-known iconic image of the Mother of God - "Three-handed").
The name of John is surrounded by great love in Russian secular art.
"The ecstatic Canon of Damascene We sang the All-night Vigil today, And my soul was full of emotion, And wonderful words warmed my soul" (A. N. Apukhtin, "A Year in the Monastery. Excerpts from the Diary", 1883). "I was born simple to be a singer, to praise God with a free verb!" - exclaims the saint in the inspired poem of A. K. Tolstoy "John of Damascus", which served as the basis for Taneyev's captivatingly beautiful cantata of the same name - schoolchildren should know it.
We are criminally impoverishing domestic culture, depriving schoolchildren of their wondrous beauty. And those who listen (and even perform!) Tchaikovsky's romance "I Bless You, Forests" - do they suspect that this is being sung by the great saint of the Eastern Church? If they had imagined, then instead of smeared-sluggish (or even lisping) complacency, a stern, powerful inspiration would burn in their hearts! And would not his icon adorn the classes of literature and music, raising the very spirit of the educational institution and exterminating the dirt from the souls?
Beloved by the Caliph John;
Him that day, honor and affection,
Called to the affairs of government
He alone is one of the Christians
Enslaved Damascus.
It was put by the lord
And row the court, and rule the hail,
He talks to him alone,
He sits next to him in the council;
His palaces are surrounded
Fragrant gardens
Tiles shine with azure,
Removed walls with amber;
In the midday heat, shelter and shadow
They give awnings, silk fabrics,
In the patterned baths night and day
The frosty fountains are rustling.
But peace runs from him,
He wanders gloomily; not that
Before he thought he would go along the road,
He would be happy and wretched
If only he could in the silence of the forest,
In a remote steppe, in solitude,
Yard excitement forget
And humbly devote life
Labor, prayer, song.
And it was heard more than once
His eloquent voice
Against the mad heresy,
What has risen to art
A violent and noisy thunderstorm.
He fought stubbornly with her,
And from Damascus to Constantinople
Was like a fighter for the honor of icons
And like a fence
Long known and respected.
But the noise and brilliance disturbs him,
He cannot get along with them,
And, overwhelmed by a heavy thought,
Longing in my soul and sorrow on my face,
Ruler John entered
Into the palace of the ruler of Damascus.
“O sir, listen! my dignity,
Greatness, splendor, power and strength,
Everything is unbearable to me, everything is hateful.
Attracted by a different vocation,
I cannot rule the people:
I was born simple to be a singer,
Glorify God with a free verb!
There is always one in a crowd of nobles,
I am full of torment and boredom;
Among the feasts, at the head of the squads,
Some sounds I hear;
Their irresistible appeal
More and more attracts me to herself -
Oh let me go, caliph,
And the one asking in response:
“Have fun, my beloved slave!
There is no eternal sadness in the world
And there is no incurable melancholy!
By your wisdom alone
All around Damascus is mighty and glorious.
Who is now equal to us in greatness?
And who will dare to war against us?
And I will raise your lot -
No wonder I am around the powers -
You will accept the honor of the triumph
You will be my one brother to me:
Take my half of my kingdom,
Just rule the other half! "
To him the singer: “Your generous gift,
O sir, the singer is not needed;
With a different strength he is friendly;
Heat burns in his chest
By which creation is based;
To serve the creator his vocation;
His soul is an invisible world
Thrones above and porphyry.
He will not change, he will not deceive;
Everything that attracts and attracts others:
Wealth, strength, glory, honor -
Everything in the world is in abundance;
And all the treasures of nature:
The steppes are unbearable space,
Misty outline of distant mountains
And the seas are frothy waters
Earth and sun and moon
And all the constellations of a round dance,
And the depth of the blue firmament -
Then all is just a reflection
Only a shadow of mysterious beauties
Whose vision is eternal
He lives in the soul of the chosen one!
Oh, believe, he is not bribed by anything,
To whom is this wonderful world available,
Whom the Lord has allowed to look
Into that innermost crucible,
Where prototypes boil
The creative forces tremble!
Then their solemn tide
Sounds to the singer in his verb -
Oh let me go, caliph,
Let me breathe and sing freely! "
And Rivers Caliph: "In your chest
I have no power to restrain desire,
Singer, you are free, go
Where does your calling take you! "
And behold the ruler's palaces
Oblivion has become a prey;
Dressed motley teeth
The grass and ashes of desolation;
His uncountable treasury
It has long been given to the poor,
Diligent servants are no longer visible,
Slaves set free
And none will indicate
Where their master has disappeared.
Walls and paintings in the mansion
Long woven with cobwebs
And the fountains are overgrown with moss;
Ivy crawling through the choirs
From the very arches to the ground
They fall in green pattern
And the poppy is calmly outfield
It grows all around on ringing slabs
And the wind, rustling the grass,
Forgotten walks in the palaces.
I bless you forests
Valleys, fields, mountains, waters!
I bless freedom
And blue skies!
And I bless my staff,
And this poor bag
And the steppe from edge to edge,
And the sun is light, and the night is darkness,
And a lonely path
Why, beggar, I go,
And every blade of grass in the field,
And every star in the sky!
Oh, if I could mix my whole life,
To drain my whole soul together with you!
Oh, if I could in my arms
I am you, enemies, friends and brothers,
And conclude all nature!
Approaching like a storm above,
Like an onslaught of foaming waters
Now it grows in my chest
The holy power of inspiration.
Praise is trembling on our lips
Everything that is good and worthy -
What deeds should I sing?
What kind of battles or wars?
Where am I for my gift
Will I find a high task?
Whose triumph will I pass
Or whose fall will I pay?
Blessed is he who is near glorious deeds
He has adorned his age with a fleeting one;
Blessed is he who knew how to live
To touch the eternal truth at least once;
Blessed is he who sought the truth,
And the one who, defeated, has fallen
In a crowd that is insignificant and cold
As a victim of a noble thought!
But my praise is not for them,
They do not have the delight of pouring out!
Dream chose for songs
Not their high deeds!
And he does not shine in a crown,
To whom my soul longs;
Not surrounded by a blaze of glory,
Not on a jingling chariot
He stands, the proud son of victories;
Not in a triumph of greatness - no, -
I see him in front of me
With a crowd of poor fishermen;
He is quiet, on a peaceful path,
Goes among the ripening loaves;
Good speeches to delight
It pours into simple hearts,
He's a hungry herd of truth
Leads to its source.
Why was I born at the wrong time,
When between us, in the flesh,
Carrying a painful burden
He walked on the path of life!
Why can't I bear,
Oh my lord, your chains
To suffer your suffering
And take the cross on your shoulders,
And the crown of thorns on the head!
Oh, if I could kiss
Only the hem of your holy garment
Only the dusty trail of your steps
Oh my lord, my hope
My strength and cover!
I want you all thinking
Grace to you all songs,
And the thoughts of the day, and the night of vigil,
And every heart beat
And give my whole soul!
Do not open yourself to another
From now on, prophetic lips!
Sin only in the name of Christ,
My enthusiastic word!
The clock is running. Night Shadow
More than once replaced the scorching heat,
More than once, rising, azure day
He twisted the cover from the sleeping nature;
And before a stranger in the distance
And worried and grew
Various paintings:
White snow peaks
Over the dense cedar forest,
Jordan sparkled in the steppe expanse,
And the sea was blackened by the dead,
Merging with the blue sky.
And now, twisting in the wide steppe,
Damn curved lay down
Before him the Kidron Stream
It has long been a waterless channel.
It was getting dark. The steam was streaming blue;
Silence reigned all around;
The stars twinkled; over the desert
The moon was rising slowly.
Bregov burnt rapids
They run down to the bottom with a steepness,
Spiraling a narrow valley
Double sheer wall.
Below are crosses, symbols of faith,
They stand in the cliffs here and there,
And the stranger is visible to the eyes
Dug caves in the cliffs.
Here from all over the world
Fleeing worldly trouble
The holy fathers flowed in
Seek peace and salvation.
From the edges to the dry bottom
Where a steep descent leads to a valley
Erected by their hands
A strong wall of stones
Rejection of the steppe Saracen.
There is a gate in the wall. Cramped entrance
Above them, the tower guards.
The path winds over the ravine
And so, going down the rocks,
In the light of the stars, with a tired step
The wanderer approaches the gate.
"You, stormless dwelling,
You, the knowledge of the font,
Cemetery of everyday thoughts
And a cradle of new life,
I greet you, desert,
I have always strived for you!
Be me a refuge from now on
A haven of songs and labor!
All cares are worldly
Laying down at this gate,
Brings to you, holy fathers,
Your gift and gusli is a new brother! "
“Hermits of the Kidron Stream,
The hegumen calls you for advice!
Get together all: come from afar
Your new brother brings you his greetings!
Both faith and vocation are great in him,
But he must go through the test.
I hand it over to one of you:
He is that singer, famous among all,
That dispersed the darkness of the iconoclasm,
Whose word is a lie trampled and broken,
That John, protection of holy icons -
Who wants to be a mentor to him? "
And only the abbot called this name,
The whole row of monks was agitated,
And they marvel at the singer and look,
And a whisper runs between them.
All heads drooping gray,
They humbly say to the abbot:
“Blessed is this glorious warrior of God,
Blessed is his coming between us,
But who is worthy to teach here,
Who sheds the truth around him?
Whose word sounded like a bell to us -
Why do we dare to accept at the beginning? "
Here one brother comes out of the crowd;
Then the black man looked stern,
And the look that tortured him was stern,
And he uttered the word stern to the singer:
“The statutes tell us to hold our posts,
We know no other service! -
If you want to be under my command
I agree to give you instruction,
But from now on you must postpone
Unnecessary thoughts, fruitless fermentation;
The spirit of idleness and the beauty of song
Fasting, singer, you must win!
If you came as a hermit to the desert,
Be able to trample the dreams of everyday life,
And on the lips, having humbled his pride,
You seal the silence!
Fill the spirit with prayer and sorrow -
Here is my charter for you as a new boss. "
The monk fell silent. Unexpected verdict
Like thunder fell among the peaceful synclite.
Everyone was embarrassed. The eyes of the singer faded,
The pallor was covered with sunken cheeks.
And he stood motionless for a long time,
Silently dropping their eyes to the ground,
As if he was looking for an answer,
But there was not enough urine to answer.
And he began: “All the vigor of my strength,
And all my thoughts, and all my aspirations -
I dedicated only one goal:
Praise the creator and praise in song.
But you command me to grieve and be silent -
Yours, father, I obey the will:
The heart will not leap with fun,
The seal will close the lips of silence.
So this is where you lurked, renunciation
That I have promised more than once in my prayers!
The song was my joy
And you, Lord, chose him as a sacrifice!
Come, the days of silence and torment!
Sorry, my gift! Lie down on the harp, dust!
And you, cherished sounds in your chest,
Freeze everything on quivering lips!
Going down, night, on a woeful brother
And excommunicate him from the sun by darkness!
Fade, darken with no return,
Ringing rays of my psalms!
Die life! Go out, altar fire!
Calm down in me, agitated blood!
Shine only you, heavenly love,
In my night a radiant star!
Oh my lord! Forgive the last groan
The last heart of the afflicted murmur!
One moment - this whisper will freeze too,
And I will rise, I have been reborn by you!
It has come to pass. Waves of darkness roll over.
The gaze fades. The blood will freeze. The end of everything!
From the world of sounds now to the world of silence
The debunked singer comes down to you! "
In a deep gorge
Like swifts' nests
Desert cells darken along yellow cliffs,
But nobody's speech is heard;
Everything is quiet until it gets ready for service
A swarm of hermits;
And then echoes their ritual singing
One dull echo.
And there, over the edges of the valley,
Triumph reigns in the deserted desert
And the palm trees are not visible anywhere,
Everything is empty and dead.
Like a burning burden
So the sky oppresses the weary earth,
And it seems like time
Its slow, sonorous flight over it.
Sometimes a distant growl is heard
Hungry Lion;
And again there will be silence
And again only dry grass rustles,
When a snake crawls out from under the stones
It will shine with scales;
Krilli crackling, field locust
Will take off sometimes. Or will it happen sometimes
The desert will wake up from a wild clique
Stones will sprinkle, and there, in the sky,
Trembling and hesitating, shaggy lance
Will show up in the sky. On a light horse
The rider will appear; over the ravine
Having restrained the steed of foamed years,
He will drive past the monastery at a step
Yes, he will send a curse to the monks from above.
And again everything will subside. Only at noon eagle
They hover on the wings of the motionless,
Yes in the evening the stars are burning
And the long days drag on boringly.
Sometimes in the blue firmament
Clouds are passing over the valley;
They're picture by picture
While swimming, they twist among themselves.
So, in an endless movement,
Always swirls in front of me
A series of memories
A lost life of reflection;
And cling, and curl endlessly,
And they always besiege the will,
And the numb singer
Caressing, they call for songs.
And an idle gift became my execution,
Always ready to awaken;
So only the breeze awaits
A smoldering fire under the ashes -
Before my troubled spirit
Images are crowded together
And, in silence, over a sensitive ear
The dimensional system trembles of consonance;
And I, not daring sacrilegiously
Call them into life from the kingdom of darkness,
In the chaos of the night I drive back
My unsung psalms.
But in vain I, in a fruitless battle,
I repeat the statutory words
And memorized prayers -
The soul takes its rights!
Alas, under this black robe,
As in those days under the crimson,
Burning alive with fire
The heart is rebellious!
The vale where I buried
Fermentation of active forces,
Freedom of creative speech -
The vale of fatal silence!
Oh, tell my soul
Gloomy rest of your rapids!
Desert wind, oh scatter
My vigilant thoughts!
In vain he asks and waits from the silent vale of peace,
The desert wind cannot dispel a vigilant thought.
Years pass one after another, all fruitless years!
Fatal silence weighs more and more heavily on him.
So he once sat at the entrance of the cave, with his hand
Closing sad eyes and listening to inner sounds.
A black man approached the mournful man,
He fell on his knees before him and said: “Help, John!
My brother in the flesh has passed away; brother he liked
to me!
A heavy grief eats me up; I would like to cry -
Tears do not flow from the eyes, but skip in sorrow
a heart.
You can help me: write only a touching
song,
A funeral song for my dear brother, to hear it,
I could weep, and my melancholy would have gotten weaker! "
John looked meekly and sadly answered him:
“Or do you not know by what charter I am bound?
The strict elder imposed a prohibition on my songs! "
The same one began to beg him, saying: “He won’t recognize
The elder about that never; he went away for three days,
We'll bury our brother tomorrow; I pray you with all my soul,
Give me consolation in infinitely bitter sorrow! "
Paki received a refusal: “John! - said the monk, -
If you were a bodily physician, and I would be from ailment
I was dying as I am now dying of grief and sorrow,
Would you refuse to help me? And won't you give an answer
To the Lord God about me, if now I die inconsolable? "
So speaking, he swayed in Damascus a soft heart.
Full of his own sorrow, the singer gave pity a place;
Then inspiration descended on him like a black cloud,
Gloomy images appeared in a crowd, and in the air sounds
They began to sob over the deceased in a regular manner.
The singer listened, tilting his head, that invisible singing,
I listened for a long time, and got up, and, with prayer, entered the cave,
There, with an obedient hand, he inscribed what sounded to him.
Thus the charter was violated, the silence was thus broken.
Over a free thought, God is displeasing
Violence and oppression:
She, born freely in her soul,
He will not die in chains!
Did you really think, myopic one,
Shackle your dreams?
Is it possible to trample in yourself living sounds
Did you think forcibly?
From the Lebanese mountains, where in the azure height
The distant snow is turning white
Striving into the vastness of the steppes, the stormy wind
Will it keep its run?
And will the streams of the stream flow back,
What are thundering between the rocks?
And the sun is there, rising from the east,
Will he come back?
The bells are dull ringing
Announces the valley in the morning.
The dead man has been brought to the church;
A sad funeral rite
The cathedral of hermits is taking place.
The altar shines with candles,
There is a singer with a drooping gaze,
The parting troparion sings,
The monks echo to him in chorus:
"What a sweetness in this life
Has no earthly sorrow involved?
Whose expectation is not in vain?
And where is the happy one among people?
Everything is wrong, everything is insignificant,
What we have gained with difficulty -
What glory on earth
Is it standing firm and immutable?
All ash, ghost, shadow and smoke,
Everything will disappear like a dusty whirlwind,
And before death we stand
And unarmed and powerless.
The hand of the mighty is weak
Tsar's decrees are insignificant -
Accept the deceased slave
As an ardent knight found death,
She deposed me like a predator,
The grave opened its mouth
And she took everything of everyday life.
Save yourself, relatives and children,
I call out to you from the grave,
Save yourself, brothers and friends,
Do not behold the flames of hell!
All life is a kingdom of vanity,
And, smelling the breath of death,
We fade like flowers
Why are we fidgeting in vain?
Our thrones are the essence of the grave,
Our palaces are destruction, -
Accept the deceased slave
Lord, to the blessed villages!
Among the piles of smoldering bones
Who is the king? who is the slave? judge il warrior?
Who is worthy of the kingdom of God?
And who is the outcast villain?
O brothers, where is the silver and gold?
Where are the host of many slaves?
Among unknown coffins
Who is the poor, who is the rich?
All ashes, smoke, and dust, and dust,
All ghost, shadow and ghost -
Only in your heaven
Lord, and a pier and salvation!
All that was flesh will disappear
Our greatness will be decay -
Accept the deceased, lord,
To your blessed villages!
And you, the representative of all!
And you, the patron of the mourners!
To you about your brother lying here,
To you, saint, cry!
Pray the divine son
Beg him, my purest,
To become obsolete on earth
He left his kruchin here!
All ashes, dust, and smoke, and shadow!
O friends, do not believe the ghost!
When it dies on an unexpected day
The decaying breath of death,
We will all lay down like bread
Sickle cut in the fields, -
Accept the deceased slave
Lord, in happy villages!
I'm going on an unknown path,
I walk between fear and hope;
My gaze has faded, my chest has cooled,
Does not listen to hearing, veins are closed;
I lie silent, motionless,
I do not hear the brotherly sobs,
And blue smoke from the censer
The fragrance does not flow to me;
But eternal sleep while I sleep
My love does not die
And I pray you, brothers,
Yes, everyone cries out to the Lord:
Lord! On the day when the trumpet
Will trumpet the world of repose, -
Accept the deceased slave
To your blessed villages! "
So he sings with the monks.
But between them, an unexpected guest,
A frown appears
The mentor is old John.
Severe strict features
The head of the ascent is majestic:
“Singer,” he says, “are you
Do you observe and honor my statutes?
When brotherly dust is before us,
Not to sing, but it is decent for us to cry!
Begone, unworthy monk, -
Do not live within our walls! "
And, struck by an angry speech,
The guilty fell at his feet:
“I'm sorry, father! I don't know myself
How I have transgressed your laws!
A silent voice sounded in me,
In an irresistible heart of torment
The sounds involuntarily escaped,
Involuntarily, the song poured out! "
And he embraces the legs of the elder:
"Forgive my fault, father!"
But he does not listen to remorse,
He says: “Run, singer!
Dosel's worldly pride
Still alive in your chest "
Get away from our cells,
Don't defile the desert! "
Fatal news passed through the laurel,
The hermits were confused by the assembly:
“Our John, honor to the Church of Christ,
The mentor has incurred indignation!
Does he really have to endure
Him, the singer, a shameful exile? "
And hearts filled with pity
And all the cathedrals pray for the singer.
But, like a pillar, the mentor is adamant,
And so, in response to those who ask, he says:
"The charter that I once legitimized,
Will not be abolished now.
Who is prone to pride and disobedience,
We pull the thorns out.
But if regrets are not false in him,
With an Epitimia he will buy forgiveness:
Let him go around the laurels of the black courtyard,
He goes around with a shovel and with a broom;
Having humbled your spirit, let dirt and rubbish everywhere
He will sweep out with a rebellious hand.
Until then, my sentence is strong over him,
And he has no forgiveness before me! "
Become silent. And, heeding the merciless refusal,
All the brethren dispersed in sorrow.
________
Contempt, friends, for the singer,
That a sacred gift humiliates,
What inclines before idols
The beauty of the laurel crown!
What is the voice of truth and honor
I preferred the suggestion of benefits,
What pleasing and flattery
Shamelessly sold your verb!
From century to century it is ready to sound,
To his execution and shame,
His shameless word
As a national verdict.
But you, another hungry for food,
You, that attracted by prayer,
High in heart, poor in spirit,
Living with Christ in thought,
Thou that prophetic gaze
I did not bow before the glitter of the world, -
You can drink without reproach
All the humiliation of phial!
And the elder's speech reached Damascene.
Having learned the terms and conditions,
The singer is in a hurry to make amends,
Hastens to honor the unheard of charter.
Joy was replaced by bitter grief:
Taking a shovel in hand without a murmur,
The singer of Christ does not think of mercy,
But humiliation suffers for God's sake.
________
He who with everlasting love
Rendered good for evil -
Beaten, covered in blood,
Crowned with a crown of thorns -
All those who are close to each other with the suffering,
In life, a share of the offended
Oppressed and humiliated
He made him fall with his cross.
You whose best aspirations
Dying for nothing under the yoke
Believe, friends, in deliverance -
We are coming to God's light!
You, bent down in a twist,
You, discouraged by chains,
You, who were buried with Christ,
You will be resurrected with Christ!
It gets dark. The steam is streaming blue;
There is darkness and silence in the gorge;
The stars are twinkling; and the moon
It rises quietly over the desert.
Lonely in his cave
The exasperated hermit left.
Everyone is asleep. Silver plated by the moon,
The dried up stream is seen.
Above him are rocky peaks
From the darkness they look here and there;
But the old man's heart does not attract
Natures peaceful pictures;
It died for life.
Bending a stern brow,
He, alien to the world, alien to brothers,
Lies, stretched out before the crucifixion.
The gray head is in the dust,
And he calls death to him,
And whispers dark words
And he hits the percy with a stone.
And for a long time he bowed,
And for a long time he called for death,
And finally, in exhaustion,
Mute, he fell to the ground,
And the elder sees a vision:
Suddenly the roof of the cliffs opened,
And the fragrance poured out,
And from unseen heights
Radiance falls into the cave.
And in its quivering rays,
Shining starry clothes,
The holy virgin appeared
With a baby sleeping in her arms.
Merged from the wonderful light,
Her heavenly gentle look.
“Why are you persecuting John? -
She says to the monk.
His prayer sounds
Like the voice of heaven on earth
They flowed into obedient hearts,
Healing sorrow and anguish.
Why did you, old man, have blocked
Mercilessly that source is strong,
Which the world would drink
Healing and abundant water?
Is there grace for life
The Lord sent to his creatures,
So that they use fruitless torture
Execute and kill yourself?
He gave nature abundance,
And running to flowing rivers
He gave movement to the clouds
Earth flowers and birds' wings.
Why is a singer a living speech
Have you bound you with a difficult commandment?
Leave his verb to flow
The melodious river is endless!
May dreams irrigate him
Like rain, the valley of life;
Leave her flowers to the earth
Leave the consonance to Damascene! "
The vision disappeared into the clouds
Dawn rises from the fog ...
An alarmed monk rises,
Calling and looking for John -
And then the old man hugged him:
“O son of Christ's humility!
I have comprehended you with my soul -
From now on you can sing again!
Open the mouth of the prophet
Your persecution is over!
In the name of the Lord Christ,
Singer, holy inspirations
Pour out from a sonorous heart,
Well, I pray, forgive me, oh child,
What an obstacle to a free word
I was in my rudeness! "
Sing, sufferer, the Sunday song!
Rejoice in a new life!
The long mold has disappeared,
Free speech has risen!
The one who broke the shackles of the soul,
May the creature glorify incessantly!
Yes, solemnly praise the gentlemen of forces
And the sun, and the month, and the choirs were shining,
And every breath in the world!
Blessed is who now, Lord, before you
And it is possible to think and speak!
With a fearless heart and warm entreaty
In your name he goes to battle
With everything that is wrong and false!
Distribute, my Sunday song!
As the sun rise above the earth!
Dissolve the murderous dream of being
And, the radiant light is everywhere,
Thunder that is created by darkness!
Does not fall from wild heights,
Among the dark rocks, a mountain stream;
Not a formidable storm is coming;
It is not the wind that lifts the black dust;
Not hundreds of bending oaks
They rustle with century-old heads;
Not a row of sea shafts runs,
Shaking gray ridges, -
Then John's speech pours,
And, filled with new strength,
She smashes like a divine sword
In the dust of the opponents of Christ.
It is not the red sun that rises;
Not a bright morning has come;
Not a flock of swans leapt
In the spring in the bosom of clear waters;
Not nightingales, in a free country,
The name of the neighboring nightingales;
The bell does not rumble
From the cities of many temples, -
Then the splash of the people is heard everywhere,
That jubilation of Christians,
That glorifies free speech
And John praises in songs,
Whom to praise in your verb
Will never stop
Not every blade of grass in the field
Not every star in the sky.
The venerable John of Damascus was born around 680 in the Syrian capital Damascus. His parents were famous for the antiquity of the family and Christian piety. Covered by the Providence of God, they retained a fiery faith in Christ, although the Muslims who conquered that country did not allow anyone to openly confess the faith of Christ. His father, Sergiy Mansur, was the chief logopet (treasury manager and tax collector) at the court of the Caliph of Damascus. Taking advantage of his high position, he ransomed the captive Christians, delivered them from the death that threatened them and provided the necessary assistance. John's father took care of his upbringing and education. He earnestly asked God to send a wise and pious man who would be a teacher and mentor for his son in good deeds. At the Damascus market, among the captive Christians, Sergius saw the monk Kosma, who turned out to be a learned elder from Italy. Having begged the captive monk from the Caliph, he brought the blessed elder home and entrusted him with John and his adopted son, who was also called Cosmas. The youths discovered extraordinary abilities: they easily mastered grammar, philosophy, astronomy and geometry, and after a while they became equal to the mentor in the knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. After the death of his father, Saint John, at the request of the Caliph, became his closest adviser.
At that time, the heresy of iconoclasm arose in Byzantium and quickly spread, supported by the emperor Leo III the Isaurian (717 - 741). Defending the Orthodox veneration of icons, Saint John wrote three treatises "Against those who condemn holy icons." Proving the dogma of icon veneration, he quoted the words of Saint Basil the Great, who taught that the veneration of an icon goes back to its Prototype. The wise, God-inspired writings of Saint John and their influence on the consciousness of people enraged the emperor. But, since their author was not a Byzantine subject, he could neither be imprisoned nor executed. The emperor resorted to slander. By his order, a forged letter was drawn up on behalf of John, in which the latter allegedly offered the emperor his assistance in the conquest of the Syrian capital. This letter was sent by the emperor Leo the Isaurian to the Caliph. The Caliph, not suspecting forgery, ordered to remove John from office, cut off his right hand and hang it in the center of the city for all to see. In the evening, at the request of Saint John, the caliph commanded that the severed hand be returned to him. Attaching it to the joint, the monk began to pray before the icon of the Most Holy Theotokos and ask for healing. Exhausted, he dozed off in prayer and saw the Mother of God. The Most Pure One said that his hand was healthy, and commanded him to work diligently with it for the glory of God. Waking up, Saint John felt his hand and saw it healed. In memory of this wondrous miracle, the Monk John wore on his head a headdress, which was wrapped around his severed arm, and throughout his later life he sang the Most Pure Theotokos with gratitude and love in his writings.
Learning about the miracle, the caliph realized that Saint John was not guilty, asked his forgiveness and wanted to return him to his former position. But the monk distributed his wealth and, together with his foster brother Cosmas, set off for Jerusalem. They were accepted by simple novices to the Lavra of the Monk Sava the Sanctified. None of the monastic brethren, knowing that the novice John was a wise and noble man, did not agree to be his spiritual mentor. Only one simple elder agreed to this, who began to instill in the disciple in the strictest manner the spirit of obedience and humility. He forbade Saint John to write and instructed him to forget all worldly sciences. Once the elder collected many baskets made by the monks of the monastery, and sent the monk to Damascus to sell them at an excessively high price. Having made a painful journey under the sultry sun, the former nobleman, dressed in poor clothes, walked through the Damascus market. Those who wanted to buy baskets, having heard their price, scolded and insulted John. The monk was recognized by his former servant, was surprised at his beggarly appearance and humility, and bought all the baskets at the appointed price.
After some time, one of the monks died in the monastery. His brother asked the Monk John to write a funeral hymn for consolation. The Monk John refused for a long time, fearing to violate the elder's prohibition, but out of mercy he yielded to his requests and wrote his famous funerary troparia: "Kaya everyday sweetness is not a part of sorrow ..."; “I weep and weep, I always think about death ...” and others. For his disobedience, the elder expelled the Monk John from his cell, but the monks began to ask for him. Then the elder imposed a heavy penance on Saint John: to clean out all latrines in the monastery. The monk diligently fulfilled this obedience; even the stern mentor was surprised at such humility. A few days later, in a night vision, the Most Holy Theotokos appeared to the elder and said: "Why did you block the source that could exude sweet and abundant water ... Do not prevent the source from flowing ... it will flow and give water to the entire universe ..."
Since that time, the Monk John began to freely write church hymns and spiritual books, of which the following are especially famous: "The Source of Knowledge" ("On Heresies", "On the Right Faith and on the Incarnation of the Eternal Word", "An Exact Exposition of the Orthodox Faith"), Easter Service , canons for the Nativity of Christ, for the Epiphany, for the Ascension of the Lord and others. In these labors, the monk was encouraged and helped by his adoptive brother Cosmas, who was subsequently made Bishop of Mayum by the Jerusalem Patriarch. The same Patriarch ordained Saint John to the priesthood and appointed him a preacher at his pulpit. But the Monk John soon returned to the Lavra of Saint Sava, where he toiled until the end of his days.
At the Council of Constantinople in 754, the monk denounced iconoclasm. He was subjected to imprisonment and torture, which the Monk John endured steadfastly and, by the grace of God, remained alive. The Monk John Damascene reposed about 780 at the age of 104 and was buried in the Lavra of Saint Sava.
Under the Byzantine emperor Andronicus II (1282-1328), his holy relics were transferred to Constantinople.
