Father Alexei Mechev: Memoirs (Part Three)

N.A. Struve

Translated from
ОТЕЦ АЛЕКСЕЙ МЕЧЕВ: Воспоминания, Письма, Проповеди.
Редакция, примечания и предисловие Н. А. Струве.
YMCA-PRESS, ПАРИЖ. 1970.

Part One: https://www.chansonetoiles.com/p/father-alexei-mechev-memoirs-part
Part Two: https://www.chansonetoiles.com/p/father-alexei-mechev-memoirs-part-fa4

ARCHDEACON VLADIMIR S.: MEMORIES OF A BELOVED PRIEST¹

“This is my commandment — that you love one another as I have loved you.” (John 15:12). Inscription on the cross of Father Alexei’s first grave.

I met Father soon after the February Revolution of 1917. I remember when I first came to the church at Maroseyka; many things troubled me here. It was a collision between reason and heart, between legalism on one side and great love that covers and fulfills the law on the other. I will speak much about this first impression, about this inner turmoil, because many, like me, were troubled and perhaps still remain troubled and uncertain about the “spirit of Maroseyka.” Moreover, it’s necessary to point out how harmful rational understanding of religion can be and how often this understanding prevents comprehension of the worldview of even such ascetics as Father [Alexei], whose compelling and humbling love I was troubled by. I was troubled precisely because I loved God too little, because in religion I saw only a path to satisfy an inquisitive and curious mind. I was attracted by the strict, orderly and purposeful system of dogmas, I was enchanted by the beauty and uniformity of sacred rites everywhere. I believed in God, was devoted to the Church, but loved the Lord too little. This rational, cold attitude toward religion ultimately harmed me and forced me to turn away even from Father.

So learn from this, especially you young people who deify reason — learn from the example of a fallen person how terrifying it is to believe and not to love. This faith is like the faith of fallen angels, as written by the Apostle (James 2:19). This faith is dead, not life-giving. It makes one tremble but reject prayer, makes one acknowledge God while extinguishing hope. In the mechanical performance of rites and external forms of religious life, it sees the meaning of religion, while speaking of love and good deeds dismissively, as something secondary.

Coming to Maroseyka (I remember it was either on a Wednesday or Friday — it was a late liturgy followed by the blessing of water), I saw the following:

A short, wrinkled priest with a disheveled beard and an old deacon were conducting the service. The priest wore a worn violet cassock, and he served somehow hurriedly and, it seemed, carelessly, repeatedly coming out from the altar, hearing confessions in the corner, sometimes talking, laughing, looking for someone with his eyes, carrying and handing out prosphora himself.

All this, and especially confession during the liturgy, affected me very unpleasantly. And that a woman was reading the Epistle, and that there were too many communicants, and the disorderly approach after liturgy — all this completely clashed with my convictions about the necessity of uniformity in church order.

As I recall, these “Maroseyka customs” troubled many who didn’t understand, and it took me much time to get used to them and then understand them properly.

I left the church in great spiritual anguish. And when I later learned that this short, elderly priest was the very same Fr. Alexei whom people went to for counsel — it made me ponder even more: how could such a respected and well-known pastor allow deviations from the typikon in his parish, every letter of which should be sacred to a zealot of Orthodoxy?

However, I still occasionally visited Maroseyka, and then I began visiting very frequently because I particularly enjoyed the evening sermons, or rather, the soul-saving conversations with the people that Father quite often held on weekdays. In these sermons, I tried to understand Fr. Alexei’s personality, to grasp what kind of person he was, and the more I thought about it, the more I was drawn to this kind, smiling elder who could, in simple conversation, touch your soul so gently and carefully that you couldn’t help but want to cry and laugh. It seems I would never have left this small church, would never have turned away from the small figure of Father on the ambo, holding a candle, reading and explaining the words of holy ascetics or their lives.

Father loved the lives of saints. He had read many of them himself and in each could find instruction for those who came to him. And these evening sermons consisted mostly of explanations of saints’ lives.

Soon I somehow unconsciously became a regular at Maroseyka, grew accustomed to the services, and his “carelessness” no longer troubled me. On the contrary, nowhere could I pray as fervently as at Maroseyka. Here one feels a certain “prayer-fullness,” a kind of contagious prayerful atmosphere not found in other churches. While people traditionally go to rich and famous churches to hear the deacon and choir, people came here exclusively to pray. This explains the all-encompassing spirit of prayer that compelled not only me, a believer, but even non-believers to pray here. I remember witnessing one transformation. A certain man came to Maroseyka who was clearly non-believing, because whenever I observed him, he never crossed himself, never bowed, and looked somewhat mockingly at the clergy.

This continued for several months. Then, coming to church, I found him praying on his knees and crossing himself fervently. This surprised and gladdened me. And when I noticed him approaching the Gospel, receiving a blessing and kissing the priest’s hand, I was finally convinced that he had become a good Orthodox Christian. Yes, and his face had become somehow different: joyful and peaceful.

There are hundreds of such examples. A person comes out of curiosity, sometimes even to criticize and mock, but look — a month or two later, they’re standing at the ambo and moving toward communion.

Who is responsible for these wondrous transformations? Father. It was he who created at Maroseyka a spirit of love, prayer, and detachment from the secular world, which lived then and lives now after his death, and will live as long as the Maroseyka inheritance is carried by his successors and spiritual heirs of this great pastor.

Only when I had become personally acquainted with Father and when I was honored to serve with him at Christ’s altar — I remembered my first impression, the confusion and then the first enlightenment by Father’s spirit — and understood how deeply mistaken I had been then.

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Knowledge puffs up, but love edifies (1 Cor. 8:1). Father loved to say this when I was his spiritual son and came to him seeking resolution to questions that troubled me. My reason “boasted,” and quite often, so that despite all my love for Father and the joy in God that I experienced being with him, I was not free from speculations and doubts.

You’d come to him and ask about some complex dogmatic position. And he would answer with a smile: “Why do you ask me, I’m unlearned.” And if you get too carried away with interpretations and contemplations, he’ll take you by the shoulder, look at you kindly, sometimes kiss you and say: “Look at you. You want to live by mind alone, but you should live like I do — by the heart.” This explained many of the “irregularities” in church service that Father allowed. While reason said that one must follow the typikon’s prescriptions, not hear confessions during liturgy, not distribute prosphora after the Cherubic Hymn, not give communion to latecomers at the side, etc., etc. — Father’s heart, burning with love, compelled him not to listen to reason.

“Well, how can I refuse confession,” he would say. “Perhaps this is a person’s last hope. Maybe, if I turn them away, I will cause their soul’s destruction. Christ never turned anyone away from Himself — He said to all: Come to Me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. And who isn’t laboring now, who isn’t burdened by various sorrows, all are oppressed, all are embittered: in the street, at work, and even in the home setting you find nothing but quarrels, arguments and spite — the only place where a person can rest and reconcile with God and people is God’s temple. And suddenly he sees that here too they push him away, don’t allow him to come to Christ. You speak of law, but where there is no love, law will not save, but true love is the fulfillment of the law” (Rom 13:8-10).

This is why Father, with a pure heart and peaceful conscience, heard confessions during liturgy, gave communion at irregular times, wishing to provide comfort and spiritual joy to each and every person. And no matter how many penitents there were, he wouldn’t leave the analogion on the left kliros (where confession was usually heard) until he had attended to and satisfied everyone. “And he who comes at the eleventh hour” — he receives everyone equally, warms everyone with his kind smile. He’ll take a commemoration slip or note himself, bring out a prosphora, or say a couple of warm words, pat someone on the shoulder, say “Look at you!” — and the person walks away enlightened and calmed.

It seems Father said nothing special, but from his very face, his smile, his eyes flows such tenderness, such understanding of people that it comforts and encourages without any words. This is why Father could receive countless people in a day. The line to his apartment of “those who labor and are heavy laden” would form early in the morning. And Father managed to talk with everyone, embrace everyone, comfort everyone. And while another priest might manage to talk with one person — Father would already have seen ten people.

All this happened because Father comforted the sorrowful and gave counsel not through rational interpretations or learned discourse, but with the voice of his heart, through the many years’ experience of his love. And it would happen that in just a word or two — he would answer life’s questions, the most complex life entanglements. These words were sometimes frightening. You’d come to him with a heavy soul, with cats scratching at your heart, but he’ll tell some cheerful anecdote and at first you won’t understand what it’s about. But then it turns out that this anecdote was the answer to all your sorrows and doubts.

Very often in these brief answers, anecdotes, or stories from his pastoral practice, Father’s insight and foresight shone through, his prescience of the future. He himself explained this through his many years of experience, but undoubtedly, besides this, there was present here the divine grace given to saints that allowed Father to penetrate into the very secret chambers of human hearts. This is why this stranger to secular learning, this “unlearned man” as he called himself, was sought out by scholars, professors, students, and occultists, and mystics of various schools, communists, Protestants and Catholics, and even Jews.

To all, regardless of their nationality, status, age, creed, intellectual development — to all he was a loving father who, without touching their sore spots or mocking their faith, customs, or convictions, could give good counsel, show affection, comfort, and help both materially and morally.

There is no one who, knowing Father, could say anything bad about him. He never offended anyone, never touched anyone’s self-love, never scolded or punished.

I remember, many offensive transgressions against Father were committed during my time serving with him — by me personally and by others — but he never became angry, never punished. He would only say: “Look at you! Is that the way?” And that’s all. And he would smile kindly, so kindly. From this smile alone the guilty one would feel their fault, fall at the dear Father’s feet and ask forgiveness. But if someone deeply hurt Father by condemnation of his spiritual children, by judging his love, by reminding of the “letter that kills” — Father would weep and say: “Forgive me, dear ones, perhaps I’m not doing things right, but I feel such pity for people, I want everyone to be well.” And he would bow to the ground. And it should be noted that Father was never offended by any rudeness directed at him personally. He had not a drop of pride or even self-love. “What am I? I am poor,” he would say. The only thing that pained him was the misunderstanding of his soul, his heart, his love for his neighbor. “You don’t understand me,” he would say, and weep and weep.

Sometimes a priest would refuse to give communion to someone who was late, or to distribute prosphora after the Cherubic Hymn, but Father would already be trembling with tears: “How can one do that?” he would say, and give communion himself, or distribute the prosphora himself.

Never in his life did Father say a rude or offensive word to anyone. Even for the devil he had the tender word “poor thing.” “It’s all that poor thing troubling you. Look at you,” and one would feel that this gentle elder relates even to the devil with his usual good nature (and tenderness).

Yes, “living by the heart” means much, and one must know Father well to understand many of his bold acts before the Lord.

Knowledge exalts, but love edifies. But this doesn’t mean Father was against knowledge. He was only against cold, rational knowledge, against the “killing letter,” against spreading materialism. In religion, he placed the ethical side above all else — he didn’t like abstract dogmatic questions, much less speculative mysticism, which his spiritual children sometimes fell into. He was neither a dogmatist nor a zealot for rules and regulations, nor, on the other hand, a mystic floating in waves of transcendental fantasies. He was a practical pastor who knew life and gave life advice not based on abstract speculations, but on real-life experiences.

How many passionate, enthusiastic young dreamers and fantasizers became such practical people under his influence. “You know,” he would tell me, “you can get so caught up in intellectualizing that you’ll lose your mind.”

And so, a young man would come to him and say: “Father, I want to get married, I’m madly in love.” And he starts talking about eternal love, delves into philosophy, but Father listens and listens, then says: “Do you even know what marriage is? Marriage is a cross.” The young man will argue, but Father in response will give some real-life example, like how two people got married, then disagreements and arguments began and their passionate love ended in divorce. The young man gets angry, doesn’t understand, thinks: “Who knows what happens there, it means they didn’t really love each other, but we have true eternal love.” So he’ll leave Father, won’t listen to his wise words, and later will come to regret it. He’ll come back to Father crying, and Father will kiss him and say: “Look at you. You wouldn’t listen to me, now you see I was right. Be more attentive.” And then the dreamer will understand that life is life and only those who truly know life can give wise life advice. And he’ll stop doing anything without Father’s blessing and will find it easy and joyful to live in the world.

Similarly, Father would convince anyone not through dogma or intellectual reasoning, but through examples from life. For this he liked to use the lives of saints and ascetics, writings of the holy fathers, and various examples from modern life. He hardly read any abstract books. I remember, he often told me: “Instead of all that philosophy and theology, read the life of Abba Dorotheus [of Gaza].” I didn’t understand then why Father advised me thus, but later I understood that he considered the abstract direction generally useless, and moreover that it made me, as a mystic and dreamer, harsh, dry and incapable of warm feeling. I was far from life, its sorrows and joys, its holidays and everyday routine, its public and private sides, but Father wanted to turn my attention to life. “Learn about life, study people, do good” — that’s what Father wanted to direct my thoughts to, in brief.

Religion is not in the skilled combination of dogmas with reason, but in active love, in serving one’s neighbor. He who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen (1 John 4:20). Love is the energy and driving force of Christianity, while reason is only a work-force of the heart. To be with people, to live their life, to rejoice in their joys, to grieve with their sorrows — this is the purpose and way of a Christian’s life, especially a pastor’s.

For Father himself, personal life had long ceased to exist — he very rarely remained alone with himself and I remember when even severe illnesses forced him, by doctors’ orders, to limit visits and not go to church, that he suffered from this and very often violated his regime.

And to those preparing to become priests he pointed to his life path as an example of a pastor’s way. “Don’t think,” he said, “that being a people’s priest is the lot of a chosen few. Here I am, all my life with the people, I am a people’s priest, and they look at me as something strange, while every pastor should be such a ‘man of the people.’” And when I, remember, came to him with doubts about my pastorship, he told me reassuringly: “You will be a pastor, I am sure of that, but you need to change. You keep to yourself too much, you’re ‘noble,’ but try to live for people — at least for your relatives or close ones, live their joys and sorrows — and forget about yourself — you’ll see how good it will be for you.”

Bear one another’s burdens — and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Father Alexei bore the immeasurable and countless burdens and sorrows of people who came to him, and to all rational interpreters of religion he could boldly answer with the words of the Savior: I came not to destroy the law but to fulfill it (Matt. 5:17). And in what people of reason saw as temptation and violation of the law, for us is revealed a great mystery of Father’s love, which covers a multitude of sins (Prov. 10:12; 1 Peter 4:8). “I take your sins upon myself,” Father says to one. “Just listen to me, and I will answer to the Lord for you,” he says to another whose reason cannot agree with Father’s advice or instruction.

To someone who doesn’t know Father, especially a non-believer, these words might seem unremarkable, but for those who knew the elder’s burning faith, it’s clear that he couldn’t speak such fearsome and responsible words mechanically, from a learned or habitual formula, but that he truly took others’ burdens upon himself. This explains the remarkable lightness of soul, joy and peace of the “burdened” who left Father.

Indeed, as he himself said, he “unloaded” them, transforming them from desperate, oppressed pessimists into Christians who constantly rejoiced in God. One need only glance at his memorial book, filled with hundreds of names of both living and deceased, a book from which he never parted, to understand his own words as he pointed to his heart: “I carry you all here.”

In his home life, Father was extremely simple and modest. In his study, in his room: piles of opened and unopened books, letters, many prosphora on the table, a folded epitrachelion, a cross with the Gospel, icons and holy images, and the general chaotic state of the room — all showed that Father was always busy, that he was always awaited — at home, on the street, and in church — for the great work of love and self-denial. Often they would call Father to drink tea or eat, but he would sit in his room, noticing nothing, passionately convincing someone. When his household members, unable to bear it, would knock and enter his room, saying he mustn’t treat his health this way, Father would pretend to be angry (but he didn’t know how) and say: “There you go again — don’t I know better than you? I already said I’m busy. I’ll finish with him and then come.” Or sometimes he would say to me: “Well then... bring me a cup of tea.” And he would drink hurriedly, amid conversations, sometimes eating the same way.

This eternal crowd of people, these endless queues and day-long work simply forced Father to ignore his health. Only the persistent persuasion of relatives and close ones “for the sake of obedience” made him see doctors and take medicines.

Once, I remember, I accompanied him to a doctor and he told me: “Several years ago, doctors predicted that I would die if I kept overworking myself, but you see — we’re still alive today.”

In summer, Father usually went to Vereya,² where I also lived with him for a time. He spent his rest time in spiritual reading, sometimes having me read “Lives of the Desert Fathers” or “Abba Dorotheus,” and he liked to pause the reading to reflect or reinforce something particularly interesting with examples from personal experience. Or, noticing some hidden vice or confusion in me, he would select an edifying passage while reading and read it aloud to me. “This is how you and I should act,” he would say, and you could feel that even during rest he never stopped caring for his children and devoted very little time to himself.

Father wrote many letters, and received even more. He managed to read every letter carefully, sometimes making notes in his memorial book, and would soon write a response. Even during rest, he never abandoned his concerns for those who trusted him, confirming with his own words: “I carry you all here in my heart.”

Many thought that Father was alien to a rational understanding of religion, believing that “living by the heart is opposed to all rational achievements: culture, science, art, technology,” that he was precisely one of those “rejecting the world,” as many ascetics were, especially among the monastics. No, those around him — students, technicians, artists, and writers — know that Father not only did not speak against culture but, on the contrary, encouraged those who engaged in science and art, as long as all this was done for God’s glory. Father was only against the deification of science, the deification of reason, and therefore he warned many against drifting into abstraction, pointing out that the task of true science is to give people practical, real knowledge, and not to solve abstract questions about the origin of the world or the existence of God. Similarly in public life: he was simultaneously both a good pastor and an honest citizen. He called each of his spiritual children to honestly fulfill their civic duties, as long as they did not contradict Christ’s commandments.

I remember, during the difficult famine of 1920-1921, many employees of Soviet institutions told Father that they were slacking off and being late, sitting around doing nothing, because “it’s all the same to those godless ones” — and he, through obedience, made them develop a sense of duty and work honestly, not out of fear but conscience, pointing to the example of ancient Christians who dutifully paid taxes to Roman authorities.

On Father’s bright soul there was not a single sin against civil authority — everywhere he was “a rule of faith and an image of meekness,” winning over even the hearts of atheists. Thus, not in reason that “puffs up and exalts,” but in love that edifies and warms, did Father Alexei walk his life’s path from childhood cradle to his modest grave in the Lazarev cemetery. And this grave, like a guiding star, should shine for those who walk in darkness and the shadow of death and remind those tossed about by “the elements of this world” of the poet’s famous words:

Death and time rule on earth,
Do not call them masters.
All, whirling, vanishes in the mist,
Only the Sun of love remains unmoved.³

To this immovable, eternally new and abiding Sun I want to turn the attention of youth — boys and girls. In their eternal striving forward, being carried by the waves, worshipping “programs” — the young person doesn’t see the warning signs, doesn’t want to hear wise words. He is alone. He needs no guides or pathfinders — he will forge his own path. And like a madman, he eagerly throws himself into life’s sea and breaks his young life on underwater reefs. And looking at thousands, millions of these prematurely faded lives: these “corrupted spirits,” sinners, apostates, those worn out, nervous, tormented by wine and drugs, looking at myself “wallowing in the abyss of sin,” I want to cry out: “Return!”

Return from this icy cold, from this darkness — to the immovable, gentle Sun of Love. Look: people are born, suffer, struggle, get settled, fight, destroy, hate, take revenge and multiply, only to aimlessly drag out their existence for some “earthly paradise” and then die without having reached it. Could it be that we too were born only to dance on a small spinning globe and then vanish without leaving a trace?

Let us look around, brothers: how times change, how people change. How many colossal achievements of ancient and medieval cultures are now becoming unnecessary to us. Must we exert superhuman efforts, forgetting God in wild work for future humanity, embodying heaven in our earthly ideals, only so that this future humanity might laugh at us in a few centuries and relegate our blood-and-sweat-stained conquests to the archives? Everything old turns into antiquity, and what is old can likewise be resurrected through the centuries as new.

But there is a living and eternally new power. Its name is Love. And again I want to cry out: “Return! Let us return, brothers.” To this Sun, to this power, which we left along with our mother’s milk.

From there, from the Lazarev cemetery, from a humble grave — flows love’s wondrous myrrh, enough for everyone.

Come here, young men and women, come with me, all proud, unruly, disobedient ones. Here is a quiet haven from life’s storms. And if you, twisted by disobedience, should say to him who lies in this grave: “Father, when you were alive, we didn’t listen to you, and many of us didn’t know you, and many condemned you — forgive us,” he will forgive us, as he forgave before, and his great love will shine in our hearts and transform Sauls into Pauls, and those lost in reason will understand that now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love (1 Cor. 13:13).

In loving obedience, the way opens to heaven for youth first, and then for every Christian, for every person.

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Everyone who gives himself in obedience to the fathers has peace and tranquility.
(Abba Dorotheus)

The great disciple of the great elder Fr. John of Kronstadt, Fr. Alexei knew himself how beneficial obedience is for a Christian’s soul. The searchings of willful reason often lead a person to mistakes and falls, and not rarely to ruin, while one who has given his will to the guidance of a spiritual father is free from wandering.

The centuries-old experience of eldership guidance confirms this, and the thousands and millions who have been saved through obedience compel us to hold fast to this saving rudder that safely guides a Christian’s life.

Father required obedience from all his spiritual children and indicated that without it one shouldn’t even come to him. I experienced myself, more than once, how destructive disobedience to a spiritual father is. Sooner or later one will have to repent of it, sooner or later its consequences will make themselves known. But trust in obedience to a righteous elder in life is saving, because from that moment you have already cut off your will and desires, and whatever happens to you, you are always peaceful and calm: you are obedient, your conscience is clean. The cause of disobedience, according to Father’s words, lies in our pride, in self-love. “You love yourself too much, that’s why you don't listen to me,” Father often told me.

Having not a drop of proud self-love himself, being a gentle and harmless lamb, Father loved even his disobedient children and endured their self-will. He didn’t know how to get angry or threaten — and I remember how many times I and other spiritual children, having heard his advice, would act our own way; he would never respond with irritation, wouldn’t accuse, condemn, but rather would remain silent. And only when the disobedient one felt on his own back the destructive consequences of acting on self-will, would he say: “Well, I told you, don’t do it that way: now you see for yourself what came of it.”

Under obedience to Father many spiritual children gathered, who now constitute the “core” of Maroseyka. This core was so penetrated by Father’s spirit that even now, after his death, Maroseyka lives as before, serving God in spirit and truth, as it lived when he was alive and active.

This spirit of Father, the spirit of his elder’s teaching, is something unique and self-sufficient. During his life, Father didn’t like his spiritual children to turn simultaneously to other elders. He directly forbade many who asked to go to elders in sketes or monasteries.

Of course, critics might explain this by Father’s unwillingness to have competitors, but for those who knew him, it’s clear that these prohibitions came from the depths of his loving and caring heart. Father and his teaching were so unlike the teaching of other elders and ascetics, mostly monastics far removed from real life. Of course, for someone first submitting themselves to obedience, these elders too could provide saving help. But for someone who had already been to confession with the elder, they could not provide spiritual benefit and, on the contrary, could bring considerable confusion and anxiety to his soul.

All this would happen not because they are not elders or lack spiritual experience, but because their path differs from the path intended by the elder for his spiritual children.

The elder often said that the path to salvation is unique for each person in their own way. One cannot establish a common path for everyone or create universal formulas for salvation that would unite all people. Just as people are born with different inclinations, characteristics, intellect, and constitution — so too they come to Christ each in their own measure, each on their own path. This is why Christianity considers equally salvific both the wise monastic life and married life, both the shepherd’s state and the merchant’s state, both the soldier’s position and the judge’s position, as long as Christ lives in their hearts. And in achieving Christian perfection there are many degrees: some have reached the highest perfection, others remain in the middle, and still others are just starting on the ladder of virtues. And each will reach the Lord in their own measure.

Therefore, there is no precise formula of behavior or exact definition of life for a Christian. The ideal set before a Christian is the Lord Jesus Christ. Thus there are many paths to Christ.

Every human vocation, condition, position, every individual characteristic is already a special path. And the task of the elder, the spiritual father, is to reveal in a person their calling and show them the path they should take to Him. And since each elder has their own personal path to Him and their own personal understanding of things, wandering from elder to elder cannot provide anything stable for the searching Christian soul.

The spiritual upbringing of the elders means much here. Some of them, like Fr Alexei, had lived among the people from their youth, experienced the weaknesses and sorrows of family life, did not flee from the world, lived, one might say, in the very thick of life, and were experienced in the real, practical way. Others, no less pleasing to God, lived in seclusion from the world, in monasteries and hermitages, knew nothing of family life, saw people only briefly and in passing, and drew most of their experience from personal struggle and book learning. Of course, their advice and guidance will differ significantly from the counsel of similar elders, and, while perhaps bringing benefit to outsiders, they will direct the spiritual life of those who come to them differently from worldly parish elders.

Therefore, when the elder sent someone to another elder, it was only to one who shared his spirit, knowing that elder wouldn’t divert the person from the path he had outlined. When some of his spiritual children asked, “Whom should we go to after his death?” the elder replied “to no one.” By this he meant: “You have my words, my letters, my guidance, my spirit lives in you, you have people who know me and are devoted to me, who won’t say anything contrary — finally, I myself am invisibly with you, so you don’t need another elder. Preserve my spirit, protect Maroseyka, listen to the pastors I left — that is enough.”

This, of course, doesn’t mean concentrating Orthodoxy in the Maroseyka church... This is not at all, as some think, an arbitrary separation of Maroseyka from the rest of Orthodoxy. This doesn’t mean that if, God forbid, there won’t be a church of St. Nicholas in Klenniki, its parishioners will, like sectarians, shun other churches and gather in private homes.

No, this only means that the elder’s spiritual children will remain faithful to their spiritual father, that they won’t stray from the path he outlined during his life, that they won’t put themselves in the hands of an elder whose spirit is foreign to the elder’s spirit. Of course, by saying “to no one” the elder doesn’t forbid confessing to other priests, receiving Holy Sacraments, or attending other churches when necessary.

He only forbids living by another spirit, and instructs everyone to remember his life — this continuous feat [подвиг] of love — and to arrange their salvation according to it.

1. We know nothing about Deacon Vladimir. St Alexei’s letters to him have been preserved and will be presented in later posts.

2. Vereya is a small historic town in the Moscow Oblast (region), located about 100 kilometers southwest of Moscow.

3. Vladimir Soloviev, Poor Friend! The Path Has Exhausted You, 1887