Vladyka did not say anything about my visit to the plenipotentiary, but it was clear that the attitude towards me had become more trusting. Although, the need to settle me in the village clearly did not suit him: after all, I am already over fifty, a monk, I have no family, and my education is not today's, when they go through the history of the Communist Party more than the history of the Apostolic Church. All this, apparently, allowed Vladyka to make some plans for me, but the conversation with the plenipotentiary ruined a lot. Nevertheless, after a couple of weeks, I received the parish.

It turned out, however, that it was not as exciting to accept as to leave one's own. What can I say, I came to the village sick, barely moving my legs, a disabled camp inmate. They lifted, dressed, shod, gave work and saved from the watchful eye of the NKVD. All the most pleasant things in my life after my release happened here. And here is the farewell. People did not perceive it as a betrayal, but there was an element of treason in all this. What are you going to do?! Gone are the days of electing a priest to a parish in Slobozhanshchyna, especially in the Orthodox world. I asked my benefactors-parishioners for one thing - not to cross out my name forever, because I did not sell my house, but left it in their care.

Parish life, I did not know it at all, all its charms and its difficulties. Someone is satisfied, someone is offended, he generally considers it impossible to serve as a bloodsucking priest during the construction of communism! As warm as Anthony the fireman was, so cold did Hieromonk Anthony, the rector of the church. However, soon - to the abbot, and then to the archimandrite.

The last promotion frightened me. Firstly, it was connected with the transfer to the city parish, and I have not forgotten the conversation with the commissioner; Secondly, I was frightened by the changes in church life at that time. I reassured myself that this was senile grumbling, that there was no reason to worry and in general, any fears, but something was alarming.

Several relatively quiet years have passed. I tried to comprehend the science of spiritual work, and I tried to teach the parishioners to distinguish white from black, the salvific from the pernicious. In the first years after the war, it was easier: the people, taught by the war, are kinder, and people's needs are more natural - a roof over their heads and a piece of bread. And the happiness was that you were alive. Then it will be more difficult, and the destructive impact of cinema and propaganda will also have an effect. After all, we were forced to be silent on the ambo, where the priest preached. People will laugh a lot and think little.

But that's not what I'm talking about now. The abbot, then the archimandrite, everything seemed to be going as well as possible. But something did not give her peace of mind. I began to go to my village more often for cell services, and now I had a home church with the blessing of the bishop. I served and served, beseeching the Lord to reveal my unrighteousness, for why did I lose the peace of my soul to others? And then one day at the morning service, and I was serving it, at about three in the morning, during which I once again asked a question about the one who was disturbing me, I did not even hear, but felt a voice: "And who are you, Anthony?!" "How - who, Lord, is an archimandrite". "No, you are a monk!" and that was the answer. Yes, monk!

In the morning I was in the diocesan administration and submitted a petition to the staff. For a long time the bishop persuaded me not to do this, I had to agree to stay until the priest came to the diocese, since at that time many were returning from the camps, and seminary graduates were also coming, so the delay was not long.

Eldership.

In the camps, I met with elders who mastered the art of mental prayer. There was such a father that during his prayer the snow melted! But you can't learn much in the camp, where there is neither strength nor time, so, the basics. Yes, I studied all the spiritual literature that I had, but everything was the same, I wanted to get in touch with everything, directly. And now I set out on my journey, in search of the science of spiritual work.

Knock and it will be opened, for almost ten years I lived with a certain elder, the keeper of the great wisdom of salvation, which Optina brought to people, only occasionally leaving for his village for services. Before his death, he blessed me to follow the same path. So I'm limping, sinner, to the best of my ability.

The Vision of Elder Anthony.

Somewhere in the early seventies, during the celebration of the Divine Liturgy, I was vouchsafed my first vision. And it was like this. At that time, people began to be fascinated by the West and, accordingly, the features inherent in the Slavs - unpretentiousness, hospitality, non-acquisitiveness - were erased. Acquisitiveness, in fact, becomes the cornerstone of a new view of the world, money and things are placed above morality and spirituality. And what happened most terribly was that the way of life of people who call themselves Orthodox, very often, strictly observing church rituals, becomes the same as that of the surrounding pagans! The same immodesty in everyday life, the same desire for a career, for a high position in society. For children from religious families, joining the Pioneers, the Komsomol, the Party does not cause mental anguish. And the excuse is at hand: "And how can we do without this, we do not live in the desert, among people. Well, it's a sin, so start sorting it out - it's all sin, let's go and repent." Such a lightweight attitude caused great fears for the very possibility of salvation. I reread the Gospel, especially about the end times, the Apocalypse, and the question of the desert to which people must flee haunted me.

And then I see a huge number of people walking, people driving. Some, it seems, do not go, some feast, others fornicate, still others play dirty tricks on their neighbors, but all the same they are carried forward like a river. All of them are very different, there are laymen, clergy, military, politicians, everyone, everyone. Most people just rush forward, and some go calmly. On their way there is a terrible abyss, an abyss to hell. It would seem that everyone should fall into it, but no. Most of the people, as it is, fly down, I can see how they are drawn there, some cars, some feasts, some money, some expensive outfits. And some calmly cross this abyss, even above it. Some do not fall through, but descend into the abyss - luminous men help to get over, support. Not only the rich fail, but also people who clearly do not have large funds. But they all have one idol - the lust of the world.

It was scary. From the abyss came not just a moan, but the howl of those who fell there, and the stench. It's not just a smell, no. As there is no description of the fragrance, the fragrance is not from flowers or grass, but the fragrance of grace, that which is given by the Lord from relics, miraculous icons, or something else. The stench of hell is not just a bad smell, like the smell of sulfur, it is a feeling of horror and irretrievability, in a word - hell.