A Christmas Story from the Life of a Priest

Wishing you a blessed and meaningful Christmas! We are delighted to once again welcome the readers of the OCC and extend our heartfelt wishes for a joyous and blessed Christmas to you, your families, and your church communities. May this holy season fill your hearts with the peace of Christ, the joy of His Nativity, and the strength to continue in faith and good works!

As a festive offering, we bring you a unique story from the life of a parish priest on Christmas Eve. Stories like these remind us how Orthodox Christians strive to live out their faith in diverse and sometimes challenging circumstances. This is also a bit of an experiment—if you enjoy this format, we’d be happy to share more such accounts from the lives of clergy in future editions of the OCC newsletter.

When the Frosts Come to Teach Humility

A priest’s first parish is much like a young man’s first love. Seemingly small events take on extraordinary meaning, as if each moment is a sign from God, revealing His grace and Providence. This is especially true during Christmas. What happened, you may ask? To others, it might seem trivial, but to me, it was nothing short of miraculous. Let me start from the beginning.

When my wife and I first moved to the village of Novobirilyussy in Krasnoyarsk Territory, two things stood out. The first was the mosquitoes—an army so vast that, had they banded together, they could have carried off a cow, barn and all, across the Chulym River without breaking formation.

The second was the frost. Our first winter brought temperatures below fifty degrees, the kind of cold that seems otherworldly.

It was during one of these bitterly cold nights, from January 6 to 7, that disaster struck. For reasons both beyond and within human control, the church’s heating system froze. Somewhere during the night, a district heating main broke, and the housing workers—while fixing the leak—cut off the branch supplying heat to the church. Unfortunately, no one thought to inform the priest. If I had known, I could have drained the radiators to prevent the pipes from bursting, but it was too late.

I discovered the problem early the next morning when I arrived to prepare for the Nativity service. The atmosphere in the church was indeed festive—but also freezing. My dear babushkas, faithful as ever, stood huddled in their coats, their hands buried deep in their sleeves, blinking frozen eyelashes like the frost-covered heroine from an old Russian tale.

It was no laughing matter. The radiators in the sanctuary had burst, sending rusty water cascading over the new altar cloths, the velvet Gospel cover, and the walls. The oil in the vigil lamps had frozen solid, and even the wine for the liturgy had turned into a block of Kagor ice. To make matters worse, the broken pipes posed a real danger—when radiators explode, shards of cast iron can fly like shrapnel. I’d once witnessed someone injured in a similar accident, and I wasn’t eager to see a repeat.

Despite everything, we decided to hold at least a prayer service. Before beginning, I knelt before the Crucifix and prayed silently:

“Forgive me, Lord. This is my fault. My sins have kept us from celebrating Your Holy Nativity. Please, have mercy on my flock—especially the children. Allow us to offer our prayers in peace.”

Why did I take the blame? The day before, I had visited my friend and his wife, who had broken the Christmas Eve fast. Filled with self-righteous zeal, I rebuked them harshly: “Shame on you! I’d rather be hit on the head than break the fast!” My friend stood silent, and his wife wept bitterly, but I left, proud of my supposed piety.

As I began the prayer service, the church was silent. The Prokeimenon was sung, the Gospel read, and we offered our prayers. Miraculously, everything remained calm. Even as I gave the dismissal and delivered a short sermon, the radiators held. I congratulated everyone on the Nativity and urged them to leave quickly but reverently.

Once the last of my beloved babushkas had departed, I turned back to the sanctuary and said aloud, “That’s it, Lord. Everyone’s out.”

At that exact moment, the nearest radiator burst. A section of steel pipe flew off and hit me square on the head.

I staggered back, stunned. And then it hit me—not just the pipe, but the memory of my own words: “I’d rather be hit on the head than...” Well, I got exactly what I asked for, even before breaking the fast.

Looking back, I can laugh about it, but at the time, it was a sobering experience. I went straight to my spiritual father for confession. He told me, “God must have a purpose for you here on earth, Mitya; otherwise, you wouldn’t have survived. But try not to offend people anymore. That’s what God dislikes most in us. He always brings offenders to their senses, and He is always merciful to those who are offended—even if they have sinned.” — Archpriest Dmitry Khartsyz

Wishing you a blessed and meaningful Christmas!