In was then so necessary for me to believe in order to live

that I unconsciously concealed from myself the contradictions and

obscurities of theology. but this reading of meanings into the

rites had its limits. If the chief words in the prayer for the

Emperor became more and more clear to me, if I found some

explanation for the words “and remembering our Sovereign Most-Holy

Mother of God and all the Saints, ourselves and one another, we

give our whole life to Christ our God”, if I explained to myself

the frequent repetition of prayers for the Tsar and his relations

by the fact that they are more exposed to temptations than other

people and therefore are more in need of being prayed for — the

prayers about subduing our enemies and evil under our feet (even if

one tried to say that sin was the enemy prayed against), these

and other prayers, such as the “cherubic song” and the whole

sacrament of oblation, or “the chosen Warriors”, etc. — quite two-

thirds of all the services — either remained completely

incomprehensible or, when I forced an explanation into them, made

me feel that I was lying, thereby quite destroying my relation to

God and depriving me of all possibility of belief.

I felt the same about the celebration of the chief holidays.

To remember the Sabbath, that is to devote one day to God, was

something I could understand. But the chief holiday was in

commemoration of the Resurrection, the reality of which I could not

picture to myself or understand. And that name of “Resurrection”

was also given the weekly holiday. [Footnote: In Russia Sunday

was called Resurrection-day. — A. M.] And on those days the

Sacrament of the Eucharist was administered, which was quite

unintelligible to me. The rest of the twelve great holidays,

except Christmas, commemorated miracles — the things I tried not

to think about in order not to deny: the Ascension, Pentecost,

Epiphany, the Feast of the Intercession of the Holy Virgin, etc.

At the celebration of these holidays, feeling that importance was

being attributed to the very things that to me presented a negative

importance, I either devised tranquillizing explanations or shut my

eyes in order not to see what tempted me.

Most of all this happened to me when taking part in the most

usual Sacraments, which are considered the most important: baptism

and communion. There I encountered not incomprehensible but fully

comprehensible doings: doings which seemed to me to lead into

temptation, and I was in a dilemma — whether to lie or to reject

them.

Never shall I forge the painful feeling I experienced the day

I received the Eucharist for the first time after many years. The

service, confession, and prayers were quite intelligible and

produced in me a glad consciousness that the meaning of life was

being revealed to me. The Communion itself I explained as an act

performed in remembrance of Christ, and indicating a purification

from sin and the full acceptance of Christ’s teaching. If that

explanation was artificial I did not notice its artificiality: so

happy was I at humbling and abasing myself before the priest — a

simple, timid country clergyman — turning all the dirt out of my

soul and confessing my vices, so glad was I to merge in thought

with the humility of the fathers who wrote the prayers of the

office, so glad was I of union with all who have believed and now

believe, that I did not notice the artificiality of my explanation.

But when I approached the altar gates, and the priest made me say

that I believed that what I was about to swallow was truly flesh

and blood, I felt a pain in my heart: it was not merely a false

note, it was a cruel demand made by someone or other who evidently

had never known what faith is.

I now permit myself to say that it was a cruel demand, but I

did not then think so: only it was indescribably painful to me. I

was no longer in the position in which I had been in youth when I

thought all in life was clear; I had indeed come to faith because,

apart from faith, I had found nothing, certainly nothing, except

destruction; therefore to throw away that faith was impossible and

I submitted. And I found in my soul a feeling which helped me to

endure it. This was the feeling of self-abasement and humility.

I humbled myself, swallowed that flesh and blood without any

blasphemous feelings and with a wish to believe. But the blow had

been struck and, knowing what awaited me, I could not go a second

time.

I continued to fulfil the rites of the Church and still

believed that the doctrine I was following contained the truth,

when something happened to me which I now understand but which then

seemed strange.

I was listening to the conversation of an illiterate peasant,

a pilgrim, about God, faith, life, and salvation, when a knowledge

of faith revealed itself to me. I drew near to the people,

listening to their opinions of life and faith, and I understood the

truth more and more. So also was it when I read the Lives of Holy

men, which became my favourite books. Putting aside the miracles

and regarding them as fables illustrating thoughts, this reading

revealed to me life’s meaning. There were the lives of Makarius

the Great, the story of Buddha, there were the words of St. John

Chrysostom, and there were the stories of the traveller in the

well, the monk who found some gold, and of Peter the publican.

There were stories of the martyrs, all announcing that death does

not exclude life, and there were the stories of ignorant, stupid

men, who knew nothing of the teaching of the Church but who yet

were saves.

But as soon as I met learned believers or took up their books,

doubt of myself, dissatisfaction, and exasperated disputation were

roused within me, and I felt that the more I entered into the

meaning of these men’s speech, the more I went astray from truth

and approached an abyss.