Venerable Confessor Sebastian of Karaganda, with his fellow clergy
From his first days as a humble cell-attendant in the skete of the Optina Monastery of the Entrance of the Theotokos into the Temple to his years as igumen and archimandrite, Father Sebastian served the Orthodox Church for fifty-seven years—from 1909 to 1966.
He was exact and unwavering in his observance of the Church typikon, never allowing omissions or abbreviations. The divine services were, for him, an inseparable part of his inner life.
He held special reverence for the Feasts of the Ascension of the Lord and Pentecost, which he called the crowning of Christ’s salvific work and the summit of all divine mysteries. Among the saints, his beloved example was Saint John the Theologian, whose feast he celebrated with particular solemnity and devotion. He often lamented the insufficient veneration of this “Apostle of Love” among his flock, saying:
“Today is the feast of the Translation of the Relics of Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, and the church is full of people. But yesterday we celebrated the memory of the Holy Apostle and Evangelist John the Theologian, and the church was half empty. Do you not understand who is greater, and whom we ought to honor more? Which feast is higher?”
He also held special devotion for the seven feast days of the Forerunner and Baptist John, and for the Holy Unmercenaries Cosmas and Damian (July 1/14)—the heavenly patrons of the region where he was born.
Elder Sebastian among His Flock
A constant concern of Father Sebastian was to establish in people’s hearts a deep inner peace. He sought to shape his own life and that of his parish after the monastic pattern. When someone disobeyed his counsel or disregarded his blessing, he was deeply grieved, knowing it would bring harm and often misfortune to that soul. His sorrow could reach the point of tears. He would rebuke, turn away, and withhold his blessing—but when he saw repentance, or tears, or that the person had finally followed his advice, he rejoiced greatly, comforted them, and before long would gladden them with some quiet kindness. Once he said to a young woman who had acted against his counsel:
“You did not listen to me—so why have you come now, weeping and asking for help? Why? For you know…,” he hesitated for a moment, then added humbly, “I am not always mistaken.”
Such was his humility. Father Sebastian could even weep over the disobedience of his spiritual children; he often wept also while hearing confessions.
His love was tender and full of care. He could sometimes grow stern, but rarely. He never begrudged time spent in conversation with people, giving each his full attention. The lives of his faithful spiritual children were exemplary—people called them, “Father’s,” and said that half of Mikhailovka lived like a quiet, unspoken monastery.
Father Sebastian’s health was frail. He especially suffered from narrowing of the esophagus. Everyone knew that he could not be disturbed while eating, as any sudden word or distraction would cause him to choke and cough, often ending in vomiting. This illness was the result of many nervous shocks and sufferings endured through his long and troubled life. He was always inwardly tense.
When the church was not yet registered and Father Sebastian had to celebrate the Liturgy secretly with only his closest helpers, he lived in constant fear. He would say:
“You all say, ‘Father, serve for us!’ But do you know what I go through?”
He was breaking the law; at any time, the authorities could have come and arrested everyone. Later, even when the church was legally open, this fear did not entirely leave him. Once one of his spiritual children said, “Father, I’m afraid of such-and-such a man.” He smiled and replied:
“Really? I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of only one thing—that they will close the church. That’s what I fear. I’m not afraid for myself, I’m afraid for you. I know what I would do, but what will you do?”
When he was stronger, Father Sebastian served a moleben (supplicatory service) after every Liturgy. The choir sang, and two Akathists were read. Later, when he weakened, only one was read, or shortened. At the end of each moleben, Father Sebastian gave the faithful the Cross to kiss and always spoke a word of exhortation. The entire congregation would remain to listen.
The church was full of young people. The choir, composed entirely of women and girls, numbered up to seventeen sopranos on the right kliros. They sang in the Optina chant, gentle and contemplative, and Father himself sometimes went up onto the kliros to sing with them.
Following monastic custom, he especially loved the services for the departed, and every day celebrated panikhidas (memorial services) himself. He used to say he preferred to serve for and commemorate women, “for they bear far fewer sins.” He could even perceive, through grace, the spiritual condition of the departed.
There is no doubt that Father Sebastian possessed the gift of clairvoyance, though he never displayed it openly. Likewise, he never healed or performed exorcisms publicly; out of humility he always said:
“I don’t heal anyone, I don’t read over anyone—go to the hospital.”
He used to say:
“I am like a fish—without a voice,” thus humbling himself. Yet he helped people by his hidden prayer.
He was entirely free from self-importance or vanity. On the contrary, he would often say:
“I’m a poorly educated man—I only finished four grades. I have no gift of words, no voice.”
He usually read his sermons directly from a book, adding nothing of his own. But when sitting at table with his spiritual children, he would sometimes share a story or recollection—always calmly, modestly, never drawing attention to himself.
Father Sebastian was exceptionally gentle and tactful. He never humiliated, offended, or interrupted anyone. He never drew attention to another’s physical defects, and in his presence, no one would ever dare to speak of someone as “deaf,” “blind,” or “lame.” Around him, there seemed to radiate a moral atmosphere so pure that crude words or base actions became impossible.
Even the local officials preferred to conduct their conversations not with Father Sebastian himself, but with his assistant priest, Father Alexander Krivonosov. They seemed to feel his spiritual stature, which inspired in them a kind of reverent fear.
Once, the Commissioner for Religious Affairs at the regional executive committee demanded that the churchwardens order the clergy to stop traveling to the nearby towns of Saran and Dubovka, since these belonged to another district. The warden reported this to Father Sebastian, who, the next day, went himself with the warden to the regional office. When Father Sebastian began to speak, the commissioner immediately changed his tone—he grew courteous, even apologetic. The elder said:
“Comrade Commissioner, please allow us, at the miners’ request, to perform the sacraments in Saran, Dubovka, and the nearby settlements. Sometimes they ask that a sick mother be communed or a deceased person buried.”
The commissioner replied kindly, “Of course, Father Sebastian, please do so—do not refuse them.” Whatever matters Father raised, the commissioner granted nearly all requests, and thereafter never mentioned restrictions again.
Father Sebastian had no favorites among his spiritual children; he treated everyone equally, and this fairness drew people to him even more. He possessed spiritual wisdom and great patience. When someone complained about another, he would gently say,
“I bear with all of you—can you not bear with even one person?”
If there was discord, he would be troubled:
“I am the rector, yet I listen to each of you.”
The salvation of every soul was his only concern, and he would repeat,
“Live more peacefully.”
Once, during a journey to perform a service, his assistants forgot to bring the censer and began to reproach each other. The elder said simply, “It’s my fault,” and immediately all fell silent.
He often traveled to the villages of Dubovka, Saran, Fedorovka, and Topar, baptizing and performing funerals in private homes. In every place he visited, a parish was later founded, as if by the power of his prayers. He also returned to Dolinka, the settlement where he had once suffered imprisonment. Yet his favorite place to visit was the settlement of Melkombinat.
He would say that in Mikhaylovka he had his “Optina,” but in Melkombinat—his “Skete.” By his blessing, many believers from across Karaganda—Maykuduk, Tikhonovka, Prishakhtinsk, Kompaneisk—moved there to live near him. The inhabitants of Melkombinat were families, or what remained of families, who had survived the tragedy of special exile in the 1930s. They were people with wounded hearts and broken lives—widows, orphans, and those scarred by suffering. Each carried a personal grief, a hidden wound of the soul.
Many were of difficult temperament—irritable, suspicious, withdrawn—but Father Sebastian always found a way to reach each afflicted heart. Among those around him were also many monastics, exiled to Karaganda during the persecutions or later drawn there by love for the elder. Some were gifted ascetics, people of great spiritual depth. Together they formed a strong Christian community, a Kazakh steppe “skete”, organized and nurtured under the guidance of the Optina elder amid the very soil of the Karaganda labor camps.
At Melkombinat lived the elder’s widowed brother, Hilarion, who had come to him with his youngest daughter and granddaughter. Before his death, Hilarion was tonsured a monk, and Father Sebastian himself served his funeral service.
Father Sebastian did not bless his spiritual children to travel to monasteries:
“Here,” he would say, “are the Lavra, Pochaev, and Optina—all here. The services are held, everything is here.”
When someone planned to move away, he would say:
“Do not go anywhere. Everywhere there will be troubles, everywhere disorder—but Karaganda will only be touched at the edge.”
His Holiness Patriarch Alexy I wished greatly to see and speak with the elder. He blessed Bishop Pitirim (Nechaev) to bring Father Sebastian to him, even by airplane. But the elder, already weak, declined. “I am not fit to fly by plane,” he replied simply, and remained in Karaganda.
Thus passed the years in a life of love and self-sacrificing service to God and to others. Father Sebastian began to weaken noticeably. From January 1966, his health declined sharply; his chronic ailments worsened. What grieved him most was that he could no longer serve the Divine Liturgy as before—he would cough and struggle to breathe during the service.
Doctors suggested he take injections before serving. He consented, and after resting he could still go to church, though with great effort. But soon the disease advanced, and even after the injections he could no longer walk to the church. His young acolytes and helpers built him a light chair from aluminum tubing, and he was carried in it to church. At first he was embarrassed, but later grew accustomed to it.
Father Sebastian often spoke of death and the passage to eternity. When people asked, “How will we live without you, Father?” he would answer sternly, “Who am I? What? God was, is, and will be! Whoever has faith in God—even if he lives a thousand kilometers away—will be saved. But whoever clings to the hem of my cassock yet has no fear of God will not find salvation.”
The Great Lent of 1966 was his last. During the first week, he served daily, reading with a clear, firm voice the Great Penitential Canon of St. Andrew of Crete. On the Sunday of Orthodoxy he celebrated the Liturgy. Throughout that week he received no visitors and spoke with no one.
The second and third weeks passed as usual.
On the Sunday of the sixth week, Father did not serve; he sat in the altar in his chair. After receiving Communion, he asked the choir to sing: “Open to me the doors of repentance, O Giver of Life.” From that day his strength began to fade rapidly.
On April 10, during the Paschal night, Father Sebastian wished to be carried to church but could not rise. Those around him were distressed, but he said:
“Why have you left the church? I am not dying yet. I shall still have time here—and even to greet the departed with ‘Christ is Risen!’ Go peacefully back to the service.”
On the morning of April 12, the Tuesday of Pascha, he felt stronger and breathed easily. “Put on my boots,” he said to his cell-attendant, “I must go out to the people—to greet them with Christ is Risen, so they will not grieve. I promised—I must tell them the main thing.”
The boys carried him to the church. He was dressed in his mantia and klobuk. Sitting briefly before the Holy Table, he then rose, came out through the Royal Doors, and stood on the ambo, leaning on his staff. There he said his final farewell:
“Farewell, my dear ones. I am leaving now. Forgive me if I have ever grieved any of you. For Christ’s sake—forgive me. I forgive you all. I pity you, I pity you so much. I ask only one thing, one thing I beg, one thing I require of you: Love one another. Let there always be peace among you—peace and love. If you heed me—and I ask you so earnestly—you will be my children.
I am unworthy and sinful, but the Lord is full of love and mercy; on Him I place my hope. If the Lord deems me worthy of His bright dwelling, I shall pray for you without ceasing. And I shall say: ‘Lord, Lord! I am not alone—my children are with me. I cannot enter without them; I cannot remain alone in Thy bright abode. They are entrusted to me by Thee…’”
Then, almost inaudibly, he added: “I cannot be without them.”
He tried to bow but could not—only inclined his head. The boys took him by the arms and led him back into the altar. The whole church wept.
The Repose of the Elder
On the night before Friday, Father Sebastian could hardly sleep. He was restless, gasping for breath.
“There is not a single spot in my body without pain,” he said. “My spine burns as if with red-hot iron—I cannot breathe. But above all, the torment is in my spirit.”
He kept asking what time it was.
That evening Igumen Dimitry arrived from Kokchetav. They telephoned Archbishop Joseph in Alma-Ata, asking permission for Father Dimitry to tonsure the elder into the Great Schema. The hierarch replied, “No need. Tomorrow Bishop Pitirim will arrive from Moscow and will perform everything himself.”
Elder Sebastian and Bishop Pitirim
On Saturday, April 16, at nine in the morning, Bishop Pitirim (Nechaev)—Father Sebastian’s spiritual son—arrived directly from the airport and went straight to his elder. Later he told those around him, “Never, in any illness, have I seen him like this.”
After midday Father’s condition worsened sharply. He asked urgently that Bishop Pitirim be called. When the bishop arrived, Father begged him to begin at once the rite of the Great Schema.
After the tonsure, the elder spoke very little. His face and whole countenance were transfigured. He was filled with such grace that everyone who looked upon him felt a trembling of the soul and a piercing awareness of their own sinfulness. Before them stood a majestic elder, no longer a man of this world, but one already belonging to eternity.
His Final Blessing
On Monday evening, during the Radonitsa service, Father Sebastian was carried to the church. He listened attentively to the singing and often made the sign of the Cross. Bishop Pitirim celebrated the service. When the choir sang “Memory Eternal,” Father asked to be taken home.
Afterward he spoke with Father John, who had just arrived from Michurinsk:
“You made it in time to see me, and I managed today to greet all the departed with ‘Christ is Risen!’ and to pray for them. What a blessed day this is! Today the bishop prayed, and tomorrow he will pray again for all my departed children. I have lived to see Radonitsa—God is merciful. And how the departed need the prayers of the living—how precious those prayers are! I have always prayed most of all for the departed. And to you, Father John, I bequeath this: pray most of all for the departed. Glory to God for everything! Glory to God for all!”
On the morning of April 19, 1966, at 4:45 a.m., Father Sebastian peacefully fell asleep in the Lord. It was Tuesday, Radonitsa—the day of the Church’s joyful remembrance of the dead after Pascha.
At 5:30 a.m., Bishop Pitirim began the panikhida (memorial service). When it ended, the clergy began the vesting of the body. Father’s body was still warm; his face calm, as if alive. He was emaciated—little remained but bones. They anointed him with olive oil, dressed him in the schema robes, and Bishop Pitirim covered him with his mantle and klobuk, folding the veil gently over his face.
From all corners of Kazakhstan, Siberia, and European Russia, clergy and laity—his countless spiritual children—journeyed to the grace-filled vaults of his church to bid him farewell. The priests celebrated memorial services without ceasing, the choir sang continuously, and still the people came—and came, and came.
From His Holiness Patriarch Alexy I a telegram was received:
“I express my condolences to the parishioners of the church on the repose of the grace-bearing elder, Archimandrite Sebastian. His Grace, Bishop Pitirim of Volokolamsk, is blessed to perform the burial of the newly departed in the Lord.
—Patriarch Alexy.”
On the third day after his repose, Father Sebastian was buried in the Mikhailovka cemetery.
The coffin was carried on a funeral cart only for a short distance—to the highway. Turning onto the road, the faithful lifted the coffin high above their heads and bore it to the cemetery. It seemed to float above the immense crowd, visible to all.
All traffic on the highway was brought to a halt; people filled both the road and the sidewalks in a solid, unbroken procession. The windows of houses stood open, with faces watching from within. Many people stood by their gates or on benches before their homes.
A choir of young women, walking behind the coffin, sang “Christ is Risen!”—and soon the entire throng of thousands took up the hymn:
“Christ is Risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs bestowing life.”
As the procession passed by the cement factory, the entire fence was crowded with workers sitting atop it, and the whole shift—clad in their work overalls, spattered with wet mortar—poured out into the yard to bid farewell to the beloved elder.
Through the dense crowd, people pressed forward to touch the coffin with their hands; others ran ahead to wait by the gravesite.
The grave was dug at the edge of the cemetery, beyond which stretched the boundless Kazakh steppe. A litia (memorial prayer) was served at the grave; the coffin was lowered into the earth, the mound raised, and a cross erected above it.
Eternal memory to thee, O gracious Elder —tireless intercessor, spring of living water, and giver of healing grace, words flowing from the Spirit.
