As of December 2024, there were 1,232 churches and chapels in Moscow. Of course, this number has only grown in 2025. You’d need three years to attend Liturgy in every church. And it’s not hard to get to them—you have buses, trams, the metro… It’s easy to get to any church in Moscow. In Yakutia, full of Buddhists, pagans, and adherents of Shamanism, building Orthodox churches, starting parish communities, and bringing the word of God to the people who live in extremely difficult conditions, in a very cold climate, is, on the contrary, very difficult. Hieromonk Joasaph (Kurakulov) has been serving as acting rector of the Church of Sts. Seraphim and Nicholas in the village of Tiksi (Sakha Republic) for ten years now. Born in central Russia, he never imagined that God’s providence would lead him to such a remote corner of the world.
Hieromonk Joasaph (Kurakulov) —I was born near Kursk, in the village of Tim. There were fierce battles in the Kursk Province during World War II, and there were many mines still in the ground there. When I was twelve, I was seriously injured in my left eye and leg when a German mine exploded, leaving about twenty pieces of shrapnel in me. But my life was completely normal, and I graduated from the Kursk Pedagogical Institute with a degree in history. Then I was a school principal for two years, then I studied at the Belgorod Seminary. I met Fr. Agafangel (Belykh) before he was even a priest. Our physical resemblance actually shaped my path at seminary. When I enrolled, people said “a second Belykh has arrived.”
I was tonsured on January 4, 2011, and I wound up in Kholki, at Holy Trinity Monastery. It’s a wonderful place, far removed from all settlements. And it was while I was laboring there that Fr. Agafangel first called me to come to Tiksi. Vladyka Ioann, Metropolitan of Belgorod and Stary Oskol, refused at first due to my lack of priestly experience, but then in 2012 they sent me to the mission anyway. They were building a church here and had already laid the foundation. I came, replaced Fr. Agafangel, and he left to take care of some business. He asked in such a friendly way that I couldn’t say no. Vladyka blessed it, and I’ve been serving in Yakutia ever since…
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Fr. Agafangel’s missionary labors mustn’t be overlooked. He did a lot of traveling to remote villages, speaking about Christ, baptizing, serving weddings… Fr. Agafangel also managed to do another difficult but important work—erecting the Church of Sts. Seraphim and Nicholas in the village of Tiksi. It’s small but very cozy and homely. It’s a beacon of love and warmth for the vast tundra expanses. Prices in Tiksi, which is the northernmost port of Russia, are higher than in Moscow, but the salaries are considerably lower, so the locals have to do a lot of hard work. It’s cold, with only two or two and a half hours of daylight in winter. In the hottest month of the year, July, the average temperature is 50°. In short, it’s hard to live—or it’s quite fitting to say “survive”—in these parts, so Orthodox missionaries really have to try to make sure people learn about Christ and want to get baptized and live according to the commandments.
Church of Sts. Seraphim and Nicholas —To move from central Russia, where there are many churches, to the faraway Yakut village of Tiksi, where there wasn’t even one… Weren’t you scared at all?
—I’ve been a foolish romantic my whole life. I was prepared by my uncle, who would read to me Jack London and Viktor Konetsky books about the Northern Sea Route. I dreamed of being in the north. I never liked to put myself forward, and I thought the Lord was leading me.
—Did you make a conscious decision to become a monk, or was that just how life played out?
—It happened suddenly. I worked at the Pleskovo boarding school outside Moscow for ten years. By the way, a few graduates from there, my students, then went to Sretensky Seminary, including my friend and colleague Adrian Guseinov, a musician and leader of the ICHTHYS ensemble, who still works at Sretensky. At some point, I realized I was quite burnt out, and I thought my work was done. Fr. Agafangel tried taking me to Bulgaria for some missionary meetings, hoping the fire would reawaken in me, but no… Everything was pretty clear—those ten years were like a monastery: children, education, serving in the altar. We even made audio newsletters at the local sound studio—there were never any days off. It all took a heavy toll on my nerves, although the children were wonderful. They listened to me, and it was like they didn’t even need me to teach them good manners. Then Fr. Agafangel told Vladyka Ioann about me and my situation one time. Vladyka said: “Let him come here. I’ll tonsure and ordain him.” And when Fr. Agafangel called, I was nearly paralyzed, because monasticism had always seemed completely beyond my reach, and I was genuinely terrified.
We met on New Year’s Eve, and I told Vladyka I want to serve the Church. Literally without even looking up from his papers, he told me that on January 4 I’d be tonsured, and two days later I’d be ordained to the diaconate. Although Fr. Agafangel had told me earlier that Vladyka doesn’t make decisions quickly, that he gives you time. But here everything happened so quickly and unexpectedly for everyone. And he immediately instructed that they find me a full monastic habit for my tonsure: a riassa, mantia, and so on. My tonsure was at noon, during lunchtime. I was reading the Psalter as much as I could. Then a seminarian brought me cold tea in an aluminum teapot with stale Lenten pancakes and jam. The monks supported me too, serving Vespers and the next day the Divine Liturgy, where I received Communion. After that came my diaconal ordination, after which I served the Liturgy for forty days.
—Were you named in honor of the Holy Hierarch Joasaph of Belgorod?
—No one had any idea that I’d be named Joasaph. That year was exactly 100 years since the uncovering of his relics.
—Kursk is very close to Belgorod, and it seems providential that you were given this name. Nothing happens at all without the providence of the Lord.
—I served for forty days as a deacon at St. Joasaph’s relics, and I got so used to the diaconate that I realized I didn’t want to go further. Then on February 13 they told me I would be ordained a priest.
—It’s hard work being a monk. They say it’s very, very difficult to be constantly in prayer… Have you ever regretted choosing this path?
—You give yourself completely, and it’s a great trial you have to endure in all kinds of circumstances.
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In preparation for this interview, I subscribed to Orthodox channels from Yakutia, to Fr. Joasaph’s own channel, to understand what the parishioners are like there, how many people there usually are, and whether Father serves alone or has assistants. It wasn’t really clear how Father himself confesses, if you have to drive and drive to get to the next closest church, or even wait for a helicopter to get to a large church, in Yakutsk for example… I have to say, I had mixed impressions. On one hand, a wooden church, candles, icons, but very few people. Fr. Joasaph himself posts about how sometimes there’s no one at all at church, sometimes two or three people…
—Father, do you serve alone now? Or do you have a deacon or maybe a reader?
—Hah, what deacon…?
—What helps you keep your discipline? I mean, if no one’s watching, it’s easy to get complacent.
—Prayer helps me, and you start praying differently here. Reading literature helps—it gives food for thought. My musical and literary background helps, as do my daily social media posts where I communicate with my parishioners from all over Russia, from Sakhalin to Kaliningrad. I also maintain my blog. But people are overloaded with information; what they lack is ordinary human connection. So the main thing is not to be pushy. Everyone who comes and lives a Christian life is more important to me than any presentations. When I worked at the school, I didn’t say anything about God, but it turned out that the topics were Christian in nature. And the children would come to me on their own for tea, asking questions.
—Father, you’re already in your second decade of serving in Tiksi. What has changed over the years?
—Everything goes slowly here in the north; the people aren’t in any hurry. They’re used to that kind of lifestyle. This is probably the main downside. It’s still like that today. Let’s say someone comes to get baptized, then disappears, then shows up a year later. You talk with him again, then he vanishes and might reappear in a few more years. There are certain nuances here.
On the positive side, I’ll note that with our border guards who take me along on patrols and to border posts in the Laptev Sea, we end up “covering” our entire coastline: talking with people, and praying, since priests are a rarity there. You could say there’s a real shortage of clergy, and there are many logistical challenges.
—So the main thing for you is missionary work. How often are you able to serve Liturgy?
—We serve the Liturgy. Of course, we try to do so more often. But people don’t come to the services regularly because of the nature of their work and shifts. But we do, by the way, have a regular choir now, with rehearsals. For example, on Memorial Saturdays there might be two people at church, at most. People don’t come in large numbers on Sundays either, but it used to be that even fewer came. So I try to explain at the start of the service what will happen in the service; we sing the Trisagion in Yakut, and so on. But thank God, there’s a community, we pray, and I’ll say that there’s only a handful on any given Sunday who don’t commune.
—This must be especially difficult for you as a priest. Your heart burns with love for God, but there aren’t many people in church. And who do you have to ask for spiritual advice? Who do you confess to when you’re thousands of miles away?
—When I don’t have the chance, then I ask the Lord before the altar to confess to Him. I’m supported by the prayers of people around me. They say that in the North, a year counts as two. When I go further inland, it’s like I’m in a different reality. As for communication, there’s a community of priests on social media where I can write, share problems, and get advice and guidance. That helps a lot. I tell them about my life, and they tell me about theirs. And when I talk with parishioners, I try to be open so everything’s transparent. Though I’ll be honest: This actually makes many people uncomfortable, because for them a priest is a closed-off man in a robe, in vestments.
Hieromonk Joasaph (Kurakulov) —And what gives you strength? How are you able to carry this difficult ministry?
—The Liturgy. I rejoice and strengthen my faith when people I know, value, and respect pray with me. I see their inner work, how they pray to God—that’s the most important thing. Liturgy is a common work—I’m sure of it. Some amazing people, some amazing helpers have gathered around me. People have high spiritual standards, and that forces me to keep my own standards up.
—God’s providence for us will probably be revealed to us when we’ve already departed into eternal life. But have you ever wondered why the Lord put you in such an unusual place for your ministry?
—I ask myself that every single day, trying to understand it logically. I tell my parishioners that I’m already, in the words of a famous film character, “a sick old man,” with my sores and infirmities. Maybe they need a different priest, young and energetic. Every day I ask the Lord: “Why am I here?” The people here are constantly trying to “save” me—to send me further inland. But I’m convinced that the merciful Lord is sparing me from many things that I don’t need for my salvation and is giving me experience. As Fr. John (Krestiankin) said, sometimes you just have to stand on the sidelines.
I feel like some changes are coming this year. I had that feeling just before my tonsure. Or maybe it’s just a second wind? I really want to hope that my time here will leave a small mark on the Christian path in the harsh Yakutian Arctic.
