The Zeal of Simon the “Pure”

By Hieromonk Tikhon

On the hill of Mount Ortho lived Simon the “Pure,”
Who once was a simple man, quiet and sure.
But he found some new podcasts to listen to late,
With hosts who would lecture on matters of state.
He listened to gurus of cultural war,
Who ranted on YouTube of what to abhor.
They spoke of conspiracies, dark and profound,
With warnings of traps that were hidden around.
“The system is tracking! The trap has been set!
The Antichrist’s shadow is casting its net!”
And Simon’s small heart was soon filled with great fear.

He walked to his parish to pray and to fast,
But looked at the clergy with eyes quite aghast.
The priest used a smartphone to text his sick spiritual child,
Or write to the Bishop with words soft and mild.
The deacon used GPS, finding his way
To visit a widow who’d fallen astray.
While folks at trapeza drank coffee and tea,
And lived their lives simple and obedient and free.
“They’re ushering him in!” Simon shrieked in his head.
“The Antichrist comes, and our leaders are dead!”

He noticed the barcodes on packages and books,
And glared at the clergy with sorrowful looks.
He pulled out his smartphone—the latest design—
And texted the Bishop to draw a hard line!
With thumbs typing fast, he sent rant after rant:
“The barcodes are evil! We must say we can’t!
The clergy are compromised, playing with fire,
And leading the flock to the pit and the pyre!”

The Bishop replied, “If you truly despise
The cellular phone and its networks of lies,
Then why do you send me these texts every day?
Why type out these rants in a feverish way?
The Church is the Woman who fled to the wild,
Preserving the Faith for the meek and the mild.
We watch as the world and its politics fall,
But simple devotion is what we must call.
Shut off all those podcasts that flatter your pride,
And leave the dark world of those lies outside.”
But Simon just scowled, and he started to think:
The Bishop is soft, he is blind to the brink!
“Others may touch this thing, Lord, but not I!”

The priest gave him rules for a quiet, plain life,
To humble his soul and to quiet his strife.
But Simon refused it—he knew a way best!
He made his own rules and ignored all the rest.
He wouldn’t stay quiet, he wouldn’t obey,
For he thought he was smartest in church every day!
He focused on modern-day tricks of the state,
And ignored his own soul and its dark, ruined state.
He thought he was saintly, a warrior of old,
While inside his heart was growing quite cold.

He walked to the kitchen, to hunt for some sin,
And found a canola-oil bottle within!
“They’re using seed oils in parish hall cakes!”
He shrieked to the ladies, “For heaven’s own sakes!
And what of the software that mimics the mind?
This AI is coming to capture mankind!
It’s threatening our privacy, working its art,
While you people sit here and eat of a tart!”
The people just sighed, wishing Simon would cease,
Who wouldn’t let them enjoy their Sunday in peace.

“The parish is sleeping! The clergy don’t care!
They ignore all the plots that are laid in the air!
They ignore all the gurus, they ignore the collapse,
And fall for the globalists’ ultimate traps!”
The Bishop looked weary, and patted his fold.
“My son,” said the elder, “the Kingdom is found
In quiet repentance, with head to the ground.
The demons are pleased when you’re angry and loud;
They use the culture wars to foster the proud.
You worry of systems, of tracking, of seed,
But pride is the oil on which demons will feed.
Go clean the temple, or sweep in the yard!
Do work for the Church if you find it so hard
To govern your tongue and to quietly pray.”
But Simon just turned and went stomping away.
“This bishop’s a modernist, blind to the high!
Others may touch this thing, Lord, but not I!”

So Simon sat home, in his prelest and pride,
With no Christ in his heart, only satan inside.
He thought his neighbors were fallen, his parish dead,
“They scanned all the barcodes, and toxic oils spread!”
“I’m a saint!” Simon whispered, “A champion of old!
A martyr for truth in a world that’s grown cold!”
He rejected the labors of humble, true grace,
And lost the protection of God in its place.
With a scowl of pure hatred carved deep in his face,
He read internet forums and argued his case.

Soon, Simon came to believe that the sacraments failed,
Where the culture wars were ignored and derailed.
He stormed to the doors, as the service reached end,
And shouted his judgment on bishop and friends:
“Your grace is departed! Your altars are cold!
I’m leaving this church for a truer-world fold!
My ‘Orthodoxy’ is the only one pure,
And only my cottage is safe and secure!”

The Bishop stood quiet, and sombre in the nave,
In the center of church, with a heart sad and grave.
He looked at poor Simon, and spoke with a voice
That shook the cathedral and offered a choice:
“You’ve traded the Spirit for rules of your own,
And made up a virtue of timber and stone!
In chasing after phantoms, you’ve blinded your eyes
To the simple and meek whom you dare to despise!
The people you scorn, who eat oil with their bread,
Are watching their sins, while you raise up your head.
They don’t think they’re saints, and they don’t try to teach;
They live in humility, out of your reach.
But you, in your prelest, can only condemn,
While thinking you’re holier, wiser than them!
If you will not bend, if you will not obey,
Then pack up your rants, and go walk on your way.
There’s nothing the Church or her clergy can do
For a man who makes idols of all that he knew.”

So Simon turned round, and he fled from the door,
Determined to walk with his parish no more.
He walked down the road with his head spinning round,
And wondered if truth in the Bishop was found.
But that couldn’t be! For he couldn’t be wrong!
His mind was too sharp, and his ideas too strong!
Yet deep in his heart, a small whisper began:
“Just put down your pride and repent, simple man.
Just start once again, let your theories all go…”
But his proud spirit whispered: “I cannot bow low!”

The choice is now Simon’s—the gift of free will,
To sit in his cottage, or climb up the hill.
Will he throw out the gurus, the podcasts, the pride,
And look at the rot he is carrying inside?
Will he see that the canons and texts in his hand
Are things that his pride cannot yet understand?
For spiritual reading will poison the mind,
If humble obedience is left far behind.

The doors of the Church are still open and wide,
To welcome the sinner who lays down his pride.
So we pray for the Simons who wander in fear,
That Christ in His mercy will bring them back near.
And we pray for ourselves, lest we also go blind,
And leave the sweet safety of our Mother Church behind.
For the humble and obedient have a place by Thine own decree…
But not those who trust in themselves and not Thee.