Death of Saint Demetrius of Rostov

Over the ancient Rostov the Great, over its lake, over the Assumption Cathedral, over the Kremlin and the Kremlin walls, over the monasteries and silver-domed parish churches lies a cold October, moonlit night. And involuntarily, thoughts are transported two centuries ago, to the same cold October night over Rostov - the nights from October 27 to 28, 1709... It was peaceful in the low, small rooms of the Metropolitan's chambers. Quiet, warm, dark... Only the lamps in front of the images and the hotly burning stove dispersed the eerie darkness of the autumn, mysterious night. Bishop Dimitri of Rostov was sitting in a deep chair by the stove, and around him stood children, students of his school, singing cantatas. Like silver bells, clear children's voices rang in the silence of the night. And they sang: “My most beloved Jesus, I place my hope in God... You are my God, Jesus, You are my joy...” And to the sounds of his favorite cantatas, written by him once, in the days of his youth, Saint Demetrius fell into deep thought, wearily lowering his head into his hands. II his whole life flashed before him in those minutes... A bright, carefree childhood flashed by, illuminated by the life-giving sun of our native Ukraine. Blue cloudless sky... warm mother's caresses... cheerful children's games in the shade of old father's poplars... and there is golden-domed Kiev... blue Dnieper... Kiev Brotherhood School... and the first yearning of the spirit... and the first passionate desire for the heavenly fatherland... Here comes youth. He is seventeen years old. But he already knows that our destiny is not here on earth. And here he is the monk Demetrius... His first monastic exploits, night prayer, fasting, struggles, victories flashed before him. And so for seven years in obscurity, in the silence and solitude of a poor monastic cell... Here he is as a hieromonk in Chernigov. There “his mouth was opened,” and he spoke loudly about what his soul had been full of since his youth. And then serving God in His saints: great work was undertaken: he began to compile the Chetia - Menaion... At this memory, the gaze of Saint Demetrius flashed with a grateful tear. And he blessed those hours of inspiration that flew by like a moment when, having renounced the earth, he talked with the saints and the angels of God helped him... And here is Rostov. Morning of March 1, 1702. With his father's blessing - his beloved Vatopedi Icon of the Mother of God - he rode to the place of his archpastoral service. The cart, diving through potholes, was already approaching Rostov along the yellowed snow of the Moscow road. The city was not yet visible, but the new metropolitan could already hear the crimson ringing of the Kremlin bells. The cart stopped at the gate of the poor, ancient monastery of Jacob. The clergy and a crowd of townspeople met him there, brought him an icon, and they all went together to the monastery to venerate the relics of Saint James of Rostov. But... at the entrance to the Conception Church the Metropolitan stopped for a moment and, pointing with his hand to its right corner, quietly said: “Behold my peace, here I will dwell forever and ever”... And his entire seven-year pastoral service in Rostov flashed before his mind’s eye. The saint's head bowed even lower. Tears of pity and sadness quietly flowed down his emaciated face... I vividly remembered everything that he had fought so hotly over these many years: the ignorance of shepherds and flocks, the schism that had taken root in the Rostov region, the oppression of the poor by the rich, the injustice of the higher to the lower and the terrible poverty of the people, and the hopeless superstition, and the long-standing unbridled temper of the Rostovites. He remembered everything in those moments: how he struggled with all this, preached, wrote, founded a school for the children of the clergy and how he was all alone, alone and did not see support for himself anywhere, and how school was his only joy. With a loving hand, he sowed a good seed in children's souls, and the seed began to sprout. But the Rostov department became impoverished, and there was no money to support the school, and it had to be closed. And the Metropolitan of Rostov did not find in the people of his flock either love, brotherhood, compassion, or justice... Saint Demetrius no longer had the strength to remain on earth, and, having suffered his earthly lot, his soul yearns for the heavenly fatherland, for the everlasting Light, for the God of truth, love, mercy... ... "My dear Jesus, I place my hope in God... You are my God, Jesus, you are my joy."... The sonorous children's voices of former schoolchildren fell silent. The saint woke up from deep thought. He tenderly said goodbye to the children, blessing each one, leaving with him his beloved singer and “his most diligent assistant in his work,” Savva Yakovlev, and talked with him for a long time, telling him about his childhood. Then he was left alone with God, to whom, during the prayer that followed, his soul flew away in the sacred silence of the midnight hour... Enveloped in touching, solemn memories of the past, Rostov the Great sleeps soundly on a cold, bright October night. The dormant waters of Lake Nero glisten dimly, keeping in its mysterious depths a reflection of the thousand-year history of Rostov. The walls and churches of the ancient Spaso-Yakovlevsky monastery are turning white, which on the very shore of the lake houses the great shrine of the Russian land - a silver-plated shrine with the honest relics of St. Demetrius, Metropolitan of Rostov. Through the narrow, high windows a month looks into the ancient Kremlin Church of the Savior on Senya, in which two centuries ago the body of St. Demetrius rested for a whole month, awaiting burial of his belated friend, Metropolitan of Ryazan Stefan Yavorsky. The pale rays of the month tremblingly glide along the golden walls and round pillars that support the gilded vaults of this marvelous church. Full of the fragrance of the shrine, the huge Assumption Cathedral solemnly rises on a huge square, all bathed in the gentle radiance of the moon, and it seems that it still preserves within its eight-century-old walls an echo of the divinely inspired sermons that two hundred years ago the “Russian Chrysostom” - St. Demetrius of Rostov - taught his flock... From the works of St. Dimitry of Rostov (To the tune of his words "Pearl of Great Price") You are my God, Jesus, You are my joy! I place all my hope in You! From the soul that passionately loved You, I pour out my feelings before You! Whose tongue can explain Your sweetness? You are the great delight of those who love You! Jesus, satisfy my soul, Immortal satiation for thirsty souls! Jesus, Pearl of my life! Oh, how sinful and miserable and wretched life is! Human! You, like a wise merchant, do not regret, Sell everything to buy that Pearl - God! “What I sell,” the poor man will say: “I am deprived of everything.” In my bitter, helpless lot in life." But are you not honored by God as a king? The gift of reason, eternal free will? Your body, soul - these are your cities! And your slaves are bodily passions! Your thoughts are your army! And always Your thoughts are only in your power! Here, sell your kingdom - your freedom, And make God’s word your law! Cut off your passions and your will And “take your mind captive to the obedience of Christ!” Give your warriors - your thoughts - to the service of the Almighty King, the Lord God! Submit your flesh to the spirit and humbly listen to what your great Lord says to you! And having given yourself entirely to the Lord, love Him a lot with all your soul! And then, in the midst of squalor, in the midst of poverty You will buy Him Himself - the Pearl of God.