The Awakening Of Isandros (Η Εγερση Του Ισάνδρου)

-From The Meletic Tales.

The late afternoon sun softened behind the distant hills, casting long, slanting shadows across the colonnade of Corinth. Ancient stone pillars, cracked and worn by time, stood like silent sentinels over a space once filled with bustling voices of philosophers, merchants and citizens. Now, the air was still save for the gentle murmur of a nearby fountain and the distant clatter of the market closing for the day in the agora.

Artemios sat quietly on the cool marble bench beside the fountain. His hands toyed absentmindedly with a strand of beads, each polished smooth by years of contemplative touch. He was a man advanced in years, even though neither bent nor slow. His eyes, bright and clear, held the steady calm of one who has weathered many storms of thought and returned, unbroken.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed against the colonnade’s stones. A young man approached, his brow damp with sweat, his expression a mixture of eagerness and hesitation.

‘Are you Artemios, the philosopher?’ The young man asked, his voice low yet urgent.

Artemios looked up slowly and offered a measured smile. ‘I am he. What brings you to this place of quietude, young man?’

The youth hesitated before replying, ‘My name is Isandros. I come burdened with questions—questions that no sermon nor prayer has yet answered. They have burdened my soul'.

‘Then you come to the right place,’ said Artemios, gesturing toward the seat beside him. ‘Sit, and tell me of these questions’.

Isandros lowered himself onto the bench with a sigh. From the folds of his cloak, he drew a crumpled piece of parchment, edges worn and faded from many readings.

‘These are the copies of the letters of Paul of Tarsus, a man who calls himself a servant of Christ. They are read aloud in the gathering places of my people, stirring faith and zeal alike’, he said.

Artemios took the parchment carefully, smoothing its surface with reverence yet studied detachment.

‘And what do these words say to you?’ He asked.

Isandros’s gaze darkened. ‘They speak of a war within the soul—between flesh and spirit. Paul writes: “For the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the flesh.” They say we must crucify the flesh to free the spirit’.

Artemios nodded slowly. ‘The division begins with the war of flesh and spirit’.

‘Is that not true?’ Isandros pressed. ‘Should we not rise above the body and its desires that tempt us? To live by the Holy Spirit alone?’

Artemios’s eyes crinkled with the gentleness of one used to teaching. ‘Tell me, Isandros—do you think your body is a prison or a temple?’

‘A prison,’ Isandros answered without hesitation.

‘Yet it retains your breath, your heartbeat, your every sensation. Would you crucify the very vessel that carries your soul?’

Isandros looked away. ‘But Paul says the flesh leads to sin’.

‘And what do you say?’ Artemios asked quietly.

‘I do not know. I feel torn.’

‘Then listen well. Meleticism teaches one that the body and soul are not enemies but companions. To vilify the body is to fracture the self. Only through harmony can we become whole’, Artemios said.

'And what of temptation?' Isandros questioned.

'Temptation is just another word to disguise the ego. It is our vices not temptation that harm us'.

The sun dipped lower as they walked slowly along the marble floor, passing faded inscriptions on the walls—words from ages past, now mostly forgotten.

‘Paul speaks often of the Law,’ Isandros said, breaking the silence. ‘He claims it brought knowledge of sin, but that only faith in Christ brings salvation’.

Artemios paused, gazing towards a broken statue of a woman once revered for wisdom. ‘Salvation, is a curious word. Do you feel saved by faith alone?’

Isandros hesitated. ‘I was told to believe—to surrender all to the unseen, and peace would follow afterwards'.

‘And does it?’ Artemios asked.

‘Not always. Doubt remains, gnawing at my soul’.

‘Faith is nothing more than blind devotion. It is to believe before reason, and it demands instead of wisdom. Meleticism does not demand surrender, but invites reflection. We seek not to believe blindly, but to awaken reason and observe the self from within us. To Ena, the One does not require faith, because it is aligned with fate', Artemios replied.

‘Then what is To Ena, the One?’ Isandros asked, eyes bright with curiosity.

‘The One is not a god to be worshipped,’ Artemios answered. ‘It is unity itself, the source and essence behind all existential things. To know the One is to know your own true nature—beyond fear, beyond division. It is to discover being'.

‘And suffering?’ Isandros asked. ‘If the One is what you say it is, then why must we suffer in this world?’

‘Suffering is the fire that refines the soul,’ said Artemios. ‘Not punishment, but awakening. Without pain, how else would we remember what is lost? The body, the mind and the soul—all must be known fully for true peace to be realised and understood'.

Night fell softly as they returned to the colonnade. The first stars began to pierce the deepening sky. Isandros unrolled another fragment from the copies of Paul’s letters.

‘Here,’ he read, ‘“Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak… it is disgraceful for a woman to speak.”’

Artemios shook his head slowly. ‘Such words betray fear, not wisdom. If the breath of the soul is wisdom, then half the breath is silenced. Wisdom does reflect in men only; for a woman is capable of being a sage also'.

‘It troubles me deeply,’ said Isandros. ‘For how can true knowledge come from half a voice?’

‘Indeed. Wisdom knows no gender, no rank. It flows where it will, as the wind flows through the leaves’.

Isandros continued, ‘Paul also writes that slaves should obey their masters as they obey Christ’.

Artemios looked at him with quiet gravity. ‘A man writing from the chains that burden him, perhaps yearning for the freedom he himself has not found’.

‘But he suffered for his faith,’ Isandros said.

‘True suffering is not chains of iron but chains of thought,’ Artemios answered. ‘Socrates drank the hemlock rather than yield to ignorance. He never asked to be obeyed, only to be heard and questioned’.

The next day, the sun warmed the marble stones and the agora buzzed faintly with life. Isandros spoke of Paul’s words again.

‘He says, “Now we see through a glass, darkly.”’

‘An old metaphor,’ said Artemios. ‘We live amongst the shadows, true. But faith alone is not the polish that clears the glass. It is reason, observation and self-awareness that brighten the soul’s vision’.

‘And the Logos?’ Isandros asked. ‘Paul calls Christ the Logos’.

‘The Logos is not a man,’ Artemios said firmly. ‘It is the cosmic principle— order, reason and harmony. It is eternal and silent, neither born nor crucified. The Logos flows beneath the surface of all thought and being’.

‘Then what of Christ?’ Isandros asked.

‘Christ is a symbol—a story born of yearning for unity, but Meleticism asks you to seek the One within, not without. Christ was only a part of the Logos, just like we both are'.

'But he is said to be the Messiah'.

'Messiah. I ask you, is it destiny for one man to save the masses, or for many men to save themselves?'

'Without him it is said that the many cannot be saved', Isandros replied.

'If the many could not be saved, then the many would have not survived all these centuries, since the first human walked the Earth'. '

'Is To Ena, the One beyond being?'

'To Ena is being', Artemios replied.

'God is a creator'.

'Is he one with his creation?'

'No. He is not equal but separate', Isandros claimed.

'Then, how could he have entered into man and become creation? Is that not contradictory?'

'But he is God'.

'Is your god beyond being?'

'Yes, he is beyond being. Nothing is compared to him'.

'If so, then how does he exist?'

Isandros could not answer the question.

'When man makes philosophy about gods, then he dooms philosophy into religion', Artemios warned.

As the days passed, their conversations deepened. Isandros’s questions became less frantic and more reflective.

‘I once believed that freedom comes only through faith in Christ. That without him, there is only darkness’, he confessed.

Artemios smiled kindly. ‘Many people believe so at first, but freedom is the waking up—from all shadows, all divisions that distant one from the truth of To Ena'.

‘What of love?’ Isandros asked. ‘Paul teaches love as the highest law’.

‘Love is the breath of the soul, but love without knowledge is incomplete. True love flows from the understanding—of the self, of others, of the whole that binds our soul with the ousia that is our true essence’, Artemios replied.

Isandros nodded slowly. ‘I see now that obedience is not freedom. Faith is not peace if it demands silence’.

‘You have begun your awakening. Now walk your path with eyes wide open’, said Artemios.

'Is the ousia greater than the Holy Spirit?' Isandros enquired.

'It is neither meant to be greater or lesser in its essence. What differentiates it from the Holy Spirit of Christianity is that it dwells not in divinity, but in the body, mind and soul'.

'I was told that questioning God is a sin or unjust, and that we have no authority over him'.

'If that is so, then what fear does this god have of being judged or questioned by mere mortals? Are we not beings with the authority to think? I can question To Ena, the One and not be concerned with divine judgement or retribution'.

'Yes. What you say is very true', confessed Isandros.

On the final day of their meeting, Isandros offered Artemios the parchment once more that were the copies of Paul's letters.

‘I no longer need these letters. They have served to awaken me, but now they bind me no longer’, he said quietly.

Artemios accepted it, then laid the copies on the ground. The breeze stirred, and the parchment fluttered like a dying leaf.

‘Let the words rest. You are no longer seeking a teacher but seeking the One. And the One is found only within you, not where divinity reigns’, he said.

Isandros took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment and the lightness that followed. ‘Will I find peace?’ He asked.

‘Peace is not found, but remembered. You already carry it. Now live as if you know it’, Artemios uttered.

'I have one last question to ask, and that is why does Paul believe so strongly, in what he professes?'

'That is a question that only he can answer, but I imagine that is easier to seek guidance in a vision that others have revealed than to reveal the truth of your inner self'.

Weeks later, a scribe in the agora asked Artemios what had become of the young man who once came burdened with Paul’s letters.

The philosopher smiled and replied, ‘He now quotes the silence between words with his awareness.

Night had fallen fully, and the moon hung low over Corinth’s rooftops like a pale lantern. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of wild thyme and olive leaves. Artemios and Isandros sat outside the colonnade, the stone bench now cool beneath them.

‘Tell me, Isandros, when you read the letters of Paul, what stirred most deeply in your heart?’ Artemios asked him.

Isandros folded his hands, his voice low with unease. ‘It was the call to obedience. To surrender entirely to a will not my own—to deny myself, take up my cross and follow’.

Artemios regarded him with gentle eyes. ‘Surrender is give your soul to it blindly. To exile your reason and forsake your wisdom. It is a heavy burden for one so young like you. Tell me, does your soul feel lighter or heavier for this call?’

‘Heavier,’ Isandros admitted. ‘The more I try to obey, the more I feel lost. As if I am drowning beneath demands I do not understand’/

‘And yet, the body you wish to deny is the very place where your soul lives. Imagine if the trees denied their roots, or the river denied its source. What would become of them?’

Isandros was silent, picturing the twisted branches of a tree scorched by drought.

‘Paul speaks of freedom through faith,’ Artemios continued. ‘But consider what freedom truly means. Is it freedom from yourself? Or freedom to know yourself fully, body and soul together? Faith is an illusion. It is another word for hope, and hope is much more realistic than faith'.

Isandros sighed, the tension in his young frame loosening just a little.

A few days later, Artemios led Isandros through a small garden behind the colonnade, where fragrant herbs grew alongside ancient olive trees. They walked slowly along the path, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

‘In Meleticism, we speak of virtues—temperance, wisdom, fortitude, perseverance, reason and humility. These are not commands but guides, like the stars that sailors use to find their way home’, Artemios said.

Isandros glanced at the herbs growing wild. ‘And these virtues—do they ease the struggle between flesh and the spirit?’

‘They do not fight the flesh but teach it harmony,’ Artemios replied. ‘Temperance, for example, is not denial but balance. Wisdom is not blind faith but understanding’.

‘Paul seems to value some virtues, like love and faith, but he also commands submission and silence’.

‘Because, he wrestled within himself as we all do, yet Meleticism inspires you not to wrestle, but to observe with kindness and with patience’, said Artemios.

They paused beside a patch of blooming lavender. Artemios plucked a sprig and handed it to Isandros. ‘Smell this’, he said.

Isandros inhaled deeply. ‘It is calming.’

‘So too with the soul. Virtues cultivate calm, not conflict’, Artemios responded.

One evening, as a cool breeze whispered through the olive branches, Isandros produced the copy of the worn parchment one last time. His fingers trembled slightly as he held it.

‘This parchment has guided me and chained me. Tonight, I wish to release myself from it’, he said quietly.

Artemios watched silently as Isandros built a small fire of twigs and dried leaves. Flames leapt eagerly, casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones.

With a steady breath, Isandros laid the parchment upon the fire. The flames curled hungrily around the edges, consuming ink and fibre alike. The copied letters curled and darkened, curling into smoke that rose in the still night.

‘You do not burn the words out of hatred, but to set yourself free from their hold', Artemios told Isandros.

Isandros nodded. ‘I honour the struggle of the man who wrote them, but I seek a different path now’.

The fire crackled, and a quiet peace settled over them.

At dawn, the first light bathed the colonnade in soft gold. Isandros rose early and greeted Artemios with newfound calm.

‘I feel as though a weight has lifted, Not because I have found all answers, but because I am no longer afraid to question’, he confessed.

Artemios smiled warmly. ‘That is the beginning of true awakening. To live in the light of enquiry, not the shadow of fear’.

‘Tell me, Artemios, how does one walk the path of To Ena, the One each day?’

‘By remembering your unity with all things. By observing without judgement, by acting with virtue, by allowing silence to teach when words fail', Isandros replied.

‘And the soul?’

‘The soul is like a vessel. It must be cared for, nourished with truth and kindness. It must be free to express itself—even in silence.’

Isandros looked up at the waking sky. ‘I feel as though I am beginning to see through the glass more clearly'.

Several days later, Isandros prepared to leave the colonnade. He had no grand declaration, no sudden conversion. Instead, a quiet confidence shone in his eyes.

‘I thank you, Artemios’, he said, clasping the philosopher’s hand. ‘For your patience, your wisdom, your kindness’.

Artemios nodded, the smile in his eyes deepening. ‘Go with peace, Isandros. Walk your path gently and with courage. Do not regret, but live'.

As the youth disappeared down the dusty road, Artemios returned to his bench by the fountain and resumed his beads. The sun climbed high, and the city stirred to life.

A scribe approached hesitantly. ‘Master Artemios, what became of the boy who came with questions?’

Artemios looked up, his eyes serene. ‘He now quotes the silence between words’.

Several mornings passed in quiet study, yet one morning, Isandros returned with a furrowed brow and a parchment in hand, his steps heavier than before.

‘Artemios’, he said, settling beside the old man, ‘there is another passage I cannot set aside.’ He cleared his throat and read slowly, ‘“If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his own household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.”’

Artemios regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Family is important, yet do you feel this passage calls for compassion, or for obligation born of fear?'

Isandros paused. ‘It sounds as if love is conditional. As if faith binds us in chains not only to a god, but to people—even if those chains weigh heavy on the soul’.

‘True love is never a chain. It is a bridge built on understanding. When love is duty alone, it breeds resentment’, said Artemios.

‘Paul speaks of faith as the path to salvation, yet his words often feel like law wrapped in fervour,’ Isandros admitted. ‘I hear of grace and peace, but feel the sharp edge of judgement beneath’.

Artemios nodded slowly. ‘Faith born of fear breeds discord within. Meleticism encourages us to look inwards and discern our true nature, beyond fear, beyond external laws imposed onto us'.

Isandros looked into the distance. ‘I want to believe that peace is possible, but the world is harsh and unforgiving’.

‘The world is neither harsh nor kind. It simply is. How we see it depends on the observation we perceive’, Artemios said.

‘Tell me more about these virtues you spoke of,’ Isandros asked one afternoon as they rested under a sprawling fig tree.

‘Virtues are the soul’s compass,’ Artemios replied. ‘Temperance teaches balance; fortitude, strength in adversity; humility, acceptance of our place without pride or despair; perseverance, the steady march forth; wisdom, the light to see clearly; and reason, the guide to walk the path well.’

‘These sound like demands too,’ Isandros mused.

‘Not demands, but invitations,’ said Artemios. ‘Unlike faith that asks for blind surrender, virtues grow within, nurtured by our daily choices’.

‘Paul speaks of love as the greatest of these’, Isandros said.

‘Love without wisdom can be blind’, Artemios answered. ‘True love must be coupled with understanding and tempered by reason. It must free, not bind’.

Isandros fell silent. ‘I fear I have been taught to fear love, to see it as duty or sacrifice rather than joy’.

‘That fear is born of misunderstanding, Love is the river. Virtue is the bank that guides its flow’, Artemios said softly.

Later that evening, Isandros brought up a troubling thought.

‘Paul writes, “Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear.” But how can obedience to man be obedience to the divine?’

‘Chains of the body are one thing, but chains of the mind and spirit are far heavier. To obey blindly is to lose oneself', Artemios answered.

‘Paul endured imprisonment, beatings, hardship. He claimed his suffering was for the faith’.

‘That I do not doubt, and I think of Socrates, who chose death rather than forsake his reason. Suffering for truth is noble, but Meleticism teaches that we must not suffer needlessly—only as the fire that tempers, not as the weight that breaks’, said Artemios.

Isandros looked down at his hands. ‘I see now that Paul’s letters reflect his inner battles as much as his faith’.

‘He was a man wrestling with division within himself and the world, but Meleticism inspires harmony—not war between flesh and spirit, but unity that governs the soul’, Artemios replied.

The days turned into weeks, and Isandros found his questions giving way to contemplative silence. One evening, as the stars blinked awake in the darkening sky, Artemios spoke.

‘There is a saying: “The wise man speaks because he has something to say; the fool speaks because he has to say something.” Paul’s letters are many and loud’.

Isandros smiled faintly. ‘Sometimes I feel lost in the noise of their fervour’.

'Whenever you feel lost, remember that it is only the thought of the noise. Fervour must never replace reasoning'.

'How do I overcome that fervour that is faith?'

‘True wisdom is found in the silence between words. It is in observing without rushing to conclusion, in knowing when to speak and when to be still. That is the path to wisdom', said Artemios.

‘And Meleticism?’ Isandros asked quietly.

‘Is the path that leads you to that silence discovered by awareness,’ Artemios said. ‘To the peace beyond the noise, to the One beyond division’.

One afternoon, as Artemios and Isandros sat by the fountain, a stranger approached, carrying a bundle wrapped in linen. He was a merchant from far away lands, bringing news and stories.

‘I heard of a young man seeking wisdom’, the stranger said, handing Isandros a small carved figure—a simple symbol of the One, entwined circles forming a single whole.

‘It is a reminder that the path is neither straight nor simple, but that all things return to unity', the stranger said.

Isandros took the gift reverently. ‘I shall carry this with me always’.

Artemios smiled. ‘Even gifts from strangers can teach us much, if they are remembered’.

The day came when Isandros knew he must leave. The city called with its noise and duties, but he felt changed.

‘I once believed salvation was outside of me, in faith alone. Now I see it is a journey inwards, through reason, virtue and silence that leads to my awareness’, he said.

Artemios nodded. ‘And so you awaken, Isandros. To walk a path that honours all parts of you—body, mind and soul’.

‘Thank you for your guidance. For teaching me to understand the meaning of life, and to see it through new eyes’, Isandros said.

Artemios clasped his hand. ‘Go well. Let your life be the teaching, your manner the wisdom’.

As Isandros disappeared into the bright afternoon, Artemios returned to his beads, their quiet rhythm a reminder that the journey is ongoing—ever inward, ever outwards.

Weeks later, a scribe sought Artemios in the agora.

‘What of the youth who came burdened by letters and doubt?’ He asked.

Artemios smiled, eyes twinkling with quiet joy.

‘He now quotes the silence between words. He is now awakened by To Ena, the One'.

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