Commemorating the birthday of Archimandrite Sophrony (Sakharov), 23 September 1896
Today our guest is Nun Pelagia (Tatiana Mikhailovna Sheremet), a long-time friend of our monastery. Having come to faith in the Soviet years, Mother Pelagia met many remarkable people. Among them was Father Sophrony (Sakharov), disciple and hagiographer of St Silouan of Mount Athos and a pivotal figure in 20th-century Orthodox spirituality, whose teachings resonated globally. As Father Andrey Lemeshonok put it, Elder Sophrony was a spiritual father for the twentieth century — a man who both reflected its spirit and guided countless souls through its trials.
As we honour the legacy of Elder Sophrony, especially as we remember his birthday on September 23rd, every recollection of him is precious — all the more when it comes from someone who met and conversed with him in person.
— Mother Pelagia, your journey to faith began in the challenging Soviet era and led you to encounter Elder Sophrony. Could you tell us about that remarkable path?
Yes. I am Nun Pelagia. It has been thirty years since I was tonsured, with Father Sophrony himself giving the blessing for it. And it is of him — our Elder — that we will speak today. In those difficult years, when the Church was constrained, the Lord granted me to meet people of deep faith.
— Despite the constraints of the time, your life also intersected with the vibrant world of art, didn’t it?
Yes. I was married to a painter; I lived in artistic circles. And when I met Father Sophrony, I saw that the artist within him had never left. He had begun as an artist, and to the end he remained one. Later, in Essex, I worked in the mosaic studio that stood right next to his cell, and he would often come there. Even then he revealed himself as an artist — and also as a theologian and a man of prayer.
It was this that first drew me close to him: on the one hand I felt awe in his presence, but on the other I felt at ease.
— How did your journey into the Church begin?
Around 1983 we began going to the Leningrad Theological Academy and Seminary, where we encountered many young people searching for faith. Among them was Hierodeacon Seraphim, who would even go out and speak with those from the ‘underground’ — artists, musicians, the bohemian circles.
— Do you mean the Petersburg underground?
Yes. The rock club, Grebenshchikov, Aquarium, the café “Saigon” on Nevsky — these were hubs of underground artistic and intellectual life. He would go to such people and speak to them of God, and many of them came to church.
The Academy itself had a very good spirit for the young. We went to Confession and Communion regularly, and our life became firmly rooted in the Church. Our home was near the Academy, close to the Alexander Nevsky Lavra, and so our house became a place where students would often gather. We held agape meals — simple gatherings with tea, but filled with spiritual conversation.
— How did you first hear of Father Sophrony?
I was earning a little money typing on a typewriter — in those days there were no computers, it was the 1980s — typing student papers and dissertations. One day I typed a work on the holy fathers for a seminarian, and in gratitude he gave me a book: Elder Silouan.
That book opened an entirely new world for me. At the time, in the Soviet years, there were so few books available — and here was such a treasure. Through it we discovered Elder Silouan, and through him, Father Sophrony, who had written it.
— How did you go from reading the book to writing to Father Sophrony himself?
It was during the Paschal days. I awoke one morning with the thought: we should write to Father Sophrony to thank him — for everything, for his books, for all that he had given us.
Everyone in the family agreed immediately. My daughter Katya was with us, my son Father Georgy (now departed), our friends — we all felt the same. And so we sat down together and wrote a simple, childlike letter, in red ink, because it was Pascha. We thanked him for Elder Silouan, for all the spiritual joy we had received, and we told him who we were: the spiritual children of Father Vasily Ermakov from the Serafimovskoye Cemetery church in Petersburg.
Katya added a small note of her own, asking: if she ever came to England — she had friends there — might she visit the monastery.
— And how did Father Sophrony respond?
We later learned that he was deeply consoled by our letter. At the time he had been distressed by rumours reaching him from Russia, accusing him of delusion. And suddenly this letter arrived — so simple, so joyful, so childlike. He was glad of it, and he blessed Katya to come to the monastery if ever she was in England.
— And did she go?
Yes, she did. She went soon afterwards, in 1990, and spent the New Year at the monastery. She was overwhelmed by the atmosphere there — such love, such warmth, such joy in God. Elder Sophrony received her with fatherly affection.
She wrote to us from there: “This is truly a Philadelphian church — people here live by love.” Those words remained with me.
At that time it was extremely difficult even to exchange currency — we had barely managed to scrape together enough for her trip. And yet she returned with armfuls of gifts. She had worked hard there, of course, and she knew English well. But what amazed me most was how quickly she became part of their life. Everyone received her with affection, and she came home radiant, full of joy.
It was clear that the atmosphere of the monastery was unlike anything we had known: simple, open, suffused with love in Christ.
— Your daughter's experience in Essex sounded transformative. Did you ever envision yourself making that journey, or was it something unexpected?
Initially, no. I honestly thought, 'Why should I go? My English isn't great, and I felt such a deep connection to the Elder even from afar, from Russia.' But then, something truly providential happened.
Then came the discovery of the relics of St Seraphim of Sarov in Petersburg — such a joy! At that time Father Seraphim, the Elder’s cell-attendant, had become close to Katya. He dearly wished to come to Russia, but until then had received no blessing. When the relics were found, Elder Sophrony blessed him to go — and he came to stay with us. And it was then that Father Sophrony also blessed me to come to Essex.
Katya helped me with the visa, and so, though I had never thought of such a journey, I set off. It was April 1991.
When I arrived, the monastery was closed to visitors, as it sometimes was, especially in the fasts — times set aside for prayer and recollection. One could visit, but not stay. Yet even so, I was welcomed with such warmth.
— Do you remember your first meeting with Father Sophrony?
Very clearly. That day Sister Maria said to me: “Come quickly, the Elder is on his way!” We stepped out of the workshop, and there he was, coming towards us, supported by two of the fathers, leaning on two sticks.
He was already very old, short of stature — and yet his eyes shone, alive, full of joy, almost youthful. He stopped, looked at me, and with fatherly tenderness placed his hands on my head, inclining it gently.
At that moment I remembered our own priest, Father Vasily, who always did the same. And I thought: “How close, how familiar this is!” At once I felt peace, gladness, and a sense of being at home.
— What happened after that first meeting?
That evening there was to be a talk with the brethren. Sister Maria told me: “When we go in, you must sit to the Elder’s left — that is our custom for guests.” It was a gracious tradition: newcomers were seated near him, and when they departed, they were again placed at his side, as if the family were seeing them off.
We went into the bureau — a room that served as his study, a place for confession and for brotherly gatherings. The whole community assembled; the atmosphere was lively, almost like a family, everyone speaking quietly among themselves.
When Father Kyrill, then the igumen, was called out for some practical matter, the Elder said with great seriousness: “Take care of him. We shall not find another like him; such men are rare. He fights for us all — we must share in that struggle.” And when Father Kyrill returned, smiling, the Elder added gently: “Even this was by God’s providence.” Everyone laughed — it was all so warm, so human.
Then the talk began. First prayer, the singing of “Christ is Risen,” and then the Elder started to speak about humility. He introduced me: “You knew Katya; now her mother, Tatyana Mikhailovna, has come.” And then he unfolded the meaning of humility. He read aloud a letter from Russia — a woman writing of Father Simeon’s visit — and he explained what humility is before God.
He gave examples. One was of St Ambrose of Optina, who once called a landowner out of a crowd. A peasant objected, “So the gentleman is first again!” But the Elder replied: “Yes, he is a landowner, but he is humbler than you. That is why I called him.” And then Father Sophrony said: “Do you see — one may be a landowner, possess much, and yet be humbler than another, a simple man.”
And he added softly: “All my attention was on my neighbour here, Tatyana… In Russia, we say “Tatyana Mikhailovna” — it is a mark of respect. Yet with God, we can never use formality. With God, we always say ‘Thou.’”
— What impression did the monastery itself make on you?
It was a place of extraordinary beauty — a monastery that seemed almost ideal, a reflection of harmony not often found on earth.
— And the brethren — they came from many countries, and with different backgrounds, did they not?
Yes, from different nations, though not all were highly educated. Father Sophrony encouraged them to study, saying: “If one day you must leave the monastery, where will you go without learning?” That was his fatherly care — far-sighted, and at the same time, almost cosmic in its breadth.
— Cosmic? You mean his teaching about prayer?
Yes. He once spoke of the prayer of St Seraphim of Sarov, saying that it had cosmic influence — that it changed the destiny of the world. “Why are prayers so important?” he asked. “Because the world is upheld only by prayer. It may seem that we live by technology, but in truth, the world stands only by prayer. For the sake of the prayers of the saints, the Lord preserves this world.”
I am convinced of this. And I believe that even the small prayers of ordinary people flow into that same stream. That was the theme of that talk — the mystery of humility and prayer.
— You mentioned that you worked in the mosaic workshop. What was that like?
The workshop was right beside the Elder’s cell. He would make his daily round of the monastery and always stop there first. He wanted to see everyone, to know how each was doing, and to encourage us.
I remember how Sister Maria once forgot to make the mounts for several panels, and only later realised her mistake. Just then the Elder arrived, accompanied as always by someone carrying a small bag. Inside were treats. He would say: “Here are some sweets for you.” Once he gave us three chocolates and said with a smile: “Eat carefully — they have liqueur inside!”
That day Maria admitted her oversight. The Elder adjusted his scarf with a subtle elegant gesture, and said kindly: “Let me think… How many times have I told you? Measure seven times, cut once. You always do it the other way round!” He said it gently, with humour, and then explained how to put things right.
He also blessed us to take short outings, so that we could rest from our labours. Once he said: “Take Tatyana to the zoo.” Another time he sent us to some archaeological excavations. And once he told Maria to take me shopping in Colchester — “She needs clothing fit to visit the Patriarch.”
So we went. We bought suits and blouses. I put one on so the Elder could see. He looked at the blouse I had bought, stepped back with the eye of an artist appraising his canvas, and said: ‘Yes, that is beautiful. And it suits you.’ That was his way — delicate, joyful, full of care.
— How was life in the monastery organised?
There was no rigid typikon, but there was a rule of life. Father Sophrony once said: “Many think we have no order. I will not say we have ‘order’ in the strict sense, but the main thing is to preserve the spirit of life.”
The Divine Liturgy was celebrated four times a week — sometimes in Greek, sometimes in English, sometimes in Slavonic, and occasionally even in French if pilgrims had come from there. The rest of the time, the community followed the Jesus Prayer rule: two hours each day, with a clear beginning and end.
At that time the prayer consisted of seven “hundreds” — seven sets of one hundred repetitions. Later it was reduced to five. The serving priest for the week would look around to see who was present — sisters, pilgrims, visitors — and assign the order: “You read the second hundred, you the third, you the fifth…”
The seventh hundred was always dedicated to the Mother of God, with the invocation: “Most Holy Theotokos, save us.” The prayer was always in the plural: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us.” Not “on me,” but “on us” — for their prayer was for the whole world.
In the midst of the prayer, intercessions were also inserted: for health, for repentance, for the departed.
— Did you sense the Elder’s own spirit of prayer in all this?
Very strongly. The entire monastery seemed to breathe the Jesus Prayer — it was felt everywhere, like the very air one breathed.
— Did you ever speak with Father Sophrony about your own monastic calling?
Yes. After one of his talks I asked him: “Father Sophrony, do you think I may hope to die as a nun?”
Why did I ask this? Because I longed to pass into eternity in purity, having embraced monastic life. The bohemian life I had known was, of course, free — but that same freedom extended to sin, and it was a heavy burden. I longed to be clothed in the purity of monasticism when my life should end.
And then, quite unexpectedly, he said to me: “You could be a nun now.”
I protested: “How can I? I have children, and I cannot enter a Russian monastery. Father Vasily always told us, ‘You are my nuns in the world, but I will not allow you to go into a monastery.’”
Father Sophrony replied: “Then you will not live in a monastery — you will live at home and pray. But you must ask your spiritual father.”
So I telephoned Father Vasily. I told him what had been said, and he answered firmly: “No — not now.” I asked: “Batyushka, do you mean never?” He said: “No, I will not close the door forever. But not now.”
So I went on living as before, bearing his word in my heart.
— Do you remember your parting with Father Sophrony?
Yes, very clearly. When the time came for me to leave, he came to say goodbye.
Suddenly he began to sing an old Russian song — one that had been sung when young men were taken away as conscripts:
“On this last little day I stroll with you, my friends;
tomorrow, at dawn, all my kin will weep —
my brothers and sisters, my father and mother,
my in-laws and guests, and a traveller passing by…”
Then he looked at me and said: “So, tomorrow you depart. Tell Father Vasily that I myself wished to tonsure you. But since he did not permit it, let him now pray.”
From that moment on, everything concerning my monastic path unfolded under Father Vasily’s guidance and prayer.
— What remains most vivid in your memory of the Elder himself?
Above all, his love and his prayer. He carried within himself the spirit of Christ — and this permeated everything.
He was delicate and very considerate, but at the same time full of humour. He loved to lighten the heart with a gentle joke. And he was always attentive to the smallest details — even bringing us a few sweets in a little bag.
He was also an artist to the core. He saw life with an artist’s eye, but also with a theologian’s depth.
He often spoke of prayer in cosmic terms. I am convinced that among those prayers that uphold the world are the prayers of Father Sophrony himself.
— Mother Pelagia, would you tell us about your connection with our monastery?
It was through Father Andrey. We first met in the mid-1980s, perhaps in 1984 or 1985. My children and I were then spending summers in the south, camping with friends. He came with his own friends, and we all stayed together in tents.
I remember him speaking then about an elder he knew — Father Nikolai — and using the word “humility.” That struck me deeply, because I realised I had hardly ever heard that word before. It was through him that I first learned what humility really means. At the time, of course, he was not known at all, just a simple man working as a watchman. But already there was a depth in him.
Later my children fell into the “hippie” movement of those years. They travelled, hitchhiked, drifted… and Father Andrey became something of a guardian for them. His house was like a way-station for young seekers — some from Lviv, some from Donetsk, from all over. Many even called me “hippie-mum,” because so many of them passed through our home in Petersburg.
It was then that I myself learned to pray — really to pray — for my children. I used to go to the Alexander Nevsky Lavra, in tears, not knowing where they were. A priest there once told me: “Do not cry — pray. Remember Princess Olga: her son did not come to faith, but what a grandson she had!” Those words gave me strength. And indeed the Lord preserved my children. Among those young people there were many good ones, not only the lost. Some later became priests themselves.
In the early 1990s, after I had visited Essex, Father Andrey came to Petersburg, and since he knew we had met Father Sophrony, he visited us. We already had cassette recordings of the Elder’s talks at home, and he sent some of your sisters to us so they could copy them.
The first to come was Mother Martha — at that time she was still Maria. She was travelling to obtain Znamenny chant notation, an ancient form of Russian Orthodox chant for the services in your community that were just beginning to be organised. She had our address and came to us. At home we had several icon boards prepared by my sons-in-law, who were icon-painters. I gave her one. On that board she later painted the image of St Silouan — and so that icon, in a way, came from our home.
Later others came as well — Dima, and young Martha — again to copy tapes of the Elder’s talks. And so a friendship was formed between us, and I too began to come to your monastery. That is how our ties began.
— And how do you look back on that friendship?
It was a true gift of God. Our paths crossed through Elder Sophrony, and from that time on the bond grew naturally. That was our friendship — and so it began, and so it went on.
From the studios of Moscow and Paris to the caves of Athos and the monastery in Essex, St Sophrony learned to see the human person in the light of eternity. His disciples recall an artist’s eye transfigured by prayer — personhood, freedom, and communion in Christ.
