Once Knew a Saint...His name is Father Vladimir Borichevsky.
The
Arena is a brilliant book on the spiritual life, written by a Russian
bishop named Ignatius Brianchaninov, at the end of the Nineteenth
Century. What I remember most from that book is a comment that, if we
are really lucky, we will meet one person in this life who we could
really call 'holy.' What makes someone holy?
Is it the ability to go
sixty days without eating? Is it the ability to have us shaking in our
boots with the prospect of going to hell? Is it the ability to chant
like an angel? I don't think so. I have met my holy person, and I would
like to tell you a little about him.
His name is Father
Vladimir Borichevsky. He was a priest in the Orthodox Church in America,
and the Dean of Faculty at St. Tikhon's Seminary, in Scranton,
Pennsylvania. He was married, and had nine children. He lived in an old
farmhouse, with an outdoor pump that didn't pump, and a rickety barn
that was a breath of a wind away from giving up the ghost. The walls of
his house were a lifetime collecting second-hand books. 'It's what he
spends all our money on,' was his wife's invariable complaint, always
delivered with a little feigned irritation and a lot of pride. 'And he
knows exactly where every one of them is!' 'But I never buy new books,'
was his invariable defense. He probably never made more than
seventy-five hundred dollars a year and he was terminally content with
his lot.
In the middle of the
1980's, I spent a year at St. Tikhon's. I first met Father Vladimir
early in the year, before the leaves began to turn color and give us a
foliage that almost makes up for the brutal winters in that northeast
corner of Pennsylvania. I was coming out of church on a Sunday, and he
made some remark to me about baseball. I was stunned. This was a
seminary! I hadn't come to talk about baseball. I had come here with the
intention of learning how to be an ordained servant of God. In fact,
the first three times I met him, baseball is what he wanted to talk
about. I couldn't believe it. Who was this bozo? That was my exact
thought. He didn't introduce himself as a dean, he didn't introduce
himself at all, and, while I had heard his name before, no one ever
seemed to talk about him.
Three months later, I asked Father Vladimir to become my
spiritual father. For the rest of the year, whether it was freezing or
the air was thick with flies, every Sunday, I would walk four miles to
his house and four miles back, just to sit on his porch and speculate
with him about when his leaning barn would finally fall down. Whatever
Father Vladimir did, whatever he said, was holy. Even when he talked
about baseball. Or the weather. Or animals. God knows we students tried
to distract him from our lessons, and we almost always succeeded, but we
usually left his class with a sense of wonderment, feeling that, even
if it wasn't from a book, we had learned all we had come to learn.
Time seemed to be particularly gracious to this man. It
stretched to allow him to have time for everyone - and not just time,
but to make you feel like if you wanted to talk for a week, he would
listen and his other appointments could wait. I don't know how many
times during Great Lent, his wife would come out of the church, feigning
anger, to interrupt the two of us in our walk and tell us to 'Get
inside, Father! He's terrible, isn't he, John?' This 'terrible' man was
interested in everyone and everything. He was like a magnet. If anything
in you - or in the community - was out of alignment, he set it right.
His simple presence gave order to chaos, and dispelled any lingering
bitterness with the gentle touch of his ever-present love. If people
were arguing, and Father Vladimir walked past, the rough places were
made straight, and the disputants forgot why they were arguing in the
first place. If you had a problem, or if you came to him for confession,
his calm voice and what he told you would make you feel healed before
you said even a word. Father Vladimir almost made confession irrelevant.
Father Vladimir wasn't a
Pollyanna. He was a refuge of constant caring in the midst of confusing
and sometimes-violent change - what the Church should be, but too often
isn't. Like was Kipling's hero, he kept his head while those about him
were losing theirs. He was exactly what Seraphim of Sarov had in mind
when he said, 'Acquire the Spirit of Peace, and a thousand souls will be
saved around you.' My favorite picture of the priest is a photo he
posed for with the bishop and the rest of the seminary staff. The bishop
is standing front row center, in full regalia, holding his rod of
office, and staring straight at the camera. The faculty, all clearly
aware of the bishop, have arranged themselves on either side and behind
him. Father Vladimir is next to the bishop. His head is on his chest,
and he appears to be asleep!
On Palm Sunday that year, I
made about a hundred palm crosses to pass out after church. Palm
crosses are Greek. Russians use sprigs of pussy willow, since in Russia
there are no palms. As I entered the church with my crosses, a priest
stopped me, and forbade me from bringing them inside. We cocked our guns
in our holsters. At that moment, Father Vladimir appeared at the
entrance the church. He strode inside and said 'Good morning' to both of
us in an everyday baritone that flowed as 'softly as the waters of
Siloam.' On the breast of his black robe was not one, but two, palm
crosses!
The man was just too good. I had to find his weakness, to
make him more like me, so that I would not have to try to be more like
him. I found one. When he talked about abortion, he got angry. Aha! I
had him! Imagine if that were your only weakness.
The year after I left the seminary, I drove up to St.
Tikhon's from New York to visit Father Vladimir. With me was my Jewish
girlfriend. Father Vladimir and his wife greeted me as if it was Sunday,
and I had just walked over from the seminary. The four of us sat in his
living room for about an hour, eating lunch among all the objects that
had once aroused Father Vladimir's curiosity, and which he had just
never thrown away - just like he never threw out any person who came to
see him. Finally, he asked me if I wanted to make my confession. I
nodded and we went upstairs. He put his epitrakhelion over my head, and
spoke whatever he felt in his heart. He finished and, as usual, I had
almost nothing to say. I just felt grateful and humble and forgiven. On
the way downstairs, I stopped. I turned and asked him if he would hear
my friend's confession. (I had raised the possibility with her on the
drive up.)
'She's Jewish,' he said. I nodded. 'I've been a priest for
fifty years,' he laughed, ' and I've never heard a Jew's confession. But
why not? I can't give her absolution, but I can say a general prayer
over her.' They went upstairs. It was an hour and a quarter later before
they came down. It was clear that in that brief time together they had
become great friends.
