Orthodox literature read three stories of the Agathons. Nikolay Agafonov - True stories (collection)

Touches to the portrait of Archbishop Pimen

Having just been appointed by the Synod to the post of rector of the Saratov Theological Seminary, I began work on its revival with all zeal. The fact is that there was no seminary yet; everything had to start from scratch. Archbishop Pimen of Saratov, who came up with the idea of ​​reviving the seminary in his diocese, invited me from Volgograd to Saratov to head this matter, and he also recommended me to His Holiness the Patriarch for the position of rector. The matter was very interesting for me, and in gratitude to Bishop Pimen for his trust, I tried my best. But, despite this, nothing worked out with the transfer of the building to the seminary. This is a separate topic, a whole epic, on which Vladyka, I think, undermined his health - he was so worried about this issue. By the beginning of the school year 1990, we had not managed to open a seminary. When His Holiness Patriarch Alexy II sent a telegram in which he congratulated teachers and students on the beginning of the school year, Vladyka sadly sent His Holiness a response in which he said: “No, Your Holiness, neither teachers nor students. To our great regret, we don’t even have a building for a seminary yet.” Of course, Vladyka was not going to give up and did not give up. He was a strong man. And we continued our work to revive the seminary with redoubled force.

At that time I did not yet have an apartment in Saratov, my family remained in Volgograd, and Vladyka invited me to live in his bishop’s house. To do this, I was given a room on the second floor with a separate entrance. But I always dined with Archbishop Pimen.

Vladyka Pimen was an extraordinary person; I have never met many bishops in my quarter of a century of service in the Church, and I cannot compare him with anyone. He surprisingly combined the intellectual of that era, when this concept was not trivialized by the Soviet period, and at the same time he was a modern man, in the best sense of the word. He was a kind man and unusually attentive to everyone around him. Some traits of his character touched us and literally delighted us. Communication with him was a real pleasure. Apart from diocesan and liturgical affairs, he showed genuine interest in only two things: books and classical music. Otherwise, he was completely unmercenary. (After his death, only a library remained, most of which he donated to the seminary, and three thousand rare gramophone records with recordings of classical music.) He was completely indifferent to what he was wearing, as long as it was clean and comfortable. He was not at all picky about food: whatever was prepared, he ate. When he dressed in civilian clothes, regardless of the season, his head was adorned with a gray beret, under which he hid his long hair. And so his usual clothes were an old silk cassock, always belted with a wide belt, tied at the back for some reason with an absurd bow of silk ribbons, but this did not bother him at all. The Lord could quickly move from one mood to another, all this was written on his face. If he was happy about something, his face would shine, like a child’s. With close people, he could afford to be offended like a child. In communicating with strangers, he behaved like a true diplomat; secular people, completely far from the Church, were simply delighted with communication with him and for a long time later remembered what a wonderful person Vladyka Pimen was. And the way he walked, you had to see it. Before meeting the Lord, I considered myself the fastest walker. But when I happened to go shopping with Vladyka (of course, only bookstores, he didn’t go to others), I, who was not forty, could not keep up with the man who was living into his seventh decade. I literally had to keep up with him, almost skipping. When he got into a car to go to some distant parish, he always took with him a pile of fresh newspapers. He quickly looked through them and threw them to us in the back seat with the words:

- Read, educate yourself.

We barely had time to unfold one newspaper and delve into its study when, with the same words, a second newspaper flew towards us. When he gave us the last newspaper, he would turn on some cassette with classical music in the tape recorder and then the exam began for me.

— Father Rector, please tell us what kind of work is being performed and who is its author?

The bishop's permanent driver, also senior subdeacon Ivan Pavlovich Babin, quietly slipped me a cassette box on which the titles of the works were written. I pretended to think, then, as if hesitantly, I said:

“I’m afraid I’ll be wrong, Vladyka, but in my opinion this is Tchaikovsky, piano concerto number one, B flat major.”

Vladyka was surprised, praised and asked about the next work. I answered again. The Bishop was delighted and said to those sitting in the car:

“You see, it was not in vain that I petitioned for the appointment of Father Nikolai as rector of the seminary.

In addition to books and music, Vladyka Pimen had three sports hobbies: he was a passionate mushroom picker, and in moments of relaxation he loved to play gorodki or billiards. No matter how hard we tried, no one managed to collect more mushrooms than the Lord.

After collecting, the Lord made them count the mushrooms individually, and then said with joy:

- Last year at this time I had a record of three hundred and forty-two mushrooms, and this year - three hundred and fifty-eight.

He also played with excitement in towns, usually in the forest, after picking mushrooms. He was also a master at this and it was difficult to beat him. But at billiards, even though he played well, sometimes I managed to beat him, and then he was sincerely upset about it.

One of the characteristic features of Vladyka Pimen was his punctuality and accuracy. You could use it to set your watch. If the service is scheduled for nine o'clock, then rest assured that at exactly nine o'clock his car pulled up to the threshold of the temple, neither a minute earlier nor a minute later. If Ivan Pavlovich arrived three minutes earlier, which happened extremely rarely, then Vladyka asked him to make an extra circle in order to arrive on the minute. In all the years of serving under his hierarchal omophorion, I have never been able to see Vladyka late for any event. If lunch is at twelve, then you can’t come even a minute later. Therefore, I arrived about five minutes before lunch and went into the hall, next to the dining room. Vladyka usually sat in the hall and looked through some papers, making notes. I also sat in a chair, took a magazine or newspaper and read. The bishop's cat, Murzik, usually kept us company. It was a fluffy gray cat, the Lord’s favorite, fat and impudent. As if he understood that he was under the special protection of the bishop. Exactly at twelve, Vladyka stood up and invited me to the table. I went first, then Vladyka came in and I read a prayer, he blessed the table - and don’t yawn here: another feature of Vladyka Pimen was that he ate quickly, just like a meteor. And having finished everything, he began to tease:

“You eat, Father Nikolai, eat, don’t rush, I’ll wait.”

I, of course, was in a hurry, and from the mischievous sparkles in the Vladyka’s eyes it was clear that this amused him.

One day, during Great Lent, Archbishop Pimen fell ill. For the sake of the Lord’s illness, they prepared fish cutlets. A large oblong table was set for us from its two opposite ends. I enter the dining room, as usual, first and see how the arrogant, fat bishop’s cat jumps onto the table and steals his fish cutlet from Bishop Pimen’s plate. The cook, standing right there, had her eyes widened in horror. But to her credit, it should be noted that she was not at a loss and instantly changed our plates literally a second before the bishop arrived. We prayed, Vladyka blessed the table, and then turned to the cook with bewilderment:

- Please tell me, why do I have a cutlet, and Father Nikolai only has buckwheat? The cook answers:

- Excuse me, Vladyka, but your Murzik stole the cutlet.

Then the Lord burst into a blissful smile and said to me:

“You see, Father Nikolai, in the bishop’s house even the cat is a scientist, he knows the church canons to the finest detail.” After all, I am sick, for me the fast is weakened, and you are healthy, which means that you are not entitled to a cutlet, and so that you do not violate the rules, he stole it from you. You are so smart, Murzik. “We need to reward the cat with fresh fish,” Vladyka turned to the cook.

“We will encourage you, Vladyka, we will definitely encourage you.”

There was a lot of noise and bustle around the arrival of members of the Imperial Royal House of Romanov. They sailed down the Volga on a ship, visiting all the cities where they were solemnly greeted.

They arrived in Saratov on the feast of the Holy Trinity. Archbishop Pimen has already celebrated the Divine Liturgy in the cathedral, which stands not far from the river station. After the service, he, along with a host of clergy, went out to the pier to meet the Grand Duchess and her son Grand Duke George. When the ship docked and the orchestra played, Vladyka (himself a hereditary nobleman) made a welcoming speech in which he addressed His Highness Grand Duke George as the heir to the imperial throne. Then everyone walked together to the cathedral to serve a prayer of thanks for the health of the Imperial House of Romanov. Vladyka, talking with the Grand Duchess along the way, walked ahead of us. Behind them I walked next to Grand Duke George, on the other side of the Grand Duke walked the rector of the cathedral, mitered Archpriest Evgeniy Zubovich. He turned to the Grand Duke with a question:

- And how old are you?

He replied:

- Twelve.

One of the peculiarities of Archbishop Pimen was that he addressed everyone without exception, from the mitred archpriest to the cleaning lady, only by “you.” I don’t know how he heard Father Eugene’s question, because there was a large noisy crowd of people around, especially since Vladyka himself was talking to the Grand Duchess at that time, but only he heard anyway.

We accompanied the Grand Dukes on their further journey, and the next day we served with the bishop in the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit for the patronal feast day. Here we are sitting after the service at the festive dinner, suddenly Vladyka says:

- How dare you, Father Eugene, address the Grand Duke on “you”? What will they think about us in Europe: if the mitred archpriests here are so uncultured, then there’s no need to talk about the rest of the citizens?!

Father Evgeniy was all confused.

- Yes I am, Vladyka, yes I am...

- What are you saying, Father Evgeniy? Just imagine this picture: in ten years, Emperor of Russia George I will come to Saratov and ask us: where is the priest who poked me? And we, in order to ward off anger, will say: Your Imperial Majesty, please do not be angry, here is his grave.

At this point everyone burst out laughing and couldn’t calm down for a long time. The Bishop himself laughed until he cried. Father Evgeniy at first turned his head in confusion, and then he began to laugh, yes, in my opinion, louder than anyone else.

How I entered the Theological Seminary

The idea of ​​going to seminary came to me while in the army. I served in the strategic missile forces in Belarus. Everywhere you look, beyond the territory of the military camp there is only forest and swamps. Since I arrived at the unit from “training” already with the rank of sergeant, I was appointed squad commander. And rocket scientists have more than enough time. For me it was just a godsend. I buried myself in the army library and read, read, read. I read mainly Russian classics. I decided to read everything that was not covered in the school curriculum. What struck me most was Dostoevsky. His novels, especially The Brothers Karamazov and Demons, became my first theological textbooks. Dostoevsky really aroused my interest in religion. This is where my search for God began. I longed to learn as much as possible about the Orthodox faith. But where in the army, and even in Soviet times, could one learn about religion? I learned about the life of Christ by reading Hegel. But I gained most of my knowledge about Christian dogmas and the Church from reading atheistic literature. There was plenty of it in the army library. The head of the library once told me:

- Comrade Sergeant, why do you read so much atheistic literature? See that you don't become a believer.

He looked straight into water. The Atheist's Dictionary became my first textbook on Christian dogma. We open with the letter “B” - “Ascension”, then it tells what it is. I carefully wrote down in a notebook a description of this event and what significance it had for Christians, and discarded all the ridiculous atheistic criticism as unnecessary rubbish. In this way I learned almost all the main dogmas of the Church. In the same dictionary I came across the word “seminary”, where it was explained that in translation from Greek it means “nursery”, that this is an educational institution of the Moscow Patriarchate where priests and theology teachers are trained. Here, in the dictionary, it was said that there are currently three seminaries operating on the territory of the Soviet Union: Moscow, Leningrad and Odessa. For me, this discovery was simply a joyful shock. I cut a pectoral cross out of a copper plate and wore it in my breast pocket. There was a need to pray to God, but since I didn’t know any prayers, then, going behind the barbed wire fence into the forest, I prayed to God something like this: “Lord, help me, guide me on the right path,” and something like that . I had a dream to study at the Theological Seminary in order to then devote my life to the fight against godlessness and atheism. But when I was demobilized from the ranks of the Soviet Army in 1975, I was carried away by a different path. The fact is that before the army I dreamed of being a sailor, and when I returned from the army in November, an additional enrollment had just been announced for the Kuibyshev River Technical School for the navigation department. My relative, Uncle Misha, advised me to enroll straight into the third year, and I was seduced by this. I reassured myself with the thought that, being a navigator or even a captain, I could remain a believer. But, after studying at the river technical school for three months, I realized that I had made a mistake. I had absolutely no interest in studying navigation and higher mathematics; I was drawn to philosophy, history and theology. I decided to quit technical school to prepare for entering the seminary. I consulted with my grandmother, Chashchina Muza Nikolaevna, on what to do. My grandmother was a wise person, she told me: “Don’t rush, grandson, I’ll find out everything,” and wrote about my desire to her cousin, Baba Nina, who served as a psalm-reader in one of the villages of the Rostov region. From there, I soon received a parcel with a magazine of the Moscow Patriarchate, where the rules for admission to the Theological Seminary and all the prayers that had to be learned for the exams were printed. I was very happy and decided to go to Moscow: get a job there, go to church and prepare for exams. The decision to go specifically to Moscow came about for this reason. As soon as I returned home from the army, I immediately went to the Kazan Church in Tolyatti to confess and receive communion. In my vain naivety, I thought that as soon as I arrived, the priests would pay special attention to me, because young people don’t come to church very often. Indeed, the temple was filled mainly by elderly women and a few old men. The confession was conducted by an elderly priest. At first he said something to the people, calling on them to repent of their sins. Then people began to approach him, he covered everyone’s head with an epitrachelion and read a prayer of permission over them. When I approached him, I wanted to confess the sins of my entire life, but the priest, without listening to me, immediately threw an epitrachelion over my head and said: “I forgive and permit...”

I walked away dissatisfied and shared my doubts with the woman standing next to me. She approached the priest and asked him to confess me. He waved his hand, saying, what does he want, I have already confessed to him. But the woman turned out to be persistent, and they let me in a second time. This time the priest listened to my confession in full. After communion, I left the church joyful, but some kind of dissatisfaction remained in my soul. “Probably all the priests in the Tolyatti church are so inattentive,” I thought, “they won’t help me in any way.” That's why I had a desire to move to Moscow.

When my mother found out about my decision to quit technical school and go to Moscow, she was so upset that she even cried. I asked her why she was so upset and why she was against me going to the seminary. She replied: “Am I, Kolenka, against your entering the seminary? I just want you to get a secular education first, and then go where you want.” I began to explain that I did not want to waste precious time and deceive the state by studying at its expense if I was going to serve in the Church. And my mother says: “I’m afraid, son, that you will follow this path, you will definitely encounter some kind of injustice, you will be disappointed and leave the Church, but you have no profession.” I replied that I understand perfectly well that people are imperfect, including me. That’s why I go to Church to become better myself and to help others if possible, and I don’t intend to be disappointed in anything. My grandmother stood up for me: “Let him go, daughter, the guy won’t disappear. Maybe this is his path.”

In April 1976, I went to Moscow, enlisting in the construction of the Olympic complex in my specialty - a finisher. I had thirty rubles in my pocket, and the brightest hopes were swirling in my head.

Moscow did not greet us limiters very hospitably. We were placed in a hostel, temporarily, in a room for visitors. They took the passports, promising to arrange everything soon. Our device took a long time. There are drafts in the guest room. In short, I caught a cold and became completely ill. As I remember, I woke up on Saturday morning and could barely lift my head from the pillow. The chills strike, the temperature is thirty-nine. Alone in a huge multimillion-dollar city. No relatives, no friends. Besides, there are only fifteen rubles left to live on. Melancholy attacked me. Then I say to myself: “Stop, I’m the one who’s going limp. I’m not alone, God is with me, who brought me here.” I remembered how in atheistic literature they mocked believers for believing in the possibility of healing from the relics of holy saints. So, I think they are really being healed, since the atheists are so angry. Where, I think, can I find the holy relics? I remembered here about St. Sergius of Radonezh, about whom I read in Borodinsky’s historical novel “Dmitry Donskoy.” I decided to go to Zagorsk, to the Trinity-Sergius Lavra, to be healed from the relics of the righteous. I found out how to get to Zagorsk and, despite my painful condition, set off. When I arrived at the station in Zagorsk, I thought I should ask someone how to get to the Lavra. But then youthful shyness overcame me; it seemed to me that if I asked about the monastery, they would laugh at me: “So young, and he believes in God.” He went at random, went out to the Lavra, and was delighted. I went into the Lavra and was puzzled: where is the tomb with the relics of St. Sergius of Radonezh? Again I’m embarrassed to come up and ask. I decided to look for it myself. I went into one large temple, and there people approached the monks, kissed the cross, and I came up too. After I kissed the cross, I felt much better. I went further in search. I went into a small white church, and an inner voice said to me: “Here lie the relics of St. Sergius of Radonezh." I buy a large candle and walk further into the twilight of the cathedral. I see there is a tomb under a silver canopy, and next to it a monk is reading something. And people all take turns approaching the tomb, crossing themselves, bowing and kissing each other. At first I stood there, watching how they did it, and then I went myself. I knelt before the saint’s shrine and forgot why I came here. I began to ask the Reverend not for healing, but for him to accept me as a student at the seminary. Having venerated the holy shrine, he went to the exit. When I walked through the doors of the temple, it was as if a heavy, wet fur coat had fallen off of me. It became so easy and joyful. The disease instantly disappeared somewhere. I forgot to even thank the Reverend for the healing, and for some reason I rushed headlong from the Lavra and went to Moscow.

Since Monday, all my affairs have gone smoothly, like clockwork. We were put in a dormitory, and I got a separate room, they gave me money and assigned me to work in a brigade of slab-makers.

Now another problem has arisen for me: how to choose a temple where I will constantly go and where I will have to get a recommendation for admission to the seminary. It should be noted that even in Soviet times there were more than forty operating churches in Moscow. I began to look closely at the temples. I notice some temple, apparently not far from a metro stop, but for some reason I can’t cross its threshold. It still seems to me that the old women will greet me unfriendly: you’re standing in the wrong place, you’re doing the wrong thing. In general, I feel like this is not my temple. So I went through several temples, but didn’t stop at any one. Then I began to pray to God: “Lord, show me my temple.”

One day I was riding home from work on a trolleybus and, having fallen asleep, slept through my stop. I jumped out at the next one, and in front of me was a small cozy temple. The bells ring, calling for service, and the people go. I went with them too. As soon as I walked in, I realized: here it is, my temple.

This is how I became a parishioner of the Church of John the Baptist, where Archpriest Nikolai Vedernikov was the rector.

I was lucky; Father Nikolai was an excellent preacher. Many of his sermons have stuck with me for the rest of my life. In the same temple I met the wonderful, intelligent Volgin family, who gave so much to my spiritual development. Anatoly Volgin, a wonderful icon painter, worked as a reader in this church, and his charming, intelligent wife Nina Aleksandrovna Volgina, an art critic, also took an active part in the church life of the capital. This was my main luck, for which, I think, the Lord blessed me with this temple. Baba Valya was the first to notice me in the temple. She began to invite me to her home and teach me to read Church Slavonic; Anatoly Volgin (now an archpriest) completed my training. These were wonderful, unforgettable times that the Lord gives to all who come to Him again. When my mother arrived in Moscow, I already felt very confident in the church environment and was preparing to enter the seminary the next year, 1977. But the Lord providentially, through the arrival of my mother, changed my plans. I took my mother to the most wonderful places in Moscow and took her to the Trinity-Sergius Lavra. Having kissed the Reverend, I began to wait for my mother near the exit.

Coming from the holy shrine, she said:

“Kolya, I thought, why don’t you go to seminary this year?”

I laughed:

- What are you doing, mom? You were against it, but now you’re saying to do it, and this year too. I learned the Lord’s Prayer for the first time this year, I don’t care. May God grant you to be ready at least for next year.

“You know,” my mother said thoughtfully, “when I stood near the holy relics of St. Sergius, someone told me to do this this year.” Here's my mother's blessing for you - do it this year.

“Okay, mom, since you bless me like that, then I’ll do it,” I agreed.

Mom flew away, and I, having handed in the documents to the seminary office, began to intensively prepare for the entrance exams.

When I approached Father Nikolai for a recommendation for admission to the seminary, then, having gone to the altar, a few minutes later he brought me a piece of paper on which it was written: “Agafonov N.V. regularly attended services on holidays and Sundays throughout the year . Archpriest N. Vedernikov.”

I think: what a recommendation! And when I came to the seminary for exams, I completely lost heart. There were so many applicants from all over the Soviet Union! All the guys are prepared, they have been serving in the church for several years. Subdeacons of bishops walk apart, so important. “Lord, where have I ended up, a simple working boy?” And then I thought: “Why am I upset in advance, I won’t enroll this year, I’ll enroll next year. If I don’t get in next year, I’ll try again.” This decision immediately made my soul feel light and cheerful. I go to St. Sergius every day and pray. At an interview with the rector, Archbishop Vladimir (Sabodan, now Metropolitan of Kiev), when he asked me what I like to read, I said Dostoevsky was my favorite writer. The Vladyka Rector liked this very much, and he talked to me for another ten minutes about Dostoevsky.

The guys ask:

- What did you do for so long at the rector’s?

I speak:

— We discussed theological aspects in the works of Dostoevsky.

They are laughing:

- Come on, Agafonov, master of the flood!

After passing the exams, we sit in the seminary cafeteria, and we ourselves have lost our appetite from excitement; we know that after lunch the lists of applicants will be posted. The guys are showing me two fingers.

I wonder what this might mean? Did you really get a bad mark? It seems that it shouldn’t, but I still passed the exams well.

Let's run upstairs to look at the lists. I read the entire list, but couldn’t find my last name. Then I looked at another list, where candidates are noted who can be called within a year to replace the expelled seminarians, and I am not there. He walked away upset. My friends shout to me: “Agafonov, where are you looking? Here's your last name. You were immediately enrolled in second grade.”

Exactly, I come up and see a small list of those enrolled in the second grade. My last name is there.

Wonderful are Your works, O Lord.

Historical event

The year 1988 arrived, the thousand-year anniversary of the baptism of Rus'. There was a feeling in the air of a change in attitude towards the Church in our godless state. In any case, the press began to actively discuss the topic: to celebrate or not to celebrate this date? Most of the speeches were in favor of not celebrating: they say, this is the business of the clergy, and the state doesn’t care about such events as the baptism of Rus'.

Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue for our authorities, the international organization UNESCO decides to celebrate the baptism of Rus' as an event of global significance in one hundred countries of the world. At this point, the Kremlin immediately began to itch, and the scales began to tip in favor of state participation in the celebration of the anniversary.

Either in February, or at another time - I don’t remember exactly now - I was leaving the reception of the Kazan Cathedral in the courtyard in the evening, three young men approached me and asked: where can I see the rector’s father? At this time, the rector, Archpriest Alexey Mashentsev, came out, and I brought him to them.

- What are the problems, young people? he asks.

“We want to invite you to the Agricultural Research Institute,” they answer, “so that you can speak at our youth discussion club.”

But we must make a reservation that the priest’s public performance outside the walls of the temple was prohibited by law. For this, one could lose the registration of an authorized person; then one would not be able to get a job in any diocese of the Soviet Union. Father Alexy knew this very well, so he, diplomatically citing lack of time, refused the young people. They walked away clearly upset. I was no less upset than they were - this was an opportunity we couldn’t even dream of. And I decided - it was not. After waiting for Father Alexy to leave, I caught up with the young people and said:

“I’m also a priest and I can speak with you.”

They were happy and surrounded me. I'm asking:

- What topic should I speak on?

“On the theme of the millennium of the baptism of Rus',” they answer.

I asked them one more question that still bothered me:

— Has this issue been agreed upon with the leadership of your institute? They waved their hand carelessly:

- What for? Now glasnost and perestroika.

“Okay,” I say, “these are your problems, just keep in mind that I will coordinate this issue with my superiors.”

“Agree with whoever you want,” they answer. At this point we parted ways, having previously agreed on the time of my arrival.

I really decided to play it safe and went to the regional administration to the Commissioner for Religious Affairs for permission. We must pay tribute that Volgograd was lucky in having commissioners. The Volgograd region was probably the only one where three churches were built at once: in the village of Akhtuba, in the city of Frolovo and in the city of Mikhailovka. Naturally, this simply could not happen without the participation of the authorized representatives. So, for example, in the Saratov region, where the main see of the Archbishop was, they could not achieve the construction of at least one church, because the commissioner there was, as many put it, “a real beast.” If he sees a priest walking towards him in the city, he will certainly cross to the other side of the street, just so as not to say hello: he hated priests so much. In Volgograd at that time the commissioner was Yuri Fedorovich Buneev, a former submariner. Despite the fact that he was recently appointed to this position, he had already won deep respect from the clergy. There was no arrogance or conceit in him. In communication, he was simple, sincere and accessible, loved to joke, sang beautifully and was a well-read person. He and I immediately connected on the basis of our love of books. He helped me buy the then terribly scarce two-volume encyclopedia “Myths of the Peoples of the World.” I met Yuri Fedorovich in the administration corridor, he was in a hurry somewhere, and I began to explain the situation to him as I walked. I don’t know how much he penetrated into its essence, but he waved his hand: go, if you’re called.

I carefully prepared for the speech and arrived at the institute at the appointed time. At the entrance I was met by the Komsomol organizer of the institute, looking completely confused.

We said hello, he says:

- Oh, father, what happened here! As soon as they learned about your upcoming speech, all the authorities are on their ears every day. They call constantly, now from the KGB, now from the district committee, now from the city party committee with one question: who allowed you to invite a living priest to a state institution?

Here I could not resist and inserted a remark, paraphrasing a well-known American saying about the Indians: they say, a good priest is a dead priest. Komsoorg says:

“You’re joking, but I’m not in the mood for jokes, I’ve already been reprimanded, I don’t think I’ll get away with this.” But it’s too late to cancel, the announcements are up, everyone at the institute knows, there are a lot of people in the assembly hall - there’s no crowding, and the authorities ask you to come to their office first.

We go up the elevator, go into a spacious office, I see: respectable men are walking around the office, buzzing like disturbed bumblebees, and when they saw me, they stopped buzzing and began to come up to say hello. The Komsomol organizer introduces them all in turn: this is our director, this is his deputy, this is the party organizer of the institute, this is the trade union committee. I shake their hands, but I’m already confused: who is who. Suddenly everyone makes way, a pleasant-looking man with a tie swims out and solemnly introduces him to me:

— And this is our chief religious scholar of the region: Nikolai Nikolaevich (unfortunately, I don’t remember his last name).

He shakes my hand: hello, he’s your namesake and almost a colleague. The director invited everyone to sit down at the table, and the party organizer opened the meeting: how are we going to hold the meeting, after all, this is an unusual thing, it’s not every day that a priest comes to the institute, what will be the rules for this meeting? Here everyone immediately started buzzing: yes, that’s it, what are the regulations? Each of those sitting asked this question without giving an answer to it. I sat alone and was silent, and then everyone looked at me questioningly.

- I don’t know what regulations are needed, I don’t care, let me speak - I’ll speak.

Here the party organizer took the initiative into his own hands. He stood up and said decisively:

“So, comrades, first Nikolai Nikolaevich will speak, then the priest, and Nikolai Nikolaevich will close his speech again,” at the same time he clearly demonstrated how it would be, closing the fingers of both hands with a crunch.

I imagined myself between two claws of a huge crab, which closed them on me, so that my bones broke with a crunch, and I shuddered. But, looking at the good-naturedly smiling Nikolai Nikolaevich, who was assigned the role of this terrible crab, I immediately calmed down. Everyone liked the party organizer’s decision, they echoed him like an echo: yes, yes, father, and Nikolai Nikolaevich will close it.

When we went down to the assembly hall, there really was nowhere to fall, all the seats were filled and people were crowding in the aisles and in the doors. The Volgogradskaya Pravda correspondent took refuge on the windowsill with a notebook. My superiors and I sat down at the presidium table on the stage, and the Komsomol organizer, opening the meeting, gave the floor to Nikolai Nikolaevich. He stood up and let’s scold the youth who show complete indifference to the history of the Fatherland.

“Just think,” he was indignant, “the date of the 600th anniversary of the heroic defense of the city of Kozelsk passed unnoticed, the 300th anniversary of the birth of Peter I, the great transformer of Russia, also passed without due attention.”

At the end of his speech, he unexpectedly took out of his briefcase a desktop church calendar for 1988 (it should be noted that at that time there was a terrible shortage: we priests were given only one copy each.) Shaking this calendar, he menacingly asked the audience:

“Lord,” I thought, “what could happen on January 1st according to the new style? If it were the old way, everything is clear: the Feast of the Circumcision of the Lord and the memory of St. Basil the Great. If you didn’t even ask me, I’d be embarrassed.”

- New Year.

“No, not a new year, according to the church calendar, the new year is September 1st,” he looked triumphantly around the silent hall and proclaimed: “On January 1st, the Church celebrates the memory of Ilya Muromets - the one who, according to Russian epics, cut off the heads of the Serpent Gorynych.” .

After these words, he sat down, looked at me: “Know our people,” and, bending down, asked:

- It’s okay, Father Nikolai, I’ll record your speech on a tape recorder, I need it for the regional radio.

I nodded my head in agreement. Indeed, on January 1st the memory of the Venerable Elijah of Muromets, a monk of the Kiev-Pechersk Lavra, who was, in all likelihood, from the city of Murom and could have been a warrior of the princely squad, a defender of the Russian land, is celebrated, but what does the Serpent Gorynych have to do with it, I still don’t know I understood, but didn’t ask.

I spoke for about an hour, outlining the main historical milestones of the Russian Orthodox Church and their significance in the life of our Fatherland. I started from afar, with the baptism of Grand Duchess Olga and ended with the current state of the Church. The attention to my story was extreme - literally, you could have heard a fly fly by. Having finished the speech, I sat down and began to wait with curiosity how Nikolai Nikolaevich would lock me into pincers; if one pincer was the Serpent Gorynych, then the other should, according to the logic, be Baba Yaga. But Nikolai Nikolaevich did not introduce the characters of Russian fairy tales, but simply said that I, supposedly, presented everything well, but they have a slightly different view of the history of the baptism of Rus'. Rus' became acquainted with Christianity long before the baptism under Prince Vladimir, and Byzantium and I looked closely at each other for a long time (on this I agree with him), but what this different view consists of, he never explained, ending his speech there .

After our speeches, we were invited to ask questions. There were a lot of questions from the audience, but they were all addressed exclusively to me, so I even felt uncomfortable in front of the chief religious scholar, and if I came across a question that, in my opinion, could be within his competence, I gladly forwarded it to him.

Finally, Nikolai Nikolaevich himself decided to ask me a question.

— How do you, father, feel about the fight against drunkenness that our party is uncompromisingly and consistently waging?

I spoke out positively in favor of the fight against drunkenness, citing the Holy Scripture, which says: “Do not get drunk with wine, for there is fornication in it,” but at the same time expressed doubt about the methods of this fight, again referring to the authority of the Holy Scripture, where It is said: “Good wine makes glad the heart of a man,” especially since Christ Himself performed His first miracle by turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and not vice versa.

“And now what happens,” I continue, “I want to buy myself a bottle of cognac to break my fast for Easter, but I can’t stand in line for half a day.” During Lent, you don’t need to stand in line, but in church to pray.

Then the whole hall applauded. Seeing such a tilt on the ideological front, the party organizer literally jumped out of his seat:

— Do you believe in communism?

“Here we are, as they say,” I think. - If we say frankly that I don’t believe it, then remember what their name was, they will sew in anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda, Criminal Code of the RSFSR, Art. 70, up to three years in prison.” I decided to answer in a streamlined and concise way: they say, I can assume that in the future there will be a society that will achieve such results in agriculture and industry that there will be an abundance of the fruits of the earth, so to each according to his needs and, naturally, from each according to his abilities . But I cannot even imagine that there will someday be a society in which there is no Church.

- You contradict yourself! - the party organizer cried. I did not enter into a discussion with him, and our meeting ended there.

The next day, Yuri Fedorovich called the cathedral and asked me to come see him. I came, and he laughed:

“What have you done, Father Nikolai, you have ruined the entire institute with your propaganda, now people are demanding that they be given the Bible to read.” The calls here don’t give me any peace, people at the top are indignant, demanding to know why priests walk around government institutions as if they were in their own church. But I told them that I gave you permission, so to speak, I took the blow on myself.

- Thank you, Yuri Fedorovich, for interceding, because you could have refused, we spoke in an informal setting.

- What do you think, some priests have a conscience? We sailors value honor above all else. I’ll tell you a secret: a meeting of the country’s leadership with the leadership of the Church is being prepared in Moscow, so soon such speeches by priests will not be uncommon. But your first, so let’s drink to this historical event,” and he took a bottle of cognac from the table.

Indeed, a truly historical event soon took place: at a round table in the Kremlin, Mikhail Sergeevich Gorbachev met with His Holiness, Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus' Pimen, and the relationship between the state and the Church changed dramatically.

But the most interesting thing is that two years later this story received a very unusual ending. After studying for two years at the Leningrad Theological Academy, I switched to external studies and returned at the request of Bishop Pimen to serve in our diocese, since it was planned to open a Theological Seminary in Saratov, and Bishop intended to entrust this work to me. I began to serve again in the Kazan Cathedral. One day, when it was my turn to perform the sacrament of Baptism, our vociferous registrar Nina shouts:

- Father Nikolai, go baptize, a man is waiting for you.

I enter the baptismal room and can’t believe my eyes: the chief religious scholar of the region, Nikolai Nikolaevich, is standing, holding a baptismal receipt, candles and a cross in his hands. I was glad to see him, like an old friend. He tells me:

“I, Father Nikolai, prepared as expected, learned the “Our Father” and the Creed by heart.

Such incredible stories happen in ordinary life.

Miracle in the steppe

One, second, third shock - our Zhiguli was literally shaken by unexpected gusts of wind. We drove along the steppe road from the city of Kamyshin to Saratov. The wind was blowing from the Volga towards the right side of the car. It seemed as if the huge palms of some invisible giant were gently but firmly pushing us, playing with the car like a toy. The owner of the Zhiguli, Sergei Bulkhov, was driving. Being next to him, I felt calm, because I knew that the car was in the capable hands of an experienced professional. Sergey worked as a taxi driver in Volgograd. The old twenty-fourth "Volga" with checkers, on which he worked, could often be seen near the Kazan Cathedral, where he came to services. That's where we met him. Often discussing theological topics, I watched him grow spiritually from strength to strength, and I rejoiced for him.

He was an extremely smart and smart guy. True, he felt the influence of Indian Theosophy with its yoga, which, apparently, he was fond of before coming to the Church, but many neophytes went through similar things. I gave him a book on hesychasm and the smart Jesus prayer: it became his reference book. I decided to take him to Saratov to introduce him to Archbishop Pimen as a possible candidate for ordination to the priesthood. We went to Saratov by car. If we had known what could happen to us, we would certainly have taken the train. Now we are rushing across the snowy steppes of the Volga region, and a feeling of anxiety involuntarily covers our souls. We reached Kamyshin safely, hoping that our further journey would proceed just as smoothly. But in this we were sorely mistaken. Following the gusts of wind, snow began to fall. Sergei said worriedly:

As if we, Father Nikolai, would not have to spend the night in the steppe. Maybe we can turn back?

It’s a shame,” I say, “we’ve covered more than half the road, maybe the weather will clear up, and God willing, we’ll get there.”

Dusk fell quickly. The road either plunged down a long descent, or rose up. When we climbed the next hill, a picture opened up in front of us: many lights in the distance in a line stretched beyond the horizon. When we got closer, we saw that they were heavy-duty KAMAZ trucks with trailers. We got out of the car and asked why everyone was standing. The driver of the last truck, swearing every word, explained to us that there was no further road, everything was covered and they would wait until tomorrow for the tractors to arrive. He said about us that we were completely abnormal, that when we returned home, we needed to go to a psychiatrist to get checked. We turned and went back to Kamyshin. The snow was getting heavier. The wind sculpted such flakes that the windshield wipers could barely cope. Visibility deteriorated to the point that we were driving, as they say, by touch. In many places the road was crossed by snow drifts, Sergei rammed them, breaking through them at speed. After one of these rams, the car turned across the road, so that its nose rested against one snowdrift, and another one supported it from behind.

That’s it, Father Nikolai, it seems that you and I have sailed, no matter what we call it: neither back nor forward,” Sergei said doomedly.

We got out of the car. A strong gust of wind tore off my fur hat and, whistling ominously, carried it into the snowy distances. Sergei was wearing a woolen ski cap, which he pulled down to his eyes. I climbed into the car, took the skufia out of my briefcase and placed it deeper on my head. Expecting to drive from home to the diocesan administration in a warm Zhiguli, I didn’t bother to put on winter boots and dressed up in demi-season shoes.

In two hours, our car will be completely covered in snow if we don’t get out somewhere on a hill where there is a windy open space and the snow doesn’t linger. Going somewhere into the steppe, looking for a village, is also certain death,” Sergei summed up, looking skeptically at my shoes.

We began to shovel the snow away from the car with our feet and with a jerk, lifting the back, we tried to throw it to the left. Despite incredible efforts, we managed to move the car one or two centimeters at a time. Finally exhausted and stiff, we got into it, turned on the engine and warmed up. Then they continued their work again. At the cost of enormous effort, we managed to turn the car around so that we could drive forward. After driving a little, we saw a clean, level area of ​​the road and stopped on it. Here stood a GAZ car abandoned by someone with a booth locked with a padlock.

“We’ll stand until the morning,” said Sergei, “and then we’ll see.” But we, father, have another problem, and a very serious one. Gasoline is running out, when it runs out we will die in the cold. There is apparently nowhere to wait for help; tractors will only come here during the day. So you can write a will to your family and friends.

At these words, for some reason I remembered a song about a coachman who, freezing in the steppe, gives the last order to his comrade. My friends and I really loved singing this song during holiday feasts. Singing it drawn out, slowly, we enjoyed the harmonious consonance of different voice parts. When we sang it in a warm, cozy house, the death of the coachman seemed so romantic, touchingly sad. But now, when a solid white haze raged above us and around us, obscuring the entire world of God so that only this storm and snow seemed real, I didn’t want to sing at all. And you didn’t want to die when you were soon to turn thirty-three.

You know, Sergei, you and I need to pray to St. Nicholas the Pleasant, for a miracle can save us, and he is the Great Wonderworker.

And to be convincing, I told about the miracle of St. Nicholas, which he performed in 1978. At that time I was still serving as a deacon in Tolyatti and once, going to Moscow for an examination session, I was hopelessly late for the train. When I got into the taxi, there were five minutes left before the train departed, and the ride to the station was at least twenty. Then I prayed to my heavenly patron to perform a miracle. A miracle happened: when we arrived at the station, it turned out that the brake pads of the train were jammed and it stood for an extra twenty minutes.

For failure to attend the session, I faced the worst possible threat - expulsion from the seminary, and now our lives were at stake. After my story, Sergei and I began to fervently pray to St. Nicholas the Wonderworker. A huge car, a three-axle Ural, suddenly emerged from the snow cover and stopped. We explained our problem to the driver. He silently handed over a twenty-liter can of gasoline. Handing the empty canister back, I asked:

Tell me, good man, what is your name, so that we can remember you in our prayers?

As he was driving away, he shouted through the slightly open door:

My name is Nikolai.

The Ural melted behind a curtain of snow, and I stood there for a long time, unable to recover from what had happened.

In the morning the snowstorm calmed down, Sergei put chains on the rear wheels and we, having made our way to Kamyshin, safely returned to Volgograd.

Volgograd, January 2002

I'm letting him go in peace

The celebration of the Millennium of the Baptism of Rus' in 1988 is one of the most exciting events of the last quarter of the 20th century. Something incredibly important was happening before our eyes. In other words, we felt that a new era was dawning for the entirety of the Russian Orthodox Church. We have seen how rapidly the attitude towards the Church on the part of the authorities and society is changing. It became clear that new churches and monasteries, theological seminaries and schools would be opened. But where can we get such a number of teachers to train new pastors and clergy?

Reflecting on this problem, I decided to enter the Theological Academy. Seminary education was clearly not enough for the emerging era. I tried to enter the Moscow Theological Academy before, however, a C in my seminary diploma in liturgics spoiled the whole thing: they didn’t accept me into the academy, and that’s it. But in 1988, I became firmly convinced that I would enter the academy. I began to ask my heavenly patron, Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, to help in this matter.

I decided to spend my summer vacation in 1988 in Leningrad, where I met my classmate at the Moscow Theological Seminary, Yura Epifanov. By this time, he had already become Archpriest George and secretary of Metropolitan Alexy of Leningrad and Novgorod (future Patriarch Alexy II). I’m sitting visiting Father George, drinking tea, reminiscing about our seminary years, when suddenly he says:

“Can you imagine, Father Nikolai, the authorities began to hand over churches to us, naturally in a ruined state, and there was no one to install them as abbots.” There are many good priests, but they, figuratively speaking, cannot distinguish cement from sand.

Then I perked up and said:

- Put me in, I’m a former builder, I’ll restore it.

- You don’t have Leningrad registration, you can’t.

“You accept me into the Theological Academy,” I say, “they will give me temporary registration for four years of study and, as a student, send me as the acting rector of the temple.” I will restore the temple and study.

“Okay,” says Father George, “I’ll talk to the Metropolitan.”

Father George (now Archbishop Arseny) kept his word.

At the beginning of September, a telegram arrived from Leningrad saying that I was being accepted into the Theological Academy. I told my wife, Mother Joanna, about this, she was against it, but I persuaded her. Now I’m thinking: how can I persuade Bishop Pimen to let me study? No bishop would do such a thing. In absentia - please, but here full-time study, this is a lost person for the diocese. But something needs to be done. I’m going to Saratov, to the Diocesan Administration. I approached the office secretary Evgeniy Stepanovich and shared my problem with him. He advised me:

- You, Father Nikolai, do not come up with this request right away, but stay in the Diocesan Administration, watch the Bishop. If you see that he is in a good mood, then approach him. Otherwise, if you fall under the hot hand, he will refuse you right away, and you won’t approach him a second time.

That's exactly what I did. I walk around the office, then I’ll go to the typists, then I’ll go out into the yard and look into the drivers’ garage, then I’ll sit in the warehouse, but I don’t take my eyes off Vladyka. The bishop did not sit still; he went from his office to his house several times. I see Vladyka once again walking from home to his office and smiling. Well, I think that means he's in a good mood. He goes into his office, and I follow him.

- May I come in?

As soon as I entered the office, I immediately knelt before the bishop.

- What's the matter, Father Nikolai? In my opinion, today is not Forgiveness Resurrection to fall at your feet, stand up and speak.

I stood up and laid it all out. Vladyka thought for a moment, then went to the office door, opened it and shouted:

- Come here quickly, everyone!

Yes, he shouted so loudly that all the diocesan workers, from the secretary to the cleaning lady, instantly came running, as if they were just waiting for this moment. I think: that’s it, now in front of everyone he will shame me as a deserter. In short, I prepared for the worst. The Lord says:

- Today is my saddest day. Father Nikolai Agafonov asks me to let him study at the Theological Academy. But I need him here, so much work begins in the diocese, and he is a competent and capable priest. And he wants to study. What should I do?

All the management employees look at me with condemnation, shaking their heads: what a bad father Nikolai is - Vladyka has done so much good for him, and he is ungrateful...

“I may not let him go, I have every right to do so.” If it was only necessary for him, I would have done so. But since this is necessary for the Church, I let him go in peace.

What started here! Everyone started hugging me and congratulating me, and champagne appeared from somewhere. The Bishop declared a toast:

— For the future successes of the new student!

Back then, in 1988, no one knew that three years later Vladyka Pimen would revive the Theological Seminary in Saratov and would bless me, as a graduate of the St. Petersburg Theological Academy, to be its rector.

Meeting

The year was 1989. I studied at the Leningrad Theological Academy and at the same time, without interrupting my studies, I restored the dilapidated Cathedral of the Archangel Michael in the city of Lomonosov near Leningrad, handed over by the Soviet government. Once, after the end of the Divine Liturgy, a woman about 40-45 years old, decently dressed, approached me and asked me to take part in the upcoming meeting of teachers of city schools.

I have already attended various groups with lectures and conversations on spiritual topics. I have always done this with joy and this time I gratefully accepted the invitation. But when I found out that I was talking with a party organizer and that I was being invited to a party meeting, I was quite puzzled.

“For mercy,” I exclaimed, “but in what capacity can I be a participant in your meeting if I am not only a non-party member, but have never shared communist views?”

The woman party organizer became worried, afraid that I would refuse, and, in a hurry, began to explain:

“You see, father, the topic on our agenda for the meeting is: “Atheistic education at the present stage.” Our town is small, so our party organization consists of city teachers and retired officers. The people are all literate. When we learned about the agenda, they said that since there is glasnost and perestroika, then for an alternative opinion we want to listen to what the priest has to say on this issue.

“Well, since this is the case, I’ll definitely come,” I assured the woman. Having agreed on the time and place of the meeting, we parted.

The next day I came to school for a meeting. The assembly hall was full of people. I took a seat in the front row. A guy with a briefcase sat down next to me; as it turned out later, he was an expert on atheism sent by the district party committee. The meeting began with the necessary formalities and announcement of the agenda. Then the floor was given to a representative of the district committee. He spoke for half an hour. His speech seemed meaningless to me; I can’t even remember what he was talking about. But the central idea of ​​his speech was the thesis: “Atheistic education must be carried out on the basis of scientific knowledge.” Then he sat down and the floor was given to me. The whole hall somehow became animated, even the retirees, who had previously been dozing peacefully in their chairs, perked up. Everyone looked at me with curiosity, expecting what I would oppose to scientific knowledge. But I did not intend to oppose anything to scientific knowledge. I have another plan in mind. Coming to the podium, I warned that my speech would be very short.

“The people sitting here are mostly literate,” I began my speech, “and many even teach scientific knowledge, on the basis of which the previous speaker called on you to conduct an atheistic education.” Maybe I misunderstand something, so I ask someone sitting in the hall to answer one question: what science has proven that there is no God? If anyone brings me such scientific proof, then here, in your presence, I will take off my cross and cassock and write an application for admission to the party.

The hall became excited. Teachers and military retirees began to whisper among themselves. And then everyone burst into applause as one. Of course, they didn’t let me leave the podium after that, but began bombarding me with questions on various spiritual topics. So the meeting dragged on until late in the evening.

The next day, one of our regular parishioners comes up to me in the cathedral and says with tears in her eyes:

- Father Nikolai, how can I thank you?!

- What's happened? - I ask.

- Yes, my husband, he’s a retired lieutenant colonel, he scolded me all the time for going to church. And yesterday he came from a meeting and said: “Your priest spoke and put all our atheists in a puddle. So, wife, go to church and pray to God for me there.”

floating temple

On Sunday, June 7, 1998, residents of the village of Nariman, which stands on the banks of the Volga-Don Canal, heard a bell ringing.

— Did you hear the bell ringing? – one woman asked her neighbor.

- I think I heard it. Someone probably has the radio on loudly, because today is the Feast of the Holy Trinity.

Indeed, where else could bells be heard in a village where there has never been a church, and the village of Nariman itself arose in the 50s, during the construction of the Volga-Don Canal?

The end of May and beginning of June this year turned out to be unusually hot even for these places. Five village residents agreed to go swimming in the morning. We walked along the usual path to the beach of the former pioneer camp. The camp itself had long since disappeared; only asphalt paths and foundations from summer buildings reminded of it. The path led them to high reeds, and beyond the reeds a narrow strip of sand framed the bank of the canal with a convenient place for swimming. The women already wanted to go around the reeds along the path, but what they saw was so incredible that they, confused, stopped in surprise, looking at the silver dome with a gilded eight-pointed cross, towering above the reeds. Church singing reached their ears. The women's consciousness refused to perceive reality. Just yesterday there was only water behind the reeds. How can there be a temple there now? Who can build it overnight, and even on water? Surprised and frightened, the women made the sign of the cross: “Keep away from me.” They wanted to quickly escape from this, as they thought, demonic obsession. But curiosity still overcame fear, and they went to the beach. Then a wondrous picture opened up to them: near the shore, swaying on the water, there was a barge, and on it stood a temple. Through the open doors of this floating temple, candlelight flickered, glinting in the gilded carved columns of the iconostasis. A priest in a green brocade robe stood at the royal doors, the fragrant smoke from his censer flowed from the doors of the temple and, caught by the light morning breeze, spread over the unsteady ripples of the canal. The women, fascinated by what they saw, listened to the solemn singing coming from them: “Blessed art thou, Christ our God, who are wise fishers of phenomena, having sent down upon them the Holy Spirit, and with them caught the universe; glory to thee, O lover of mankind.”

Stepping carefully along the shaky bridge, the women crossed onto the barge and entered the church. These were the first parishioners of the floating church "St. Innocent", making its first missionary journey along the great Russian Don River.

…The idea to build a floating church arose after I was appointed in 1997 by Archbishop German of Volgograd and Kamyshin (now Metropolitan) to head the missionary department of the diocese. I began to think about how to organize the missionary work and where first of all to direct my efforts. One thing was certain for me: the main direction of missionary work should be the churching of people who have been artificially separated from the Mother Church for many years. Our people have not yet lost God in their souls, but for the most part they have lost the Church: “To whom the Church is not a Mother, God is not a Father,” says a Russian folk proverb, correctly reflecting the dogmatic truth: without the Church there is no salvation. The cruel policy of decossackization primarily hit the Church. Temples were destroyed in almost all the villages of the Don land.

Churching without churches is unthinkable, and the construction of new churches due to the impoverishment of people is just as unlikely even in the perspective of the next decade. “If only the temple itself could come to people,” I thought. Most rural settlements in the Volgograd region are located near the banks of the Volga and Don, and this is how the idea of ​​building a floating temple arose.

The inspiration for this idea was the Dutch Orthodox priest Archpriest Fyodor Van Der Voord. At that time, he was an employee of the charitable church organization “Kirhe in Not,” which translated means “Church in Trouble.” This amazing foreigner in a Russian cassock, which he never took off, traveled the length and breadth of Russia, implementing a program of assistance to Orthodox dioceses in Russia through “Kirhe in Not”. Father Fedor was a cheerful and charming man, a tireless worker in the Church field. We became friends when I was still the rector of the Saratov Theological Seminary.

We must honestly admit that the funding for the seminary was so meager that if it were not for the help from “Kirhe in Not”, the seminary would have had to be closed in the second year of its existence. I remember how in 1993, one of the leaders of “Kirhe in Not,” Father Florian, came to our seminary under the patronage of my classmate Archbishop Arseny. He saw our poverty and cried bitterly, and then said: “Father Nikolai, we will help you.” And indeed, he kept his word. With the money donated by “Kirhe in Not,” we purchased tables for classrooms, office equipment, made some repairs, fed seminarians and paid teachers, and purchased books for the seminary library. “The Kingdom of Heaven is yours, dear Father Florian! The grateful and prayerful memory of you will remain in my heart until the end of my days.”

For some time, communication with us was carried out by Andrei Redlikh, an employee of “Kirhe in Not”, an intelligent, gentle and tactful person. Andrey was born in Germany into a family of emigrants from Russia and, thanks to his parents, absorbed the best qualities of a Russian intellectual. I have the kindest memories of this man from communication that brought a lot of benefit to my mind and heart.

But the truly large-scale scope of charitable support for Russian Orthodoxy on the part of Western Christians was carried out by Archpriest Fyodor Van Der Vort, who replaced him. Numerous educational and missionary programs conceived and implemented with his help are already a fait accompli: not only floating Churches, but also railway churches on trains and in cars, assistance to dozens of seminaries, and you can’t list everything. I have never met such a tireless worker with indomitable energy of soul in my life. We often asked Father Fyodor who he feels more like: Dutch or Russian? To which he answered, laughing: “Most of all I feel like I am Orthodox, and that’s why I love Russia.”

When I transferred to serve from Saratov to Volgograd, Father Fedor came to visit me. Here I introduced him to my friend, the director of the railway enterprise, Vladimir Ivanovich Koretsky. This amazing and fearless man, who once crossed the Atlantic Ocean on a small seven-meter yacht, became a true gift of fate for me when I arrived in Volgograd. His irrepressible energy ignited the hearts of many around him, and the inextinguishable thirst for novelty in his soul constantly sought a way out in some of the most incredible enterprises. He immediately began to persuade me to go with him on a yacht across the Pacific Ocean to the aborigines of Australia to enlighten them with the Christian faith. You could write an entire adventure novel about this man. And so, when all three of us met, we came up with dozens of projects and plans. Father Fedor told how a missionary trip along the Yenisei on a passenger ship was organized in Novosibirsk. I said that before the revolution, a ship sailed along the Volga with the St. Nicholas Church equipped on it. This floating temple served fishermen in the Caspian Sea. “Why are we worse?” said Vladimir Ivanovich and suggested building a floating temple now. Father Fyodor and I immediately grabbed onto this idea, and I began to develop it theoretically. Koretsky helped us purchase a towing boat, which we named in honor of Prince Vladimir, and a landing stage, which we began to rebuild into a temple.

In May, the construction of the floating church was completed, and we towed it to the central embankment of Volgograd, where Bishop Herman, in front of a large crowd of people, solemnly consecrated it in honor of the memory of the great missionary of the 19th century, Metropolitan Innocent of Moscow. To the sounds of a military brass band, the floating church unmoored from the central embankment of Volgograd and headed towards the Volga-Don Canal on its first missionary journey.

Besides me, our first missionary team included priest Sergius Tyupin, deacon Gennady Khanykin (now a priest), captain of the tugboat “Prince Vladimir” Ivan Tinin, two young sailors, a cook, also known as a bell-ringer, Anatoly.

We went down the Volga to the Volga-Don Canal and spent the night at the 3rd lock. The beginning of the canal from the Volga passes through city blocks, and when in the evening we sailed past the townspeople walking along the embankment, they looked at this unusual phenomenon with surprise and delight. Some made the sign of the cross, others simply waved their arms joyfully.

At dawn on May 6, we weighed anchor and moved on. At the 8th lock, Deacon Gennady and I went ashore and went to the city in a church car that came to us to stock up on prosphora and Cahors for the service. We previously agreed that we would meet in the village of Nariman, where the floating temple should arrive in the evening. Already in the evening twilight, Father Gennady and I arrived in the village of Nariman and began to look for the temple. But behind the tall reeds, and even in the darkness, nothing was visible, besides, we ended up in some kind of swamp and wandered knee-deep in the stinking mud. After walking for an hour and a half and not finding anything, we already despaired of getting on the ship and then, placing our trust in God, we began to pray to St. Innocent, hoping that he would help us get to his temple. And then we heard a bell ringing not far from us. Rejoicing, we followed the ringing and went to the floating temple. It turns out that it was my daughter Ksenia, worried about our absence, who began to ring all the bells.

And in the morning what I described at the beginning of the story happened. We moved along the canal for several days, stopping in every settlement. Everywhere people greeted us joyfully and went to worship in crowds. Many confessed and received communion; the unbaptized were baptized right in the waters of the canal.

Finally we arrived in the city of Kalach-on-Don. Here the local rector, Father Nikolai, brought us fresh prosphora, which we were very happy about.

From Kalach-on-Don we went out into the wide and deep Don. The first village on our way is Golubinskaya. We decided not to go into it, since it has an active parish and its own priest, and our task is to visit settlements that do not have churches. But unexpectedly, the propeller of the tugboat “Prince Vladimir” broke down, and we had to moor at Golubinskaya and send the boat to the shipyard in Kalach-on-Don.

When we moored to the shore near the village of Golubinskaya, the first person who met us was a Muslim woman with her two girls. This was a family of refugees who settled in a Cossack village. They began to help us set up bridges from the shore to the floating temple. A Muslim woman, waist-deep in water, worked selflessly with her daughters. When everything was settled, she asked to be baptized along with her children. “Since we live among Orthodox Christians, we ourselves want to be Orthodox,” she explained. Father Sergius Tyupin baptized them.

The rector of Golubinskaya greeted us with joy. The church in the village was dilapidated, and there was nothing to restore it; services were temporarily held in a church built in a former club. Residents of Golubinskaya began to come to our floating church with a request to baptize their children. When we asked them why they didn’t baptize in their house church with their priest, they answered that they considered this church to be unreal, since it was in a club and did not have a dome, but they really liked our church.

Another funny story happened in Golubinskaya. June turned out to be very hot, and the water level began to fall. A catastrophic situation has arisen. One side of the floating church rested on the shore, and when the water level began to fall, the entire barge tilted menacingly to one side so that it seemed that the temple was about to capsize into the water. We did not have a tug that could pull the church away from the shore. We no longer knew what to do, but one incident unexpectedly helped.

Two farmers came to the floating church and began to ask to serve a prayer service for rain, since their crops might die from drought. Father Sergius and Deacon Gennady served a prayer service, and after lunch a heavy summer downpour and thunderstorm broke out. The level in the river immediately rose, and the floating temple leveled off. So, the missionaries helped farmers, but it turned out that they helped themselves. Then Father Sergius and Father Gennady were surprised: why did they panic and not think of praying for rain themselves?

Soon “Prince Vladimir” was repaired, and we moved on, up the Don.

Somehow, on our way, we came across the camp site of reinforced concrete plant No. 6. When they saw us, vacationers jumped ashore and began waving their hands at us, asking us to land on the shore. But we had no plans to stop near the tourist center, since mostly city residents vacation there and have the opportunity to visit temples, and we considered it our duty to sail to the disadvantaged rural residents. Vacationers happily jumped on the shore like children and waved their hands at us, asking us to stop at the camp site. But we sailed past them with the ringing of bells, and without thinking of landing on the shore. Realizing that we intended to pass by them without stopping, one young man in shorts and with a video camera in his hands fell to his knees in despair right on the shore in the water and raised his hands to the sky in prayer. I could not stand such a touching scene and ordered the captain to moor to the shore. All the vacationers happily rushed to our temple. But we stopped them, saying that we would not allow them into the temple in shorts and swimsuits. Then they all ran to change clothes.

We served them a prayer service. The man who fell to his knees also came. He excitedly told us that he heard our bells ringing and, grabbing a video camera, ran out to meet us, because he guessed that it was a floating temple: he had seen us on TV. He asked to baptize his wife and daughter, because he sees our arrival as a special sign of God. We baptized them right in the river, making a promise that now they would go to the temple of God and raise their child in the Orthodox faith.

We walked up the Don, stopping in farms and villages. Our missionary floating church went to the farms located on the Upper Don, near the border with the Voronezh diocese, and then went down the Don, visiting the same villages. The uniqueness of the missionary work was that the church itself preached, built according to Orthodox canons, with a dome, a gilded cross, and splendid interior decoration: a carved gilded iconostasis, beautiful church utensils. Having moored to the shore, the temple called people under its roof with the ringing of seven bells. The priest went to the village to meet people, talk with them, and invite them to worship. At the sight of the temple, people cried, knelt down, making the sign of the cross, and at home they prepared for confession for the first time in many years of godless power. And almost everywhere people asked to leave the temple forever in their village. What is this if not living evidence of the need to have a church in every locality?!

During the 120 days of the first missionary voyage, the floating church visited 28 settlements. During this time, 450 people were baptized, about one and a half thousand participated in the sacraments of confession and communion of the Holy Sacraments of Christ. More than three thousand people attended the services.

The floating church returned to Kalach-on-Don in the fall with the onset of cold weather. The following year in the spring, Vladyka again served a prayer service for the journey across the waters and blessed us on our second missionary voyage. For the winter we began to stay in the village of Pyatimorsk, near Kalach-on-Don. In a small bay, bound by ice, our church became, as it were, the parish church of this village. An employee of the missionary department, Priest Gennady Khanykin, constantly served on the floating church. And I was already engaged in the construction of the second floating church in honor of St. Nicholas. The temple came out very beautiful, with three gilded domes. We towed it to the military town of Oktyabrsky, which is located near the Volga-Don Canal, and there the floating church “St. Nicholas” became, as it were, a parish church; it could not move along the Don due to the lack of a tug.

When we began preparing for the fourth missionary journey, for some reason I felt that this was my last journey, and, having sent Father Gennady on vacation, I myself set off on the “Saint Innocent” to the Upper Don.

While I was walking to the Upper Don, according to established tradition, I kept a ship’s journal, which, rather, resembled the diary entries that a missionary priest keeps during a voyage, recording in it all the events that happened during the day, as well as my thoughts.

Logbook of the missionary floating church "St. Innocent"

05.05.01. Saturday.

village Pyatimorsk

At 9.20, Metropolitan German of Volgograd and Kamyshin arrived. His Eminence served a prayer service “For those traveling on the waters” and blessed the 4th missionary journey. The following served the Bishop:

- Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov, head. missionary department of the diocese;

— priest Gennady Khanykin, worker of the missionary department;

— priest Nikolai Picheikin, keymaster of the Kazan Cathedral.

The prayer service was held solemnly and ended with a religious procession to the site of laying the stone for the construction of a church in Pyatimorsk in honor of Equal-to-the-Apostles Princess Olga. Then the religious procession went to the kindergarten, where, through the efforts of Father Gennady Khanykin and his wife Mother Maria, a Sunday school was organized for fifty children of the village. The children showed us a wonderful concert. I thought with joy that all this was the fruit of more than three years of activity of the floating church. It was noticeable that the bishop was also pleased with such a good arrangement of spiritual life in Pyatimorsk.

05/06/01. Sunday

At 9.30 the following arrived at our “Saint Innocent” in Pyatimorsk:

— Head of the department of charitable programs in Russia of the organization “Kirhe in Not”, Archpriest Fyodor Van Der Voord (Holland);

— photojournalist “Kirhe in Not” Andrey (Poland);

— correspondents of the French magazine “Paris – Math” Claudine and Thomas (photographer).

The Divine Liturgy was served. Before setting off on a missionary journey, a festive farewell dinner was given in the wardroom, at which, in addition to the above-mentioned persons, the following were present:

- Prot. Nikolay Agafonov, head. missionary department;

- priest Gennady Khanykin, missionary department employee;

- priest Sergey Tyupin;

— Popov Ivan Mikhailovich, chairman of the district Duma;

- Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Vladimirovich, chief of the district police, with his wife.

After lunch, we unmoored from the parking lot in Pyatimorsk and moved up the Don. The floating church is towed by the Ermine, it was given by I.M. Popov. Our tug "Prince Vladimir" is under repair. Missionary ship crew:

1. prot. N. Agafonov;

2. prot. Fedor Van Der Voord;

3. missionary Dionysius (psalm-reader);

4. correspondent Claudine;

5. photojournalist Thomas;

6. photojournalist Andrey (“Kirhe in Not”);

7. Inna, translator;

8. Elena Vladimirovna, deputy director of the “Sunday” school.

We spent the night near the shore opposite the city of Kalach-on-Don. Dionysius and I were in the church for evening prayer, then we made a religious procession.

Thank God for everything!

05/07/01. Monday

We woke up early. We went with Dionysius to the temple for morning prayers, Father Fedor joined us.

At 12.00 we moored to the shore near the village of Golubinskaya. This is a fairly large village with a beautiful stone church (Russian-Byzantine eclecticism), but it is impossible to serve there. It was closed in the early 60s of the twentieth century; chemical fertilizers were stored there. Now it stands without a roof and is slowly collapsing. The local priest, Father Sergius, serves in the premises of the former club. We went on foot through the village with foreigners to see the temple, and on the way we met the rector, priest Sergius, and the Surovikino dean, Father Gennady, as well as the rector of the city of Kalach, Father Nikolai. The dean shouted from afar (half jokingly, half seriously): “What are you doing on my land without my knowledge?” I introduced him to the journalists, he began to puff himself up and put on airs, and when they asked what a dean is, he explained to foreigners that a dean is a minor bishop!!! (Miracles, it’s good that it’s not the little Pope!)

From Golubinskaya we went up the Don and at 18.00 we stopped near the Malaya Golubinskaya farm (9 km from the village of Golubinskaya). There are only 80 courtyards in the farm. They don’t have a church, and never had one; they went to the church in the village of Golubinskaya. Residents asked to serve a memorial service. They brought us dried fish, potatoes, and herbs. They expressed a great desire for us to visit them on the way back and serve the liturgy so that they could receive communion of the Holy Mysteries. We served a funeral litany and moved on.

On the way to our floating church, two fishermen landed on a motor boat, gave us a huge silver carp and asked us to pray for them. The foreigners were surprised by the size of the fish and took pictures of it. (Lord, send these good people health and a rich catch!!!)

After the evening prayer and procession of the cross, I sat with the foreigners in the wardroom for a long time and had conversations on spiritual topics.

Thank God for everything!

05/08/01. Tuesday

I woke up early, at 5.30 I ordered the captain to moor from the shore where we spent the night and move on.

He began to call everyone to morning prayer by ringing the bells. Only Father Fyodor and Dionysius came. After prayer, we drank coffee with Dutch cheese, which Father Fedor brought from Holland. Very tasty, not like the cheeses that we make under the name “Dutch”. When we passed by some camp site, Father Fyodor asked us to dock. Two guys from the Vertyachiy farm came up - just out of curiosity, it was the first time they had seen a temple on the water. After standing at the camp site for 10-15 minutes, we set off again up the Don.

8.15. Everyone went to sleep for an hour or two, and I sat down to fill out the magazine.

At 14.00 we arrived at the village of Trekhostrovskaya. An unforeseen incident occurred here, which almost led to an accident and the flooding of the floating temple. The Ermine towed us on a long cable. When they approached the village, he unhooked the cable in order to maneuver to the side of the floating church and tow it to the shore on a rigid side hitch. But a strong current turned the floating church around and carried it down, straight to the water intake station, in a collision with which the metal body would inevitably break and the church could sink. Foreigners, not understanding the danger, rejoiced like children, clicking the shutters of their cameras. I saw that a collision was inevitable, and I literally prayed to God to save the floating church. The Lord had mercy on us. Not far from the station, the floating church encountered submerged trees, which softened the blow. We began to turn around again and were carried downstream again, to a new danger. A floating church, not controlled by anyone, was rushing downstream, towards a huge barge loaded with rubble. The catastrophe seemed inevitable, but at the last moment the captain of the Ermine, contrived, approached the side of the church, and the crew tied it to a rigid hitch. And then we safely landed at the village of Trekhostrovskaya. People immediately began to come and find out about the service. The foreigners went for a walk in the village. After lunch, Father Fyodor Van Der Voord left us. The driver-steering motorman from our tugboat “Prince Vladimir” came to pick him up in a car to take Fyodor’s father to Volgograd. The foreigners went on the ferry to see Father Fyodor off, and at the same time take photographs of the floating temple from the water side. Father Fyodor was sad, he didn’t want to leave, but what can you do. I saw off the ferry by ringing all the bells. A huge ferry loaded with cars was pulled by a small boat, just like an ant. This baby was puffing and leaning on one side from the effort, but still pulled the huge ferry. From the outside it looked strange and funny. I was told that even during the Great Patriotic War, these boats made pontoon crossings.

At 18.00 the evening service began. There were 5 elderly women and 7 children. All the women and children confessed. I allowed the children to ring the bells. In the evening I had a stomach ache, Elena Vladimirovna gave me two tablets, and I went to bed.

For everything, thank God.

05/09/01. Wednesday, Victory Day

At 6.30 Denis knocked on my cabin. I went to church to read the rules for the Liturgy.

7.30 - hours, at 8.00 - Liturgy. Parishioners - 9 women and 7 children. Everyone took communion. After the Liturgy there is a procession of the cross and a prayer service for Mid-Pentecost. After the prayer service there is a memorial service for all those who died in the Second World War. Then he baptized a 9-year-old boy. Then they brought the young man to baptism. He plunged into the cold waters of the Don with pleasure. Then he married elderly people who had been married for 45 years.

12.00. We sailed from Trekhostrovskaya. Together with the foreigners I went to the Ermine to congratulate the captain and crew on Victory Day. After lunch I went to the cabin to sleep. At 17.30 I woke up and saw that we were mooring at the camp site. Foreign journalists decided to return to Volgograd to explore the city. Translator Inna left with them. The three of us were left with Elena Vladimirovna and Dionysius. We had dinner by candlelight. After dinner we moored to the shore, where we tied the church to a large tree. Evening prayer, religious procession and rest.

For everything, thank God.

05/10/01. Thursday

7.00. We unmoored and headed up the Don. I got up, washed my face and started ringing the bells, calling everyone to morning prayers. Morning prayers began at 7.20.

We usually perform morning prayers in the following order: the exclamation of the priest and the usual beginning. After singing the prayers “Virgin Mother of God, Rejoice...” and “Lord, save Thy people...”, if the Liturgy is not celebrated on this day, then the Royal Doors are opened and the priest in the altar reads the beginning of the day from the Gospel, then the Gates are closed, and a special litany is pronounced on the pulpit. for health and peace, then release.

Our next stop is planned in the Beluzhno-Koldairov farmstead, which stands on the left bank of the Don, almost opposite the village of Sirotinskaya. My car will arrive to us there, and I want to send Elena Vladimirovna home, and continue on as long as time allows. If there was such an opportunity, I would stay here forever. Studying the map and thinking about plans for missionary work, I think that after the floating temple rises to the most extreme point, which is the Krutovskaya farm, then when descending down the Don it is necessary to visit the following settlements, staying in each of them for at least 10 days :

1. Krutovskaya farm;

2. Zimovaya farm;

3. Bobrovsky I farm;

4. Ust-Khoperskaya village;

5. Rybny farm;

6. Yarskaya II farmstead;

7. Ust-Medveditsky Monastery, Serafimovich;

8. Bobrovsky II farm;

9. Kremenskaya village;

10. Buluzhno-Koldairov village;

11. village Sirotinskaya;

12. Trekhostrovskaya village;

13. Malogolubinsky farm.

At 14.30 we moored to the shore near Beluzhno-Koldairovo. The coast is picturesque, green with small trees, a very convenient place. Elena Vladimirovna said goodbye to us and left for Volgograd. The captain went to the farm to buy oil for the engine. I asked him upon arrival to immediately give up and move on. While moving, two motor boats approached us, and the people sitting in them asked permission to explore the temple. I allowed it. Four men from Moscow and one young woman, an artist, came onto our deck. Every year they relax here on the Don in tents - fishing. Our floating church was seen on TV in Moscow. When they got on deck, they immediately came under the blessing. After visiting the temple, I invited them to the wardroom. We sat with them at the table, drank tea and talked about spiritual topics. Two men asked to confess. But since they were a little drunk, I suggested that they come early tomorrow morning for prayer, and then they could confess. We were already approaching the meat processing plant camp site for the night. I invited the guests to ring the bells with me. Then he invited them to evening prayer. At the end of the prayers, we made a religious procession with them, they carried altarpieces and tried to sing along with us, but they did not know the words of the prayer.

At the camp site I was joyfully greeted by my good friends who work here. In 1999, they helped me receive journalists from 10 countries from “Kirhe in Not” here at the camp site. I talked to them, drank tea and went to bed.

For everything, thank God.

11.05.01. Friday

We woke up at 6.00, I washed my face and went to ring for morning prayer. The captain of the Ermine, Nikolai Ivanovich, came up and I blessed him to set sail immediately after morning prayers. My familiar guards from the camp site, two Alexanders, came to pray. After the prayer, they wrote notes of remembrance and lit candles.

6.30 - unmoored from the shore and headed up the Don.

7.50 - arrived at the Novogrigoryevskaya station. I went to the store to buy bread, since all the old supplies of bread had run out. The captain went to the village administration to get oil for the engine (his sister is married to the head of the Novogrigorievsk administration). The store was located next to the temple. The temple is active, recently renovated (if you don’t count the village of Perekopskaya, this is the only temple from Kalach to Serafimovich).

11.50 – having bought oil for the engine, we unmoored and headed to the village of Kremenskaya. God grant that we reach her before dark.

14.00 - we moored at the Kamensky farm (several houses), there is a control connection with Kalach-on-Don - there is a telephone right on the shore in some kind of metal booth. The captain went to call the dispatcher. After 5 minutes we continued our way up the Don. When we moored to the shore, several snakes jumped into the river, and when we were leaving, tree branches touched the bells, and they rang melodiously, saying goodbye to the Kamensky farm.

16.00 - we met a barge loaded with rubble, our captain agreed on the radio that they would give us two buckets of oil for the engine. He left our floating church near the shore in the bushes, and he himself went to them in tow. He returned with three men who asked to baptize one of them. I conducted a brief public conversation and took the word from the person being baptized that he would study the “Law of God,” which I promised to hand over to him after baptism. Baptism, as usual, took place in the river.

18.25 - we went up the Don.

20.50 - twilight has come, I am writing by the light of two candles. We moor near the village of Kremenskaya, it is raining lightly. There is no certainty that we will have time to arrive at the Ust-Medvedetsky Monastery by lunchtime on Sunday. God willing, at least by evening.

While we walked along the Don, we were accompanied by a beautiful symphony, consisting of the voices of various birds and the trill of a nightingale, performed to the accompaniment of the croaking of frogs. If I were a musician, I would probably, inspired by these sounds, write some kind of overture on the theme of this natural symphony. God! Why am I not a musician?

The joyful feeling of freedom does not leave me; this feeling is generated by the awareness of distance from the bustle of civilization. All this brings a certain peace to the soul and a feeling of peace. Here you can sleep well and pray easily. This is akin to the feelings of early childhood carefree years. I always catch myself thinking that the concept of time is very relative. There, in the civilized bustle, time flies very quickly, one might say it flies. Before you have time to look back, days, weeks, months have already passed. Why, months and years go by without even noticing. Here time moves slowly, one might even say that time floats smoothly, like these clear waters of the Don. And sometimes time completely freezes, like a traveler on the road who has stopped to admire the beauty of nature. At times it seemed to me that the whole day had passed, but when you looked at the clock, it wasn’t even eleven in the afternoon.

The tug does not pull the floating church, but pushes it from behind. I placed a chair on the very edge of the side, under the belfry, the water was half a meter away from me, and before my eyes was the entire panorama of the river with its both banks. I am reading a book. Above me is a bottomless blue sky, water splashes directly below me, on the left is the steep bank of the Don, and on the right is a gentle bank overgrown with bushes, in which nightingales, invisible to the eye, are filled with spring trills. No, it is impossible to describe all this with a pen, especially one as inept as mine.

22.00 - evening prayers and religious procession were performed with Dionysius. 22.30 – lights out.

Thank God for everything.

05/12/01. Saturday

6.20 - rise.

6.30 - morning prayer. It rained all night and is still raining. The captain said that he would wait until 8.00 until the scooter arrived with engine oil. At 8.45 the rain almost stopped, but we are still standing, the captain went to the village to buy bread, the weather is cloudy. I'm sitting in the wardroom, reading.

At 9.15 the captain arrived, we are finally setting sail, hurray!

At 14.15 we passed the village of Perekopskaya. There is an active church there. I saw the dome and pointed roof of the bell tower from afar, since it stands on the right steep bank. The left bank is flat, wooded, and the right bank is steep, covered in green grass, and on this steep slope stands a white five-domed temple with a tented bell tower not far from the water near the bay. Very beautiful. How I wish there were such temples in every village and farm. The light rain began again, I think it will last for a long time. We continue to move up the Don. Next on our route is the Melokletsky farm.

16.30 - an all-night vigil began right as the ship was moving. On the choir is Dionysius, in the church the only parishioner is the cook of the tugboat Nadezhda. The rain stopped before the Great Doxology began. When I proclaimed “Glory to You who showed us the light,” the light of the setting sun suddenly splashed through the windows of the temple and illuminated the entire temple. Before that there were clouds. This light was so bright that it became possible to read prayers without candles. After the all-night vigil we drank tea in the wardroom and went to church to read the rule for Holy Communion. After finishing the evening prayers, we made a procession of the cross, and at 10:10 p.m. we went to our cells to go to sleep.

For everything, thank God.

05.13.01. Sunday

I woke up at 6.45, our floating church was already on its way. Dionysius told me that they moored from the Melokletsky farm at 5.15 in the morning. I washed my face and went to church to perform morning prayers and the Divine Liturgy. The Divine Liturgy was served prayerfully, to the sounds of the splashing of waves, while the ship was moving. The missionary Dionysius sang in the choir. She and the cook Nadezhda took communion, having previously undergone the sacrament of confession. After the Liturgy, Dionysius and I had breakfast, and at 10.00 we approached the floating crane, which was loading crushed stone onto a barge. The captain went to the floating crane, hoping to get oil for the engine from them. On the ship towing a barge with crushed stone was Vladimir Ivanovich, our former captain of the “Prince Vladimir”, who worked for a long time in the missionary team. He is covered in fuel oil, but we are very glad to meet, we hugged like brothers, he folded his hands black from fuel oil and asked for a blessing. We took the oil and an hour later - at 11.00 - we moved on. What awaits us ahead? Only God knows. It’s been exactly a week since we left Pyatimorsk, no connection with the outside world, no telephone, no TV - beauty.

I began to reflect on the results of three missionary journeys. There is no doubt that a floating church is very necessary for the churching of Cossack settlements located along the Upper Don. But the main difficulty for missionary work lies in the lack of finances. For all three years, the diocese has not allocated a single penny for this matter, which is so necessary for educating people. The largest costs are for diesel fuel for the tug. In order, for example, for a floating church to rise along the Don from the village of Pyatimorsk to the Krutovskaya farm (the highest point on the missionary route), it is necessary to at least about three tons of diesel fuel, and this is already 21 thousand rubles, and even to go down the Don - about 1 .5 tons of diesel fuel (10.5 thousand rubles), engine oil is also expensive. The total is at least 35 thousand rubles. Naturally, there is no such huge amount of money. What is collected from donations from the parishioners of the floating church is barely enough to pay the captain and sailors of the tugboat; the priest (after all, he has a family) and the psalm-reader also need a salary.

On our fourth missionary journey, we were lucky: Father Fedor brought 28 thousand rubles to pay for fuel for the tug. Last year, due to lack of finances, the floating church was only able to rise to the village of Trekhostrovskaya, and this is only half of the route. Taking into account the experience of previous years, for the fourth missionary journey I developed the following plan, which suggested that the missionary campaign should begin in the first half of May and follow, while the Don was deep, to the highest point, that is, to the Krutovsky farm, without making long stops, but from there, leisurely, go down the Don to the winter camp in the village of Pyatimorsk, standing idle in each locality for 10-12 days. There are twelve such settlements, which means that the entire route will take approximately 120-140 days, that is, by the end of September you can return to Pyatimorsk and still walk around the villages of the Tsymlyansk reservoir.

13.15 - nature itself is on our side. Probably, God heard our prayers to arrive at the Ust-Medveditsky Monastery in time today. The sun has come out, but a strong wind is blowing, fortunately, tailwind. The Don, which had previously smoothly carried its waters downstream, encountered a contrary wind, bristling with crests of waves. But this is good for us, since the floating church has a large sail area, and the speed has increased significantly, and this is pleasing. Thank God, even if we don’t arrive at the monastery today, we will still spend the night somewhere not far from it.

I’m sitting in the wardroom at the dining table and making these entries in the ship’s log, and our mischievous ship’s kitten climbed onto my shoulder and purrs right in my ear, carefully watching how quickly the fountain pen moves, leaving these lines on the paper.

14.30 - we are going well. The sun shines brightly through white fluffy clouds that rush merrily in the azure sky. The play of sun glare on the crests of the waves of the generously saturated spring waters of the Don creates an extraordinary picture of the harmony of colors: white, blue, yellow and green. Now I regret that I am not an artist, because, except in my soul, I cannot capture this wondrous beauty created by God anywhere. Lines from Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy’s immortal poem “John of Damascus” constantly ring in my heart:

It wasn’t the one he thought he’d take before,

He would be happy and miserable,

If only he could, in the silence of the forest,

In the remote steppe, in solitude,

Forget the excitement in the yard

And humbly dedicate your life

Work, prayer, singing.

Probably some monk who hastily chose the monastic path for himself, regretting it, envies the white clergy and thinks: “It’s good for them, they have wives, children, a family.” I, on the contrary, began to think about whether I did the right thing then, twenty-four years ago, by not choosing the monastic path, but by plunging headlong into this vain world, a world in which a person lives in an eternal desire to achieve the goal of earthly, temporary content. Having achieved it, he is immediately disappointed and again rushes towards a new, temporary, vain goal, only to later be convinced that it does not bring complete happiness to a person. It’s time to conclude for yourself that happiness on earth is illusory and unattainable. Sitting on the deck, I involuntarily daydreamed about the time when my children would make their own decisions in this life, and I could go to a distant, remote, rural parish with a clear conscience. And there, finally, to find oneself and peace with God, fulfilling one’s pastoral duties in simplicity of heart and atonement for one’s sins, which are countless, from God.

So, indulging in empty dreams, I was walking along the deck of the floating temple, when suddenly, to my chagrin, I noticed that the wind had changed and was now blowing in the opposite direction, slowing down our progress. My thoughts also changed their direction. Now I already thought that it was in vain to complain about my situation, since the salvation of the soul does not depend on external circumstances, which are only those tests that are sent by God for our own good. A person must work where the Lord has assigned him at the moment. And if it pleases God, then He Himself will change the circumstances and our very lives, but not in the way we wanted, but in the way that is really necessary for our own salvation.

Thinking in this way, I remembered my favorite work by A.P. Chekhov's "Steppe". One of the brightest heroes of this story, Father Christopher, says: “There is no happier person in the whole city than me... There are only a lot of sins, but there is only one God without sin. If, say, the king asked: “What do you need? What do you want?" - I don’t need anything! I have everything, and everything is glory to God.”

The wind changed again and was already blowing from the starboard side. Then I realized why the wind changes all the time. It turns out that it is not the wind, but the river bed changes direction, and the wind still blows in the north direction. Well, let it blow, we are moving forward anyway, and thank God for that.

22.00 - in almost complete darkness we approached the Bobrovsky II farm. Using crowbars stuck deep into the sand, we secured the floating church, and I, taking a flashlight, went ashore to go to the farm, look for a phone there and call the monastery. Having climbed the slope, I met a tipsy local resident Pavel in a UAZ car. For some reason, he was without trousers, wearing only a sweatshirt and shorts, but he turned out to be a kind, cheerful and talkative person.

Pavel told me that he lives right next to the river, he doesn’t have a telephone, but he agrees to give me a ride to a farmhouse where there is a telephone. In the car on the way, I got into a conversation with him and found out that Bobrovsky II is called that because there is also a farm, Bobrovsky I. “Many beavers live here,” Pavel explained to me, “that’s why it’s a Bobrovsky farm.” He also told me that they never had a church, and believers used to, before the revolution, go to the Baski farm, seven kilometers from here, where there was a temple. The inhabitants of both farms were no more than six hundred people. He doesn’t know what the church in the Basques was called, but it was torn down a long time ago. Paul also said: “Although we were raised without God, I do not deny God, but live according to concepts.” “What does it mean to live according to concepts?” I asked. Paul immediately explained to me what it means to do good. And when I asked what he meant by good, he told me: “Good is when a person creates and does not destroy.” Then he asked God to pray for him so that everything would be fine with him. He briefly described his drunken state with the following words: “Father, I sinned today.” Marveling at this farm philosopher, I thought that since there are people like Pavel, then all is not lost.

I never got through to the monastery; no one answered the phone there. Returning to the floating church, I went to the temple for evening prayers. Then we made a traditional procession along the deck around the church, while singing the Easter troparion. This procession of the cross was introduced into practice by our psalm-reader from the church of St. Great Martyr Paraskeva - Valery. I sent him on a temporary assignment to a floating church. Several times the floating church was attacked by drunken hooligans, from whom our small missionary team had to fight off. Valery, a man of deep religiosity, suggested that they do not attack for nothing, but act incited by demons, that is, the floating church is attacked by the demons themselves, and one can only protect oneself from them by prayer, and suggested that every evening we walk around the church with icons in a procession of the cross . Since then, such religious processions, performed after evening prayers, have become a strict tradition for us. By the way, the attacks stopped after that.

23.15 – we went to our cabins and went to bed.

05/14/01. Monday

6.20 - moored from the shore of the Bobrovsky II farm and went up the Don to the Ust-Medveditsky Monastery.

6.40 - start of morning prayers. The weather is cloudy and cool. The deck is wet from the light rain that fell overnight.

12.00 - passed under the bridge of the city of Serafimovich. Previously, this city was the Ust-Medveditskaya village, because the Medveditsa River flows into the Don nearby. They should arrive at the monastery soon, and I am very sorry that I will have to leave the monastery for Volgograd, but nothing can be done, there are urgent matters there. These eight days of travel were some of the best in the last years of my life. I am consoled by the thought that as soon as I am freed from work, I will immediately come to the floating church, but in the meantime, the priest of the missionary department, Gennady Khanykin, is supposed to arrive here, God help him in this difficult missionary work.

13.15 - the dome of the monastery cathedral appeared from behind the trees, and then the entire monastery opened up to our eyes. I started ringing the big bell first, and then I rang all the bells. When our bells fell silent, I heard the ringing of the monastery bells and realized that we had been noticed and were being joyfully welcomed.

13.40 - moored to the shore near the monastery. Hieromonk Chrysagon (Shlyapin), monk Ananiy (Sirozh) and the holy fool Georgy with a Soviet-era deputy badge on the lapel of his jacket were already hurrying towards us. The abbot, Hieromonk Savin, was not in the monastery; he left for Volgograd on urgent business on May 10.

We said a touching goodbye to the captain of the tugboat "Ermine" Nikolai Ivanovich and the sailors Igor and Alexander, as well as the cook Nadezhda. Who knows if we'll see you again? Tomorrow the tug will return to Kalach-on-Don, and our tug “Prince Vladimir” will soon arrive at the floating church, which all this time was standing at the ship repair plant, where its propeller shaft was being repaired.

Thank God for everything! The entry in the ship's log of the missionary floating church "St. Innocent" from May 5 to May 14, 2001 was kept by the head of the missionary department of the Volgograd diocese, Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov.

Prayer

Yule story

On Christmas Eve, after reading the Royal Hours, the protodeacon lamented:

– What kind of obsession is this year? Not a snowflake. When I think about it, tomorrow is Christmas, but there is no snow - no festive mood.

“It’s true,” the rector of the cathedral agreed with him, “they fly into space, so they tore up the sky, the whole weather was mixed up.” Whether it’s winter or something else, you don’t understand.

Altar server Valerka, who was listening attentively to this conversation, timidly interjected:

- And you, honest fathers, would pray that the Lord would give us a little snow.

The rector and protodeacon looked with bewilderment at the always quiet and silent Valery: why did he become bold? He immediately began to earn money:

“Sorry, fathers, I just thought so,” and quickly ducked into the sexton.

The abbot twirled his finger at his temple after him. And the protodeacon laughed:

- Well, Valerka, the eccentric, thinks that heaven is like a home: he came, ordered and received what you need.

After the rector and protodeacon left home, Valerka, leaving the altar, went to the icon of the Mother of God “Quick to Hear.” From early childhood, as long as he can remember, his grandmother always stood here and looked after this icon during services. She wiped it, cleaned the candlestick standing in front of it. Valerka was always close to his grandmother: she did not leave her grandson alone at home, she goes to work - and drags him along with her. Valerka lost his parents early, and therefore he was raised by his grandmother. Valerka's father was a complete alcoholic and often beat his wife. He beat her even when she was pregnant with Valerka. So he was born premature, with obvious signs of mental disorder. In yet another drunken stupor, Valerkin’s dad hit his mother’s head on the radiator so hard that she gave up her soul to God. My father never returned from prison. So Valerka remained in his grandmother’s arms.

Somehow he completed the eighth grade at a special school for the mentally retarded, but his main school was his grandmother’s prayers and cathedral services. His grandmother died when he was nineteen years old. The abbot took pity on him - where was he, poor thing? - and allowed him to live in the gatehouse at the temple, and so that he would not eat bread for nothing, he brought a censer into the altar to serve. For his quiet and fearful disposition, the archdeacon gave him the nickname Trembling Hind. That’s what they called him, often laughing at his naive eccentricities and stupidity. True, as for the divine service, it could not be called stupid. He knew by heart what followed what, better than some clerics. The protodeacon was surprised more than once: “Our Valerka is blessed, he doesn’t understand anything in life, but he’s really useless in the rules!”

Approaching the “Quick to Hear” icon, Valery lit the candle and placed it on the candlestick. The service had already ended, and the huge cathedral was empty, only two cleaners were mopping the floors for the evening service. Valerka, kneeling in front of the icon, cautiously looked back at them.

One of the cleaning ladies, seeing him put down the candle, said to the other with irritation:

- Nyurka, just look, this crazy candlestick will fill us with wax again, and I just cleaned it for the evening service! No matter how much you tell him not to light candles between services, he’s back at it again! And the headman will scold me for not cleaning the candlestick. I'll go scare this Trembling Hind.

- Leave the guy alone, let him pray.

- Why is he here, the only one? We also pray when we are supposed to. When the priest begins the service, we will pray, but now we are not supposed to! – And she, without letting go of the mop, headed towards the kneeling altar boy. The second, blocking her path, whispered:

- Don’t offend the guy, he’s already offended by God, I’ll clean the candlestick myself later.

“Well, as you know,” the cleaning lady muttered, wrung out the rag, still looking angrily in the direction of the altar boy.

Valery, on his knees, listened anxiously to the squabble of the cleaners, and when he realized that the trouble was over, he took out two more candles, placed them next to the first, and knelt again:

And, rising from his knees, cheerful, he went to the altar. Sitting in the sexton and polishing the censer, Valery dreamed of how he would buy himself ice cream after the service, which he loved very much. “It’s actually big, it’s ice cream,” the guy thought, “you can divide it into two parts, eat one after the liturgy, and the other after Vespers.”

This thought made him even happier. But remembering something, he frowned and, standing up decisively, headed again to the “Quick to Hear” icon. Approaching, he said in all seriousness:

“This is what I thought about, Most Holy Theotokos, Father Protodeacon is a kind man, he gave me a ruble, but he himself could have bought candles or something else with that ruble.” You see, Holy Mother of God, he is now very upset that there is no snow for Christmas. The janitor Nikifor, for some reason, on the contrary, is happy, but the archdeacon is upset. I want to help him. Everyone asks You for something, but I always have nothing to ask for, I just want to talk to You. And today I want to ask for the archdeacon, I know that you love him yourself. After all, he so beautifully sings for You “To my Most Blessed Queen...”.

Valerka closed his eyes and began to sway in front of the icon to the rhythm of the chant motif he remembered. Then, opening his eyes, he whispered:

- Yes, he himself would come to you to ask, but he has no time. You know, he has a family, children. But I have no one except You, of course, and Your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. You yourself ask God to send us a snowball. We don’t need much, so that by the holiday it will be as white as in the temple. I think that God will not refuse You, because He is Your Son. If my mother asked me for anything, I would gladly do it for her. True, I don’t have one, everyone says that I am an orphan. But I think that I am not an orphan. After all, I have You, and You are the Mother of all people, as the Bishop said during his sermon. And he always says the right thing. Yes, I guessed this myself. Just ask me for something, and I will definitely do it for you. If you want, I won’t buy such expensive ice cream, but I’ll buy cheap, milk ice cream for nine kopecks.

He turned pale, lowered his gaze, and then, looking up at the icon, said decisively:

- Mother of God, tell Your Son, I won’t buy ice cream at all, as long as it snows. Oh please. You do not believe me? Then I’ll go get some candles right now, and You, Most Holy Theotokos, go to Your Son and ask us for some snow.

Valery stood up and went to the candle box, full of determination. However, the closer he came, the less determined he remained. Before reaching the counter, he stopped and, turning, walked back, clutching the remaining change in his sweaty palm. But, having taken a few steps, he turned again to the candle box. Approaching the counter, he nervously walked around it, making mindless circles. His breathing became rapid, and sweat appeared on his forehead. Seeing him, the candle maker shouted:

- Valerka, what happened?

“I want to buy some candles,” he said, stopping and in a fallen voice.

- Lord, well, come and buy it, otherwise you’re moving around like a pendulum.

Valerka looked sadly at the icon case with the “Quick to Hear” standing in the distance. He approached, poured the change onto the counter and said in a voice hoarse with excitement:

- For everything, ten kopecks.

When he received seven candles, his soul became lighter.

Before the evening Christmas service, snow suddenly began to fall in fluffy white flakes. Everywhere you looked, white light snowflakes were swirling in the air. Children poured out of their houses, joyfully dragging their sleds behind them. The protodeacon, striding confidently towards the service, smiled from ear to ear, bowing as he walked with the parishioners going to the church. Seeing the abbot, he shouted:

“It’s been a long time, Father, I haven’t seen such fluffy snow, it’s been a long time.” You can immediately feel the holiday approaching.

“Snowball is good,” answered the abbot. - How can you tell the weather forecasters to believe after this? This morning I listened to the weather forecast specifically and they assured me that there would be no precipitation. You can't trust anyone.

Valerka, having prepared the censer for service, managed to approach the icon:

- Thank you, Most Holy Theotokos, what a kind Son You have, the ice cream is small, but there’s so much snow piled up.

“There is probably a lot of everything in the Kingdom of God,” Valerka thought, moving away from the icon. – I wonder if there is ice cream there that tastes better than creme brulee? Probably there is,” he concluded his thoughts and, joyful, went to the altar.

January 2003. Samara

Approved for distribution by the Publishing Council of the Russian Orthodox Church IS 12-218-1567

© Nikolay Agafonov, priest, 2013

© Nikeya Publishing House, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Preface

The miraculous is always with us, but we do not notice it. It tries to speak to us, but we do not hear it, because we are deaf from the roar of a godless civilization. It walks next to us, breathing right down our necks. But we do not feel it, because our feelings have been dulled by the countless temptations of this age. It runs ahead and looks straight into our eyes, but we don’t see it. We are blinded by our false greatness - the greatness of a man who can move mountains without any faith, only with the help of soulless technical progress. And if we suddenly see or hear, we hasten to pass by, pretend that we didn’t notice or hear. After all, in the secret place of our being, we guess that, having accepted MIRACLE as the reality of our life, we will have to change our life. We must become restless in this world and holy fools for the rational ones of this world. And this is already scary or, on the contrary, so funny that you want to cry.

Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov

Killed while on duty
Non-criminal history

Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.

And when he’s finished with everyone, then he’ll say to us: “Come out,” he’ll say, “you too!” Come out drunk, come out weak, come out drunk!” And we will all go out without shame and stand. And he will say: “You pigs! The image of the beast and its seal; but come too!” And the wise will say, the wise will say: “Lord! Why do you accept these people?” And he will say: “That is why I accept them, the wise, because I accept them, the wise, because not one of these himself considered himself worthy of this...”

F. M. Dostoevsky.

Crime and Punishment

It was already ten o'clock in the evening when a sharp bell rang in the diocesan administration. Stepan Semyonovich, the night watchman, who had just laid down to rest, grumbled dissatisfiedly: “Who is this difficult one to wear?”, shuffling with worn-out house slippers, he trudged to the door. Without even asking who was calling, he shouted irritably, stopping in front of the door:

- There is no one here, come tomorrow morning!

– Urgent telegram, please accept and sign.

Having received the telegram, the watchman brought it to his closet, turned on the table lamp and, putting on his glasses, began to read: “On July 27, 1979, Archpriest Fyodor Mirolyubov died tragically in the line of duty, we are waiting for further instructions. Church Council of St. Nicholas Church of the village of Buzikhino.”

“The Kingdom of Heaven to God’s servant Father Fyodor,” Stepan Semyonovich said sympathetically and re-read the telegram out loud again. The wording was confusing: “He died in the line of duty...” This didn’t fit at all with the priestly rank.

“Well, there’s a policeman or a fireman, or at least a watchman, of course, God forbid, that’s understandable, but Father Fyodor?” – Stepan Semenovich shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.

He knew Father Fyodor well when he still served in the cathedral. Father differed from other clergy of the cathedral in his simplicity of communication and responsive heart, for which he was loved by the parishioners. Ten years ago, Fyodor’s father experienced great grief in his family - his only son Sergei was killed. This happened when Sergei was rushing home to please his parents with passing the exam for medical school, although Father Fedor dreamed that his son would study at the seminary.

“But since he chose the path not of a spiritual, but of a physical doctor, all the same - God grant him happiness... He will treat me in my old age,” Father Fyodor said to Stepan Semenovich when they were sitting over tea in the cathedral gatehouse. It was then that this terrible news caught them.

On the way from the institute, Sergei saw four guys beating a fifth guy right next to the bus stop. The women at the bus stop tried to reason with the hooligans by shouting, but they, not paying attention, kicked the already lying man. The men standing at the bus stop turned away in shame. Sergei, without hesitation, rushed to the rescue. The investigation found out who stabbed him with a knife only a month later. What good would it do, no one could return his son to Father Fyodor.

For forty days after the death of his son, Father Fedor served funeral masses and memorial services every day. And as forty days passed, they often began to notice Father Fyodor drunk. It happened that he came to the service drunk. But they tried not to reproach him, understanding his condition, they sympathized with him. However, this soon became increasingly difficult to do. The bishop several times transferred Father Fyodor to the position of psalm-reader to correct him from drinking wine. But one incident forced the bishop to take extreme measures and dismiss Father Fedor as a staff member.

Once, having received a month’s salary, Father Fyodor went into a glass shop, which was located not far from the cathedral. The regulars of this establishment treated the priest with respect, for out of his kindness he treated them at his own expense. That day was the anniversary of his son’s death, and Father Fyodor, throwing his entire salary on the counter, ordered everyone who wanted to be treated to food throughout the evening. The storm of delight that arose in the tavern resulted in a solemn procession at the end of the drinking session. A stretcher was brought from a nearby construction site, Father Fyodor was hoisted onto it and, declaring him the Great Pope of the Rumochnaya, they carried him home across the entire block. After this incident, Father Fedor ended up in exile. He was without ministry for two years before he was appointed to the Buzikha parish.

Stepan Semyonovich re-read the telegram for the third time and, sighing, began to dial the bishop’s home telephone number. Bishop Slava’s cell attendant answered the phone.

“His Eminence is busy, read the telegram to me, I’ll write it down and then pass it on.”

The contents of the telegram puzzled Slava no less than the watchman. He began to think: “To die tragically in our time is a couple of trifles, which happens quite often. For example, last year a protodeacon and his wife died in a car accident. But what do job responsibilities have to do with it? What might happen during a worship service? Probably these Buzikha people got something mixed up.”

Slava was from those places and knew the village of Buzikhino well. It was famous for the obstinate character of the villagers. The bishop also had to deal with the unbridled temper of the Buzikha people. The Buzikha parish gave him more trouble than all the other parishes in the diocese combined. No matter what priest the bishop appointed to them, he did not stay there long. It lasts a year, or at most another, and complaints, letters, and threats begin. No one could please the Buzikha people. In one year, three abbots had to be replaced. The bishop got angry and didn’t appoint anyone to them for two months. For these two months, the Buzikhinites, like non-popovites, themselves read and sang in church. Only this was of little consolation; you couldn’t serve mass without a priest, so they began to ask for a priest. The bishop tells them:

“I don’t have a priest for you, no one wants to come to your parish anymore!”

But they don’t back down, they ask, they plead:

- At least someone, at least for a while, otherwise Easter is approaching! What is it like on such a great holiday without a priest? Sin.

The bishop had mercy on them, summoned Archpriest Fyodor Mirolyubov, who was on staff at that time, and said to him:

“I’m giving you, Father Fyodor, one last chance to reform, I’m appointing you as rector in Buzikhino, if you stay there for three years, I’ll forgive everything.”

Father Fyodor bowed at the bishop's feet with joy and, swearing that he had not taken a single gram in his mouth for a month, he went contentedly to his destination.

A month passes, then another, a year. No one sends complaints to the bishop. This pleases His Eminence, but at the same time worries him: it is strange that there are no complaints. He sends Dean Father Leonid Zvyakin to find out how things are going. Father Leonid went and reports:

“Everything is fine, the parishioners are happy, the church council is happy, Father Fyodor is also happy.”

The bishop marveled at such a miracle, and with him all the diocesan workers, but they began to wait: it could not be that it would last a second year.

But another year passed, the third began. The bishop could not stand it, calls Father Fyodor and asks:

“Tell me, Father Fyodor, how did you manage to find a common language with the Buzikha people?”

“But it wasn’t difficult,” answers Father Fyodor. “As soon as I came to them, I immediately recognized their main weakness and played on it.

- How is this possible? – the bishop was surprised.

“And I understood, Vladyka, that the Buzikha people are an extremely proud people, they don’t like to be taught, so I told them at the first sermon: so, they say, and so, brothers and sisters, do you know for what purpose I came to did the bishop appoint you? They immediately became wary: “For what purpose?” - “And with such a goal, my beloved, that you guide me on the true path.” Here their mouths were completely open in surprise, and I continued to wallow: “I didn’t finish any seminaries, but from childhood I sang and read in the choir, and therefore I became a priest as if semi-literate. And due to lack of education, he began to drink excessively, for which he was dismissed from regular service.” Here they nodded their heads sympathetically. “And, left,” I say, “without means of food, I eked out a miserable existence outside the state. To top it all off, my wife left me, not wanting to share my fate with me.” As I said this, tears welled up in my eyes. I look, and the parishioners’ eyes are wet. “I would have been lost,” I continue, “but our bishop, God bless him, with his bright mind realized that for my own salvation it is necessary to appoint me to your parish, and says to me: “No one, Father Fedor, you in the entire diocese he cannot help, except for the Buzikha people, for in this village live a wise, kind and pious people. They will guide you on the right path." Therefore, I ask and pray you, dear brothers and sisters, do not leave me with your wise advice, support me, and point out where I am wrong. For from now on I entrust my destiny into your hands.” Since then we have lived in peace and harmony.

This story, however, made a depressing impression on the bishop.

- What is it, Father Fedor? How dare you attribute to me words that I did not utter? I sent you as a shepherd, and you came to the parish as a lost sheep. It turns out that you don’t shepherd the flock, but she shepherds you?

“But for me,” Father Fyodor answers, “it doesn’t matter who shepherds whom, as long as there is peace and everyone is happy.”

This answer completely infuriated the bishop, and he sent Father Fyodor out of office.

The Buzikha people did not accept the newly sent priest at all and threatened that if Father Fyodor was not returned to them, they would go all the way to the patriarch himself, but would not give up on their own. The most zealous ones suggested luring the bishop to the parish and turning his car upside down, and not turning it back until Father Fyodor was returned. But the bishop had already cooled down and decided not to start a scandal. And he returned Fyodor’s father to the Buzikha people.

Five years have passed since then. And now Slava held the telegram, wondering what could have happened in Buzikhino.

And this is what happened in Buzikhino. Father Fyodor always woke up early and never stayed in bed, washed himself and read the rule. This is how his every day began. But this morning, opening his eyes, he lay in bed for almost half an hour with a blissful smile: at night he saw his late mother. Father Fyodor rarely saw dreams, but here he was so unusual, so light and bright.

Father Fyodor himself in the dream was just a boy Fedya, galloping on a horse through their native village, and his mother came out of the house to meet him and shouted: “Fedya, give the horse a rest, tomorrow you and your father will go to the fair.” At these words, Father Fyodor woke up, but his heart continued to beat joyfully, and he smiled dreamily, remembering his childhood. He considered seeing his mother in a dream a good sign, which means that her soul is calm, because in church prayers for her repose are constantly offered up for her.

Glancing at the wall clock, he got out of bed, groaning, and wandered to the washbasin. After prayer, as usual, he went to drink tea in the kitchen, and after drinking, he settled down to read the newspapers that had just been brought. The door opened slightly and the curly head of Petka, the grandson of the church bell ringer Paramon, appeared.

- Father Fyodor, I brought you some fresh crucian carp, I just caught it.

“Come on in, show me your catch,” Father Fyodor said good-naturedly.

Petya’s arrival was always a joyful event for Fyodor’s father; he loved this little boy, who somehow reminded him of his late son. “Oh, if he had passed by, he would not have orphaned his father, now I would probably have grandchildren. But that means it’s God’s will,” Father Fyodor thought painfully.

He didn’t leave Petka without a gift, either he would fill his pockets full of sweets or gingerbread. But, of course, he understood that Petya was not coming to him for this, and he was too curious, asking Father Fyodor about everything, and sometimes asking such tricky questions that you couldn’t answer right away.

“Little crucian carp,” Petya justified himself, embarrassedly holding out a plastic bag with a dozen small, palm-sized crucian carp.

“Every gift is good,” Father Fyodor boomed, putting the crucian carp in the refrigerator. “And the most important thing is that he brought a gift from the labor of his hands.” And I have this in store for you. – And with these words he handed Petka a large chocolate bar.

Thanking him, Petya turned the chocolate over in his hand and tried to put it in his pocket, but the chocolate wouldn’t fit, and then he quickly put it in his bosom.

- Eh, brother, it won’t work like that, your belly is hot, the chocolate will melt - and you won’t be able to bring it home, it’s better to wrap it in a newspaper. Now, if you’re not in a hurry, sit down and let’s have some tea.

- Thank you, father, my mother milked the cow, so I’ve already drunk some milk.

- Sit down anyway, tell me something.

– Father Fyodor, my grandfather tells me that when I grow up, I will receive a recommendation from you and enter the seminary, and then I will become a priest, like you.

- Yes, you will be even better than me. I’m illiterate, I didn’t study in seminaries, those were the wrong years, and there were no seminaries then.

“You say “illiterate,” but how do you know everything?

– I read the Bible, there are some other books. I know a little.

– And dad says that there is nothing to do in the seminary, since the Church will soon die out, and it is better to go to the agricultural institute and become an agronomist, like him.

“Well, your dad said,” Father Fyodor grinned. “I will die, your father will die, you will die someday, but the Church will stand forever, until the end of time.”

“I think so too,” Petya agreed. “Our church has been standing for so many years, and nothing is happening to it, and the club seems to have been recently built, and there’s already a crack running down the wall.” Grandfather says that they used to build firmly and mix the mortar with eggs.

– It’s not about the eggs here, brother. When I said that the Church will stand forever, I did not mean our temple, this is the work of human hands, and it may collapse. And in my lifetime, how many churches and monasteries have been blown up and destroyed, but the Church lives on. The Church is all of us who believe in Christ, and He is the head of our Church. So, even though your father is considered literate in the village, his speeches are unwise.

- How to become wise? How much do you need to study, more than your father, or what? – Petya was puzzled.

- How can I tell you... I met people who were completely illiterate, but wise. “The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord” - this is what it says in the Holy Scriptures.

Petya narrowed his eyes slyly:

– Last time you said that you need to love God. How can you both love and fear it at the same time?

- Do you love your mother?

- Certainly.

-Are you afraid of her?

- No, she doesn’t hit me like my father.

“Are you afraid to do something that would make your mother very upset?”

“I’m afraid,” Petya laughed.

- Well, then, then, I must understand what kind of “fear of the Lord” this is.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. The mother-in-law of the collective farm party organizer, Ksenia Stepanovna, entered. She crossed herself into the icon and approached Father Fyodor for a blessing.

- I have a conversation, father, alone with you. – And cast a sidelong glance at Petka.

He, realizing that his presence was undesirable, said goodbye and dashed through the door.

“So, father,” Semyonovna began in a conspiratorial voice, “you know that my Klavka gave birth to a little boy, she’s been unbaptized for two months.” My heart ached all over: even the unmarried people themselves, one might say, live in fornication, so at least baptize your granddaughter, otherwise God forbid it gets into trouble.

- Well, why don’t you baptize? - asked Father Fyodor, understanding perfectly well why they did not carry the party organizer’s son to church.

- What are you, father, God be with you, is this really possible? What a position he has! Yes, he himself doesn’t mind. Just now he said to me: “Baptize your son, mother, so that no one can see.”

“Well, it’s a good thing, since it’s necessary, we’ll baptize in a secret way.” When was the christening scheduled?

“Come on, father, come to us now, everything is ready.” The son-in-law left for work, and his brother, who came from the city, will be godfather. Otherwise, he will leave - how can he go without his godfather?

“Yes,” Father Fyodor drawled meaningfully, “there are no christenings without godfathers.”

- And there is a godfather, my niece, Froska’s daughter. Well, I’ll go, father, I’ll get everything ready, and you follow through the backyards, through the vegetable gardens.

- Don’t teach me, I know...

Semyonovna left, and Father Fyodor began to leisurely get ready. First of all, I checked the baptismal supplies, looked at the light of the bottle with the holy world, it was already almost at the bottom. “That’s enough for now, and I’ll add more tomorrow.” I put it all in a small suitcase, put the Gospel, and vestments on top of everything. He put on his old duckweed and, coming out, headed through the potato gardens along the path to the party organizer’s house.

In the spacious, bright room there was already a basin of water, and three candles were attached to it. The brother of the party organizer came in.

“Vasily,” he introduced himself, extending his hand to Father Fyodor.

– Archpriest Fyodor Mirolyubov, rector of St. Nicholas Church in the village of Buzikhino.

Vasily was embarrassed by such a long title and, blinking in confusion, asked:

- How do you call them by your patronymic?

“You don’t need to use your patronymic, just call him Father Fedor or Father,” Father Fedor answered, pleased with the effect produced.

- Father Fyodor-father, you tell me what to do. I have never participated in this ritual.

“Not a ritual, but a Sacrament,” Father Fyodor impressively corrected the completely confused Vasily. “And you don’t have to do anything, stand here and hold your godson.”

The godfather, fourteen-year-old Anyutka, came into the room with a baby in her arms. The party organizer's wife looked into the room with restless curiosity.

“But mother is not supposed to be at the christening,” Father Fyodor said sternly.

“Go, go, daughter,” Semyonovna waved her hands at her. - Then we’ll call you.

Father Fyodor slowly performed baptism, then called the boy’s mother and, after a short sermon about the benefits of raising children in the Christian faith, blessed the mother, reading a prayer over her.

“And now, father, we ask you to come to the table, we must celebrate the christening and drink to the health of my grandson,” Semyonovna began to fuss.

In a kitchen as spacious as an upper room, a table was laid on which there were countless pickles: pickled cucumbers, tomatoes, pickled white cabbage, salted milk mushrooms with sour cream and fatty herring, cut into large slices, sprinkled with onion rings and drizzled with butter. In the middle of the table was a liter bottle of liquid, clear as glass. Nearby, boiled potatoes sprinkled with green onions were steaming in a large bowl. There was something to make my eyes run wild. Father Fedor looked at the bottle with respect.

Semyonovna, catching Father Fyodor’s gaze, hastily explained:

“Pure first-class, she kicked it out herself, transparent, like a tear.” Well, Vasya, invite the priest to the table.

“Well, father, sit down, according to Russian custom - a little for the godson,” said Vasily, contentedly rubbing his hands.

“According to Russian custom, you must first pray and bless the meal, and only then sit down,” Father Fyodor said edifyingly and, turning to the front corner, wanted to make the sign of the cross, but the hand raised to his forehead froze, since only a portrait hung in the corner Lenin.

Semyonovna started wailing, rushed behind the stove, took out the icon, and, taking down the portrait, hung it on a loose nail.

“You will forgive us, father, they are young, all party members.”

Father Fyodor read the “Our Father” and blessed the table with a wide cross:

- Christ God, bless the food and drink of Your servant, for You are holy always, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen.

He somehow singled out the word “drinking”, placing emphasis on it. Then they sat down, and Vasily immediately poured moonshine into glasses. The first toast was proclaimed to the newly baptized baby. Father Fyodor, having drunk, smoothed his mustache and prophesied:

“The pervach is good, strong,” and began to snack on sauerkraut.

“Can you really compare it to vodka, it’s such disgusting stuff, they use chemistry, but here they have their own purity,” assented Vasily. “Only here, when you come home from the city, you can have a normal rest and relaxation.” No wonder Vysotsky sings: “And if vodka wasn’t distilled from sawdust, then what would we get from three, four, five bottles?!” - And he laughed. “And as I rightly noted, after vodka I get a headache, but after the first drink, even if you take henna, you’ll get a hangover in the morning and you can drink again all day.”

Father Fyodor silently paid tribute to the snacks, only occasionally nodding his head in agreement.

We drank a second drink to the parents of the baptized baby. Both of their eyes sparkled, and while Father Fyodor, having thickly smeared the jellied meat with mustard, was eating the second glass, Vasily, having stopped eating, lit a cigarette and continued ranting:

“Before, people were at least afraid of God, but now,” he waved his hand in annoyance, “now they’re not afraid of anyone, everyone does what they want.”

- How do you know how it used to be? – Father Fyodor grinned, looking at his drunken godfather.

“That’s what old people say, they won’t lie.” No, we abolished religion early, it still came in handy. After all, what do they teach in church: do not kill, do not steal... - Vasily began to bend his fingers. But with these two commandments his stock of knowledge about religion ended, and he, grabbing his third finger, began painfully remembering something else, repeating again: “Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal...”

“Honor your father and mother,” Father Fedor came to his rescue.

- Well, that’s what I wanted to say, honor. Do they really honor it? My dunce went to the eighth grade, and there... You see, his father is not his father, his mother is not his mother. All sorts of punks are hanging around the entrances, you can’t drive them home, you’ve completely neglected the school. - And Vasily, helplessly slapping his hands on his knees, began pouring them into glasses. “Well, all of them, father,” and, clutching his mouth with his hand, said in fear: “I almost swore in front of you, but I know: it’s a sin... in front of the priest... Semyonovna warned me.” Forgive me, Father Fyodor, we are simple people, in our work things don’t work without swearing, but with swearing - everything is so clear. Is it a sin, father, to swear at work? So answer me.

“Naturally, it’s a sin,” said Father Fyodor, eating a shot glass with his small spoon.

- But business doesn’t work without him! How to judge if things don't work out? “Hiccupping loudly, Vasily threw up his hands in bewilderment. “And when you swear well,” he slashed the air with his hand, “it’s so bad—and that’s all, such pies.” And you say “sin”.

- What should I say, that this is a godly deed, swearing? – Father Fyodor was perplexed.

- Eh, but you won’t understand me, I just want to swear, then you would understand.

“Well, curse if you want,” agreed Father Fyodor.

“You’re pushing me to commit a crime so that I can swear in front of the Holy Father... No way!”

Father Fyodor saw that his dinner companion had become rather stubborn, drinking without a snack, and began to get ready to go home. Vasily, completely exhausted, dropped his head on the table, muttering:

- For me to swear, but don’t f... you won’t expect me to, I’m all in...

At this time Semyonovna came in:

- Uh, he got drunk like a beast, he doesn’t even know how to drink properly. Forgive us, father.

- Come on, Semyonovna, it’s not worth it.

- Now, father, Anyutka will see you out. I gave you some fresh eggs, milk, sour cream and something else. Anyutka will demolish it.

Father Fedor blessed Semyonovna and went home. He was in a great mood, his head was a little noisy from the drink, but with such a good snack, this was nothing for him.

A lame Maria was sitting on a bench in front of his house.

“Oh, father, thank God, thank God, I waited,” Maria hobbled under the blessing of Father Fyodor. “But no one knows where you went, I thought you went to the region, that would have been a disaster.”

- For what reason, my dear? – Father Fyodor asked, blessing.

- Oh, father, oh, dear, Dunka Krivosheina is in grief, some kind of grief. Her son Pasha, you know him, last summer he brought firewood to the church on a tractor. Well, the day before yesterday Agrippina, who lives along the road, was plowing her garden. Then, of course, she paid them, as expected, with moonshine. So they, the devils, drank the whole bottle and drove off. The Kirovets that Pashka was working on turned over, you know how high the roadsides are. Last year, remember, Semyon turned over, but he remained alive. And our dear Pasha fell out of the window and was crushed by a tractor. Oh, woe, woe to Eva Dunka’s mother, she was left completely without a breadwinner, she buried her husband, now she has a son. Well, our dear father, we ask by Christ God, let’s go, serve a memorial service over the coffin, and tomorrow they will take us to church for the funeral service. My grandson will take you now.

“Okay, let’s go, let’s go,” Father Fyodor fussed. “I’ll just take the incense and censer.”

- Take, father, take, dear, everything you need, and I’ll wait here, behind the gate.

Father Fyodor quickly got ready and left ten minutes later. Maria’s grandson was waiting for him at the gate on a Ural motorcycle. Maria sat behind him, leaving space in the stroller for Father Fyodor. Father Fyodor picked up his cassock and plopped down in the stroller:

- Well, with God, let's go.

The engine roared and carried Father Fyodor towards his fateful hour. People were crowding around Evdokia Krivosheina’s house. The house is small, low, Father Fyodor, passing through the door, did not bend down in time and hit the upper door frame hard; wincing in pain, he muttered:

- What kind of people do they make such low doors, I just can’t get used to it.

Men were crowding in the depths of the hallway.

“Father Fyodor, come to us,” they called.

Approaching, Father Fyodor saw a small table, laden with glasses and a simple snack.

“Father, let’s remember Pashkin’s soul, so that he may rest in peace.”

Father Fyodor gave Maria a censer with coal and told her to go light it. He took a glass of cloudy liquid with his left hand and crossed himself widely with his right:

“The Kingdom of Heaven to the servant of God Paul,” and he drained the glass in one breath.

“Not the same as the party organizer had,” he thought. Father Fyodor refused the second pile, immediately offered to him, and went into the house.

The upper room was crowded with people. There was a coffin in the middle of the room. For some reason, the face of the deceased, still a young guy, became black, almost like a black man’s. But he looked significant: a dark suit, a white shirt, a black tie, as if he was not a tractor driver, but some kind of state farm director. True, the hands folded on the chest were the hands of a worker; the fuel oil was so ingrained in them that there was no longer any way to wash them off.

Pavel’s mother was sitting on a stool right next to the coffin. She looked tenderly and sorrowfully at her son and whispered something to herself. In the stuffy upper room, Father Fyodor felt the hops taking over him more and more. In the corner, near the door and in the front corner, behind the coffin, there were paper wreaths. Father Fyodor began the funeral service, and the grandmothers sang along with him in thin voices. Somehow awkwardly swinging the censer, he touched the edge of the coffin with it. A coal that flew out of the censer rolled under a pile of wreaths, but no one noticed it.

Only Father Fedor began the funeral litany when terrible screams were heard:

- We're burning, we're burning!

He turned around and saw how brightly the paper wreaths were blazing. The flames spread to others. Everyone rushed through the narrow doors, where a crush immediately formed. Father Fyodor took off his vestments and began to restore order, pushing people through the doors. “That seems to be it,” flashed through his head. “We have to run out, otherwise it will be too late.” He cast his last glance at the dead man lying calmly in the coffin, and then he saw the hunched figure of Paul’s mother, Evdokia, behind the coffin. He rushed to her, picked her up, wanted to carry her to the door, but it was too late, the whole door was engulfed in flames. Father Fyodor ran to the window and kicked the frame, then, dragging Evdokia, who was no longer thinking anything from horror, literally pushed her out of the window.

Then he tried it himself, but realized that his heavy body would not fit through such a small window. It became unbearably hot, my head was spinning; Falling to the floor, Father Fyodor glanced at the corner with the images - the Savior was on fire. I wanted to cross myself, but my hand did not obey, did not rise to make the sign of the cross. Before completely losing consciousness, he whispered:

- In Your hands, Lord Jesus Christ, I commend my spirit, be merciful to me, a sinner.

The icon of the Savior began to warp from the fire, but the compassionate gaze of Christ continued to look kindly at Father Fyodor. Father Fyodor saw that the Savior was suffering with him.

“Lord,” Father Fyodor whispered, “how good it is to always be with You.”

Everything darkened, and from this fading darkness a light of extraordinary softness began to flare up; everything that was before seemed to step aside and disappeared. Next to him, Father Fyodor heard a gentle voice that was very close to him:

“Truly I tell you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.”

Two days later, the dean, Father Leonid Zvyakin, arrived and, calling two priests from neighboring parishes, led the funeral service for Father Fedor. During the funeral service, the church was filled to capacity with people, so much so that some had to stand in the street. They carried the coffin around the church and carried it to the cemetery. Behind the coffin, next to the bell ringer Paramon, was his grandson Petya. His look was full of bewilderment; he couldn’t believe that Father Fyodor was no more, that he was burying him. In Buzikhino, all agricultural work was suspended on the day of the funeral. Stepping aside a little, the chairman and party organizer of the collective farm walked with their fellow villagers. The mournful faces of the Buzikha residents expressed lonely confusion. They buried a shepherd, who over the years had become a dear and close friend to all his fellow villagers. They came to him with all their troubles and needs, the doors of Father Fyodor’s house were always open for them. Who will they come to now? Who will console them and give them good advice?

“We didn’t save our breadwinner father,” the old women lamented, and the young boys and girls nodded their heads in agreement: we didn’t save him.

In the priest's house for the funeral, tables were set only for the clergy and the church council. For everyone else, tables were placed outside in the church fence, fortunately the weather was good and sunny.

There were flasks with moonshine right next to the tables, the men came up and scooped up as much as they wanted. Near one table stood Vasily, the brother of the party organizer, already pretty tipsy, and explained the difference between moonshine and vodka.

About the author. Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov- famous Orthodox writer. Born in 1955. He graduated from the Leningrad Theological Academy and was the rector of the Saratov Theological Seminary. He served in the Volgograd diocese, then in the Samara diocese. In 1999 he was awarded the Order of St. Innocent (III degree). Laureate of the All-Russian Literary Prize in honor of the Holy Blessed Prince Alexander Nevsky for 2007. Laureate of the Patriarchal Literary Prize of Saints Cyril and Methodius Equal-to-the-Apostles in 2014. Author of many collections of short stories and historical novels. Member of the Russian Writers' Union. Clergyman of the Peter and Paul Church in Samara.

Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov handed over the first chapters of the new story “Standing” to the editor. It is dedicated to the sensational Kuibyshev event in the winter of 1956, which would later be popularly called the Standing of Zoya. This is not the first attempt to tell about the miracle of St. Nicholas in artistic images. In the mid-1990s, we published an interesting story by writer Nikolai Konyaev, “An Unexpected Meeting.” And not so long ago the feature film “Miracle” was released. And yet, when a Samarian, a priest, and even a laureate of the Patriarchal Prize for Literature talks about our miracle, it is especially joyful. And the first chapters of the story made me happy. Let everyone make their own judgment about this text. Like any work of art (even one based on miraculous, but still not fictional, but completely real events), it allows for different attitudes towards itself. Someone will be hooked by what Father Nikolai wrote. Someone will find annoying deviations from the outline of our idea of ​​a miracle. And someone will again and again “beat their heads against the wall” - claim, like once rabid Komsomol members, that “there was no miracle.” This is how it should be. And yet Father Nikolai will surprise and delight our readers with his story, just as he has already surprised and pleased me. The miracle in the story is completely authentic. The author writes as if he himself, if not at that party, then certainly personally saw the petrified Zoya. There is a feeling of authenticity - both from the details, and from the characters, and from the author’s attitude to what is happening. Everything here is recognizable - both the people and the circumstances in which they have to act. And that time itself, not so far from us, and our city at that time are depicted masterfully and with love. Without crude caricature, but also without cooing about the Soviet past.

Father Nikolai proved himself to be a true spiritual realist - a man who, as a priest, knows such secrets that are hidden from the gaze of even very attentive observers who are not initiated into these spiritual secrets. The Samara writer took another important step in revealing the secret of the Samara miracle. And where there are not enough facts, the writer’s intuition rushes to his aid...

With God's help, we will publish the initial chapters of the book in two issues. And this story will reach readers in full a little later. We wish Archpriest Nicholas to successfully complete the work he began.

Holy Hierarch Father Nicholas, pray to God for us!

1

Working people poured out of the entrance of the Maslennikov Pipe Plant. Elderly workers walked, some in pairs, some alone, and the young people were in no hurry to go home, huddled in small groups, joking around, laughing loudly. Looking at the young people, the factory veterans smiled condescendingly as they headed to the tram stop.

Two girls, about seventeen or eighteen years old, separated from one of the youth flock and, moving to the side, stopped. Talking animatedly, they glanced at the factory entrance.

One of the girls, clearly showing impatience, stood on tiptoes and even jumped a little, trying to see someone over the heads of those leaving.

Zoya, have you gone completely crazy? - her friend reprimanded her, - they are looking at us, and you are jumping here like a goat. What will people think?

Let them think. By the way, I’m waiting for my boyfriend, not someone else’s.

“I have mine too,” the friend chuckled, “you’ve only been dating for two weeks.” In our workshop, by the way, there are a lot of girls. So today it’s yours, tomorrow it’s someone else’s.

Well, no,” Zoya laughed smugly, “our love is like in the movies.”

“We know this movie,” the friend waved her hand, “they’ll take a walk, and they’ll quit.”

Mine won’t leave... ah, here he comes,” Zoya exclaimed joyfully and energetically waved her hands, “Kolya!” Kolya! We are here.

A young guy of average height in a gray drape coat and a fawn hat separated from the crowd. He headed towards the girls, and behind him walked a tall, slightly stooped young man in a brown coat with an astrakhan collar and an astrakhan hat with a pie. The young people stopped in front of the girls. The guy in the astrakhan hat stayed behind his friend and looked somewhere to the side, trying with his whole appearance to show that he ended up here purely by chance.

Nikolai walked up to Zoya and took her hand. At this, the girl’s face blushed and she lowered her head.

Maybe we can go to the cinema? - the guy asked.

The girl snorted slightly:

What is there to see there? We've been showing "Chuka and Gek" at Zarya for the third day now, it's for schoolchildren.

What a surprise, we’ll go to Pobeda, there’s a movie about love.

“I have a different proposal,” Zoya narrowed her eyes slyly.

Explain it,” Nikolai agreed and smiled broadly.

We were invited to visit today. Don't you mind?

The guy shrugged his shoulders vaguely:

What are we going to do there?

Zoya’s friend burst out laughing.

So what else is there to do? - Zoya was embarrassed, - Celebrating the New Year.

It's been two weeks since we met.

And now the Old New Year,” the girl continued.

Here's another idea. And who invited?

You don’t know him anyway, this is Lariska’s boyfriend,” at these words Zoya nodded towards her friend, “his name is Vadim.” By the way, he has a new gramophone and various records at home. It will be fun, let's dance.

Nikolai did not hesitate for long, and after Zoya slightly squeezed his fingers, smiling, he agreed:

Well, if it's fun, we can go.

Zoya looked triumphantly at her friend and turned again to Nikolai:

Do you remember the address? Chkalova street, house eighty-four. There are several eighty-fourth houses in the yard, so our third. If something happens, you ask: where does Bolonkina live here? This is Vadim's mother. Just don't be late, we're getting ready by nine o'clock. Will you come?

Okay, I'll come.

See you then.

The friends laughed and, holding hands, ran to the tram stop. Larisa turned around as she ran and, waving her hand, shouted:

Happy holiday to you, Comrade Khazin!

When the girls crossed Novosadovaya Street, Zoya asked:

Who is Khazin?

Here you are, girl, - Larisa was surprised, - Don’t you know Khazin? This is the Komsomol organizer of our workshop. Oh yes, you’ve only recently been with us, so you’ll find out later. This Khazin, between you and me, is still a bore. Did you notice how he was staring at us with his eyes? I suppose it’s envious that others will go for a walk, but he wasn’t invited.

Why should he be jealous? I think he has his own company.

We know their company from socialist competition, - and pleased that it turned out so smoothly, Larisa laughed out loud.

The guys walked in silence for some time, until Khazin, grunting meaningfully, said:

Yes, Comrade Troshin, well, you’ve landed yourself in the company...

What do you mean?

And besides, Kolya, Vadim Bolonkin, whom you went to visit, is still that fellow.

Explain,” Nikolai asked.

Why explain it here? His mother, Klavdia Petrovna, sells beer at the Central Market, and his son, by the way, is a repeat offender.

How do you know? - Nikolai asked confused.

Why not know if the earth is round? My parents know this Bolonkina, and my son is also known. By the way, for information, this subject recently returned from prison.

Nikolai stopped and scratched the back of his head.

Well, scratch your back and think about what you, a Komsomol member, might have in common with a pickpocket. And it’s some kind of priestly holiday - Old New Year. It's all nonsense about vegetable oil.

“Zoyka will be offended,” Nikolai was puzzled, “I promised her.”

Khazin shrugged:

Take a look yourself. Now you are in good standing, but you can ruin everything for yourself.

2

Kuzma Petrovich prepared thoroughly for night duty. He always honored the New Year according to the old style and even above the generally recognized New Year, and therefore he took with him everything necessary to celebrate the holiday.

Arriving on duty, he settled down, as always, in the mirror shop at the table with a newspaper in his hands. I usually read the entire newspaper, but not from the first page, but starting from the last. However, this time I couldn’t cope with everything and when I got to the editorial, where they wrote about preparations for the regional party conference, I dozed off, dropping my head in my hands. Having slept in this way for an hour, he woke up, raised his head and, looking at the wall walkers, said meaningfully:

It's time, brother, it's time.

With these words, he got up from the table and hobbled towards the washbasin.

After splashing water on his face, Petrovich dried himself with a towel and began to prepare the festive table. First, he carefully spread the half-read newspaper on the table. Then he put his hand into the bag and fished out a crust of rye bread. The bread was followed by a piece of salted lard wrapped in a rag. Petrovich inhaled the garlic spirit with pleasure and began cutting the lard into thin slices. Following this, several boiled potatoes and a half-liter jar of sauerkraut were taken out.

“Whoops!” - said Kuzma Petrovich and, as if imitating a magician, took a bottle of vodka from his bag. He put the vodka on the table and, squinting one eye, admired the still life he had created for a minute, and then rummaged in the desk drawer and pulled out a cut glass. Blowing into it, meticulously examined it in the light, to be sure, wiped the edges of the glass with his index finger, and filled it two-thirds full.

Rising from the table, Kuzma Petrovich buttoned the top button of his worn tunic and looked around. Ready-made mirrors stood and lay around. Large ones, almost the height of a person, intended for wardrobes, and smaller ones, for washbasins. Grabbing a glass, Kuzma Petrovich hobbled towards one of the large mirrors.

Looking at his reflection, he became dignified and solemnly said:

The country has entrusted you, Comrade Sapozhnikov, with an extremely important matter - the protection of socialist property. You have justified this high trust more than once. We believe that you will continue to be justified, and therefore be healthy all year and don’t cough, dear comrade Sapozhnikov. Happy New year to you! - At these words, he carefully, so as not to break the mirror, clinked glasses with his reflection and slowly drank the contents of the glass.

Having sniffed the vodka with the sleeve of his tunic, he twirled his mustache and, mischievously winking at his looking-glass drinking buddy, began to beat out the rhythm with his crutch on the floor, and then suddenly sang on a high note:

He lives well

Who has one leg:

And the portochina does not break,

And you don't need a boot.

Turning dashingly on the spot, he hobbled to the table and, sitting down on a stool, began to leisurely eat. Having eaten with gusto, the former sergeant major wiped his lips with the back of his hand and took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. Carefully tearing off a piece of paper from the newspaper, he began to roll a cigarette, humming under his breath:

We defended our native land,

Every little piece

Eh, it was not for nothing that we burned at the rest stop

Partisan tobacco.

Kuzma Petrovich put the finished cigarette behind his ear, took the padded jacket off the hanger, threw it over his shoulders and headed towards the exit. He did not allow himself to smoke in the workshop. Drinking is one thing, nothing is written about that in the instructions, but smoking is a no-no, that’s why there are fire regulations
security.

It was snowing. Squinting his eyes, Kuzma Petrovich admired the Chkalova Street covered with a pristine white carpet, continuing to hum his song:

Eh, shag-shag,

You and I became related,

Looking into the distance beyond the mountains vigilantly,

We are ready for battle!

Frightened screams were heard in the courtyard of the house opposite the workshop. Then the gate swung open and a group of young people literally poured out into the street. At the same time, some girl wailed through tears:

My God, my God, what was that? Dear mothers, what is this?

One of the guys vomited right on the snow.

Kuzma Petrovich winced in disgust, the festive mood was ruined.

Here it is, the youth, our shift, ugh,” he spat in frustration, put out his cigarette butt and was about to return to the workshop, when suddenly one guy rushed towards him.

Wait, dad, you have the phone in the duty room, I know.

Well, if you know, then you should know that this phone is for official use only.

Why, dad, did you fall from the oak tree, what other service? It’s unclear what’s going on with the girl there.

With this? - the watchman chuckled contemptuously, nodding his head towards the girl, who continued her lamentations.

Everything is fine with this one, she stayed in the house,” the guy pressed, “why don’t you wag your tongue, let me call an ambulance.”

It’s not allowed,” and Kuzma Petrovich blocked the door with himself.

Fir-trees, winders, I’ve got it right: it’s supposed to be, but it’s not supposed to be... Is it okay for a young girl to die? - the guy yelled hysterically, stepping on the watchman.

But, but, calm down a little, otherwise I’ll call the police instead of an ambulance.

“I don’t care, call wherever you want,” the guy continued to shout, “but if the girl dies, it will be on your conscience.”

“Eko, where did he turn?” Kuzma Petrovich grunted, either in surprise or confusion, and stepped back from the door. - Okay, why are you yelling, come with me, you will explain everything to the doctors yourself.

3

The feast in the house of the head of the Leninsky police department, Mikhail Fedorovich Tarasov, on the occasion of his being awarded the next rank of lieutenant colonel, ended well after midnight. The guests left noisily, even shouting “hurray.” Tarasov saw everyone off and was in no hurry to return home; he leaned his shoulder against the door frame and inhaled the fresh frosty air with pleasure.

The street, constantly resounding with the roar of trams during the day, was now, at night,
unusually quiet. Tarasov suddenly felt a nostalgic longing for silence. Not this temporary, but real silence, possible only somewhere in a village corner.

A drunken group came out of Ulyanovskaya Street, singing a song about the daring Khasbulat. Tarasov, shrugging his shoulders chillily, went into the house.

“I’ll pull the strap for another five years,” thought Tarasov, “I’ll get a colonel and retire, and then I won’t stay a day in the city. As the classic said: “To the village, to my aunt, to the wilderness, to Saratov.” I’ll fish, hunt, read books.” He sighed dreamily, opening the door of his two-room apartment.

The telephone, as if waiting for its owner to return, burst into a long trill. Frowning, the lieutenant colonel nevertheless picked up the phone and muttered angrily:

Tarasov at the device.

Comrade Major, oh! Excuse me, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, there is an emergency in our area.

“Report,” Tarasov said, maintaining a dissatisfied tone, although he understood that at such a late hour they would not disturb him over trifles. An inopportune call could mean one thing: a murder had happened, and not just a simple domestic incident, but something else that would have to be reported above...

On Chkalova Street, at house 84, a girl stood frozen with an icon in her hands... To put it simply, she was petrified.

Listen, Melnikov, and you yourself, for an hour, are not doing that...

I'm not talking about that, but about whether you've lost your mind, lieutenant?

From what I saw, perhaps, you can move...

Okay,” Tarasov cut him off, “why are you calling me?” Well, the woman was petrified, it doesn’t happen to anyone. He will sober up and become softer. And if someone feels bad, then call an ambulance, and don’t trouble the authorities.

Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, you better see for yourself. There was already an ambulance, but that was of little use. I think that the situation may get out of control. There are already some people hanging around here, trying to break into the house. And in the morning, when rumors spread throughout the city, I myself don’t know what will happen here... In a word, your personal instructions are needed.

And... - Tarasov waved his hand in annoyance, - I still don’t understand what you’re talking about there. Wait, we'll figure it out on the spot.

Half an hour later he entered the district police department. He was met by the department duty officer, Lieutenant Pyotr Melnikov. He looked so lost that Tarasov, instead of shaking hands, simply patted the guy on the shoulder:

Okay, let's go to the office, you can tell us everything there.

In a small room lined with cabinets with folders, Tarasov, without taking off his overcoat, sat down at the desk on a wobbly chair and threw his hat on the table. Then he took out a cigarette case, lit a cigarette and looked at the lieutenant. He nervously fiddled with his sword belt.

What are you worth? Sit down.

Melnikov immediately sat down opposite and also took off his hat, but did not put it on the table, but crumpled it in his hands.

Light a cigarette,” Tarasov pushed a cigarette case towards Melnikov.

Melnikov mechanically took the cigarette case, but immediately put it back.

Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, I don’t smoke.

Well done, that means you’ll die healthy,” Tarasov joked gloomily and sighed: “I’d like to quit too, but it’s a front-line habit... Well, let’s do everything in order, just briefly, you know, I don’t like water.”

Blowing out cigarette smoke away from Melnikov, he looked at him again and whistled in surprise:

Wow! What did you do to your hair?

Melnikov mechanically ran his hand over his head and stared blankly at his boss.

He extended his hand to him. Melnikov was embarrassed, but did not pull his head away. Running his fingers through the gray strand of the twenty-six-year-old lieutenant’s hair, Tarasov shook his head:

I've seen this before, it happened during the war... What's going on here?

4

“So,” Melnikov began, massaging his temples, “at zero hours and fifty minutes at night we received a signal from the ambulance station.” They reported that in house 84 on Chkalovskaya Street, where citizen Klavdiya Petrovna Bolonkina lives, there is an eighteen-year-old girl in an unknown condition. Whether she is dead or alive, they find it difficult to determine. I took Sergeant Kotin with me, and we headed to the indicated address. What they saw in the house... in short, it would be better not to see it at all.

So what did you see there? - Tarasov interrupted Melnikov, lighting a new cigarette.

Will you allow me? - Melnikov took a decanter of water from the table and, filling the glass, drank it in one gulp.

There, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, in the middle of the room stands a girl with an icon in her hands. At first I thought it was a statue. Well, they put her in a dress and set her up. I touched her with my hand, and she was alive. Can you imagine, a living statue. Believe me, the sight is terrible. Sergeant Kotin, as soon as he took one look, ran away from the house. Then he told me: “Let me be fired from the authorities, but I won’t go into a room with a stone woman.”

Why did you decide that she was alive? Maybe someone really brought a mannequin into the house? - Tarasov grinned. - Some smart guy decided to play a joke on his native police.

Melnikov looked at his boss with a surprised look.

Why don’t I recognize a living person...

If she's alive, then what is she worth?

So she’s petrified, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel!

Well, stop telling me fairy tales, how can one become petrified? Did you find out for yourself? Where did this stone girl come from?

In short, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, from the interviews with witnesses the situation was as follows. A company gathered in the apartment of citizen Bolonkina to celebrate the Old New Year. The owner of the house herself was not there; she went to visit a friend and left the house to the young people. The guests were received by her son Vadim Sergeevich Bolonkin.

Wait, wait, isn’t this the same Bolonkin who was involved in our pickpocketing case?

The same one, Mikhail Fedorovich. Recently returned from prison. This is his second trip, the first was when he was young. Among the thieves his nickname is Smart Man.

Quite smart, or what? - Tarasov was curious.

Guys and girls gathered at this Clever Man's place. We sat, drank, turned on the gramophone and began to dance. One of the girls, Zoya Karnaukhova, a standard-setter from the Pipe Plant, did not have her boyfriend come. So, out of resentment, she took the icon of St. Nicholas the Pleasant from the shrine, like the guy’s name was also Nikolai, and she went to dance with this icon. During the dance, according to witnesses, something incredible happened.

Some people seemed to hear thunder. Someone saw a light as if from lightning, but in the apartment, on the contrary, the light went out. It later turned out that this knocked out the traffic jams. When the light was turned on, we saw this same Zoya standing, as if petrified, in the middle of the room with an icon in her hands. Well, they naturally got scared and ran out of the house into the street. Then they finally decided to call an ambulance.

The doctors arrived and were also almost shocked by what they saw. This girl stands as if dead, but they listened to her heart - it’s beating, which means she’s alive, and there’s breathing. They tried to give injections, but the muscles of the body were so compressed that the needle bends or breaks, but does not penetrate the body.

Wait, lieutenant, why didn’t they take her to the hospital then?

They tried, but they couldn’t tear it off the floor. It was as if she had grown to him.

Is this nonsense? Circus, and nothing more! Well, it's just a big top! Tricks! I’ll tell you this, lieutenant: they’ve fooled your heads,” Tarasov stood up decisively. - Let's go figure it out on the spot. We need to find out who set this up. Here, as I see it, not only the police, but even our Soviet medicine was misled.

5

Opposite house 84 on Chkalova Street there was an ambulance with the engine running. The driver was dozing peacefully in the ambulance cab. Near the house itself there were ten or twelve people standing and vigorously discussing something among themselves. Seeing the lieutenant approaching with the chief of the district police, they began vying with each other to ask:

Let us take a look at the stone woman. Why aren't they letting us in?

Not allowed. “Go and admire your stone women,” Tarasov joked angrily, “but there’s nothing to see here.”

People began to murmur, but did not disperse. Sergeant Kotin stood at the door of the house. Having saluted Tarasov, he managed to whisper to Melnikov:

Comrade Lieutenant, help is required. People are going crazy; they've already tried to climb in through the window.

An older, slightly overweight woman was sitting in the kitchen. It was the mistress of the house, Klavdia Petrovna Bolonkina. The doctor took her blood pressure. Seeing the lieutenant colonel enter, Bolonkina looked at him in fear with her eyes swollen from tears and immediately turned away. The doctor, having finished measuring her blood pressure, looked questioningly at the police chief.

Since the war, Tarasov has treated all medical workers with reverence, and therefore immediately hastened to politely introduce himself:

Head of the Leninsky district police department, Lieutenant Colonel Tarasov.

Kudinkina Tatyana Petrovna, an ambulance doctor,” getting up from the stool, the woman in turn introduced herself and, without waiting for questions from the police authorities, pointed her hand towards the door leading to the room, “come on, I’ll take you.” I advise you to prepare Validol...

She entered the room first, and Tarasov walked behind her. In one half of the room there was a table pushed against the wall with the remains of the festive dinner and open bottles of vodka and wine. In the other half, a girl in a simple dark blue woolen dress stood with her back to them. Her thick light brown hair fell in waves onto her shoulders, and Tarasov, not yet seeing the girl’s face, thought: “Probably a beauty.” He walked around her. The girl really turned out to be beautiful, but Tarasov was most struck by her look. Wide-open eyes were fixed on the icon she held in her hands. The look showed both fear and surprise at the same time.

Tarasov wanted to leave immediately, as if there was not enough air in the room, but he overpowered himself and asked:

“We can’t understand it ourselves,” the doctor responded immediately, and also quietly, as they usually try to speak in front of the dead. - Such general muscle spasms have never been observed in medical practice.

Why didn’t they take the icon out of their hands? - Tarasov himself didn’t notice how he switched to a whisper, as if afraid that the frozen girl would hear him.

We tried it. Did not work out. They wanted to take her to the hospital, but they couldn’t tear her off the floor, as if she was rooted to it.

How?

The doctor spread her hands:

Only God knows what.

What, do you believe in God?

The doctor didn’t answer.

Maybe some kind of glue is smeared on your feet and shoes? - Tarasov either asked or thought out loud. The doctor silently shrugged.

After standing for a minute, thinking about something, Tarasov turned sharply and left the room. Passing by the kitchen, he beckoned Melnikov with his hand to follow him.

That’s it, lieutenant,” Tarasov said when they went out into the hallway, “you stay here for now, I’ll send a replacement in the morning.” Don't let anyone into the house. Tell the hostess to stay temporarily with relatives, and I will call the authorities, let them figure out what to do with all this mysticism.

Priest Nikolai Agafonov

True stories. Stories

Approved for distribution by the Publishing Council of the Russian Orthodox Church IS 12-218-1567

© Nikolay Agafonov, priest, 2013

© Nikeya Publishing House, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

©The electronic version of the book was prepared by liters company (www.litres.ru)

Preface

The miraculous is always with us, but we do not notice it. It tries to speak to us, but we do not hear it, because we are deaf from the roar of a godless civilization. It walks next to us, breathing right down our necks. But we do not feel it, because our feelings have been dulled by the countless temptations of this age. It runs ahead and looks straight into our eyes, but we don’t see it. We are blinded by our false greatness - the greatness of a man who can move mountains without any faith, only with the help of soulless technical progress. And if we suddenly see or hear, we hasten to pass by, pretend that we didn’t notice or hear. After all, in the secret place of our being, we guess that, having accepted MIRACLE as the reality of our life, we will have to change our life. We must become restless in this world and holy fools for the rational ones of this world. And this is already scary or, on the contrary, so funny that you want to cry.

Archpriest Nikolai Agafonov

Killed while on duty

Non-criminal history

Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.

And when he’s finished with everyone, then he’ll say to us: “Come out,” he’ll say, “you too!” Come out drunk, come out weak, come out drunk!” And we will all go out without shame and stand. And he will say: “You pigs! The image of the beast and its seal; but come too!” And the wise will say, the wise will say: “Lord! Why do you accept these people?” And he will say: “That is why I accept them, the wise, because I accept them, the wise, because not one of these himself considered himself worthy of this...”

F. M. Dostoevsky. Crime and punishment

It was already ten o'clock in the evening when a sharp bell rang in the diocesan administration. Stepan Semyonovich, the night watchman, who had just laid down to rest, grumbled dissatisfiedly: “Who is this difficult one to wear?”, shuffling with worn-out house slippers, he trudged to the door. Without even asking who was calling, he shouted irritably, stopping in front of the door:

- There is no one here, come tomorrow morning!

– Urgent telegram, please accept and sign.

Having received the telegram, the watchman brought it to his closet, turned on the table lamp and, putting on his glasses, began to read: “On July 27, 1979, Archpriest Fyodor Mirolyubov died tragically in the line of duty, we are waiting for further instructions. Church Council of St. Nicholas Church of the village of Buzikhino.”

“The Kingdom of Heaven to God’s servant Father Fyodor,” Stepan Semyonovich said sympathetically and re-read the telegram out loud again. The wording was confusing: “He died in the line of duty...” This didn’t fit at all with the priestly rank.

“Well, there’s a policeman or a fireman, or at least a watchman, of course, God forbid, that’s understandable, but Father Fyodor?” – Stepan Semenovich shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.

He knew Father Fyodor well when he still served in the cathedral. Father differed from other clergy of the cathedral in his simplicity of communication and responsive heart, for which he was loved by the parishioners. Ten years ago, Fyodor’s father experienced great grief in his family - his only son Sergei was killed. This happened when Sergei was rushing home to please his parents with passing the exam for medical school, although Father Fedor dreamed that his son would study at the seminary.

“But since he chose the path not of a spiritual, but of a physical doctor, all the same - God grant him happiness... He will treat me in my old age,” Father Fyodor said to Stepan Semenovich when they were sitting over tea in the cathedral gatehouse. It was then that this terrible news caught them.

On the way from the institute, Sergei saw four guys beating a fifth guy right next to the bus stop. The women at the bus stop tried to reason with the hooligans by shouting, but they, not paying attention, kicked the already lying man. The men standing at the bus stop turned away in shame. Sergei, without hesitation, rushed to the rescue. The investigation found out who stabbed him with a knife only a month later. What good would it do, no one could return his son to Father Fyodor.

For forty days after the death of his son, Father Fedor served funeral masses and memorial services every day. And as forty days passed, they often began to notice Father Fyodor drunk. It happened that he came to the service drunk. But they tried not to reproach him, understanding his condition, they sympathized with him. However, this soon became increasingly difficult to do. The bishop several times transferred Father Fyodor to the position of psalm-reader to correct him from drinking wine. But one incident forced the bishop to take extreme measures and dismiss Father Fedor as a staff member.

Once, having received a month’s salary, Father Fyodor went into a glass shop, which was located not far from the cathedral. The regulars of this establishment treated the priest with respect, for out of his kindness he treated them at his own expense. That day was the anniversary of his son’s death, and Father Fyodor, throwing his entire salary on the counter, ordered everyone who wanted to be treated to food throughout the evening. The storm of delight that arose in the tavern resulted in a solemn procession at the end of the drinking session. A stretcher was brought from a nearby construction site, Father Fyodor was hoisted onto it and, declaring him the Great Pope of the Rumochnaya, they carried him home across the entire block. After this incident, Father Fedor ended up in exile. He was without ministry for two years before he was appointed to the Buzikha parish.

Stepan Semyonovich re-read the telegram for the third time and, sighing, began to dial the bishop’s home telephone number. Bishop Slava’s cell attendant answered the phone.

“His Eminence is busy, read the telegram to me, I’ll write it down and then pass it on.”

The contents of the telegram puzzled Slava no less than the watchman. He began to think: “To die tragically in our time is a couple of trifles, which happens quite often. For example, last year a protodeacon and his wife died in a car accident. But what do job responsibilities have to do with it? What might happen during a worship service? Probably these Buzikha people got something mixed up.”

Preface

There have always been priests involved in literary creativity. Our time is no exception. Father Nikolai Agafonov is one of these “authors in office.” In his works, he looks lovingly at the life of the Church, but he also depicts parish everyday life as filled with mystical beauty.

Nikolai Agafonov was born in the Ural village of Usva in 1955. School, army - and here he is a student at the Moscow Theological Seminary, where he entered in 1976. In 1977 he became a deacon, in 1979 - a priest. 1992 – graduation from the Leningrad Theological Academy and the position of rector of the Saratov Theological Seminary, which he starts from scratch under the leadership of Archbishop Pimen (Khmelevsky). In 1995–1996, priest Nikolai Agafonov served in the Church of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God in the village. Vyazovka, Tatishchevsky district, Saratov region. Then - in the Penza region, in Volgograd and Kuznetsk.

Currently, Father Nikolai serves in the Samara diocese (rector of the Church of the Holy Myrrh-Bearing Women of Samara) and is a teacher of basic theology at the Samara Theological Seminary.

Probably, the simple, transparent (some may even seem naive) language of Fr. comes directly from such a “simple” biography. Nikolai Agafonov (by the way, a member of the Union of Writers of Russia). His stories are devoid of the “painful” search for philosophical truth, the paths of the heroes are clear. Confessors and martyrs for the faith, simply people who have connected their lives with the Church, do not try to justify their choice.

This is probably what prompts the author of the book to choose his subjects. The hero of the story “Red Baptism” Stepan, immersed in the patriarchal, Orthodox way of pre-revolutionary Russia, cannot accept the renunciation of Christ, which revolutionary times require of him. His fate merges with the fates of those who remained faithful to the truth, faith, God, just as the blood of the monks killed by the Red Army merges together: “Soon the ringing stopped as suddenly as it began. The impact of a falling body was heard. The monks turned around and saw the bell ringer Jerome thrown from the bell tower. The blood flowing from his broken head flowed in a stream along the hollows of the stone slabs and, meeting with a stream of blood flowing from the murdered abbot, united and formed a puddle, which widened and grew before Stepan’s eyes.”

The simplicity of the confession of faith suggests that not only the Orthodox and not only the Christian can testify to God. In the story “The Light of the Golden Moon,” a Muslim, a Chechen, fighting against federal troops testifies to God. However, he fights because after the death of his wife he had no interest in this life. He talks about the war: “Sometimes it seems to me that people fight because they cannot truly love. Anyone who truly loves can no longer hate other people.

Do you think I went to war to avenge my wife and children? Who should I take revenge on? To take revenge on the entire Russian people? But my wife is also Russian. So, take revenge on her, the one you love more than life itself.” It is love and faith, as its source, that force the Chechen militant to help escape from Russian captivity. In his faith, a non-Believer acts in accordance with the Gospel principle “faith without works is dead.”

However, a significant place is also allocated in the story for the Orthodox companions of the Muslim. Soldier Sergei refuses to convert to Islam and renounce Christ in order to save his life, Patriev, a former orphanage resident, sacrifices himself, and Gavrilov discovers prayer.

This book also contains stories and sketches of parish life. Here are two bishops, classmates and friends, confessing to each other their cowardice towards a third friend, a priest, whose fate they could have eased, but did not. There is a specific bishop's humor here. One of the bishops working in the DECR, saying goodbye, says: “...Have you never seen the Ethiopian bishops dance to the drum? “No,” answered the puzzled Father Nikolai. “You are a happy person, although, by the way, this is a curious sight.”

The mystical experience of parish life is recorded in the story “The Holy Fool.”

What does faith benefit a person? Why church life? The answer is given in the story. The hero of the story “Tea of ​​the Resurrection of the Dead,” stove maker Nikolai Ivanovich, answers these questions this way: “Where have I been.

It seems like I’ve been everywhere and experienced everything. But I understood one thing: it is always good for a person to live with God. Any troubles are not terrible with Him..."

The main thing is what captivates the stories of Fr. Nicholas, with his sincerity and lively, direct perception of the world around him. Only a person who loves and appreciates life is able to see its colors and capture them in words.

Dmitry Daibov

Stories

Red baptism
Film story

1

From a bird's eye view you can see the picturesque surroundings of a small monastery. The whitewashed walls of the monastery fence among the green fields and copses do not spoil the pictures of nature, but only emphasize how harmoniously the creation of human hands fits into the universe of God. The rays of the early morning sun are already glistening on the gilded domes of the majestic cathedral. The small, clean, stone-paved courtyard between the cathedral and the fraternal building is empty. Only near the monastery gate, on a bench, sits the gatekeeper - monk Tikhon. It seems to be dozing, but this is a deceptive impression. If you look closely, you can see how his old, bony hand slowly fingers his rosary, and his lips under his lush gray mustache barely move, silently pronouncing the words of prayer.

Suddenly the silence of the morning is broken by the roar of an artillery gun. The old man shudders and, opening his eyes, looks at the sky in bewilderment. Rare fluffy clouds float serenely across the endless azure. Everything is calm, and Tikhon closes his eyes again, and the hand, which had been frozen, again begins to slowly finger the rosary with the usual movement of its fingers.

2

In a birch forest at the edge of a field, red cavalrymen hold harnessed horses by the bridle. Their faces are worried. They peer intensely through the sparse tree trunks, then glance at their commander, Artem Krutov, who is quietly smoking, carelessly glancing at a bird perched on a birch branch.

A loud “hurray” is heard. The bird took off from the branch and flew away. Krutov looked at her and smiled at something. To the right of the copse, chains of Red Army soldiers rise and rush forward with rifles at the ready.

The cavalrymen nervously shift from foot to foot and cast questioning glances at Krutov: they say, isn’t it time for us? But he continues to calmly smoke a cigarette.

At the other end of the field, in front of the gun crew of a field gun, a warrant officer stands and shouts:

- Load it with shrapnel!

A cannon shot thinned out the ranks of the Reds, but did not stop them. He stitched up the machine gun. The Reds lay down. Then the whites rose to attack.

Krutov, throwing away the cigarette, brought the binoculars to his eyes and grinned. Putting down his binoculars, he turned to his Red Army men and winked cheerfully. His face seemed to be transformed, there was no longer the former serenity in it, and a devil of excitement sparkled in his eyes.

- Well, guys, are you stagnant? On the horses! Let's give the white bastard some pepper!

Deftly inserting his foot into the stirrup, he easily jumps into the saddle. The Red Army soldiers do the same almost simultaneously with the commander. Krutov’s hand rests on the hilt of the saber, and in the silence of the forest the ominous sound of a blade being drawn from its sheath is heard.

“Vvzhzhik,” Krutov’s saber sang, and this song of metal was picked up by more than a hundred sabers.

- Behind me! - Krutov yells wildly and, plunging his spurs into his horse, jumps out of the forest, dragging the fighters with him.

The red cavalry, scattering across the field at a gait, rushed towards the white infantry. But then Krutov, out of the corner of his eye, noticed the white cavalry jumping out from behind the ravine. Without slowing down his horse, he pulled the reins to the left, and the Red Army soldiers rushed after him. The Red cavalry, bending in a huge arc, carries out a complex maneuver and, at full gallop, crashes into the White cavalry squadron. The bloody slaughter began.

Explosions, shots, swearing and groans of the wounded are carried away into the bottomless, seemingly imperturbable, indifferent sky...

3

The quiet but solemn singing of the male monastic choir filled the soul with calmness and peace. Stepan, a seventeen-year-old youth in a novice's cassock, stood on the choir among the monks, looking first at the notes, then at the regent, and diligently played his tenor part.

The rector of the monastery, Archimandrite Tavrion, stepped into the pulpit. Leaning on his staff, he looked around the silent brethren with an attentive, deep gaze with sadness. Now, in complete silence, the temple is deaf, but the sound of gunfire can still be heard. After a pause, he began his sermon:

“My brothers, here in the temple the peaceful, bloodless sacrifice of Christ is offered, and outside the walls of the monastery human blood is shed in a fratricidal war.

The abbot's eyes became stern and sparkled with anger, and he continued:

– Now the prophetic words of Scripture are coming true: “Brother will betray brother to death, and father son; and the children will rise up against their parents and kill them.” 1
Gospel of Matthew 10:21.

Stepan looked at Father Tavrion with emotion and recalled the day when he first arrived at the monastery with his parents.

4

Here they are all sitting at a semicircular table in the abbot’s chambers. Father Tavrion in a simple cassock and black bench 2
Pointed black or purple velvet hat worn by Orthodox clergy and monks.

He himself eats almost nothing, but tries to treat the guests, gently teasing them. On his right hand sits Stepan’s father, Lieutenant Nikolai Trofimovich Korneev. He is in a field officer's uniform and also tries to joke, supporting Father Tavrion. Stepan's mom -

Anna Semyonovna is forced to smile at Father Tavrion’s jokes with some kind of forced smile. Sometimes her big brown eyes, full of love and tenderness, focus on her son, and then they are filled with sadness. Stepan, wearing a school uniform, sits opposite Tavrion’s father and blithely eats fried pike perch, listening to the conversation of his elders.

- So what happens, Nikolai Trofimovich, you came from one war and are going to another? Aren't you tired of fighting? – Father Tavrion asks Korneev with a hint of irony.

“I’m tired, Father Tavrion, of course he’s tired,” Korneev answers with a heavy sigh. “And I can’t stand aside when the fatherland is tormented by adversaries.”

– You deigned to express yourself correctly, Nikolai Trofimovich. They are adversaries, if they raised their hand to the sacred,” Father Tavrion nods his head approvingly, and then turns to Anna Semyonovna:

- Well, little sister, why are you going to war? Is this a woman's business? Who will you leave Styopka with? He needs parental supervision.

Anna Semyonovna affectionately pats her son on the head:

“He’s already independent with us,” and turns his gaze to Father Tavrion. - Don’t blame me, father, we want to ask you to shelter your nephew. Nikolai and I will be at peace, and he always dreamed of a monastery. As for me, I took a course in nurses...

Tavrion looked at Stepan carefully. He, embarrassed, lowered his gaze.

“I see that this boy is of our kind, monastic,” Father Tavrion said thoughtfully and immediately added, turning to Anna Semyonovna: “You, sister, don’t worry about your son, he will be under my personal supervision.”

5

Waking up from his memories, Stepan whispered: “Lord, save my parents, warrior Nikolai and Anna.”

Father Tavrion meanwhile continued:

– For sins and deviations from the faith, the Lord allowed the devil to entice the people with false promises of heavenly life on earth. But where sin reigns, there cannot be heavenly bliss. A person who renounces God will only increase his sorrows. Pray, brothers, for the hour of our trial is near. And remember that only those who endure to the end will be saved 3
Matthew 10:21-22: “Brother will deliver brother to death, and father son; and children will rise up against their parents and kill them; and you will be hated by everyone because of My name; he who endures to the end will be saved.”

Amen.

6

There was a knock at the monastery gate, and the gatekeeper Tikhon slowly hobbled towards the gate. Opening the small window, he looked out to see who was knocking. But then, with a gasp, he quickly began to open the gate. Two wounded officers literally burst into the monastery. The very young cornet was wounded in the arm, but with his other, healthy hand he supported the lieutenant with a bandaged head, who could barely stand on his feet.

“Help for Christ’s sake, the Reds are pursuing us,” the cornet addressed the gatekeeper in a pleading voice.

At this time, Father Tavrion came out of the temple with the brethren of the monastery. Tikhon hastily hobbled towards the abbot and, approaching, whispered something in his ear. The head of the wounded lieutenant hung limply down, so that his face was not visible. Stepan looked closely at the officer, and his excitement increased. At some point it seemed to him that it was his father. Unable to bear it, he ran screaming towards the wounded lieutenant:

The lieutenant raised his head with an effort and looked in bewilderment at Stepan running up to him. Seeing the officer’s face, the young man stopped in confusion. The lieutenant, realizing that the boy had simply made a mistake, smiled encouragingly at Stepan.

Listening to the gatekeeper, Father Tavrion looked at the officers with anxiety and compassion. At this time there was loud drumming at the gates of the monastery.

- Open the gate, quickly! Otherwise we'll blow everything to hell.

“Father cellarer,” the abbot addressed one of the monks, “quickly take away and hide the wounded.” - Then, turning to the gatekeeper, he ordered: - Go, Tikhon, open the door, but don’t rush.

7

Red cavalrymen led by Krutov appeared at the open gates of the monastery. Behind them walked a detachment of Latvian riflemen. Father Tavrion looked at them silently. Krutov pointed his horse straight at the abbot, apparently deciding to intimidate the monk. But he didn’t even move. Krutov reined in his horse right in front of Father Tavrion and looked at the monk with interest. Then he silently drove around him and shouted cheerfully, not addressing anyone in particular:

- Well, holy saints of God, admit it, where did the gold chasers go? A? Why are you silent?

At this time, a chaise drawn by a pair of horses rolled into the monastery. Regimental Commissar Ilya Solomonovich Kogan was lounging on the chaise in a careless pose. The chaise stopped, the commissar slowly took out his handkerchief and just as leisurely wiped his pince-nez, and then got off the chaise and headed towards Krutov and the monks.

“Well, you, with a stick,” Krutov addressed specifically to Father Tavrion, who was leaning on his staff and looking straight at him. - Why are you scowling like a mouse at a rump? Your time has passed to frighten people with heavenly punishment. Now we will frighten you with earthly punishment, and this will be much more specific. - And he laughed, pleased with himself, looked at Kogan: they say, this is what I am, admire, comrade commissar.

Father Tavrion's eyes sparkled with anger, but he, looking down, barely restraining himself, with dignity, clearly separating the words, said:

-What do you want from us? Will you bother to explain by what right you are breaking into the abode of God?

Krutov raised his eyebrows in feigned amazement, turned to his soldiers and winked. They laughed, only Kogan remained silently disgusted:

Father Tavrion raised a stern look at Krutov and calmly replied:

- I didn’t see anyone. Please leave our monastery now.

Krutov was about to respond to these daring words of the abbot, but then the commissar unexpectedly intervened:

“It seems to me, Comrade Krutov, that something has happened to his Reverend’s eyesight.” But we will correct his vision.

“But you’re right, Comrade Kogan, if a person does not see the enemies of the revolution, then he is either blind or the same enemy himself.” I, your mother, - Krutov suddenly shouted, - will turn the whole monastery inside out and find the gold chasers.

At these words, he jumped off his horse and grabbed the Mauser from his holster.

- Petrov, Afanasyev, Sobakin, search the temple. And you three are with me. Guard the monks so that not a single one moves. If we find officers, we will put the entire monastic counter against the wall.

And Krutov quickly walked towards the fraternal building. The commissar continued to look at the abbot with disgust.

- So you didn’t see it? Teeth! - he called his driver, a wobbling, cheeky guy, clearly of a criminal appearance.

When Zubov approached, Kogan leaned towards his ear and whispered something. He grinned mockingly and nodded to Kogan:

“Now, Comrade Commissar, I’ll straighten his chin in no time.”

He pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and, playing with it, approached Father Tavrion. The abbot, without flinching, looked straight into Zubov’s face. He was somewhat confused by the monk’s straightforward gaze.

“Why the hell did you hatch the zenki,” he hissed and, walking around the archimandrite, stood behind him.

Zubov blinked at two Latvians, and they approached him.

– Hold this bastard’s hands, and hold him tightly.

The abbot tried to pull his hands away, but the arrows, snatching the staff from him and throwing it aside, firmly grabbed Father Tavrion from both sides by the arms above the elbows. Zubov dropped the abbot to his knees with a chop and grabbed his chin with one hand. At the same time, the archimandrite’s hood slid to one side and then completely fell to the ground. Zubov, throwing the monk’s head back, quickly pierced one of his eyes with a knife. Father Tavrion, screaming wildly, snatched the Latvian’s hand away, grabbing his eye.

“A-ah-ah...” Father Tavrion groaned, shaking his head from side to side, “what are you doing, cursed Herods?”

The monks gasped at the sight of such cruelty and leaned forward. But Latvian riflemen with rifles at the ready pushed them back to the wall of the building and took them into a tight cordon. Stepan screamed, but the monk Gabriel standing next to him grabbed his mouth with his hand and pressed him to himself. Tears poured from Stepan’s wide open eyes onto Gabriel’s hand.

“Hush, Styopka, hush,” whispered the monk. “Now, boy, it’s our turn.” Pray.

But Stepan could not pray; silent horror froze in his eyes.

- Well, now, monk, answer: did you see the officers? – Kogan asked his question.

- No, monsters, no, I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t see it, adversaries.

“And you, Zubov, did not treat the man enough,” Kogan grinned, “you see, he says that he did not see.”

- How come, haven’t you seen it? After all, the bastard lies and doesn’t blush,” Zubov grinned and took out the knife again. – Now, Comrade Kogan, we will correct this.

At these words, the Red Army soldiers again grabbed the abbot tightly by the hands.

The cellarer of the monastery, Father Pachomius, shouted:

-What are you doing, you damned ones! There is no cross for you!

He tried to break through the cordon of soldiers, but he was immediately knocked down with the butt of a rifle and, having been hit several times, was again forced into the crowd of monks. Meanwhile, Zubov approached Father Tavrion and pierced his second eye. The Red Army soldiers released the hands of the blinded father Tavrion. Bloody tears flowed from the abbot's empty eye sockets. He raised his hands to the sky and cried:

“I see, now I see,” he shouts.

Everyone, including the monks, looked at each other in horror and surprise.

“I finally saw the light,” Kogan grins contentedly, “I told you that my vision can be corrected.”

- ABOUT! Miracle! – not paying attention to the commissar’s sarcasm, Father Tavrion exclaimed. – I see the sky open and the Lord with the Angels and all the saints! I thank You, Lord, for having deprived me of earthly sight, I opened my spiritual eyes to see the glory...

Father Tavrion did not have time to finish. The commissar's face twisted, and he, snatching a revolver from his holster, shot at the abbot. The archimandrite, shuddering with his whole body, fell face down on the stone-paved monastery square. At this time Krutov returned. Looking at the murdered archimandrite, he shook his head. Suddenly a bell rang. The monks crossed themselves fervently. Stepan saw scarlet blood spreading over the white stones near the murdered father Tavrion. He began to feel chills.

“Stop the ringing now,” Kogan literally screamed.

Two fighters rushed towards the open church doors. Soon the ringing stopped as suddenly as it had started. The impact of a falling body was heard. The monks turned around and saw the bell ringer Jerome thrown from the bell tower. The blood flowing from his broken head flowed in a stream along the hollows of the stone slabs and, meeting with a stream of blood flowing from the murdered abbot, united and formed a puddle, which widened and grew before Stepan’s eyes. Everything before his eyes turned red. Stepan began to fall onto his side. Monk Gabriel hit him lightly on the cheeks and whispered:

- Styopka, wake up. Wake up, for Christ's sake.

Stepan opened his eyes and looked blankly at Gabriel.

At this time, wounded officers came out from around the corner of the cathedral, limping and supporting each other. They stopped and leaned exhausted against the wall of the cathedral. The lieutenant, raising his head with an effort, looked around the Red Army soldiers with a heavy gaze and, stopping at Krutov, said in a hoarse voice:

– Stop mocking unarmed monks, you need us, so take us.

8

While everyone was looking at the officers leaving, Monk Gabriel quickly bent down to Stepan and whispered:

- Here's the key to the basement, run away from the monastery, save yourself.

He pointed him to a small window - an outlet leading to the semi-basement of the fraternal building, near which they stood. Stepan shook his head in indecision.

“Go ahead, whoever they tell you, before it’s too late,” the monk whispered with irritation.

Stepan looked fearfully at the window, then at Father Gabriel.

“Run, Stepka,” Gabriel whispered pleadingly, pushing Stepan to the window.

Bending down, Stepan stuck his head out the window and climbed. The monks crowded closer to the window to cover Stepan’s escape from the Red Army. Stepan barely managed to squeeze through the window and fall onto the basement floor when the Red Army soldiers led the monks into the depths of the monastery courtyard.