Mel Gibson says that at Hilandar, he feels closest to God.
I was sitting with Boris this past summer at a café on the shores of the Boka region of the Adriatic. Among other topics, he mentioned how he had visited Hilandar with his father last spring. I paused for a moment and told him that for over fifteen years, I had asked several friends who go there frequently to call me the next time they went. I felt that someone needed to "introduce" me to that sanctuary. "And no one ever called," I continued. "I realised long ago that I was deeply hurt and angry that no one remembered me," I said, looking out toward the entrance of the bay. My ego and pride could barely stand it, yet I never made the move to invite myself or apply for the blessing. I simply didn't feel that a journey there should be directed by me in any way. "And now, to be honest, after everything I've been through, I know it will happen if and when I am worthy for my foot to ever step there." The inner peace I felt after saying this surprised me. I am not naturally a calm energy prone to acceptance and stillness; most of the time, I feel like a volcano on the verge of eruption. A previously unknown sense of peace with the fact that so little depends on us—if anything at all—had taken hold. "And who are we, or what are we really, 'ourselves,' and do we ever exist in that 'alone' category?" remained echoing in my head long after the conversation.
We parted ways, talking about our children and how much more we could bring back to Boka with all we have experienced in life so far.
The next morning, before my first coffee and early bike ride along the Herceg Novi promenade before the sun began to scorch, a message arrived from one of my favourite people in this life. A single line on WhatsApp: "Send me your passport."
"Why do you need my passport, Milan?" was the reply. "They're asking from Hilandar so they can approve our stay."
That surrender, that letting go of the belief that we control anything—it seems to work, I thought to myself, with deep gratitude to the heavenly forces that guide us. I was flooded with joy, if for nothing else then for the wit and capacity for infinite surprises within the operating system we've been dropped into.
The unknowability of the invisible part of our existence, and all that accompanies the mysticism of the Balkans and Orthodoxy, has been close to me since birth. My ancestors on my mother's side were "seers"—God's people who devoted their entire lives, in the full scope of their being, to the well-being of those around them, known and unknown, never taking any credit for it.
I don't know if I've ever looked forward to anything more than that journey. The moment I met Saška, when we had children, Hilandar... then a long gap, and then everything else.
Words have limited bandwidth. Feelings have a much wider range, but they are tied to the individual. It is impossible to measure the sensations that the same event will produce in two different people. "The same" is a fiction; a singularity that further complicates the process. And I want to avoid the universal binary that such a complex topic as a pilgrimage inevitably carries—whether it's Hilandar, Jerusalem, St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, Santiago de Compostela in Spain, or an ashram in India. One type of story we encounter on these topics is like a travelogue or a manual for a visit—memoirs devoid of essence—while the other end of the spectrum attempts to describe the ineffable with words, like Mel Gibson's sentence. What it means to be close to God is deeply individual and, ultimately, unspeakable.
What I can attempt is to share three scenes and three sentences that remained in me as a trace, a forever reminder—a bookmark for the soul.
My first encounter with the Holy Liturgy at Hilandar was an entry into a time capsule, a dimension where space and time are dissolved; a point where, in total darkness, the light of two candles and one oil lamp flickers, casting reflections on the golden halos of Christ, the Mother of God, and the Saints. Absolute silence, absolute darkness—only the night and the stars above us. You hear… nothing. You don't even hear anyone breathing. The monks are merged into the darkness by the blackness of their robes, their bodies and movements invisible. Only their gentle faces—where the devotion to the most serious task a man can undertake meets an infinite joy in their eyes—shine, illuminated by the delicate flickering of beeswax candles. The first thing you hear is three of them, alternately reading the Akathist to the Most Holy Mother of God, for about an hour without pause.
Peace be to all…
Pause for a moment over this short sentence and breathe. Let this sit with you as a message.
Peace. To all.
All that is heard in that first part is: "Rejoice, Most Holy One… the Lord is with thee. Rejoice, Most Holy One… the Lord is with thee… Rejoice."
"Rejoice, Mitar," echoed in my mind for days afterwards. Rejoice, man, why the worries… Is this message reaching you, Mitar?
In the timelessness and multidimensionality of that point, existing in the primal moment where it all began, I felt, I experienced—somehow through deep and extraordinarily powerful vibrations, and probably for the first time in my life—the core information carried by the word Svetosavlje. It is not an idea, a concept, an essay on the philosophy of religion, or a canonical rule. It is an experience that activates software at a cellular level. What that software does next is, again, an intimately individualised category. But that it does something for us and in each of us—unquestionably, yes.
The privilege of witnessing that moment is a category of its own. Men like Njegoš, the greats who left a legacy and indebted our lands—all of us together—never had the opportunity to step there. They sang and believed, they prayed for the heavens to deliver them there. For us, everything—even staying at the place where the initial code of our being was generated—is available with a click, almost without effort. What we have, what we are given, and what we use—whether we know how to use it—are questions, again, for each of us individually.
In Hilandar, through the liturgy in the middle of the night, for eight hundred years without interruption, the heart of this people's being pulsates.
Pause again, give yourself some space, and read it again if you must. Not because I wrote it, but because I believe this sentence carries a piece of the feeling for all those who have never, and perhaps never will, step into that holy place.
The vision of that heart that opened up to me—at the centre of which is the temple with the icon of the Three-Handed Mother of God—most resembles the flows of the Aurora Borealis, spreading from there in all directions toward each of us individually.
The second moment that opened new dimensions for me was when, somewhere in the middle of the service, a monk addressed us: "Brothers, whoever wishes, follow me to help."
In that moment, I didn't experience the word "brother" with my mind, but with my heart. With ease, without a shred of effort, as the most natural thing in the world, I felt all the people beside me as kin, as brothers in Christ.
We followed the monk to the first part of the temple, where they gave each of us several A4 sheets marked with a date from a few days ago. Handwritten on them was: "to be read for 40 days," below that a prayer in a single line of red letters: "May the Lord remember in the Kingdom of Heaven," and five columns of names of the departed. Dozens on each sheet.
About twenty of us—known and unknown, with titles and without, equally grounded from various illusions of daily heights—on the same frequency, together with the monks, again in the dark, stood each with a candle in one hand. We held the sheets in the other and in peace, devotedly, read the prayer and the names to ourselves. Love flowed, I felt it, from all of us, for every name, for every sleeping soul, strengthened by the gratitude that we were there witnessing the Truth: that as long as there are brethren who pray daily and nightly for all of us, the living and the departed, there is hope for each of us.
"Thank you, brothers, for helping us. You may return to the service now."
Gratitude for serving in Love.
The third scene is tied to my mother, who lives the liturgical sentence: "Let us commit ourselves and each other, and all our life unto Christ our God". She is a lighthouse from another time and another dimension. Before the journey, when I told her where I was going, I thanked her for still being here with us and for having as much patience for me as only a mother can.
For waiting for me to reach this place where I am now.
And I asked for her blessing, to pray to the Mother of God in her name—for her as a woman, as a mother, and through her for all the mothers and women I know. The moment of stepping out and venerating the icon of the Three-Handed Mother of God—again in the silence of the night, under the light of only the oil lamps and a few candles—was unlike anything I had ever encountered in my life. It is a point of being in the vertical of the heart, where the mind serves only to ensure you don't hit or knock over someone or something around you. To be in the mind at that moment is cramped and suffocating. To be in the heart is infinite and uplifting. And in that veneration, I somehow managed only to thank the Lord and the Mother of God on behalf of my Saška, my mother, our children, on behalf of all the mothers, wives, and daughters I know, who, due to the monastery's vow, cannot physically approach and venerate the sanctuary. I asked for nothing, except I had the intention that somehow, as much as it could be given to me, they would be there through me. I surrendered my heart to that process, without self or desire, and hoped I was doing something useful by it.
The next day, before returning home, we walked once more to the beach on the shore, the only place to catch a mobile network signal. Three women, family friends—two of whom are mothers and one who, God willing, will be—sent me messages saying I had appeared in their dreams that night. None of them knew where I was or what I was doing.
With pure thoughts through the vibration of the heart, on the path to Truth.
I visited Hilandar somewhere in the middle of the Nativity Fast. I hadn't fasted in years, decades perhaps, and after a long time, I returned to myself and the path I should have been on long ago. As the fast began, my body remembered a trauma from fifteen years ago, when I suffered a near-fatal fall and fractured my skull. One of the consequences that followed me for two years after the accident was skin pain in the area of the right shoulder, shoulder blade, and arm down to the elbow. My skin literally burned to the touch. That pain had been gone for ten years after a very long rehabilitation. As I began to fast, the identical pain, the identical sensations, the identical zone on the skin—it all came back. For a few weeks, I complained to Saška, having no idea what was happening. Somewhere near the end of the fast, almost simultaneously, we said that we believed my body, through fasting and prayer, was releasing the record of that trauma. We didn't dwell on it anymore; as usually happens, one acclimatises to discomfort, and so I once again got used to living and not registering the pain.
Christmas was approaching, and there was a place, a temple, and a man who serves God in that temple to whom I am particularly tied. A strong feeling that I had to be right there and with that priest, my dear brother and friend, at the midnight service pulled me, despite the distance of the temple and the freezing rain that encased the city, vehicles, and streets. Several times, I gave up due to the bad conditions, and just as many times, I set out. Finally, half an hour before midnight, promising to drive ultra-carefully, I headed to the service. Two nights before that liturgy, in the middle of a dream, I was awakened by church chanting that the choir performs during communion:
"Receive the Body of Christ…"
It woke me up and never stopped. Whatever I was doing, whatever I was thinking about, that sound, that frequency, has been constantly present within my being. I didn't take it as any special sign; I accepted that the heavens were sending me a message, but I didn't engage in interpretation. Who am I to know the intention of the heavens…
The liturgy itself was pure joy; my body was shaken a few times by powerful vibrations at certain points of the choral chanting. Blissfully calm, I managed to be present only in the prayerful service; nothing distracted me. I received communion, joyfully greeted my dear friend, the priest, and crawled back home. During that hour of driving, in my head—alongside the melody of the chanting from the dream—a feeling revolved, quite strong, as if I were a "new me," as if a rebirth had occurred in my body. I couldn't for the life of me remember which saint that temple was dedicated to. I arrived home after two in the morning, sat at the computer, and saw that the temple was dedicated to… the Transfiguration of the Lord.
The next day, Saška and I set out on a journey with the children. A few days had passed since that last conversation about my body releasing the trauma, and I no longer thought about the pains that had been present the whole time. In the middle of the drive, I just looked at her and said that since communion, nothing hurts me anymore.
"Are you serious?" she looked with wide eyes.
"I swear... Go figure… Thanks be to the Lord," I crossed myself and continued driving.
I met Vule few days upon our return. He's an old time friend I've been trying to see for months. We hugged and went straight into the depths of conversation. He was going through a phase almost identical to the one I had gone through, by life's circumstances, a few years earlier.
"You know, Vule, leaving the business I built for over twenty years, with people I held as kin, was the hardest and bravest thing I've ever dared to do… and without holding myself as any kind of hero, on the contrary. The amount of pain and suffering that accompanied it was unbearable, as if my soul were separating from my body. That step didn't happen when I had a safety net, neither financial nor a business alternative… It was just a point where I knew: if I continue on this path, I am shooting directly into my soul."
He gazed through me, the same gaze I remember catching looking at myself in the mirror during my hard times. He replied that he knew it all and felt the same. I continued with the story of how much my family and faith had sustained me in the entire process, how guides and Saints had brought me back "home" through all my wanderings and years of spiritual searches from East to West.
"Look…," I continued, "I woke up one morning and admitted to myself that I no longer believe in what I am doing. And how can I lead people, how can I be misleading them, if I don't believe in something I lived for? That was the point, the Rubicon, and once I crossed it, there was no going back. I couldn't lie to myself, nor to my partner, nor to them. You know, we all make mistakes, but the difference is whether we make peace with the sin or not, as Father Rafailo used to say. Despite all the mistakes and growing pains, we were never hypocrites. Damjan once asked me, and he's just eight—he and Ilina asked—why I stopped doing such a cool job, where I was a director, a boss, a co-owner, and had everything..." They caught me in the middle of the drive, out of nowhere… but an answer just flowed out of me, very unambiguous and clear: I told them that I still adore that job and that I am often flooded with sadness because I left, but that I am now more often happier than I am sad about it. I wasn't dissatisfied with what we did, but with HOW we did it. Something there wasn't right; it consumed me beyond all parameters, and those twenty-five years are a record in its own right, given all the circumstances."
"So what now? What are you doing now, brother?" he asked in disbelief. He knew all we had achieved professionally.
"I don't know."
"You don't know? You serious?"
"I don't know, man," I continued laughing. "Only God knows. Let me tell you something. Did you see the finale of the Ocean Race regatta in Tivat this September in the media?" He nodded. "You see, I left the business in May, and in August, a friend called me to say he'd love for something like that to happen here. At that moment, I was in full burnout and hadn't planned on doing anything anytime soon. But some information from the backend, which he dropped into my field with that story, ignited a fire. After a long time, I felt something new, yet old, in my heart. And I told him—I remember very precisely, because intention is the key to everything—I told him: I want to do something for Boka and our people in Boka. We can pull this off."
"And…?" He looked curiously.
"And look… it wasn't money that moved me; it wasn't the numbers. It was the concern—no, not selfish motives—it was the love for our people and for the place I'm from. To do something, to give something back. I know such projects inside out; I've worked on so many, and I didn't care if I'd earn anything or if anyone knew I had anything to do with it. I was completely invisible… all I did was follow where God led me and did what my gut told me. Unhinged, 'unmoored,' as my cousin would say. I untied myself from the shore and let myself drift with the current… with the flow. That's how I sailed, 100/100 intuition and guidance. I brought in people I knew unequivocally had good hearts, passed on everything I knew, and let them break through their own capacities. And watched from a distance for something unreal to unravel, pure poetry... Those young people exploded; God gave us sun when we needed it, wind when we needed it; the people in the Government recognised the frequency and opened all the doors… Something happened that I had never felt before: EASE. Not 'it'll be easy,' but ease… Those doors open as soon as you think of it, everything glides, and every problem we encountered was solved without drama. Out of the 100% stress of the past, I didn't experience even 1%. It all happened; everyone is happy. I am happy because I witnessed a miracle."
"Hats off to you, brother…"
"It was not me; none of it is specifically due to me… it was guidance through me… imagine we are avatars in a game, while the soul holds the joystick, and we go where it navigates us. We pass levels easily, without drama. Once you let go of the idea that we are in control of anything..."
"Well, good luck with that, man, it's impossible..."
"In the phase you're in, it seems that way. But there are ways that too is solved," I laughed.
"But, brother, let me ask you this…," he paused uncertainly, "did you become convinced?"
I felt the thought behind his question with my whole being. "Convinced of what?", I deliberately pushed for him to work it out.
"I mean, you know… that…," he was almost uncomfortable, Doubting Thomas syndrome.
"Convinced of God's existence?" I asked. "Here goes another story for you. I was driving alone from Herceg Novi to Belgrade, passing through Dragalj, a small place above the bay. I felt a pull towards the new monastery Father Benedikt is building. I don't know why, but ever since my friend Dušan mentioned his name, I knew I should meet that spiritual father. So I turned towards the monastery; I remember Saška's family packed two crates of pomegranates, and my family packed olive oil and tomato juice. I got there, divided all I had into two batches, and knocked on the monastery doors. A monk opened the door, and we introduced ourselves; I handed him the stuff, saying it's all homegrown. I asked if Father Benedikt was there, and he replied: 'And you are?' I was about to say something, and I swear, it wasn't me speaking; it just came out: 'I am just an ordinary man who loves life and our people.' I started to cry right there in front of him, and he smiled and said, 'We are all ordinary people; those who think they aren't are in trouble.' I told him he spoke the truth, composed myself, and asked which saint the church was dedicated to. Slobodan (that was the novice's name) said: 'Saint Seraphim of Sarov.' I looked at him: 'You know, three nights ago I finished a chapter in a book specifically about that saint. Nothing happens in life by chance.' He looked at me gently: 'See if the key is up there; if not, call me'.
I entered the small, plain wooden church, feeling drawn to stay and pray. While walking around the throne icon—two days before my birthday, a memory I will never forget—I noticed a small stool on the floor and sat down. I looked to the right, where two frescoes covered the wall from floor to ceiling: one of Saint Demetrius (since I am Mitar, baptised as Dimitrije), and the other of Saint Nicholas, our family's patron saint.
"No way!" he gasped.
"I swear. I knelt there, crying with joy and giving thanks... the feeling in my soul was like a father patting me on the back and saying, 'You're a good lad, just keep doing what you're doing.'" I turned to the left, only to find a fresco of the Venerable Mother Paraskeva, Saint Petka, my mother's patron saint.
"Get out of here…"
There it was... That's exactly how it was, word for word. Man, I witness miracles every day. That's how convinced I've become.
"I have to go and visit Hilandar", he exclaimed. His energy was elevated.
"If you feel the call, just go".
At that moment, as we sat in the café, I saw a young man in his late twenties with a striking beard entering. He looked familiar. A second or two later, I remembered where I knew him from: the second night of service at Hilandar; we stood side by side all night. We looked at each other and rejoiced upon seeing one another. I stood up to greet him; we didn't even know each other's names, but we knew who we were and whose we were. We exchanged numbers and greeted each other like brothers. I returned to the table.
"There, Vule, that's what I'm talking about. Anyone could have walked in. I'm telling you about Hilandar and my experiences over the past few months, and the man who stood beside me all night during the service, there he walks in. I don't think anything in life is accidental."
He just sat there in awe. "Man, what are you going to do next? Any plans?"
"In all honesty, I don't know… no idea. I've been writing stories since I left the business, and I have several projects in parallel, but I have no idea where any of those directions are leading me. And to tell you the truth, I am at peace with the uncertainty. God has a plan, and we are here to serve. What I know for sure is that the plan the Almighty has conceived is far more exciting than anything our limited human capacity can dream up. We'll see… You'll know. I'm looking forward to the surprise… In advance."
"You are a believer, aren't you?" he said in laughter.
"I believe nothing exists outside of God".
"Well, Amen," he added and laughed.
"Amen," I laughed joyfully.
God loves you all.