Ateisti, neupućeni ili naprosto zlobni ljudi govorili su zbog ovog događaja o manastiru kao o nepotrebnoj zgradurini u kojoj borave lenštine koje su pobegle od sveta kako bi izbegle ovozemaljske obaveze, nesposobni da razumeju da iza tih zidina ne postoji bekstvo, već izbor koji većina nikada ne bi mogla ni da podnese,fantazeri itd.
Monasi su takve reči najčešće prepuštali tišini, a kada bi i odgovarali, činili su to bez gorčine, ponavljajući da je to samo uobičajeno, ateističko huljenje na one koji su ostavili sve zbog neizdržive ljubavi prema Bogu.
A taj spisak „lenština“, kako su ih nazivali, bio je dugačak i raznolik — naučnici, hirurzi, biolozi, glumci, zanatlije, ljudi koji su u svetu već imali ime i mesto, ali su ga se odrekli ne iz slabosti, već iz potrebe koja se ne objašnjava.
Zbog toga je mali broj ljudi zaista znao šta je svrha manastira, zašto monasi napuštaju sve i šta se, daleko od pogleda i glasina, unutar tih viševekovnih zidina zaista dešava.
Niko od prisutnih toga dana, dok su se već razilazili ka posluženju u tihom, uobičajenom poretku posle jeleosvećenja nije mogao da nasluti kroz šta je prošla žena koju su nešto ranije uveli unutra u zgradu, niti kakva se borba u njoj odvijala pre nego što je njen glas presekao mir manastirske porte.
Polako smo se svi okupili i krenuli ka manastirskoj trpezariji.
Kretanje je bilo tiho, gotovo usklađeno, kao da nas vodi isti nevidljivi ritam. Niko nije govorio naglas o onome što se dogodilo, ali se osećalo u svakom pogledu, u svakom kratkom zadržavanju koraka. Između radosti i nemira, svako je nosio svoj deo neizgovorenog.
Ulazili smo jedan po jedan, skidajući sa sebe hladnoću dvorišta i unoseći u prostor toplinu tela, ali i težinu događaja koji se još nije slegao.
Ručak je počeo u blagom šapatu molitvi i tišini poslužitelja koji su pažljivo pripremali stolove, dok se miris sveže hrane mešao sa tragovima tamjana i voska, koji su kao da su i dalje dolazili iz crkve. Prostor je disao sporije, sabranije.
Svetlost je padala kroz prozore, razlivajući se po drvenim stolovima u toplim tonovima, dok su monasi, bogoslovi i gosti zauzimali mesta bez žurbe. Sve je bilo jednostavno, ali puno neke tihe ozbiljnosti.
Raša je seo među ostalima, ali kao da nije bio sasvim tu.
Ruke su mu bile spuštene na sto, ali prsti blago stegnuti, kao da još uvek drže onu poruku. U njemu su se smenjivali talasi — olakšanje, zahvalnost, neverica. Vest o detetu nije prestajala da odzvanja.
Trideset i tri procenta.
Nije bila potpuna pobeda, ali je bila više nego nada.
I možda baš zato — snažnija.
U trenutku dok mu je sveštenik ranije pomazivao čelo, vibracija telefona bila je gotovo neprimetna, ali sada je imala težinu čitavog sveta. Kao da se nešto otvorilo — ne spolja, nego iznutra.
Podigao je pogled.
Preko nekoliko stolova, Otac Arsenije je sedeo mirno, uspravno, sa blagim nagibom glave. Njegovo prisustvo nije tražilo pažnju, ali ju je držalo. Oči su mu prelazile preko ljudi, ne zadržavajući se dugo ni na kome, a ipak kao da su svakoga dotakle.
U njemu se osećalo nešto sabrano.
Kao da već zna da će morati da govori.
Ne objašnjava — nego da smiri.
Okupljanje tolikog broja ljudi sada je imalo drugačiju težinu. Više od stotinu duša, svaka sa svojim teretom, sada su delile isti prostor, isti trenutak, i nešto što niko nije umeo da nazove.
Uprkos onome što se dogodilo napolju, nije bilo panike.
Ali nije bilo ni običnog mira.
U jednom uglu, Dunja je sedela uz oca, ruku u njegovoj. Ponekad bi je jače stegla, kao da proverava da je tu. Pogled joj je, međutim, stalno odlazio ka Jovani.
Jovana je sedela malo po strani.
Braća su bila blizu nje, ali ne preblizu. Kao da su naučili da joj ostave prostor. Njeno telo se još uvek nije potpuno smirilo — sitni trzaji prolazili su kroz ruke, kroz ramena, jedva primetno, ali dovoljno da se osete.
Gledala je oko sebe.
Ne dugo.
Ne zadržavajući pogled.
Kao da svaku sliku prima na trenutak, pa je odmah pušta.
Pokušavala je da ostane tu.
Da se veže za prostor, za ljude, za glasove koji su sada bili tiši, prizemniji, ljudski. Ali nešto u njoj još uvek nije nalazilo oslonac.
Monah Kirjak je sedeo pored nje.
Ruku joj je držao lagano, gotovo neprimetno, kao da ne želi da je zadrži, nego samo da joj pokaže da nije sama. Povremeno bi nešto tiho rekao, više za sebe nego za nju.
U njegovom pogledu mogla se naslutiti tuga.
I nešto nalik kajanju.
Kao da se u njemu još uvek vodila borba koja nije imala veze sa ovim trenutkom, ali ga je pratila.
A kod Jovane…
Dah po dah, svet se vraćao na svoje mesto.
Ne potpuno.
Ne sigurno.
Ali dovoljno da može da sedi, da sluša, da ne pobegne.
Nije razumela šta se dogodilo.
Nije mogla da poveže slike.
Ali je osećala jedno — da postoji mesto gde je ne odbacuju.
Gde može da ostane.
Raša je u jednom trenutku podigao pogled, i blagi osmeh mu je prešao preko lica.
U očima mu je goreo tih plamen — ne nagao, ne bučan — nego dubok, sabran, kao svetlost koja više ne traži potvrdu.
Dunja je pomno pratila očev pogled.
Najpre nesvesno.
Zadržala se na njegovom licu, kao da želi da razume tu tišinu u njemu, taj mir koji joj je bio stran, a opet privlačan.
A onda, kao vođena nečim što nije mogla objasniti, pogled joj je skliznuo dalje.
Ka Jovani.
I tu je zastala.
Predugo.
U njoj se otvorilo pitanje koje nije imalo oblik, ali je imalo težinu.
Da li je… u onom trenutku… Jovana mislila na nju?
Ne kao prolazna misao.
Ne kao pogled kroz gomilu.
Nego baš na nju.
Kao da ju je videla.
Kao da ju je prepoznala.
Kao da ju je… dozvala.
Dunja je pokušala da se seti tog trenutka napolju. Sve je bilo zbrkano — glasovi, pokreti, strah, pogled koji se iznenada podigao… ali negde u tom haosu ostala je jedna tačka.
Jedan osećaj.
Kao da je na trenutak bila izložena nečemu što je nije pitalo da li želi da bude viđena.
Srce joj je blago ubrzalo.
Nije bilo panike.
Ali nije bio ni mir.
Više nalik nečemu što se tek rađa — slutnja bez reči.
Ponovo je pogledala Jovanu.
Sada pažljivije.
Tražeći znak.
Bilo šta.
Ali Jovana nije gledala u nju.
Gledala je negde mimo, kroz ljude, kroz prostor, kao da još uvek pokušava da pronađe gde se zapravo nalazi.
Ipak…
U jednom kratkom trenutku, tek treptaj — njene oči su se pomerile.
Ne zadržavajući se.
Ali dovoljno.
Dovoljno da Dunja oseti kako joj se nešto u grudima steže.
Kao da odgovor postoji.
Ali ne želi da se pokaže do kraja.
Spustila je pogled.
Ne zato što je htela.
Nego zato što više nije mogla da izdrži da gleda.
Ruka joj se još jače stegla oko očeve.
Pored Jovane, monah Kirjak je sedeo nepomično.
Na prvi pogled — miran.
Ali u njemu nije bilo mira.
U grudima mu je rasla tiha, ali neumoljiva težina.
Sramota.
Ne obična, ljudska.
Nego ona koja dolazi kada čovek vidi sebe jasnije nego što bi želeo.
Slika trenutka od ranije vraćala mu se uporno. Pokret. Reč. Pogled. Sve ono što nije trebalo da izađe iz njega — a izašlo je.
I sada je sedelo tu, sa njim.
Nije mogao da pobegne od toga.
Ruku kojom je držao Jovanu nije stezao.
Ali ni povlačio.
Držao ju je kao neko ko traži oproštaj bez reči.
U sebi je izgovarao molitvu.
Bez glasa.
Bez reda.
Prekidanu.
Kao da ne zna kako da počne.
Kao da svaka reč dolazi prekasno.
Osećao je da nije dostojan da sedi tu.
Ne dostojan da bude uz nju.
Ne dostojan službe koja mu je data.
I to saznanje nije ga lomilo naglo.
Nego sporo.
Temeljno.
Kao voda koja pronalazi pukotinu i širi je iznutra.
Na trenutak je podigao pogled.
Prema Ocu Arseniju.
Kratko.
Gotovo kao dete koje proverava da li je viđeno.
Ali ga ovaj nije gledao.
I možda je baš to bilo teže.
Spustio je oči.
Još dublje u sebe.
I tada je prvi put osetio nešto drugo, pomešano sa sramotom —
strah.
Ne od onoga što se desilo.
Nego od onoga što bi mogao da postane ako to ne razume.
Ruka mu je blago zadrhtala.
Ali je nije povukao.
Ostao je tu.
Držeći Jovanu.
Kao da time pokušava da zadrži i sebe.
Otac iguman Arsenije spremao se za svoj tradicionalni govor ,pa se žagor svetine postepeno stišavao
a zveckanje šoljica za kafu i čaj potpuno su utihnulo,samo bi se još po koje malo dete povremeno oglasilo.
MONASTERY 15
Atheists, the uninformed, or simply malicious people spoke of the monastery as an unnecessary structure in which idlers dwelled, having fled the world in order to escape earthly obligations, unable to comprehend that within those walls there was no escape, but a choice that most would neither understand nor endure.
The monks most often left such words to silence, and when they did respond, they did so without bitterness, repeating that it was merely the usual, atheistic blasphemy directed at those who had abandoned everything out of an unbearable love for God.
And that list of “idlers,” as they were called, was long and varied—scientists, surgeons, biologists, actors, craftsmen, people who had already held names and places in the world, yet had renounced them not out of weakness, but out of a necessity that could not be explained.
For this reason, only a small number of people truly knew what the purpose of a monastery was, why monks abandoned everything, and what, far from the gaze and rumors of the world, truly unfolded within those centuries-old walls.
None of those present that day, as they were already dispersing toward the modest meal and the quiet, familiar order that follows a service, could have guessed what the woman—whom they had brought inside not long before—had endured, nor what kind of struggle had taken place within her before her voice shattered the stillness of the monastery grounds.
-They told me later : Her name was Jovana, and she had arrived with her two brothers, yet at first glance it was evident that something between them had fractured, for she walked several steps ahead of them, hastily, almost as though trying to escape, while they followed in silence, exchanging worried glances and searching for a way to reach her without unsettling her further.
Her condition was far more severe than anyone could have judged from the outside, for what was happening within her had no clear form that could be explained in ordinary words—she had carried a long-standing inner disorder for years, but after returning from America, everything had deepened and taken on a darker, heavier dimension, in which fears, premonitions, and images intertwined into something she herself could barely endure.
At times it seemed to her that she knew, in advance, that something bad would happen, and it would, to her quiet dread, indeed come to pass, leaving her without ground beneath her feet and without explanation, torn between the desire to believe and the fear that she was losing her mind.
And yet, through all of this, she remained good, almost childlike in her vulnerability, and it was precisely this inner goodness that made everything she was enduring even harder, for she had nowhere to place what was happening to her.
During the anointing service, she stood among the people, trying to gather herself, to find even a fleeting moment of peace, while the scent of incense filled the space and the chanting rose beneath the vaults in a steady, consoling rhythm that brought calm to others, but within her collided with a restlessness that would not subside.
Her hands trembled, at first almost imperceptibly, and then so strongly that she had to draw them close to her body, trying to restrain a shaking that did not come from the outside, but from a depth she could no longer control.
She tried to follow the prayer, to cling to each spoken word as to a final support, yet her attention slipped away, scattered and returned in waves, as though within her a struggle was unfolding between what she wished and what was overtaking her.
In those moments, she had the sense that the sacred presence surrounding her was slipping beyond her reach, that she could not touch it, as though she stood at the threshold of something she could not enter, no matter how deeply she longed to.
She fought to remain, to endure until the end, not to leave, for somewhere within she knew that this was the only place where help might still be found, yet her body no longer obeyed her will, her breath grew shallow, her vision blurred, and the inner pressure became unbearable.
At last, she stepped outside, almost unnoticed, like someone fleeing without knowing from what.
As she passed through the courtyard, by two monks who stood in silence, she barely looked at them, yet a thought flashed through her mind—sudden and beyond her control, unlike anything that belonged to her:
— Strike each other…
She halted for a fraction of a second, startled, as though she had heard a чуж voice within herself.
And then raised voices broke out behind her.
When she turned, she saw that the two monks—among them Kirjak—had, in an instant, fallen into an inexplicable argument that, without any visible cause, was turning into a harsh conflict, charged with a sudden, heavy hostility that did not resemble them.
That sight cut through her thought and her breath at once.
Something within her broke then—quietly, but irrevocably.
From that moment on, she could no longer clearly follow either herself or the world around her, as sounds grew distant, images fragmented, and her thoughts dissolved into disjointed, blurred fragments through which she sank without resistance.
Her brothers were saying something, calling to her, trying to hold her back, but their voices no longer reached her in a way she could understand, as though they came from far away.
“And only later, much later, when they had already led her inside, when everything around her began to take shape again and she started to regain herself, there remained only the trace of that fracture — like a shadow of something that had happened, something she could no longer piece together into a whole.”
The lunch in the monastery began in a gentle whisper of prayers and the quiet movements of the servers as they carefully arranged the tables, while the aroma of freshly prepared food mingled with the lingering scent of incense and wax still floating from the church, as if the very space itself carried the breath of the recent anointing. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows painted the wooden floorboards of the refectory in warm hues, and the monks and guests slowly took their places, each with their own thoughts, worries, and prayers.
Raša sat in silence, his hands tightly clutching the message his wife had sent, while his heart wavered between relief and profound gratitude—the tumor of his child, Sanja, had shrunk by thirty-three percent. The news had arrived at the moment when the monastery still resonated with the light and scents of the anointing, the incense and wax stubbornly clinging to his thoughts, reminding him that miracles sometimes come quietly, yet undeniably.
At the very moment a priest gently anointed Raša’s forehead, his phone vibrated in his pocket—a small, almost imperceptible thing, yet enough to make the weight of the world tangible in that instant.
Father Arsenije sat at the central table a few meters away, composed and dignified, his presence commanding the space, head slightly bowed, hands folded on his chest, eyes absorbing every detail, heart beating in rhythm with a prayer for all present. He knew he must explain what the human mind struggles to comprehend, to frame within fact and faith that which seems impossible, as if he were testing himself, or simply praying for the right words.
The gathering of more than a hundred people—monks, theology students, experienced priests, women who assisted in the monastery, and guests—had its invisible purpose, entwined with the mystery of grace and human suffering. Despite the terrible events that had occurred, in Raša’s soul and that of the others, it created a sense of surreal strength and stability.
In a corner of the room, Dunja sat beside her father, hand in hand with him, yet her eyes frequently drifted toward Jovana, who still trembled. Every staggered movement of hers betrayed a fear that could not be fully explained—a subtle internal alarm, a perception of misfortune and danger already unfolding, demons she saw behind every shadow, in the movements of every guest, in the whispers of those passing by.
Jovana surveyed the room, clearly attempting to find peace in prayer, but her hands shook, her breath was rapid, and her eyes almost imperceptibly tracked the movements of the sacred objects and the people, while her inner demons quietly mocked every attempt at calm; the sanctities had become their playground, every step of a theology student or monk a challenge, every word a potential trap for her mind, balancing on the edge of the real and the seen.
And only later, much later, when she had been led inside, when everything around her had regained its shape, and she began to recover herself, there remained only the trace of that fracture—a shadow of something that had happened, something she could no longer piece together into a whole.
Now she sat with her hands folded in her lap, while Monk Kirjak, by his obedience to care for her, quietly held her hand and whispered that all was well, that she was not alone.
In him simmered sorrow and guilt over the fight with her brother in Christ, while Jovana, breath by breath, slowly felt the world stabilize around her, and although she could not yet comprehend why or what had occurred, she felt at least that there was a place where she was accepted, where healing could begin, regardless of medicine, inner demons, or the visions that haunted her.
I noted: Raša lifted his gaze at that moment, a smile on his lips, and in his eyes burned the quiet flame of relief and gratitude, while Dunja followed her father’s gaze, still confused, carrying in herself the question of whether Jovana had thought of her.
Arsenije greeted everyone: “God bless you, sisters and brothers.”
Soft, almost whispering replies echoed through the hall: “God bless you,” coming from all corners, from faces that reflected a mixture of awe and curiosity, their eyes following every movement, every gesture, every glance as if searching for a sign, a confirmation of what was just beginning to be explained. Arsenije slowly raised his hands—not to interrupt conversation or service, but to shape the silence that was needed—and began to speak, his voice deep yet gentle, carrying the weight of centuries of experience, past calamities, and the faith that every moment, every prayer, every person in the room has a meaning and a purpose far beyond what is immediately visible:
“Today we gather not merely to eat, nor merely to be together, but to witness and participate in something far greater than our individual lives. The world we inhabit—this world outside these walls—is struck by anomalies, wars, unbelief, secularism imposed under the guise of freedom, and atheism that seeks to erase every trace of meaning. These forces shape our daily lives, our nations, our societies, and of course, our hearts. Yet here, within the monastery, we come to remember that there is a law beyond time and space, a law of love and faith, a law of God’s mercy. Every gesture of the hand, every prayer, every attention we give here is not mere ceremony—it is an action that penetrates beyond our senses and reason, reaching into the invisible realm where things occur that the human mind cannot fully comprehend, but the soul recognizes.”
His sentences were not short; they unfolded like waves, rolling over the visitors, monks, theology students, the women who aided the monastery, and the guests who listened with curiosity and reverence. He continued:
“When we speak of misfortunes and the suffering we see all around us—wars, famine, disease, poverty, moral corruption—we cannot consider them merely as coincidences or natural laws. There are forces that attempt to numb the soul, to confuse the heart, to separate a person from their inner light. But each of you, every individual present here, by your existence, your prayers, your attention, and your willingness to be part of this community, creates a protective space, a wall of faith that reflects God’s mercy. That is why so many are gathered today—because each life, each contribution, each prayer together builds a force that extends far beyond these walls and returns, often unseen, to influence the world and those who are not here.”
As he spoke, his gaze swept over the assembled faces, noting reactions, recognizing those who doubted, those who were weary, those who carried inner demons, as Jovana did. His words were not only explanation; they were an attempt to connect all that the world had abandoned, all that had been deemed lost, and to show how even the smallest sign of faith could be a turning point.
“And as we eat, and as we recite the Psalms of David, which our monks continuously intone during meals, we realize that every word, every tone, every breath carries weight, and that there is no small or insignificant act. Everything we do in this community—from prayer to eating, from laughter to silence—resonates farther than we can imagine, shaping events, influencing misfortune, and bringing change to those who may be far from us, yet whose lives we can touch through God’s mercy.”
