Metr. Tikhon (Shevkunov), “Everyday Saints” (2011)

pskovcaves2 Pskov Caves Monastery.

Fallen Leaves wishes its readers, whoever they may be, a happy Orthodox Easter.

The written corpus of Orthodox tradition is rich in theology, homiletics, hymnography, and hagiography. But, in parallel, it has always contained a less formal strain as well — short stories about monks, saints, and miracles, told in simple but vivid language, often inspiring readers and listeners far more than the weighty matters discussed in Lossky’s Mystical Theology. Some of this material had the character of folktales, like the story of how St. John of Novgorod travelled to Jerusalem and returned on the same night by riding on the back of a captive demon, whom he had previously immobilized by making the sign of the Cross. But many of these tales originated within monastic communities and were preserved in collections such as the Evergetinos or the Patericons of various monasteries. Perhaps for that reason, their dogmatic soundness holds up to scrutiny (at least more so than the para-Christian literature of Western Europe, books of chivalry and the like), and they can reveal a philosophical depth that illuminates the teachings of the Church Fathers, bringing the audience to them rather than drawing them away.

Page numbers from the 2013 Sretensky edition.

Everyday Saints is a contemporary expression of precisely this tradition; it is a collection of short, loosely related, generally autobiographical sketches describing the author’s time as a novice in the Pskov Caves Monastery during the 1980s. From there, however, Fr. Tikhon quickly became a leading figure in the resurgent Russian Orthodox Church. After being appointed in 1995 as the head of the Sretensky Monastery in Moscow, he turned it into a hub of Orthodox activity by opening a seminary and a publishing house, as well as the Orthodox world’s most-visited Internet portal. He was also active in Church diplomacy, attending the talks that preceded ROC’s unification with ROCOR — in connection with these events, he visited the United States and prayed at the grave of Fr. Seraphim (Rose) — as well as in cultural matters, directing several documentaries and creating historically-themed museum exhibits. By 2013, he had caught the eye of Western journalists, one of whom wrote hyperbolically in the Financial Times that “Father Tikhon wields influence in the church far above his modest rank of Archimandrite, or abbot,” comparing him to “other historical churchmen in close proximity to the ear of state power[.]” In 2015, he was ordained a bishop, and in 2018 returned to the monastery of his youth as Metropolitan of Pskov. Just before then, in 2017, he had completed his greatest project at Sretensky — the construction of the Cathedral of the New Martyrs and Confessors of the Russian Church on the Lubyanka, dedicated to all the victims of anti-Christian persecution during the Soviet era, and standing just down the street from the headquarters of the former KGB. Ironically, four years earlier, the Financial Times writer (who was, of course, working a predetermined angle about “an awkward alliance of the church and its former persecutors“) had interpreted the lack of such a monument as proof that, “For Father Tikhon, the ravages directed at the church by the institution which to all intents and purposes governs Russia today are not something to dwell on… They are, like the stone cross in his cloister garden, there to be seen only if one is looking for it.” The new cathedral is sixty meters tall and dominates the surrounding architecture.

nalubyanke There to be seen only if one is looking for it.

But neither this nor any of Metr. Tikhon’s other public undertakings appears in Everyday Saints. The figure of the author only serves to connect the stories, many of which can be read independently, much like the monastic collections of centuries past. Another such connecting element is Pskov Caves itself — a venerable, but “no more than provincial” monastery that, by pure chance, turned out to be “the only monastery in Russia that had never closed, not even during the Soviet period, and therefore had preserved the precious succession of monastic life[.]” (Tikhon, 126-127) For many years, its survival was highly precarious, with no real foundation other than the principled stance of its Father Superior:

“One winter evening, several men in civilian clothes came into the office of Fr. Alipius and delivered an official resolution: the Pskov Caves Monastery was declared to be closed. The Father Superior was instructed to inform the brothers. Upon reading this document, Fr. Alipius threw it into the blazing fireplace before the officials’ eyes, and calmly explained to his shocked visitors: ‘I would rather be martyred than close the monastery.’ It should be said that the document that he burned was a resolution of the Soviet government, signed by N.S. Khruschev.”

(Tikhon, 190)

fralipius “The Lord does not love cowardice.” (191)

Prior to taking the tonsure, Fr. Alipius (Voronov) had fought in World War II, from Moscow all the way to Berlin, and had been decorated with the Order of the Red Star. “In those years, the brothers undoubtedly presented a unique display — over half of them were decorated veterans of the Great Patriotic War. The rest, also numerous, had gone through Stalin’s labor camps. Some of them had experienced both.” (Tikhon, 192) Perhaps his wartime record was what gave the Soviet officials pause, though, of course, the 1950s were a different time from the 1920s, and Khruschev was neither as feared nor as idolized as his predecessor. In any case, Fr. Alipius, like many of the monks described in Everyday Saints, had lived in both worlds, the material and the spiritual, and this dual knowledge was one source of his moral authority.

“One evening, when the monastery gates had long been closed, the frightened watchman came running to the Father Superior and told him that a group of drunken soldiers was attempting to break in. (It turned out that they were young officers from the Pskov Air Assault Division.) Despite the late hour, the lieutenants demanded that the gates be opened, that they be shown around the grounds and told where the priests are hiding all the nuns. The watchman told, with terror, that the drunken officers had already found a large log and, this very minute, were using it as a battering ram against the gates.

Fr. Alipius retired to his chamber and emerged wearing a military jacket, covered in rows of battle medals and decorations, which he had thrown over his habit. Wrapping himself in his mantle so that these regalia could not be seen, he ventured out to the Holy gates together with the watchman.

Already from a distance, the Father Superior heard that the monastery was under serious assault. Approaching, he ordered the watchman to unfasten all the bolts. A moment later, a crowd of about ten lieutenants, flush with heat, flew inside the sanctuary. They gathered menacingly around the old monk in the black mantle… Fr. Alipius listened with head bowed. Then he lifted his gaze and threw off the mantle… The lieutenants suddenly stood at attention, dumbstruck. Fr. Alipius sternly looked them over and demanded the closest-standing officer’s cap. He obediently surrendered it to the monk. Fr. Alipius found the officer’s surname, written in ink on the inside of the brim as it should have been, and, turning around silently, went back to his chamber.

The lieutenants, now sober, trudged along after him, muttering apologies and asking for the cap to be returned. The young men had begun to imagine the serious unpleasantness that awaited them. But Fr. Alipius did not answer. In this way, the officers reached the Father Superior’s house and stood there indecisively. The Father Superior opened the door and gestured for them to come inside.

That night he stayed with them very late into the night. He hosted them as only the Great Superior could. He personally led them around the monastery, showing them the ancient shrines and telling them about the past and the marvelous present of the sanctuary. Finally, he embraced each of them as a father, and gave to them generously. They tried to refuse in their embarrassment, but Fr. Alipius said that this money, gathered by their own grandparents and mothers, would be of especial use to them.”

(Tikhon, 205-207)

fralipius2 Fr. Alipius also had an education in the fine arts,
and was known as an icon painter.

This passage exemplifies the overall tone of Everyday Saints, which combines wry humor and deep reverence, often in the same story. It is an inspired marriage of two genres: the seasoned old man telling tall tales around the campfire, and the Byzantine monk giving a sermon or reading from the Church Fathers. The light-heartedness of the former hardly diminishes the gravity of the latter; if anything, it adds to its sense of timelessness.

“Before the revolution, somewhere in the heart of Russia there was a monastery with a bad reputation. It was often said that the monks who lived there were all slothful drunkards. During the Civil War, the Bolsheviks came to the town near the monastery. They gathered the townsfolk in the marketplace and brought the monks there under armed escort.

The commissar loudly addressed the people, pointing at the monks in their black habits:

‘Citizens, residents of the town! You know very well these gluttons, these drunkards and idlers! Now we have put an end to their power. But, to make sure that you fully understand how these liars and parasites managed to deceive the working people for all these years, we will put their Cross and their Gospel here on the ground in front of them. Now, before your eyes, each one of them will tread with his feet upon these tools of deceit and enslavement. And then we will let them go, anywhere they want.’

The crowd laughed uproariously. And then, to the sound of their jeers, the abbot stepped forward — a heavy man with a meaty face, worn out from drunkenness — and addressed his monks:

‘Well then, brothers… We lived like pigs, so let’s at least die like Christians!’

And not one of the monks moved from where he stood. They were all cut down with sabers on that same day.”

(Tikhon, 287)

The Kalyazin Bell Tower. The surrounding town
was flooded in 1939 to form a reservoir.

Human weakness is very much present in the monastic world. Metr. Tikhon’s personal reminiscences are rich in irony: “If, at that time, somebody had asked to name the most bothersome man at Pskov Caves, he would undoubtedly have heard only one answer — Archimandrite Fr. Nathaniel, treasurer of the monastery. This nomination would have been unanimously supported by priests and novices, monks and laymen, communists from the district office of the KGB, and local dissidents. The truth of it was that Fr. Nathaniel was not merely bothersome. He was extremely bothersome.” (83) There follows a long, droll description of Fr. Nathaniel’s crankiness and miserliness — he was entrusted not only with the finances of the monastery but also with overseeing the novices at work. “And, rest assured, he carried out this task with his characteristic diligence, snooping, watching, listening for anything that went against the rules or the interests of the monastery.” (84) Despite his total unconcern for his physical appearance — he invariably wears a torn cassock with “tattered shoes and faded blue long johns” (98) underneath — he is very protective of his privacy, to the point of rigging a trap with live electric wire for anyone who may enter his cell uninvited, and one of the funniest moments in the book occurs when Fr. Alipius’ successor falls right for it. But on a few occasions, the future Fr. Tikhon, then one of the novices, glimpses Fr. Nathaniel’s other life:

“I remember once, on a winter night, we had stayed up late celebrating the name day of one of the brothers, and were making our way back to our cells. Suddenly, but five feet away from us, the figure of Fr. Nathaniel materialized out of the darkness. We froze in terror. But very soon we understood, to our surprise, that this time the treasurer had not seen us. And he was acting oddly. He dragged his feet with difficulty and even stumbled, hunched beneath his sack [of supplies]. Then we saw that he climbed over the low fence of the front garden and, all of sudden, lay down in the snow, right on top of a flower bed.

‘He’s dead!’ flashed through our minds. We waited a bit and, holding our breath cautiously, drew near. Fr. Nathaniel lay in the snow, sleeping. Just sleeping. He was breathing steadily and even snoring. The sack, which he was holding in his arms, served as his pillow.

We decided not to leave that spot without seeing what happened next. We hid behind the chapel of the holy water and waited. After an hour we, numb from the cold, could see Fr. Nathaniel suddenly and energetically rising, shaking off the snow that had covered him and, throwing the sack over his shoulder as if nothing had happened, continuing on his way.

At the time, we couldn’t make any sense of it. Only later, some monks who knew the treasurer explained to us that Fr. Nathaniel simply felt tired and wanted to sleep comfortably, that is to say, lying down. In his cell he slept only in a sitting position. [St. John of Shanghai was known for the same ascetic labor. -FL] To avoid the indulgence of a bed, he preferred to sleep in the snow.”

(Tikhon, 87-88)

Fr. Nathaniel (Pospelov). Photograph taken by Metr. Tikhon.

Fr. Nathaniel remains a comic, though ultimately good-natured, figure. But, in the book, this chapter (“Bothersome Fr. Nathaniel”) is immediately followed by a story that is far more severe. The narrator is tasked with reading the Sleepless Psalter, a “special tradition where prayer does not cease for a moment in the monastery, day or night, and the Psalter is read in shifts[.]” As he performs this nightly ritual over the course of two years, he encounters Schema-Abbot Melchisedec, who has reached the highest stage of Orthodox monasticism, the Great Schema, “the highest degree of severance from the world. A monk who takes the tonsure of the Schema leaves behind all obediences except prayer. His name is changed once more, as during the first tonsure. Schema-bishops relinquish their administrative duties, hieroschemamonks are freed from all responsibilities except for serving the Liturgy and providing spiritual guidance.” (106-107). Fr. Melchisedec never speaks to him, but is well-known throughout the monastery:

“Before taking the vows of the Great Schema, Fr. Melchisedec served in the monastery, like all the priests, and his name was Abbot Michael. He was a skillful and diligent woodworker. To this day, the brothers have kept, in the shrines and monastic cells, the icon cases, lecterns, chairs, shelves, and other furniture that he had made with his hands. To the delight of the administration, he worked from morning to night.

One day, they blessed him to complete a massive job of work. For several months he labored in his shop, and when he finally came out, he felt so ill that, according to eyewitnesses, he fell right there and…died, on the spot. Hearing the distressed cries of onlookers, several monks came running, including Fr. John (Krestyankin). Fr. Michael showed no signs of life. All who had gathered bowed their heads in sadness over his body. Suddenly Fr. John said, ‘That’s no dead man. He’ll live yet!’

And he began to pray. The woodworker who had lain motionlessly on the ground opened his eyes and came back to life. Everyone could see that he had somehow been shaken to the depths of his soul. When he had regained his composure a bit, Fr. Michael pleaded for the Father Superior [Again, Fr. Gabriel, not Fr. Alipius. -FL] to come. And when he did come, the sick man tearfully begged him for the tonsure of the Great Schema.

They say that, when the Father Superior heard this unauthorized request from his monk, he commanded Fr. Michael, in his usual sobering manner, to stop fooling around, and instead to recover as soon as possible and to return to work, if he hadn’t managed to die properly. But, according to the same accounts, the very next morning, the Father Superior himself came to Fr. Michael’s cell, without any warning and in noticeable consternation, and announced that the latter’s request will be granted presently. This was so unlike Fr. Gabriel’s stern ways that it made an even greater impression upon the brothers than the resurrection of the dead.”

(Tikhon, 106-108)

Fr. Melchisedec reposed in 1992. Some video footage of him survives.

The young novice, awed by the solemnity and silence of the older monk, nonetheless is overcome by curiosity and asks him, “what did he see there, in the place from which no one usually returns?” (109) The story continues:

“Upon hearing my question, Fr. Melchisedec stood for a long time by the royal doors, silently, his head hung low. And I was increasingly paralyzed by fear, rightly thinking that I had insolently committed something impermissible. But then, the hermit began to speak, his voice weak from infrequent use.

He said that he had suddenly seen himself in the middle of a vast green field. He walked across this field, not knowing where he was going, until a massive ditch blocked his way. Inside it, among the dirt and soil, were countless icon cases and lecterns; here too were broken chairs, deformed tables, discarded shelves. Looking closely, the monk began to recognize with terror the objects that he had made with his own hands. Trembling, he stood over these fruits of his monastic life. And suddenly he felt that someone was standing next to him. He raised his eyes and saw the Mother of God. She also gazed with sadness upon these labors of many years. Then She spoke:

‘You are a monk — from you we expected repentance and prayer. But all you brought was this…’

The vision disappeared. The dead man awoke once more in the monastery.”

(Tikhon, 109)

theotokos Icon of the Virgin Hodegetria. Dionysius, late 15th century.

The inhuman beauty of this vision is the same as that seen in the works of the Desert Fathers and the Byzantine Lives of Saints. The author maintains his genial, compassionate, even entertaining tone, but every so often, the spirit of the ancient faith makes itself felt through it. As Metr. Tikhon says, “The Apostle Paul made a great discovery: Jesus Christ remains the same yesterday and today and unto the ages. These words are borne out by the entire history of Christianity. Times and people change, but Christ is to our contemporaries as he was to the first generation of Christians.” (130) This is our link to the past, our only “proof” of it. Aside from what is offered by faith, there will never be any decisive “evidence” that Christ walked the earth and worked miracles; no archeological expedition will ever corroborate what Church tradition says about the saints and Desert Fathers. It is not by verifying the past that one accepts Orthodox Christianity, but by coming into contact with living faith in the present. The self-renunciation of Fr. Melchisedec or Fr. Seraphim (Rose), the foresight of Fr. John (Krestyankin) or St. John of Shanghai, retroactively prove these same qualities in St. John Climacus and St. Isaac of Syria. In this way, the past is continually renewed.

Life in Pskov Caves was not easy. Metr. Tikhon describes, with his usual good humor, how he was assigned during his novitiate to clean the cowshed every evening, a process that continued through most of the night and left him smelling accordingly. Even putting aside the matter of unpaid physical labor, Fr. Gabriel’s style of leadership can only be described as tyrannical, as can be seen in the following anecdote:

“One summer I was keeping watch over Dormition Square. The Father Superior, as usual, came out to make his rounds. And then, an unfamiliar tough-looking fellow approached him. I heard him asking to be admitted to the monastery.

‘But are you prepared to carry out obediences?’ the Father Superior asked sternly.

‘Of course, Father, anything you ask!’

‘Really, anything?’ the Father Superior asked with interest.

‘Yes, sir! Anything!’ the fellow replied passionately.

At that moment, an old monk, one Fr. M, was hobbling across Dormition Square.

‘Well, if you really are ready for any obedience, then go to that grandpa over there and give him a kick that’ll send him flying!’ the Father Superior commanded.

In an instant, the fellow flew over to the old monk and dealt such a kick that the old man sailed several feet through the air, folded in half. But immediately, he jumped to his feet and fell prostrate before the fellow.

‘My son, forgive me, a sinner! Forgive me!’ the monk wept, evidently thinking that he had somehow angered the young man.

‘Wait a minute!’ the fellow waved his hand impatiently. And, once more, he stood before the Father Superior, readily awaiting further orders.

The Father Superior examined the fellow from head to toe with sincere amazement. ‘We-ell,’ he drawled, ‘you, brother, are a real idiot!’ With these words he reached into his pocket and held out a twenty-five-ruble bill. ‘Buy a ticket and go back home.’ And Fr. M, bowing to the Father Superior, once again limped along his way.

This story led to many indignant comments in the monastery about Fr. Gabriel. But one highly respected and educated monk, of a very independent disposition, said:

‘In actual fact, you don’t understand anything. Just now you began to judge the Father Superior. But I will neither approve nor disapprove of what he did… On one hand…the Father Superior did something truly unheard of. But on the other hand, whether the Father Superior wanted to or not, what he did for Fr. M was the most valuable and beneficial thing that one could do for a monk: he gave him a gift that no one else in the monastery would dare to give — a chance for humility. Did he do this rudely? Yes! Very rudely? Of course! But remember the story about the great Abba Arsenius — the one who used to be a nobleman at the imperial court in Constantinople and even educated the emperor’s children, before he retired to a monastery? Once, the abbot, in the presence of all the brothers, and without any cause, suddenly turned the much-respected Abba Arsenius away from the fraternal meal and even did not allow him to sit at the table, but ordered him to stand by the doors. And only when the meal had ended, he threw a piece of dried bread to him, as to a dog. The brothers then asked Abba Arsenius what he felt at that moment. The elder answered: “It occurred to me that the abbot, like an Angel of God, had discerned that I am like a dog and even worse than any dog. And that is the truth! For that reason he gave me bread as one does to a dog.” The abbot himself, upon seeing Arsenius’ great humility, said: “He will become a skillful monk.”‘“

(Tikhon, 174-177)

frgabriel The imperious Fr. Gabriel.

Fr. Gabriel was, eventually, humbled as well — after sufficiently many complaints, the Church hierarchs suspended him for three years. For a man like this, the mere fact of suspension was no doubt more difficult to accept than the duration, but for those who had had to endure his, if not abuse, then overstretch of power, it surely seemed like too little, too late. Yet he was never a “charismatic” figure, not even in his own eyes; the monks may have revered his office, and believed in monastic obedience as an idea, but no one believed that Fr. Gabriel personally had any great spiritual gifts, or that the will of God had ever been revealed to him, quite unlike Fr. John or Fr. Melchisedec. The argument presented above removes Fr. Gabriel from the situation entirely — no matter what, he will answer to God separately, and it is only Fr. M’s own reaction to these undeserved travails that determines his own salvation.

Not everyone will understand the singular logic of this argument, and if you do not accept it, then, evidently, monastic life is not your calling. It is a heavy burden to bear, and many have been broken by it; I wrote about this before in connection with what happened to the followers of Fr. Seraphim (Rose) after his death. Metr. Tikhon also ponders the issue of monastic obedience, warning the reader that, “If a priest persists in demanding absolute, unquestioning obedience in all things, flee from him as from a demon,” but drawing a distinction between “gracious spiritual obedience to elders and spiritual fathers (that is, of course, if they are true elders and spiritual fathers), and disciplinary, administrative obedience to the Church hierarchy.” (166) Perhaps, in his eyes, Fr. Gabriel’s saving grace was that he commanded “disciplinary” obedience, but did not assert that it was a form of spiritual guidance or that he was the sole source of it — he understood that, when it came to spiritual matters, the monks went to other clergy. But Metr. Tikhon also admits that the line is not always easy to draw. “‘And what is the point?’ you will ask me. ‘Isn’t this an example of utter obscurantism, self-indulgence and tyranny? Is this the kind of obedience that the Holy Fathers spoke of?’ And I can hardly offer a word of rebuttal…except maybe that we monks must really be abnormal, if we view this as the way of things.” (172) Yet he does give a more indirect answer, an account of his experience with the other kind of obedience, not to Fr. Gabriel, but to Fr. John (Krestyankin), whom he views as a paragon of the “true elder and spiritual father.” To me, the following passage is the most important in Everyday Saints:

“They say that nocturnal prayer is the monk’s special power. Once, perhaps to strengthen me in my chosen path and to help me understand what the spiritual world is, if only a little, Fr. John blessed me to follow a special prayer rule. It was mainly at night. Fr. John chose just such a time so that my contact with the outside world was minimized. From two in the afternoon to ten in the evening, I carried out my obedience in the cowshed, and after that I kept watch all night over Dormition Square. Fr. John blessed me to perform the Jesus Prayer, to attempt to occupy my entire mind and heart with it and to cast aside all other thoughts, even the ones that were correct and praiseworthy.

It is strange, but if one secludes oneself in prayer, and simultaneously limits oneself as much as one can in food, sleep, and socializing with others; if one does not allow idle thoughts into one’s mind and passionate emotions into one’s heart; then one soon finds that Someone is present in the world, distinct from oneself and other people. This Someone patiently waits for us to turn our attention to Him in our endless race through life. Precisely so, He patiently waits, because God never imposes His company upon anyone. And if one continues to pray properly (I should emphasize — properly, not arbitrarily, but with the guidance of an experienced mentor), one’s spiritual gaze will behold wondrous sights.

[…]

From the second or third day I felt almost no desire to sleep. More accurately, four hours of sleep now sufficed. My usual sociable nature also vanished. I wanted to spend more time alone. Then, one by one, I began to remember sins that were buried in my memory, long-forgotten events from my life. Finishing my watch, I ran to confession. Amazingly, these bitter discoveries left a sorrowful, yet indescribably peaceful and light feeling in my heart.

[…]

At the end, Fr. John again told me not to mourn when, very soon, this state would pass, but always to remember what had happened. I understood the truth of these words the very next day. Despite the enormous impression that had been made on me…I soon became distracted in my thoughts, ate too much at mealtime, talked for a while with someone, allowed something unclean to come too close to my heart — and this incomparable feeling of the presence of God unnoticeably melted away.”

(Tikhon, 139-143)

frjohn Fr. John (Krestyankin).

Metr. Tikhon makes no personal claim to spirituality; after all these years, he is respected for many reasons, but no one sees him as an “elder.” The most spiritual personal experience that he relates in Everyday Saints took place when he was a novice, decades ago. This account is all the more valuable because it is not a strictly monastic experience, but rather, one that is entirely common to everyone who ever begins to seriously spend time in the Orthodox Church. It happens exactly like this: one enters a kind of reverie that goes on for days, and memories of old sins appear as if on their own in one’s mind. Repentance seems to come easily, and one feels relieved and comforted to finally be free of this weight that one had been carrying all this time. And then, after a while, it ends… They say that, during this time, God gives His grace freely and asks for nothing in return, so that the experience will then motivate one to apply one’s own will. But salvation is hard work, and becoming a monk does not guarantee that this state will come back; on the contrary, as St. Isaac of Syria writes, every monk undergoes the trial of feeling alone and forsaken. One either goes all the way up the Ladder, or slips back down to the bottom, but even then one retains this brief experience of transformation as a rare, happy memory, and as proof of God’s love. And one can always feel grateful for it, in success or in failure.

There are few “happy endings” in Everyday Saints, unless we count the peaceful repose of the Pskov Caves monks — Fr. Alipius said on his deathbed, “The Mother of God has come, and how beautiful She is; bring the paint, let me draw her,” and “quietly and peacefully expired” (212) two hours later, a conclusion worthy of a Byzantine hagiography. But there are no heartwarming tales of repentant sinners who accepted Jesus and lived happily ever after. On the contrary, the path of repentance is fraught with peril. One chapter in Everyday Saints describes a swindler who posed as a monk long enough to start genuinely absorbing some Christian thinking, and who was thus moved to such contrition that he decided to turn himself in and accept a long prison sentence. After he was released, he really did become a monk — but, as the years went by, he returned to his former ways and finally met a violent end. One of Metr. Tikhon’s close friends, a man of great devotion and piety, had a soft spot for nice cars, a minor failing, but impermissible for a monk — and, inevitably, he perished in an accident… Nothing can be taken for granted in spiritual life. The stories of Everyday Saints are not about miracles and salvation, but about moments, instants in time during which different people came in contact, if not with God Himself, then with His presence in the world. These moments are striking, but brief, and what will happen afterwards, which direction each person will take, is far from a foregone conclusion. It is, unfortunately, the price of free will.

frtikhon Metr. Tikhon, conducting a memorial service
for Fr. Alipius in the Caves.

“I titled this last chapter ‘Everyday Saints.’ Though my friends were all ordinary people. There are many such people in our Church. Of course, they are all very far from canonization. There can be no talk of that. But, at the end of the Divine Liturgy, when the great Mystery is already done and the Holy Gifts are upon the altar, the priest proclaims, ‘The Holy Gifts for the holy people of God.’

This means that holy people will now be taking communion, receiving the Body and Blood of Christ. But who are they? They are those who are now present in the church, priests and laypeople, who came here with faith and await communion. Because they are faithful Christians who aspire to be with God. As it turns out, despite all of their infirmities and sins, the people who comprise the earthly Church are holy in the eyes of God.”

(Tikhon, 634-635)

God is kinder to us than we deserve. But the weaker our faith, the more we need the knowledge that, at least somewhere in this world, there are men of God who have devoted their lives to prayer. We need monasticism even more than monks do. “All things on Earth — simple and complex, minor human problems and the search for the great path to God, the mysteries of the present and future age — all are solved only by mysterious, unfathomably beautiful and powerful humility. And even if we do not understand its truth and meaning, if we turn out to be incapable of this all-powerful humility, it will open itself to us through those amazing people who are able to carry it inside themselves.” (113) One should not enter a monastery expecting to “find” this perfect humility out in the open. At most, one might dare hope to see it in rare, brief glimpses. But even that can save souls.

templeofthenewmartyrs4 Христос воскресе из мертвых, смертию смерть поправ,
и сущим во гробех живот даровав!

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