Archpriest Stefan Pavlenko:
“Just as a cellphone needs to be recharged, so is the soul recharged in church.”

Interviewed by Dmitry Zlodorev

Archpriest Stefan Pavlenko, rector of the Church of All Russian Saints in Burlingame, California, recently celebrated 50 years of pastoral service. "I am deeply touched by your attention," the priest replied when I asked him to tell me about the path he had traveled. It was as if he set the tone for the conversation: "There is something to pray for, there is something to remember, there is something to think about. Let us remember, let us think, let us pray."

– Father Stefan, you were born in Austria, you have lived in America almost all your life. What gives you the impetus to feel Russian?

– I think the most important thing in this regard is that we – my brother, two sisters and I – lived in a Russian Orthodox family, where both my father and mother understood very well the importance of the Orthodox faith and Russian culture. They applied it to themselves and transferred it to us. We have never considered ourselves non-Russians.

When we started going to Russia, it was strange for me to see people wondering, "Oh, you are Americans who speak Russian!" Of course, we may have some kind of accent. But it hurt to think that people could not understand that we were absolutely Russian. Yes, we live in America, and we respect it as we should respect our place of residence. But we have always remained Russian.

Where are your family’s roots?

– My father was the son of a priest, studied at the seminary in Odessa and would also have been ordained to the priesthood if the First World War and the Revolution had not happened. At the beginning of the war, his entire class went to a military school, and then his father became a white soldier, served in General Wrangel's army in the Crimea. From Sevastopol, through Greece, he was evacuated to Turkey, to Gallipoli.

After Gallipoli, my father lived in Bulgaria and studied at the University of St Clement of Ohrid, where he became close friends with the future Archbishop Averky (Taushev). There, in Sofia, Vladyka Seraphim (Sobolev) served.

His mother, nee Shatilova, was born in Petrograd - by the way, in the house next to the one where Pushkin lived, on the Moika. Once I went there, there was a restaurant in our old house called "Pushka." The owner came up to me – apparently, he was afraid that I was going to somehow "grab" this building. But, of course, I did not have such thoughts at all.

Our family joked that we gave away the house in St Petersburg, but we would keep the estate in the Crimea (laughs). And then my brother joked that our Shatilov estate should have been transferred to some monastery. But, of course, there was nothing of the kind. They were going to make a museum there.

My mother and parents were evacuated from Sevastopol through Varna to Serbia.

After World War II, my parents moved to the Parsch Displaced Persons Camp near Salzburg, Austria. And when I was 2 1/2 years old, we moved to America. And so it happened that the children in our family were born in three countries: Pavel and Maria in Serbia, I in Austria, and Olga in the United States.

By the way, in Austria we lived near the city of Braunau am Inn, where I was born. During the Russian-Austro-French War of 1805, Kutuzov's army stopped there. For my family, this was significant, because my maternal grandmother was born Tolstaya, and this is a direct line that leads to Kutuzov: his eldest daughter, Praskovya, was married to Matvei Fedorovich Tolstoy.

I now have a portrait of Mikhail Illarionovich hanging at home, and I made copies of it to all my cousins on the Shatilov line, as well as to my children.

– How is the memory of Field Marshal Kutuzov preserved in your family now?

"My son and daughters know about him, I told them a lot. And the grandchildren still have to grow up a little to be interested. The husband of my youngest daughter, Olga, worked in Russia for two and a half years under a contract, and they lived there. And they would still live there, if possible. Now they are in New Jersey, where my eldest daughter, Xenia, is. They both have husbands – Andrei, both Russian, Orthodox, both engineers. Such a coincidence.

– It turns out that you are also a descendant of Leo Tolstoy?

– Our family is closely related to Alexei Konstantinovich Tolstoy, who wrote the novel "Prince Silver." Leo Tolstoy is another more distant branch.

I put the information into a genealogy computer program, and it turned out that my grandmother, Maria Alexandrovna, nee Tolstaya, was a second cousin of both Leo Tolstoy and Alexei Konstantinovich. And it turned out even though there are several more family branches between both of them.

Of course, I have a family tree on my grandmother's side, I know the names of all my relatives, I just can't say them by heart.

– Probably, after such a story, my next question loses its relevance – about how did your parents bring up Russianness in you?

– (Laughs.) As a child, we lived very close to the church. It was so close that you could walk there. And I also went there by bike.

We came to America under a special refugee resettlement program. First, we arrived in New York, and from there we went by bus to the state of Pennsylvania, to the city of Lancaster. Dad and mom had a higher education, but they had to work outside their profession. Mom cleaned our landlord’s house. Once she had to comb out the hair of the hostess, in which a bat got entangled. And dad raised pigs and tobacco for cigarettes.

It was a coincidence: in Bulgaria, my father worked as a secretary to the now glorified St Seraphim (Sobolev) and served as a psalmist in a Russian church. But he had a friend who kept pigs. When this friend got very sick, dad had to help him. And here, in America, he also ended up on such a farm. And he did everything so well that the owner was surprised and even wanted to offer him to work together.

But at that time, we moved from Pennsylvania to New Jersey. This is a different line of life. Father Adrian (Rymarenko) was going to establish a monastery there, and his parents wanted to stay close to him. And indeed, Father Andrian, who later became a bishop, founded Novo-Diveevo Monastery.

So we moved to New Jersey, to the town of Norma. This is a very small town, in which there was nothing, except, perhaps, a bench and a post office. Dad worked in a factory there.

And then we crossed to the nearby town of Vineland. There was already a Russian Church of the Holy Trinity, where my father served as a singer. Mom had poor hearing, so she couldn't sing. And for the same reason, for example, she did not work as a translator for the UN or other organizations. In general, my parents worked in factories: my mother sewed very expensive jackets, and my father prepared frozen vegetables.

We, children, went to an ordinary American school and to a Russian school at the church. From an early age, I served as an altar boy. My very small sticharion remained there for a long time, and I saw it 10-15 years ago, it was still in the sexton.

I remember how our Ruling Bishop Vladyka Vitaly (Maximenko) visited us. I was appointed to serve him, and it was my duty to hold his mantle. Once Vladyka was standing on the ambo and he needed to turn in one direction, but I mixed it up and turned with the mantle in the other. Then I realized what I had to do, but then he also turned. In the end, I, a little boy, wrapped him in his robe.

Vladyka had other similar stories that I heard from the monks of Holy Trinity Monastery in Jordanville. One day a little altar boy was holding a book and had to pick it up. Of course, this is difficult for a child. So Vladyka picked up all this boy along with the book, read what he needed, and then put him back on the floor (laughs).

In the United States, we could only maintain contact with my mother's family, the Shatilovs. My father's relatives remained in Russia, only once he exchanged letters with the wife of his late brother. His mother died during the Holodomor, and after leaving he never saw her again.

In this regard, we have the following ritual in our family: when we leave the house, even for a short time, we always say goodbye to each other. It was because my father said that the last time he saw his mother, he left without saying goodbye to her. This tormented him very much all his life.

– You have been in the Orthodox Church since childhood. Did you have a period of hesitation, doubt, denial? If so, how did you manage to overcome them?

– I served as an altar boy in the church, we were in close contact with our priests. At first, Archpriest Dimitri Kutenko, an old cleric, served with us. And there was a priest who was special to me, Archpriest Nikolai Martsishevsky, who became my teacher and first spiritual father. We were close to him, he came to us at Christmas.

But our parents did not force us to attend services. With their love for the church, for the church, for the service, for their presence there, they showed us that this is important. And, of course, we were upset if we chose something else instead of service. And we saw it too. They did not drive us to church, but attracted us there.

– For what reasons, for example, could you not go to the service?

--By laziness, by being busy with school affairs, by illness. Or because of an imaginary illness. Yes, it happened.

- And because of football?

– No. It's now that children go to football today, tomorrow to ballet, the day after tomorrow to something else. We did not have this in our family. On the one hand, maybe because our parents did not have enough money to enroll us anywhere, and on the other hand, perhaps, there were enough important things at home: to tend to the garden, to mow the grass.

In addition, the parents bought a small farm nearby and raised chickens. There was a dilapidated house without even a toilet. Vineland and this part of New Jersey were famous for chicken farms, and eggs from there were sold all over America. And so, my parents also did this – I don't want to say this word, but it is in my head – business (laughs). But it is better to say in Russian – work.

I was sent to this farm to feed and water these chickens, then collect eggs and sort them by size on a special machine, put them in boxes. Then a truck came for them. At night I was left alone in this terrible hut, where there was only a radio. I was about 11-12 years old.

In the summer, at Holy Trinity Monastery in Jordanville, where Vladyka Averky, a friend of my father, served as abbot and rector of the seminary, there was a program of so-called "summer boys." Usually we lived in the rooms of seminarians who returned home for the summer, or we were given a large hall where 10-12 bunk beds were installed. In the mornings, we went to church services, and then helped the monks in their obediences. And all this was done voluntarily. And the highest achievement was to work with some monk who drove a tractor – with Father Flor, Father Job. And then you could also ride this tractor.

Thus, we can say that I grew up in a monastery. One summer I went there, when the semester was still going on in American school, there were a few days left. But it was an accident: someone was going to Jordanville, and I went with them and stayed there all summer, until September. And then I went back to school and wasn't sure if I was transferred to another class or not (laughs). I had to check in the office, but everything turned out to be in order.

By the way, here is another story about school. As a youth, I was friends with the wonderful monks of Holy Trinity Monastery. There were wonderful pastors there: Father Sergius (Romberg), Father Anthony, who headed the printing business, the future Vladyka Laurus, who was then a hieromonk and archimandrite, Father Vladimir (Sukhobok), Father Nil, who was a carpenter. I knew these people, communicated with them, perhaps once even got on their nerves. I saw them at prayer services.

When I graduated from high school, we had what we called "orientation": we were asked to choose a few places to go next. Special consultants asked what your interests were, where you wanted to study and what you planned to do.

I told this counselor that I was going to Holy Trinity Orthodox Seminary in Jordanville, NY. I don't think I was talking about my intention to become a priest – maybe I explained that I would study theology. Imagine, this man laughed: "What?! You have to be an engineer! You have to be a lawyer! You can be a doctor. And why do you need to go to a theological school?"

If such a conversation had taken place today, I could have sued him for laughing at me. But then it was not accepted. One way or another, I remained unconvinced, and this man helped me draw up the documents. As a result, I went to a monastery, studied at the seminary for five years and graduated in 1971.

By the way, our class put a huge cross on the highest place on the monastery grounds. There was an ordinary old cross, which was slanted and leaned against an electric pole. The boys and I thought of straightening it – that's all we were going to do in the beginning. But when they arrived at the place, they saw that the cross was completely loose, the pillar was rotting. As a result, we decided to order mahogany in California, make a cross from it and put it on the foundation. Our class raised their own funds for this, some other seminarians contributed, and in addition, local residents became interested in the idea. And we installed it.

– How did you meet your matushka?

– This is also a whole story that happened in the last year of study. Tatiana came on a pilgrimage to the monastery. Only later did we find out an interesting detail: all her friends were my friends, and she knew my friends. But we had not crossed paths with her before.

It so happened that Fr Sergius (Romberg) was going to see a doctor in Boston, and I had to take him there. My classmate Stefan Sabelnik, who, unfortunately, later went into schism, told me: "You will be in Boston, there is a beautiful girl, Tatiana. Try to meet her, and then you will tell me everything." I asked him how I would recognize her, and he said, "When she smiles, she has a small gap between her teeth."

We come to Boston, of course, we go to church for a service. There is a girl standing there, I was not going to approach her. But when she turned around and smiled, I saw the same slit: "Hello, are you Tatiana? A big greeting to you from Stefan."

To be honest, I was not impressed by this girl. When Father Sergius and I returned to the monastery, Stefan asked if I had met her. I said: "Yes, I sent greetings from you." – "And that's all?!" – "Yes, that's all!"

By the way, I'm Stefan and he's Stefan, we're both blond and blue-eyed, and we've both had brothers. Because of this, there was some confusion when someone asked Stefan from our seminary class. But that’s another story.

Then the same Tatiana comes to Jordanville from Boston, comes up to me, and I look - Stefan is nowhere to be found. And without his permission, I said: "Stefan sends his greetings." It turned out that he was avoiding her, from this Tatiana.

And I met my Tatiana when she came on a pilgrimage with a youth group also from Boston. I was sitting in the car, she was walking down the street. I saw her and immediately offered to take her to the hotel. She got into the car, we looked at each other. And at that moment we both decided: I – that it would be my wife, and then she told me that she thought I would be her husband.

Three months later, we got married and recently celebrated the 53rd year of our happy marriage. We have four children and six grandchildren.

– You lead such an active priestly life, your parish is large, by standards abroad. What helps you now, where do you find strength?

– My strength is very feeble (laughs). But I have always loved the church service itself. And the principle of my life was that I must make sure that my secular work did not interfere with my participation in the Church’s liturgical circle. The entire liturgical year is important to me. That's why I became a priest, in order to be able to attend services throughout the year. Just as a phone can be recharged, so is the soul recharged from attending church. I think this is the most important thing.

I must also thank God. He graciously gave me the lightest cross to bear. I always say that I am the worst husband in the world, and the Lord gave me the best spouse. I am the worst father, and God gave me the best children. And I really feel like the weakest priest, and the Lord gave me the best parish and the best parishioners. I have had this feeling all my life.

The Lord gave me a light cross, and I try to fulfill my duties. Now it is a little more difficult. For a long time, Andrei Roudenko served as choir director in Burlingame, but moved to take the same position in New Jersey, and his wife Marina is the best psalmist. I could serve all Sundays, all the great, medium, and minor feasts, because they served with me. Now I also have a wonderful choir director, but she works. Therefore, for divine services in the middle of the week, I need to look for people who would help me with this.

But service is my strength. I can be very tired, half-sick, but when I come to the service, everything changes. My wife Tanya is surprised: "It's as if you were resurrected."

– Is half a century of serving as a priest a blessing, grace, work, happiness or something else for you?

– I think that the life of any pastor in a parish is connected with the greatest uplifting, spiritual joy, and profound falls. I won't say it's desperation, but maybe it's fear that you're not doing your duty.

When I was first assigned to Burlingame, I went with holy water to the elderly parishioners. I walked through the rooms and see photographs on the walls: these old people, their grandchildren... I saw old men in church every Sunday, but never children. I asked: "Do your grandchildren visit you? Where do they live?" – They say to me: "Yes, they visit and live here around the corner." But none of them went to church. And now they have grown up.

And then for many years I baptized people. They have also grown up, yet I don't even know where they are. It's so scary! After all, these are the souls for whom I am responsible. They simply disappeared, they are not in church.

We have people who have been coming to our church for the 40 years that I have been serving in Burlingame. There are those who came here from Russia, Belarus or Ukraine in the last 20 years. They are my parishioners, and their children and grandchildren, who grew up in front of my eyes, do not go to church. I am responsible for them, and at the Last Judgment there will be a long list of those whom I have baptized and married. And God will ask me: "Stepochka, where are they?"

I confess, take communion, come to church, serve. I preach sermons, try to visit my parishioners. As I get older, it gets harder and harder – picking up a bag, climbing stairs, but I have to keep going.

– And how do you struggle for the souls of your parishioners?

– Not strongly enough, not enough. We must pray for them, commemorate them. Sometimes I wake up at night and I can't fall asleep. I remember that this person is sick, their children suffer from some psychological problems. Now it is terrible and scary: there used to be discipline at home and discipline in schools, and now schools are simply in the hands of Satan. They can instill a stupid idea that a boy is a girl or vice versa. And the authorities can take these children away from their parents, and they cannot protect them. This is hellish. And this is happening here, in America, and not under the Soviet regime, when icons were torn from the walls and trampled. Children are led into terrible bodily sins. In church, I always say: it is impossible to express what terrible things are offered to small children, five-year-olds, seven-year-olds!

My granddaughter goes to a Catholic school, but there are similar things there too. They get money from the state and have to follow some of these psychological horrors.

And my grandson Stefan is going through it too. When he was about 5 or 6 years old, the teacher in the class said, "When you have to go to the bathroom, you raise your hands and put them together like this." She showed two middle fingers and a thumb, and you got horns. If you know, this is a satanic sign.

Our little Stephen said, "It's a sign of Satan, I can't show it." Thank God, the teacher changed this signal and came up with something else.

Another story happened to our son Alexei, who at one time studied at a Waldorf school in San Francisco. There he was taught the Bible as literature. There was nothing wrong with that. But the teacher began to say that at the beginning of the Bible it is indicated that the world was created by angels.

By that time, Alyosha had already gone to church school and knew from the Bible that God created the world, including the angels. He said this, and the teacher wanted to convince him of the opposite – that in the ancient Jewish books it is written about angels.

My son came home and told me about it. I then called the school and said that at the beginning of the Hebrew Bible, it says, "God of heavenly hosts," not "angels." In the end, we took our children from that school.

– You have served all your life in the Church of All Russian Saints. Are Russian saints different from others?

– Any Orthodox saint is a saint. For us, the Russian people, St Nicholas the Wonderworker is a “Russian saint.” Of course, this is not true, but many people think so. St Spyridon of Trimythous, the Protomartyr Stephen (my heavenly patron) – how can they be separated from us? Saints are saints, and I think there is no quarrel among them as to which of them is better or greater.

Here I can say that Vladyka Nektarios (Kontsevich) was very much in favor of the Church Abroad glorifying the New Martyrs of Russia. He said that when this happens, they will kneel before the Throne of the Almighty and pray for the Russian land and people. And so it turned out: when the New Martyrs were glorified, the ice, as they say, broke, and changes began.