Returning to My Name: The Love That Found Me in Christ and Ramana

I was lying on my bed at home, feeling still. The last few days, I’d been researching my name, something I’d never really done before. Who researches their own name? But I’d recently found out, in November last year, that “Hatzi” is a title once given to people who completed a pilgrimage to find God. That stayed with me.

Tonight was the night I finally decided to explore the religion I was born into, the Greek Orthodox Church, a tradition I never felt any real connection with growing up. We went to church sometimes, sure, but I didn’t speak fluent Greek. I could get by, but I never understood the deeper meaning of the religious services or the rituals.

My yiayia went to church her whole life, faithfully and devoutly. Towards the end of her life, though, she became disillusioned. My mum had told me she wasn’t happy with the church after it cast out two men who were in a same-sex relationship. That kind of dogma never sat right with me either.

I’ve never been drawn to religious systems or rituals. They felt like barriers. What I was longing for was something deeper. Not blind faith but real, living truth.

That’s what I found in Ramana Maharshi.

Or maybe what found me.

Ramana didn’t ask me to believe anything.

He pointed me inward.

To silence.

To the Self.

To what’s always here.

His presence opened a doorway.

That doorway led me to other Advaita Vedanta teachers, Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj in particular.

Their teachings echoed something I had always known deep down: that the truth was in my heart. I just needed to learn how to access it.

Still, something stirred in me that night.

If Advaita was the mystical stream within Hinduism, then surely there must be a mystical stream within Orthodoxy too.

And then I found it.

Hesychasm.

Ἡσυχασμός.

From the word ἡσυχία — silence. Stillness. Inner quiet

A whole tradition of deep inner prayer, noetic stillness, and direct experience of God, centered on the Jesus Prayer:

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

I couldn’t believe what I was reading.

How had I never heard of this before? Saints like St. Gregory Palamas, St. Joseph the Hesychast, St. Mary of Egypt, St. Porphyrios… their lives told stories of deep inward transformation, of unshakable love for God, of silence that speaks louder than words.

It felt just like what I had come to know through Ramana.

I’d spent years exploring Sufism and hidden knowledge but never once had I thought to look into the spiritual depth of the faith I was born into. I felt awe. And I felt shame.

That night, I went to bed in wonder.

The next morning, I sat at Ramana Ashram like I usually did. I had planned to sit for an hour, but I only made it to thirty minutes. Something had shifted in me. I felt like crying, not because I’d done something wrong, but because I had rejected Christ without ever truly knowing him. I could feel his presence now.

I left and crossed the road to Ananda Ramana restaurant. I sat, quietly eating, and once again felt the tears well up at the thought of Christ. Something was stirring in me that I couldn’t explain. When I left, I saw my friend E sitting at the chai shop. We started chatting, and I shared everything I’d just discovered. She was deeply knowledgeable about the mystical side of the Church and told me more about the Jesus Prayer.

Everything started clicking into place. I felt like I had found my lineage, something I was born into but had never truly seen. My name wasn’t a coincidence. This path wasn’t an accident.

I messaged my mum:

“Can you check in my room on the back of the door handle is my cross and beads still there?”

She replied that she wasn’t at home, but she thought yes.

“Bring them with you to Greece,” I told her.

The time had come.

I need to wear my cross.

I need my beads with me.

The time for rejection was over

I finished chatting with my friend and decided to buy some dog food and head to see Sri Siva Jyoti Swami. I was having a wild morning, but the entire six months I’d spent in India had been wild. Whenever I had big shifts like this, I always felt drawn to be near him. He never interfered, but I could feel he was watching over me.

I sat in his presence for a few hours, then returned home.

The next morning, I woke and continued reading about the saints. The sense of shame returned. How could I have overlooked all this? How could I have been so blind?

I jumped in the shower.

As the water hit me, I was suddenly overcome with emotion.

A month earlier, I had surrendered my life to Ramana, I had told him I would serve to the end. I meant it. But now, in that moment, something became crystal clear:

I hadn’t surrendered to Ramana.

I had surrendered to Love.

Ramana wasn’t who I thought he was. Christ wasn’t who I thought he was. They were the same, not as men, but as Love itself.

I fell to the floor of the shower, sobbing uncontrollably. My whole body shook. It was as though I was being baptized from the inside out. Love was here, it had always been here. I was on my knees, not from obligation, but from total surrender.

And it wouldn’t stop. The tears. The shaking. The knowing.

Love is God. And God is Love.

I have tears in my eyes even as I write this.

I’ll go deeper into the mystical stream now.

I’ll go to Mount Athos.

I want to live this truth.

I had thought Greek citizenship was out of reach, I’d learned months ago that I couldn’t just arrive in Greece and apply.

I’d need to go through the Melbourne Greek Embassy, and there was a 2–3 year wait.

But this morning I looked again and discovered another way.

If my Dad comes with me to the town hall in Athens and declares me as his son, I can be registered.

I can become a citizen. I can stay in Greece for as long as I like.

I told my Mum to bring all the documents with her.

Love was guiding me. And this time, I was listening.