Ordinary Wonders Read online

  Printed with the blessing of His Eminence, Metropolitan Hilarion, First Hierarch of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia

  Ordinary Wonders: Stories of Unexpected Grace

  © 2018 Holy Trinity Monastery

  Cover Design: James Bozeman

  Cover Art: Watercolor by Archimandrite Cyprian (Pyzhov)

  Originally published in Russian by

  Sretensky Monastery Publications, Moscow, 2015

  ISBN: 978–0-88465–423–0 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978–0-88465–466–7 (ePub)

  ISBN: 978–0-88465–467–4 (Mobipocket)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933774

  The publication was effected under the auspices of the Mikhail Prokhorov Foundation TRANSCRIPT Programme to Support Translations of Russian Literature.

  Scripture passages taken from the New King James Version.

  Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission.

  Deuterocanonical passages taken from the Orthodox Study Bible.

  Copyright © 2008 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission.

  Psalms taken from A Psalter for Prayer, trans. David James

  (Jordanville, N.Y.: Holy Trinity Publications, 2011).

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  In Lieu of an Introduction

  The Conjuror of Rain

  The New Nicodemus

  Confusion

  Two or Three Days

  Flowers for the Shroud

  Monk Leonid

  Another Source

  How I Battled the Gypsies

  Non-Komsomol Gingerbread

  At Blessed Xenia’s

  The Hunger Striker

  “A Little Piece of Wood”

  The Gypsy

  Martyr Tryphon

  Criss-Cross

  The Queen’s Pendants

  Embrace

  About Love

  “You Do Not Know What You Ask” (Mk 10:38)

  Wishes Come True

  More Than Enough or Nothing Extra

  Come and See

  Bring Back My Husband

  The Apple of My Eye

  The Thrill-Seeker

  An Experiment

  Quid Pro Quo

  Temptation

  Confession to the Prison Guard

  One Wave after Another

  The Sound of Trumpets

  “Our Boys” and “the Germans”

  Five Months of Love

  Mysteries beyond the Grave

  Augustine

  The Lord Gave and the Lord Took Away

  Halvah

  The Deceitful Onion Bulb

  How I Lost My Voice

  Money for Sabaoth

  Kalliping

  Good Material for a Television Series

  A Blessing to Smuggle

  Payback

  The Delusional One

  How the Vatican Shod Our Bishops

  The Little Cloud

  Sokratis

  The Late Husband of Mother Seraphima

  The Angel

  Heavenly Fire

  Corfu

  Appendix: A Short Reflection on Miracles

  Notes

  In Lieu of an Introduction

  I understand that it may be considered indelicate, if not impertinent or even a sign of spiritual delusion, to relate miraculous stories of events that happened to you or your friends … I know many wonderful people who lead spiritually rich lives and who are wary of speaking about miracles that occurred in their own lives, considering this a very personal and intimate subject.

  Nevertheless, having weighed the “pros and cons,” I will take that risk, for any stories that witness to the workings of providence in the world and in the human soul, to the mercy of our God and Saviour, to the fact that “where God wills, the order of nature is overruled” are comforting, joyful, and spiritually uplifting.

  Such moments are revealed to an individual within the Church, which keeps and manifests the “mysteries of the heavenly kingdom” in the form of its sacraments, services, and prayers. But occasionally, this also occurs in love, in the sense of approaching death, in the moment of making a moral choice, in rejoicing, in sorrow; it happens especially when the individual, turning to God, begins to see with believing eyes, if only a little, if only nearsightedly, if only “in a mirror, dimly” (1 Cor 13:12), feeling their inviolable connection to the Creator of all, asking divine providence for help and answers, and receiving them in the end. In this manner, the entire life of a believing person becomes a continuously unfolding miracle, the reading of astonishing works, of which, of course, they understand far from everything, only partly, a little bit, only just …

  Each time, even in the seemingly least significant instance, this is a manifestation of the glory of God. Sometimes it’s impossible to express this in human language, for it is indescribable. Sometimes it’s directed at you individually, and if you attempt to relate it to someone in fear, wonder, and trembling, your confidant may not understand you: what is really so miraculous about that?

  Thus, I once arrived at the Lavra1 to see the elder Archimandrite Kirill. I was afflicted with a terrible problem—insomnia. At night I would fall asleep, at best for an hour and a half, when suddenly I would be woken as if by an internal shock, after which, in spite of my overwhelming fatigue, I couldn’t close my eyes any more. This continued for almost two years. In addition, I also stopped eating.

  Emaciated and distraught in my infirmity, I finally presented myself to Fr Kirill. He listened to me attentively—gentle, loving, and compassionate as always—gave me a box of candy, and said:

  “You need rest …”

  “Father, what rest? How am I supposed to get it? I have a large family, and so many cares, fears, passions, things to do, all the hustle and bustle …”

  “You need rest,” repeated Fr Kirill. “Go right now and venerate St Sergius …”

  I left his cell in disbelief.

  “Rest, indeed,” I thought, “easy for him to say! And how am I supposed to get it? Lord, I’m perishing!”

  With these thoughts I went inside the Church of the Holy Trinity.

  At that very moment, the priest had begun to read the Gospel—an excerpt with which I was, of course, not only familiar, but which I also knew by heart. I froze in my tracks in the entryway.

  “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Mt 11:28).

  The word “rest” struck me in the heart and filled it with rest. A word that I had heard many times suddenly became a living word, having as it were its own existence, containing reality, a word of healing, a word addressed personally to me.

  It would be ungrateful of me to forget this word or to pay it no attention.

  “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill.”

  But there are also stories from church life that are amusing, awkward, even humorous. These are sometimes told by monks, priests, or parishioners to one another … And why not smile in response to hearing them?

  There is a story in an old patericon2 about a father—an ascetic who led a holy life—who occasionally joked or laughed about something with his students.

  People asked him, “How can you do that?”

  And he replied, “If you tighten a bowstring too much, it can snap from the pressure. So you must loosen it from time to time.”

  Many names and titles in theses stories are true, but others have been changed: in such cases the names are of no consequence to the reader, while the true heroes of the stories are thus protected from curious eyes.

  To everything that has taken place and been recorded here, there is
nothing to add except: O Lord, glory to Thee!

  The Conjurer of Rain

  The following story is often told about Archimandrite Seraphim (Tiapochkin).

  Archimandrite Seraphim served in the village of Rakitnoe, Belgorod Region. The Church authorities had sent him there after many years spent in concentration camps, which changed him so much that he was unrecognizable in appearance. When he returned home to his native Dnepropetrovsk, his own mother didn’t recognize him.

  When he arrived there, the church in Rakitnoe was in deplorable condition: suffice it to say that there was an enormous hole in the dome, and the snow fell onto the altar and table of oblation when Fr Seraphim performed the Liturgy.

  However, through his ascetic labors, his prayers, and God’s help, church life in the village began to revive, and soon the repaired and restored church was filled with parishioners and pilgrims from all ends of the earth, who came because of their respect for Fr Seraphim as an elder.

  There are many stories of the miraculous power of his prayers, of his sanctity, prophetic second sight, compassion, and love. He healed incurable diseases, comforted the despairing, converted the unbelieving to faith in God, banished demons …

  His service took place during the times of the godless authorities, who, upon seeing how the monastery flourished with multitudes of people, placed all sorts of obstacles between him, his clergy, and the people visiting them: sometimes the police would detain them, or train local hoodlums to frighten them where it was deemed necessary.

  He was persecuted by both local agents and authorities, who barraged him with all the strength of their ideological forces; the attacks of the secretary of the Regional Committee, however, were especially zealous. All this Fr Seraphim bore good-naturedly. When one of his parishioners would begin to talk to him about the godless Soviet authorities, the elder would softly reply:

  “God allows it to be so. Let’s talk about spiritual things instead …”

  And so, in the summer of 1972, I think it was, the country was seized by a long and terrible heat wave and drought. There was no rain for more than a month, everything was burning, and the crops were perishing. The secretary of the Regional Committee faced not only a strict reprimand, but a complete removal from his position, which he greatly feared.

  And so, one stiflingly hot night, Fr Seraphim heard someone knocking on the door of his priestly abode. He opened the door, and there stood the secretary of the Regional Committee, trembling, holding his finger to his lips, as if to urge him to keep quiet, “Sh!”

  “Comrade Fr Seraphim, I’m here in secret on a highly important government matter.”

  Fr Seraphim let him in and the secretary of the Regional Committee continued to speak, so haltingly and beseechingly!

  “Holy father, the drought, our crops are perishing! Pray for the rain to come!” He even clumsily bowed low in front of the priest.

  The following morning after Liturgy, Fr Seraphim arranged a large procession to the fields, where he served a moleben (a service of intercession) and blessing of the waters, asking the Lord not to destroy the crops and to preserve the harvest.

  He had only just crossed the threshold of his little house when clouds began to gather in the sky and large raindrops starting pouring down.

  The rain fell all day and all night, then another day and night, then one week, then two. The husks began to grow black from the water, but the rain never stopped. It kept knocking on the roofs the whole night through. At this rate, the entire harvest could rot, and for that the secretary of the Regional Committee would surely be driven from his place with a filthy broom.

  And so, once more, one night there came a knock at Fr Seraphim’s door.

  Once again, there stood the figure of the secretary, drenched and wretched.

  “Fr Seraphim, thank you, of course, for your efforts, for the rain, but how do you think we can stop it now, eh? I mean, it’s enough, so to speak, thank God! Maybe you can send another signal up there, for the sun to shine out, so that we could have time to gather the harvest, cut the grass, dry out the husks? Put in a good word for us!”

  The next morning after Liturgy, Fr Seraphim served a moleben, and the sun came out in the sky, the puddles dried up, and bright, temperate weather came to stay.

  The New Nicodemus

  All those licensed officials in religious affairs who were given such power during the Soviet times warrant their own separate story. Sometimes the fate of a priest or parish lay entirely in their hands; they had the authority not to give a godly priest his registration papers at all, or to take them away, leaving him without a church, twixt the heavens and the earth, or to merely blackmail him by threatening to do so. Most of the time, the experienced priests, proficient in matters of the human soul, knew how to deal with them: they knew that they were easily swayed by money or drink; they were greedy, materialistic, and as a rule, easy to buy off or to ply with alcohol. Among the church folk they were called “liquored officials” …

  Fr Anatolii, however, a village priest with a large family, the spiritual son of Archimandrite Seraphim, who had also suffered much at the hands of his area’s licensed official, converted the official to the Faith in the end. This is how it happened.

  The licensed official that Fr Anatolii got stuck with was highly dedicated, aggressive, a true thorn in his side: he would constantly go out of his way to play some dirty trick on priests. And so he established the following pattern: as soon as a godly priest, assigned to a new parish, would settle in to his new place and the parishioners would become comfortable with him, as soon as his children would start attending school, as soon as he would finish remodeling his porch or plant his vegetable garden, the official would immediately transfer him to another village in the very opposite corner of the diocese. Officially, he would complain that the priest was conducting anti-Soviet agitation in his church. But for such a serious accusation, claiming the priest’s participation in criminal activity, solid evidence was required. And so from the beginning this official would drop by during the sermon, trying to catch the priest saying something compromising, and then, as if he was himself scared of something, he would send in his secret informants with the same aim. Giving them instructions during one of his briefings, he uttered a phrase that took on a life of its own: “You must listen carefully to everything around you, but don’t go into the actual church too often or for too long, or it will suck you in!”

  In short, having failed to collect any proof against this Fr Anatolii, he still gave him and his nine children their share of troubles, tossing them around from village to village, from one community to another.

  Then one day he got another idea: there were new epidemics constantly springing up all over the country—whether of the flu, measles, or cholera. And so he commissioned a local artist to make a descriptive poster depicting an obese priest with a villainous, reddish-purple face standing with the chalice and communing malnourished old women. And on the chalice he ordered the artist to write: “flu epidemic” or “cholera epidemic.” The old women, walking away from the priest, all stumble and fall on top of each other dead.

  The licensed official hung these posters all over the place—at the train station, at the clinic, in his own office—and summoned Fr Anatolii to him.

  “There, Anatolii Vasilievich, have a look at that,” he spoke to him using the secular form of address of name and patronymic. “There’s a countrywide epidemic, and you’re spreading the disease by putting the same spoon in everyone’s mouth. You can’t do that. It’s not sanitary! I should forbid you to give communion at this time! I should alert the Sanitary Epidemiological Services!”

  “But we give communion for the healing of soul and body,” Fr Anatolii began, but the licensed official repeated:

  “Forbid it!”

  Fr Anatolii looked at that vulgar scribble of a poster, sighed, examined the miserable-looking figure of the licensed official and that rotten little face of his, and said sympathetically:


  “I think that way sometimes too—I have all sorts come to me for communion. They have tuberculosis, cancer, hepatitis, who knows what else. And when they’ve all communed, I consume whatever is left in the chalice. Then I lick the spoon clean after them. And so all that—the tuberculosis bacilli, the viruses, the infections—I guess they all end up inside me …”

  The licensed official happily nodded his head:

  “There you go! You are a spreader of infection!”

  “All of this is inside me,” mused Fr Anatolii, “and yet look at me!”

  With these words he drew himself up to his full height before the licensed official. And what a figure—over six feet tall, his shoulders a full fathom wide, his face smooth, tight, and rosy—the picture of health and beauty. Teeth straight and white like sugar, and his hair—next to the bald licensed official—like a magnificent mane, with large curls waving, and his eyes piercing bright like two falcons … In short, Fr Anatolii was a very handsome man! A noble warrior!

  The official representative looked and looked at him from the bottom up, and completely lost heart.

  Fr Anatolii left him and busied himself with his affairs: service to God, his flock, his children, his matushka1 …

  Half a year later, the licensed official appeared at his doorstep, all yellow, shriveled, dried up, like grass in the field. He looked at the blooming priest—healthy and attractive—with dull eyes:

  “Cancer,” he said, “I’ve been diagnosed. Tumors. Bless me, Fr Anatolii, and then let me have a little bit from that miraculous chalice of yours, out of which you yourself commune. Only do it in secret. I’m a Party member. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  Fr Anatolii blessed him, and the licensed official became a secret Christian, like Nicodemus from the Gospel. Similar to the official, he had been a member of the Sanhedrin. Nicodemus also came to Jesus at night, and when the time came, buried Him with his own hands, wrapping Him in linens soaked with sweet-smelling oils: aloes and myrrh.

  Confusion