The Journeys of Socrates

by Dan Millman

  A story came to him—one that Serafim had told some months before, perhaps intended for this moment. He had spoken of a proud and hot-tempered young samurai who routinely cut down any peasant who gave the least offense. In those days, samurai were a law unto themselves, and such behavior was accepted according to custom.

  But one day, after another killing, as he cleaned the blood from his blade and returned it to his scabbard, the young samurai began to worry that the gods might disapprove of his actions and send him to a hellish realm. Desirous to know about eternity, he visited the humble abode of a Zen master named Kanzaki. With expected courtesy, the samurai removed his razor-sharp katana and set it alongside him, bowed deeply, and said, “Please tell me of heaven and hell!”

  Master Kanzaki gazed at the young samurai and smiled. Then his smile turned to raucous laughter. He pointed to the young warrior as if he had said something hilarious. Wagging his finger, still laughing loudly, Kanzaki said, “You ignorant bumpkin! You presume to ask me, a wise master, about heaven and hell? Do not waste my time, idiot! You are too stupid to possibly comprehend such things!”

  The samurai’s temper flared to the boiling point. He would have killed anyone else for even pointing at him in such a way. Now he fought to restrain himself despite these insults.

  Master Kanzaki was not finished. He remarked casually, “It’s quite clear to me that not one of your lineage of louts and fools could understand a word—”

  A murderous rage came over the young warrior. He grabbed his katana, leaped to his feet, and raised the sword to take the Zen master’s head—

  In that very moment, Master Kanzaki pointed to the samurai and said calmly, “There open the gates of hell.”

  The warrior froze. In that instant, a light illuminated his mind, and he understood the nature of hell. It was not a realm beyond this life but within him now. He dropped to his knees, laid his blade behind him, and bowed deeply to his teacher. “Master, my gratitude knows no bounds for this brave lesson you have taught. Thank you. Thank you!”

  Zen master Kanzaki smiled, pointed to him once again, and said, “There open the gates of heaven.”

  Maybe I’m that samurai, Sergei thought as he turned over the soil in the garden of skete St. Avraam Rostov.

  THE NEXT DAY, as they walked, Sergei told Serafim the story of his life, from his earliest memory to the time he came to Valaam. When he had finished, Serafim said, “Your story, Socrates, has only begun. And remember this: Your past does not have to determine your future—yet you carry your history like a bag of stones slung over your shoulders.” Serafim stopped and pointed to an old pilgrim working in a nearby garden. Many of the elderly stoop over not only from age, but from the weight of memories.”

  “Are you suggesting that I forget my past?”

  “Memories themselves are faded paintings. Some we cherish; others are painful. There is no reason to throw them away. Just tuck those you want to keep in a safe place, to review as you wish. The past is not meant to intrude on the present. I care less about where you’ve been than where you’re going.”

  “And where am I going?” Sergei asked. “Have you seen?”

  Serafim looked at him intently. “I have seen something…but we will speak of that soon. In any case, I remind you again that there is nowhere to go. Now is all you have. Wherever you walk, you will always be ‘here.’”

  “But even now, the past is a part of me.”

  “Only pictures,” he repeated. “The time has come for you to make peace with the past, just as you must accept the present. What happened, happened. All a perfect part of the process of your life—”

  “Perfect?” Sergei said, suddenly angry. “The death of my wife and son?”

  Serafim held up his hand. “Calm yourself. You hear and interpret in my words at a different level than they were spoken. I refer to a higher meaning: It was perfect because it sent you to me, as God will send you onward, to whatever you need to experience next.”

  “How can you know this?”

  “Know this?” responded Serafim. “I don’t even know if the sun will rise or whether I’ll wake up in the morning. I don’t know if God will grant me my next breath. So I choose to live on faith rather than knowledge—and accept whatever comes, welcome or not, bitter or sweet—all of it, a gift from God.”

  “More words, Serafim. What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Do nothing with them. Go beyond the words to the place within you that already knows—”

  “Knows what?”

  “That each day is a new life; that each moment you are born anew. This is one meaning of grace, Socrates. Sometimes all you can manage is to pay attention, and do the best you can.”

  “You make life sound so simple.”

  “It is simple, but I did not say it was easy. And I promse you this: One day you’ll grasp its fullness, and it will be so clear and simple that you will laugh with delight. Meanwhile, all I can do is plant seeds. The rest is up to God.”

  SERGEI PONDERED Serafim’s words, willing them to penetrate him. Instead, another question arose: “Serafim, from the first time we met…how could you know so much about me?”

  The old monk considered the question and finally answered, “Years ago, Socrates, before I became a monk, I was a soldier. I fought in terrible battles and saw carnage that no man should have to see. Then there was another…sorrow…

  “So I traveled to the East, searching for meaning, for peace. I had little hope for either one. I visited many lands and learned of various paths to God. I learned that all paths are good if they lead to a higher life. I chose the Christian faith, but I haven’t abandoned the gifts received when I studied other ways, different paths up the one mountain.

  “I discovered certain gifts that were always in me, but certain practices helped me to cultivate them. One is the gift of healing. Even as a boy, I had energy that pulsed through my hands. I believe this energy comes from a spiritual source. My other gift is insight…and foresight. It works like a blossom that opens when light enters. And I see things—in dreams and reveries. That is how I know certain things, but never with certainty.”

  “I’ve often wondered about this ability of yours…”

  “To understand it, you have to experience it. When you open to God, you can know all because you are all. You discover that the past, present, and future are all occurring now. This is how I can sometimes see and know.”

  “Have you seen what my future holds?”

  “I see what may be, not what must be. The actions you take will shape your future for better or worse. Such is the power of choice.”

  “But can you tell me anything at all about what lies ahead?”

  Serafim paused to consider his words. “With every spiritual gift comes a responsibility. My visions are meant to help me advise, not predict. If I told you what I’ve seen, it might help or harm you—and I’m not wise enough to know which.

  “In any case, it might interfere with your free will. You are not here on Earth to trust me; you are here to trust yourself, to follow your own path. What if I had seen you vanquishing your enemies when you first arrived? Would you have bothered to train all these years? Would my vision have assured this course of action? What if I saw you lying dead? Would that have made you abandon your plans?”

  Serafim again fixed Sergei with his gaze. “I don’t always understand what I see, Socrates. I can’t tell you with any certainty whether you will kill these men or forgive them.”

  “Forgive them? I’ll send them to hell first!”

  “They are already in hell.”

  “That’s no excuse!”

  “No, of course not,” he answered. “There are no excuses for anything. Most of the time, I can’t even find explanations. But one day you may come to see these men as part of your larger self. In that moment all else falls into place. You may be called upon to fight, but you’ll know that you are only fighting yourself.”

  Serafim paced again as he continued
. “What I’m going to tell you now, I’ve never revealed it to anyone—but now it may help you to understand.

  “I was once married. I was young and in love, and we had three children. When I was off to war, they were killed by brigands.”

  In the silence that followed, a bird sang. Then Serafim continued. “Like you, Socrates, I vowed to find those who committed this crime. And, like you, I prepared myself—”

  “Did you find them?” Sergei asked, waiting for a sign.

  “Yes. And I killed them, every one.”

  Sergei took a deep breath, struck by this tragic bond they shared. “Serafim…when you found out what happened to your family, was it also your darkest hour?”

  Serafim shook his head. “It was at first, but my darkest hour came after my ‘victory’—after I had slaughtered those men. For in doing so, I became one of them—”

  “But you weren’t one of them! You aren’t—”

  “You fight the dragon, you become the dragon,” Serafim repeated. “It still weighs heavily on my soul. I can’t change what I’ve done. Ever. But do you now understand one of the reasons I decided to instruct you? Because I hope you won’t make the same mistake.”

  In truth, Sergei was finally ready to seek another way of life, but a vow that deep—a vow he had worked nearly a third of his life to fulfill—left traces to which he still clung. “Even if I no longer seek revenge,” he said, “someone has to stop them, Serafim. Why not me?”

  Serafim looked into his eyes once more, searching, then he said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you should go hunt them. Kill them all. Make them suffer the way you suffered. Do you think it will end there? You had better kill their children as well because they will come after you. So kill them too, and experience a hell deeper than any you have yet seen. Or perhaps you’ll feel no response at all. You may even find satisfaction in their suffering. And the devil will smile on that day because you will have become the evil you sought to destroy.”

  After a time, Serafim added a final plea: “Your loved ones will find peace when you do, Socrates. So ask yourself: What is the way to peace? Must you make war to find it? Or can you create it, here and now? Those at war with themselves are defeated at every turn. So make peace with yourself…”

  After a pause, Serafim added, “I understand the depth of your beliefs and your feelings—the painful memories and resolutions. But not every emotion needs to become an action. Whether you remain here, or whether you ride on, I ask you to give your life over to a higher will. Master your emotions the way you weather a storm—by building a shelter of faith and patience until the storm passes. Liberate your life from the tyranny of impulse, desire, and compulsion. Become God’s warrior, God’s servant.

  “But…how can I know God’s will?” Sergei asked.

  Serafim smiled. “Many men and women wiser than I have asked that question, Socrates. I only know that God speaks through your heart, and that your heart will show the way…to becoming a true man…and a peaceful warrior.”

  Serafim’s words struck like arrows. Yet one question remained—a question Sergei could not dismiss: “What of those men?”

  “Enough of those men!” Serafim said. “They seem to have possessed you! Have you not let them live in your mind long enough? Have you the courage to show them the mercy and compassion they denied to you and your family? These questions lie at the heart of Christ’s teachings. But few listen. Are you listening?”

  Serafim paced again, as if words came more easily when he was in motion. “We both know that you are a formidable warrior. But can you wage peace? You know how to die, but have you learned how to live? Will you destroy or build? Will you behave with hatred or love? This is the choice you have before you.”

  “And all my training?”

  “Nothing is ever wasted,” said Serafim. “You’ve learned the warrior’s way—so fight! Make war on hatred, battle against ignorance, fight for justice! But I tell you this: You cannot kill darkness with more darkness. Only light can banish the shadows from this world.”

  Sergei could hear Serafim’s deep breathing as the old monk gazed inside himself. Then Serafim said, “In any event…those men will die without your help.”

  “Have you seen this…in a vision?” Sergei asked.

  “Not a vision, no—only an understanding of how such men end up destroying themselves. They will all die, in any case, as all men must die…and the question remains: What will you choose? Consider it carefully. What kind of a life would your Anya wish you to live?”

  Then they parted, and Sergei walked the paths of Valaam, letting Serafim’s words blend with his own thoughts. In all his years of training, lusting for the blood of evil men, he had come to know his own darkness. Sergei finally understood why men and nations can rise up against each other—how each act of retribution, desperation, and ignorance fuels the tragic acts that follow.

  As Sergei passed through the forest, his hatred, like any fire, finally extinguished itself. And when he finally surrendered his grip on this long-held mission, Sergei found in its place a troubled peace. In letting go of the past, he he had lost a part of his future. Before, he knew where he was headed, and why. Now his mission to kill his enemies, his vow of vengeance, had ended. No goals or purpose remained.

  Sergei floated between heaven and earth, connected to neither.

  .37.

  HAVING TRAINED every afternoon for all those years, Sergei now found a space opening in his days, in his mind, and in his life. A tremendous amount of energy was now liberated and pulsing within him. He experienced a quickening of thought, insight, and understanding. With his attention free from a long preoccupation, and this chapter of his life now complete, new possibilities rose into his mind.

  Sergei had come to a turning point, a crossroads: He finally forgave himself for his human failings and accepted that he’d done the best he could on that day in the meadow—that despite his efforts, he was not able to save his family. This truth helped him make peace with the shadows of his past. For the first time since his family’s death, he felt that he might have a new life to live.

  The time had come to write a letter to Valeria. He sat down immediately, in the common room where he had spent countless hours in training, and wrote the words that flowed from his heart to his mind:

  Dear Valeria,

  I know that I have lost the right to call you Mother, but I continue to think of you that way, just as Anya will always be my beloved wife. In the time that has passed, I hope your heart has healed enough that this letter will not reopen old wounds but instead may bring gentler memories of love and of the family we were. I cherished what I found in your home. Overwhelmed by the loss of Anya, I later grieved losing you and Andreas as well.

  I will not ask your forgiveness. I only send my love and gratitude for the kindness you showed to me during the happy times.

  With abiding love, and prayers for your health,

  Sergei

  It was a long-overdue message. He did not expect a reply. Sending it was enough. He only hoped that Valeria might one day bring herself to read it.

  .38.

  THE NEXT TIME Sergei saw Serafim, the old monk took him completely by surprise. It was not a punch or kick this time, but it might as well have been. The first words Serafim spoke were, “You must leave the island, Sergei—and soon.”

  Sergei stood stunned, his mind regrouping. “Leave?” he asked. “Leave to go where?”

  “I’ll explain as we walk. When I’m done, I hope you will gather your belongings and say your good-byes.”

  Mystified, Sergei decided to keep his mouth closed and listen. The father began: “Do you recall when, several days ago, you asked me where I thought you might be going, and I said that we would speak of it later?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, I now know. The time has come. I only just received the letter. They are gathering at the roof of the world.”

  BY EARLY AFTERNOON Sergei had packed his few things and sa
id his farewells to the brothers at St. Avraam Rostov skete. They nodded, smiled, then turned back to their duties.

  Before meeting Serafim at the island farm, Sergei sat for a few minutes in a silence made more sacred by their imminent parting. In that silence, Sergei contemplated all that Serafim had told him…

  “Our purpose together is finished,” the old monk had said. “But there are others who may be useful…a gathering of masters, all good and trusted friends. Each comes from a different religious tradition…They cherish their paths as I do mine. But they’ve transcended their reliance on conventional teachings and turned to the esoteric, hidden truths and internal practices. They explore the intertwining roots within every religion, the one river beneath the many wells.

  “I can’t be sure who will appear, but you may meet a master of the Sufi tradition…a Zen Buddhist roshi…a Taoist sage…a yogi of the Hindu path…a rabbi of the Jewish faith…a woman Kahuna fro m Hawaii…a nun and Christian mystic from Italy…a Sikh master…” Then Serafim smiled, adding, “And you will likely meet a man named George, who fits into none of the traditions, yet all of them. It is he who has called them together.

  “There is a proverb favored by those in this fellowship: ‘One Light, many lamps; one journey, many paths.’ Each of these masters serves as such a lamp, bringing his or her own principles, perspectives, and practices to open doors to the world of spirit—the internal path of awakening—”

  “Awakening to what?”

  “To the transcendent,” Serafim answered. “And in service of this great purpose, they meet in friendly debate to compare and contrast, to test, and to share with one another in free and open inquiry. Their goal, I believe, is to find the most central, core practices for body, for mind, for spirit—to begin a new, universal way free of cultural dogmas or trappings.

  “I won’t burden you with all their names, which you’ll learn in good time. Just know that they will gather soon—in the next three months—which is why you cannot delay.