The Monastery in the Heart

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Svetlana Bakulina

My journey into the church began with a trip to a monastery. This monastery was located in a small provincial town in the Nizhny Novgorod region. There were usually only a few people at the services, especially on weekdays. The church was almost empty, and I loved it. It was peaceful.

It was from the residents of this monastery that I first heard about the commandments, the sins, and the sacraments of the Church. My first confession and Communion took place there. I brought home books with the teachings of the Holy Fathers and the Gospel from that monastery. Everything about my spiritual awakening was tied to that place.

A quiet haven of tranquility—completely opposite to my busy, bustling city life. When I was able to work remotely, I often went to the monastery for extended periods to spend time in the church. Back then, the word "church" was synonymous with "monastery" for me. I avoided city churches; they seemed too hectic compared to the calm of the monastery. I would only occasionally visit a city church for confession and Communion when I couldn't travel far from home.

During this time, the parish priest started to recognize me and once asked, "Why do you come to our church so rarely?"

"Well, Father," I replied, "I prefer spending time at the monastery. I don't find peace in the city. There are too many people and too much commotion."

He then said something that stayed with me: "And what if people start coming to the monastery too? Where will you run then? To a hermitage? Solitude? But let me tell you a secret: even there, you won't find peace."

"Why not?" I asked, puzzled.

"Because, Svetlana," he answered, "the monastery should be in your heart."

I hurried to end our conversation. I felt uncomfortable, thinking the parish priest simply didn't understand me.

A few days later, I went back to the monastery. My visit coincided with the monastery's feast day, and what did I see? An enormous number of people—everywhere. In the dining hall, in the church, on the grounds, even in the guesthouse. There was nowhere to hide. But I so wanted to! The priest had been right. There was no "monastery"—that is, no peace, kindness, or true love for others—inside me.

I stood through the entire service, and every time someone pushed or irritated me, I looked up at the familiar icons on the church walls and prayed, "Lord, help me not to think about this. Help me see Your image in every person."

And I was able to immerse myself in prayer, to participate in the service—to do what we come to church for in the first place. There was no time to judge others or to complain about the uncomfortable situation because of the crowd. It turned out that being in a crowded place wasn’t so frightening after all. When your thoughts and gaze are focused on God and on your own repentance, the chaos around you no longer matters. This was my first experience of overcoming myself.

Spending time at the monastery in the early days of my church life helped me learn the art of slowing down, of reflecting, and of humility in making decisions. It helped me establish my own pace and rhythm of life. Eventually, I began attending city churches on Sundays and stopped dividing my life into two separate worlds: the city and the monastery.

God taught me to remember to pray not only within the walls of a church but also in the subway car, in a noisy store. The inner prayer is always with you. As the old saying goes, "God is not in the logs, but in the ribs"—meaning that God is not confined to the church building but resides in our hearts.

 

Original article: radiovera.ru/monastyr-v-serdce-svetlana-bakulina

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