It is not for me to speculate about this – I am a simple hieromonk, and not a learned theologian, as the Holy Fathers teach."

FATHER HILARION March 15, 1964

"On my pastoral path," said Fr. Arseny, "I have met with people endowed, by God's mercy, with clairvoyance, capable of reading in the soul of a believer everything he has done, and even foreseeing his future. In the camps and exiles, I witnessed the miraculous healings of completely hopeless dying patients through the prayers of bishops, priests, monks, I saw camp "dodyags" – completely devoid of will, physical resistance, emaciated dystrophics, who were transformed by the prayer of Priest Valentine, became healthy, gained freedom and left the death camp before me (and now, already old people who come to me). Father Valentin served as a priest in one of the churches in Moscow and was shot on November 21, 1942. He was a great man of prayer and helper to people.

By the way, I was also supposed to be shot on November 21, the day of the Synaxis of the Archangel Michael. In the morning, after the inspection, the convoy took me to the watch (the gate at the entrance and exit from the camp), about twenty-five people were gathered, mainly priests, deacons and one bishop. It was frosty, the convoy shifted from foot to foot, we were also freezing, but we began to sing "It is truly meet..." and "Holy God..." The guards were silent, realizing that these were our last words before death. We knew that we would be taken to be shot in the deep Voronin ravine, where prisoners were shot.

About an hour passed, we sang in a low voice. Suddenly, a soldier ran up and ordered the prisoners to come out, whose numbers he began to call out. He also called my number. I summoned five people and ordered: "Quickly to the barracks." The rest were taken out of the gate, fifteen minutes later there was a crackle of automatic bursts. Why was I summoned from the group of convicts? I don't know. It was the Lord's will.

Twice more, when he was in the camps, in the morning he was summoned to the watch to be shot, but after many hours of waiting he was sent to the barracks or to work. The ways of the Lord are inscrutable!

I was summoned for the second time on January 19, 1943, on the day of the Holy Epiphany – the Baptism of the Lord, and for the third time – on August 19, 1943 – on the day of the Transfiguration of the Lord. Of course, in everything there was the Lord's will. He has taken death away from me, and I sit with you now; This is a miracle granted to me, a sinner!

The administration called the shootings in the camps "purge", and for some reason they were often carried out on the eve of Soviet holidays. From all the camp points, the doomed were brought to these days. The verdict was not read to anyone, but was taken to the gate, a group of prisoners on the list was gathered, and shot outside the gates in the ravines.

On August 19, 1943, when the prisoners were gathered at the watch and, as always, we were already standing for two hours, suddenly one of the doomed people laughed, at first quietly, then louder and louder. The laughter was ringing and joyful. Those around him tried to stop him, but to no avail. The laughter, nervous, contagious, continued, two or three more people laughed. I and others prayed. You know (Fr. Arseny addressed us), as a human being, I became frightened, I was seized with heartache for people who will die in a few minutes, and now are bursting with laughter. He prayed, making the sign of the cross over himself and those who laughed, and others did the same. I heard that there were two bishops in the group, whom I did not know, they were brought from distant camps. I was again summoned from the firing squad. I don't know why they were taken to the firing squad three times and returned back to the barracks. Intimidate? But the camp regime was tantamount to execution.

I happened to be a witness to miraculous phenomena and actions performed by deeply spiritual people who have traveled a long path of prayerful podvig, doing good and high pastoral service. Living next to them, I received grace from them, learned to pray and tried to be at least a little like they were.

Constantly standing in front of me was an old village priest of small stature, Fr. Hilarion, in monasticism John, with a kind face, lively eyes, and a long white beard. For almost two years I lived in a northern village in the Arkhangelsk region. The village was large, on the hill there was an ancient wooden church of amazing beauty, of old northern architectural splendor, with one dome over the church and the second over a small bell tower. The domes were covered with aspen chips and, depending on the sunlight, took on a golden or grayish-silver color. The church was ancient, but still strong. Entering it, I was involuntarily amazed at the abundance of icons hung on the walls, slightly darkened, but with clearly visible faces of saints. Several lamps were always burning, it was quite dark, and upon entering, a person involuntarily plunged into a prayerful state of detachment from the surrounding world, its vanity. The cleanliness in the church was extraordinary, only wax candles burned, no candles were brought from the city. They were made by the cleric, a young man who always served in the church. The choir consisted of five or six women, was well-organized and well-coordinated. On Sundays and feast days, there were fifty to sixty parishioners, and not only old men and women, but also young people.

Fr. Hilarion served exactly according to the rule, but he served in a special way, completely capturing the attention of the faithful, making them participants in the service. The prayers "I believe", "Our Father", "Who are the cherubim" were sung by the parishioners in a single spiritual impulse, with great delight. On Sundays and feast days, after a leisurely confession, 12-15 parishioners came to the communion chalice. For a rural church, this was a lot. There was no church wine, and Fr. Hilarion (the peasants called him "Larion") prepared it from the juice of raspberries, cranberries and honey and all the time lamented: "Lord! Thou didst say, "Of the fruit of the vine," and what am I doing? Will the Lord forgive me?"

At first, I could not comprehend why the parishioners listened so attentively and piously to the service. I have concelebrated with priests of great inner spirituality in Moscow churches, but I have rarely seen such an understanding and entry into divine services. Once, captured by Fr. Hilarion's service, he understood, comprehended – he served together with the people and as if among the people, he did not separate himself from the parishioners during the narrowing, he was with them and in them, so the special grace of the Lord overshadowed and united the worshipers. For about sixty years after graduating from the Archangel Seminary, he served daily in this church of the Holy Trinity, gave short sermons of moral content (although in those years when I lived in the village, sermons were forbidden) – sixty years of daily unfailing communication with parishioners. For advice, guidance, and reconciliation, the inhabitants of the village and surrounding villages went to him.

In the village, they loved and respected Fr. Hilarion, and they helped the church as much as they could. Fr.