Holy Fool, Holy Father

By Nicholas A. Marziani

In this present day saga, a couple journey from the outlands of Russian to Rome, learning about the sacrifices that genuine love requires: for each other and the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clovercroft Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781942587286

Book preview

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HOLY FOOL, HOLY FATHER

Part One

The Boy:

One Heart’s Mission

Misha ran a palm over his dark, worn desk; this old desk crafted out of native Russian oak that had served him for years, for study, for prayer, sometimes for meals. Often for tears.

Chapter 1

Understanding

Misha knew since early childhood that he was different from others. Somehow the earth and sun communed with him in a way he couldn’t describe in words, but treasured. And, his mother seemed to understand that he was different, too. They didn’t speak about it very often, but she always counseled him to be patient with those who didn’t understand him, including Boris the Bully, as Misha thought of him.

But even as Misha stood apart from others his age, he was increasingly upset about the Holy Man Viktor.

Viktor Zelensky just never made sense. In the village Misha called home, Viktor raised eyebrows–and sometimes blood pressures–with his ever unpredictable antics. He was beyond simply ridiculous, beyond merely absurd. He was truly incomprehensible.

It went well beyond simply being the town idiot. Indeed, the father of Misha’s nemesis Boris was generally regarded as a plain fool, stumbling in his own vomit through the glass shards of countless broken vodka bottles that littered the interior and front door of the run-down hovel he often shared with other town outcasts during his binges.

And, although no one could ever detect ethanol on his breath, Viktor would actually hang around Boris and his drunken companions when Boris routinely left home to increase his blood alcohol level to a healthy quarter percentage point as one derisive villager would say.

Proper folks in town were scandalized when they saw Viktor hang one of his arms around Boris’ neck in a gesture of camaraderie as they would dance down the central street with staggering steps, roaring out ribald songs all the way as they went.

But, it got worse, much worse.

The story was told that Viktor was even seen frequenting a certain house on the edge of the village where a couple of girls engaged in the world’s oldest profession. Of course, such things were not supposed to exist in the orderly world of good communist administration, but they did, and especially after the fall of the Soviet Union, some young women actually aspired to become prostitutes, seeing it a path to more rubles in the purse than anything else they might be able to do. And there–even in the brothel–folks could see Viktor coming and going frequently.

What made things all the more confusing for Misha was that Father Nikolai actually loved the man–genuinely loved him as one would be devoted to a living saint. It came to a head for Misha one Sunday when Viktor entered the starets’ home as the Divine Liturgy was beginning and began to crack open walnuts, loudly chewing on the nuts and throwing the shells on some of the people in attendance.

Father Nikolai seemed to barely notice as he chanted the ancient Slavonic prayers, swinging sweet-smelling incense around the small home altar. As much as Misha loved and respected his spiritual guide, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to speak with Father Nikolai, and soon.

Misha stayed behind after the Liturgy had concluded and his mother and everyone else had left. As was his usual custom, he assisted the old man with the proper storage of the holy books, communion vessels and other items utilized in the worship service. He glanced at the humble iconostasis separating the home altar from the rest of the room and peered closer. It was in need of some repair.

"Batushka" . . . Misha called, his voice a mixture of concern and bewilderment.

Father Nikolai sensed both the urgency and confusion in Misha’s soul. He knew Viktor’s little demonstration had doubtless upset his small congregation, and especially this unusually sensitive young man. He knew the day would come when he would need to explain to him his inexplicable regard for the iurodivye.

Smiling, he walked over to Misha, limping a bit as he went. He’d injured his foot by crushing a stray walnut shell Misha had missed during cleaning.

Misha slowly raised his eyes and met those of the old man. Father Nikolai tipped his head and gently leaned toward Misha.

Yes, my son? he prompted gently, thinking this young man was far more inquisitive than his own sons had ever been.

Batushka, you know how much I love coming here for Divine Liturgy, and you are like my own father to me. You have always given me such wise counsel when I have had questions about the holy faith, about my life, about the world.

He briefly stopped speaking as though searching in his mind for the right words with which to continue.

The old man felt the deep unrest and confusion in his young companion. Anticipating his question, he decided to spare him further distress. Pointing to a couple of chairs nearby, he invited Misha to sit and make himself comfortable. With difficulty the priest lowered his aging frame onto the hard wood of the seat, but his eyes never betrayed the ache in his knees. He was too engrossed now in the moment to allow his body to make him wince as he came to rest.

Ah, Misha, Misha, things often don’t make sense in this world, do they now? And they don’t always make sense in God’s Kingdom here on earth, not even as we go about his holy business. You’re upset about Viktor, yes?

The teen sighed and his shoulders slumped in apparent relief that the old starets had correctly read his concerns.

Yes, Batushka, it’s about Viktor . . . and not just today, but everything else he’s been up to almost since I can remember. I guess when I was younger I just thought he was simply crazy or something–although I do admit I could always feel waves of both joy and sorrow coming out from him. And the more I think about it, it was what I have learned to call a holy joy and a holy sorrow . . . But it doesn’t make any sense at all, the things that he does.

Father Nikolai knew it was best to just let him continue. It was important that Misha express without interruption all the contradictions crowding his consciousness.

Why, now that I’m almost fifteen I’ve come to know that, well, that there are . . .

Father Nikolai just continued to listen. Misha’s young adolescent face was beginning to redden–the old man knew where he was going next.

That there are girls, women . . . who actually . . . actually let men do whatever they want with them, you know how I mean? As though imagining his sweet mother listening in on their conversation his face reddened even more.

Father Nikolai just nodded, now lowering his own eyes so as not to further embarrass Misha. It was all he could do not to smile, but Misha was so very earnest he wouldn’t allow that smile at this juncture.

And they do it just to make money, Batushka, for money they’ll just take off all their clothes and let men–sometimes almost as old as their fathers–let them—

The starets knew it was time to interject some holy instruction.

Yes, Misha . . . I know what happens. And I also know that you’re really upset that they say that even Viktor goes to those women on the other end of town. And that he hangs around Boris’ father, and seems to get drunk with them. And that today–today, he comes to the Liturgy and acts disrespectfully during the service.

Misha’s eyes widened a bit with the recitation of each outrageous fact of Viktor’s life, his body lifting upright toward the ceiling as though he were being called to attention by a military superior. Misha’s jaw dropped, now more bewildered than ever.

Father Nikolai didn’t miss a beat. Immediately he continued the lesson of the day–indeed, the lesson of a lifetime if he explained this properly.

Misha, let me ask you a question.

Misha nodded, his mouth now closed, but eyes still wide.

Do you recall the story in the Gospels about our Lord when he went out into the fields on the Sabbath with his disciples and started to break off heads of wheat because they were hungry?

Misha knew the reference; they had just studied that portion in the second chapter of the Gospel of Mark the previous week.

And wasn’t he accused by the good religious folk of his day of violating one of the most sacred commandments of God given to Israel through Moses, the greatest of Hebrew prophets? the priest continued.

Yes, Batushka.

"And didn’t his own dear mother, Our Blessed Theotokos, later in that same gospel along with the rest of her family, try to take Jesus home with them, exclaiming that he was out of his mind?!

And how did Christ spend his time? From partying with prostitutes and tax collectors to overturning tables in the sacred temple. Wherever he went, he as often as not seemed to elicit anything but praise. Father Nikolai cleared his throat. "Misha, the world is often not as it appears. Let me tell you something about Viktor and those ladies you’re so ashamed to talk about.

"First of all, the fact is those young women had a rough start in life. As wonderful as your relationship with your own parents has been, it was exactly the opposite for them. Both have had to deal with abuse in their families even worse than what Boris has gone through. I would rather not be too explicit on that point; I think you might be able to imagine what I’m talking about. After escaping from their homes in another oblast they soon discovered that certain Soviet military officials liked their then-girlish looks and were willing to pay for sexual favors–at first, it wasn’t much but at least they could get by. In time they met up and decided to work the clientele together, finding they could entertain the men in tandem. They developed quite a reputation for themselves, and were soon able to demand–and get–a much higher price for what they provided. How they escaped serious earthly consequences of their dangerous activities is itself, perhaps, a hint of the grace that our God gives to the worst of sinners.

"And grace, Misha, is what Viktor is ultimately all about. These girls before very long aged somewhat and were therefore less desirable to former customers. When they came into the vicinity of our town he could sense far better than anyone–myself included–just how truly needy they were in every way that really counts. Like a vehicle running short on petrol, they were starting to run short on life itself. And while it’s true his own wife had died a while beforehand, he had no desire to fill that emotional and physical void by utilizing the services of these girls now grown all too quickly into a premature mid-adulthood.

And so he began to visit with them, giving them money–for nothing–just the chance to converse with them, to hear their struggles and hopes and despair and hopes against hope. All the while he chose to not explain himself to village people, letting them think the worst.

Misha was incredulous. But why, Batushka, why would he let himself be thought of so poorly, so misunderstood? He also remembered something about avoiding even the appearance of evil from the scriptures, but the priest at this point was smiling from ear to ear, and he didn’t have opportunity to object.

Ah, Misha, we care so much about what people think of us, don’t we? Let me give you a piece of advice that I trust will last you all through your life–what other people think about you is none of your business!

What?! said Misha, almost forgetting himself. Regaining some composure, he continued. But how can that be? Aren’t we at least seeming to condone scandal if we allow ourselves to be willingly associated with evil things in this world?

"A straightforward enough question, Misha, so let me answer as best as I can, especially in regard to people like Viktor.

It’s true, on the one hand, that we need to seek to promote virtue and good order in the world, and to fail to do so can be a great sin. On the other hand, it’s also true that too many have tried to appear above reproach while engaging in the very things they outwardly condemn. What’s worse, do you suppose–hypocrisy or apparent silence in the face of evil?

Misha seemed to think about that one for a while. Finally he said, Well, I guess hypocrisy is always bad whereas sometimes silence is the best course when things get tangled.

Exactly, answered the old man, exactly. Now you’re starting to see clearly, even at your young age. We do live in a very tangled world, Misha, and Viktor would rather not give any opportunity to anyone to make him feel proud.

Again Misha fell silent. I always knew that Viktor was special. And now, I understand this differently. I did not understand the iurodivye.

Father Nikolai sat like a potter at his wheel, and the shape of an enlightened young man emerged before his very eyes. He wanted to continue the conversation, but he considered the lateness of the hour and didn’t want Misha’s much delayed departure for home to concern his mother, Natalia. She always prepared something special on Sundays, and the old priest didn’t wish to upset the family’s routine. He decided to send Misha off with a blessing, but added some final words before doing so.

Misha, I have much more to say to you about people like Viktor, but time does not permit me right now. So let me leave you with this. Our people collectively have revered the iurodivye, the Holy Fools. Here in Russia, especially, and also in other places where the church has survived, the iurodivye have had a special place and a long history. I sense that your own future when you leave this village will see you living deeply into this mysterious gift and that . . .

Father Nikolai fell silent, feeling himself drift away from his pupil. As happened sometimes at the will of the Lord, he would receive a message. As the air around him became warmer and charged with a special energy, the message would come for his most special student.

To Misha, Father Nikolai’s whole being seemed to emit an energy that felt like the sun breaking over the horizon at daybreak during the first days of a Russian spring. At such times the chill in the air is unable to quench the warm flux of grace-filled radiance that penetrates the early morning atmosphere, and pelts the earth with tokens of divine love.

Misha relished those occasions, and now his attention was focused on his spiritual guide like never before. Feeling himself in the company of a prophet he bowed forward but could not take his eyes off the living oracle before him, fairly holding his breath.

The starets continued. . . . and that you will certainly travel off to the west, far away from Russia, that you will be ushered into mighty courts of power and influence in that Church that broke from us long ago–that the gift that I have always known you to possess since you were a child will be greatly needed in that place–for all our sakes!

Father Nikolai looked stunned at his revelation. Slowly he composed himself, and like a cooling oven, the glow that Misha perceived around the priest seemed to wane and dissipate. The young man exhaled as he sat back on his chair, a stray splinter in the old wood reminding him that he was indeed in the realm of mortals.

Another minute went by silently between them, and then Father Nikolai quickly rose from his seat with an easy, flowing motion. The ecstasy had passed but a deep smile remained, the starets’ eyes already conveying a blessing even before he extended his hands over Misha, who felt riveted to the chair.

Laying his hands on Misha’s shoulders, Father Nikolai intoned an Old Slavonic chant, a blessing unchanged from the distant past from before the days of the tsars, invoking in that deep, rich language the grace and power of the Holy Trinity on the life of Misha Pyotrvich Aleksandrov.

With new strength he drew the yet-bewildered young man from his chair, embraced him in the style of an old Russian send-off, kissing him on both cheeks and bidding him farewell as he led him out the door and sent him on his way.

After he did so, he noticed the cap Misha had left behind, mindlessly tossed into a dark corner near the door of the house as he entered before the Liturgy. It leaned oddly against the wall, its light brim standing down but upright on the floor, the heavier headpiece balanced precariously above it. He had noticed this kind of thing before–Misha’s odd throws of this and that, always resulting with the item standing on edge.

The old priest smiled. A sign . . . .

Pyotr saw his son coming down the street from the priest’s home and he called to Natalia who was busy finishing preparation of the Sunday family meal. Little Alina was helping her mother inside and, being closer to the door, she was the first to notice an uncharacteristic lightness, even joy, on her father’s face as he watched Misha approach the house.

Pyotr’s illness had meant less involvment with Misha’s upbringing, but he kept a meticulous account of the boy’s health and growing awareness of the larger world.

He did not possess his wife’s instinctive understanding of Misha’s moods, and largely depended on her insights into their son’s development as he emerged into his early teens. He loved to watch him work mathematical problems at his desk at home and they often talked about his studies and school activities.

Both parents had high hopes for Misha’s future, his unusually sharp mind and numerous academic awards promising great things as an engineer or scientist in their changing society. And although Misha often perplexed Pyotr by a certain ethereal quality in his character, it seemed that the boy had more or less kept his feet on the ground through it all by virtue of his father’s hardheaded focus on the concrete aspects of their existence.

But when Pyotr saw Misha approach their humble home on this special Sunday afternoon, it was almost as if the earth itself had forgotten how to keep his son from floating into space. Reflexively Pyotr brightened and straightened himself as he watched Misha fairly glide to the front gate.

For a moment father and son looked at each other silently, neither understanding why the other was smiling from ear to ear. Pyotr turned to see his wife Natalia standing in the doorway, and she, too, began to beam with an inexplicable sense of peace and joy. What in the world?

Alina came up beside her mother, having finished her chores. She looked at her father, Misha and finally at her mother, intrigued by the unusual display of quiet but deep celebration.

Mama, I didn’t know we were going to have a party. But it’s still the Great Lent, isn’t it? And we haven’t prepared anything extra special for today. Maybe you have a special secret . . .

Mother . . . father . . . I . . . Misha momentarily dropped his gaze, as though searching for words to express the inexpressible. I talked with Father Nikolai this afternoon, and he told me about things I never realized about our village, our world–or even me. Especially about me–things I cannot understand . . .

He began to wave his arms as though physically grasping for one of his school drafting instruments. His confusion was evident on his face.

Pyotr was as unsure of the cause for their great joy as his son seemed to be, but he understood his wife’s meaning when she touched his arm. He continued to smile, something he’d done little of as his sickness progressed over the years. He took Misha by the arm.

Come, your mother and sister have prepared dinner. Let’s talk at the table.

Natalia took Alina’s hand in hers and smiled at her daughter. Yes, Misha has had a powerful experience today, but we are all hungry. Let’s sit down while it is all fresh.

And had they looked down the nearly empty street toward the center of town, they would have spotted Viktor, his shadow cast from the nearby corner lamp, gyrating alone in a dance with an invisible partner, a dance of fools, and a dance of the very sages of the soul of Russia itself.

Chapter 2

Wisdom

Nearly a month went by and Natalia watched her son whenever she could. Something was changing, though she could not identify it.

Misha seemed almost entranced when he was outdoors in the sun’s rays which pulsed through every green plant around him. Like the birds reveling in a dance of their own, he too seemed delighted and lifted in his spirits. It was more than just the hope of spring.

Pyotr also seemed to benefit from the sustained spring season that soaked his body with healing energy, and that brought her joy. He suffered so from the effects of a disease he did not deserve–that none of the earth’s inhabitant’s deserved–the radiation poisoning that the government had inflicted all those years ago and still ignored.

Uncle Joe Stalin had determined before he died that the Americans would not be the only ones to possess nuclear weapons. His strategic defence policies included above-ground testing in 1953, the year her husband was born, and silent horror wafted through the air and waters in its aftermath, especially in Kazakhstan.

She shrugged off her irritation over things she could not change. She was busier than usual. The wire production commune where she worked had extra demands to handle that month, the authorities in Moscow determined not to let the thaw in relations with the West in any way diminish the country’s space program. For all her increased responsibilities, she nonetheless kept mulling over their remarkable supper conversation that special Sunday evening at every opportunity.

She’d been forced to miss the Divine Liturgy the past few weeks, but Natalia was anxious to return to Father Nikolai’s house church, especially concerned that the many questions aroused by her son’s last visit be addressed somehow.

She shook her head with a smile. There would be hard days ahead, this she knew. But, for his part, Misha seemed to be developing an inner sanctuary in his soul, a place to which he could resort often when he wasn’t attending to his schoolwork.

One Saturday morning he finally told her that he needed to get back and visit his spiritual mentor. He kissed his parents goodbye for the day, and headed down the street. Natalia knew he was intent on discovering the full meaning of Father Nikolai’s words about Holy Fools and The Gift he was supposedly being called to embrace.

As soon as possible, she too would seek out the old starets and try to understand these things.

Misha carefully approached the priest’s house. He could feel the charge in the air growing stronger every day. He was changing, but so was his country. It was talked about everywhere in their little village.

It was an ordinary Saturday, folks going about their usual business. News was streaming out of Moscow of new political developments. Mikhail Gorbachev signaled the approach of a new era of internal freedom such as had not been experienced since the early Khrushchev days over a generation ago. Some were even saying he would also adopt policies that would set Russia on a course of radical modernization to rival the days of Peter the Great.

Misha absorbed it all, sensing the growing excitement among his neighbors, but he recognized a different energy. Father Nikolai had talked about the Holy Fools, and Misha could indeed sense it all had something to do with his own future, even if he did not completely grasp it all.

As he approached the house, it was as if the old priest had been standing in the doorway awaiting his return, so natural and familiar was the starets’ smiling greeting as he extended his arms to embrace Misha.

Misha went to kiss the priest’s hand in a customary gesture of respect, but this time Father Nikolai took Misha’s hand and kissed it instead. Misha’s eyes widened, but the old man just winked. The business of holy foolery evidently had many surprises along the way, and Misha was learning to roll with it as it came. Father Nikolai closed the door to the noisy street.

Reverently they made their way to the small iconostasis at the eastern end of the house. Father Nikolai disappeared for a moment and returned with a traditional warm herbal beverage to share. Thanking him, Misha waited for the priest to lower himself to his seat, which he seemed to do with greater agility than at their last occasion together.

Misha also sat down and mulled his cup between his hands while considering what he should say. It had been a little while since he had been here, and he wanted to choose his words carefully. Father Nikolai slowly sipped his drink, avoiding direct eye contact until Misha began to speak.

Batushka, I’m so glad to see you again. I’m sorry that mother and I have been unable to be here these past few weeks, but . . .

No need to apologize, my son, I sense you have had much to take care of, and I know you are diligent with your own prayers at home. What is most essential is that you continue to develop that special relationship with God that is your first calling in this life, and while it is always good to be at Divine Liturgy, you must ever cultivate the ongoing liturgy in your heart as your first priority. I myself cannot offer the Holy Sacrifice on Sunday unless I have prepared myself throughout the week before. I believe you do understand that, and that makes me happy!

Misha relaxed, and took another sip of his drink. How I love the fading colors and lines of the saints depicted on the aging iconostasis. The Virgin and Child caught his attention with unusual urgency. They almost seemed to be speaking to his heart and mind from behind the old wood and paint, beyond words and mere images.

His breath caught in his chest. The same image he had seen a hundred times had changed–yet, not. The infant looked both vulnerable and yet also composed and confident at the same time. Isn’t incredible power often present in small packages, even in a baby such as this?

Misha reflected on his studies in basic physics at school. Even when he was only thirteen, he had understood Einstein’s famous equation, E=mc². That pure energy could be derived from matter was amazing enough, but that inconceivably tiny wisps of solid stuff were the packaging for even more inconceivably enormous quantities of radiating power fascinated him to no end. His agile mind made an instant connection with the topic of his former conversation with Father Nikolai.

I have been thinking about everything we talked about last time, and just now it struck me–this baby here, this son of the Virgin, he’s so small, yet so powerful. And not just small . . .

Misha hesitated. He didn’t want his dear mentor to misunderstand what he felt prompted to say, and he certainly didn’t want to blaspheme, but he couldn’t hold back from expressing the crystal clear idea in his soul.

Batushka, this Jesus, this child, this man, this Christ, was he not also . . . also . . .

Father Nikolai’s eyes brightened with the recognition that his young mentee was about to strike spiritual pay dirt.

A Holy Fool!! Misha almost involuntarily blurted out the words in spite of himself. This Jesus was a fool, of course he was, and it’s what you were trying to tell me. Not just Viktor, but Christ himself, and maybe . . . maybe you and me as well!

The starets slapped his knee and roared with a laugh the likes of which Misha had never witnessed from Father Nikolai before. Suddenly the old priest’s animation was so infectious that Misha began to laugh as well, to laugh from deep inside, an outpouring of holy mirth that both shocked and delighted him. And suddenly Viktor didn’t seem so strange. It was the world that didn’t make sense–not the likes of Viktor. Misha’s heart seemed to soar as though it had sprouted wings.

Ah Misha, you are young, but you have quickly become very wise, very wise indeed. Soon I may not be able to teach you much beyond what you will be able to learn on your own. You have discovered a key to that inner teacher that has provided instruction to every saint that ever lived, and that key is to not be full of yourself, but to drain your heart of the world’s pretensions, to be willing to become a fool in its eyes so as to become truly wise. Allow me now to expand upon what we were discussing the last time you were here.

Indeed, a joy and intense desire to understand bubbled up in Misha’s chest. He set down his unfinished drink and pulled his chair so as to sit looking face-to-face at the starets, their knees almost touching. He hunched down, placing his chin on his folded hands as his mentor continued.

The core of our holy faith, of what had been Holy Russia at least as her saints knew her, is the idea that how great we may truly be–to that very extent–is the degree to which we habitually empty ourselves of that greed and arrogance that dominates everything else around us. Look at how the inflated notions of mere men very nearly destroyed our beloved country. I thank God that a man like Gorbachev seems to be willing to rethink the entire business of the October Revolution of so long ago, and who knows to where it will lead. Father Nikolai took a sip of his tea and smiled sadly.

I have lived many years and what I can tell you is that human beings left to themselves so often tend to self-infatuation when it comes to their opinions and their persons. You might remember from your studies in our history how men like Berlinsky were quite willing to toss all good sense to the wind and argue that unaided reason could guide our society into some wonderful new age.

Father Nikolai hesitated before continuing. Misha had gladly read some old books the priest had shared with him that were critical of nineteenth century Western European and Russian intelligencia who had dominated that age with grand solutions to the problems of human societies.

He loved almost anything with Cyrillic characters on the page with a passion. And he was already expanding his linguistic abilities as a good Russian, into other languages, including the root languages of antiquity, Greek and Latin. He knew how the starets wanted him to understand what he believed were mistakes of the past.

And don’t even get me started on Marx and Lenin! the old priest snapped.

Misha’s eyes widened. But the old priest kept his eyes locked onto his own, and he began to relax again under Father Nikolai’s kind but determined gaze.

You know, Misha, the shame of it is that men’s ideas don’t have to be utterly outrageous to be dangerous. Those two architects of the revolution actually had some good ideas. When you look over to the West and its capitalistic systems you realize that Karl Marx really did predict quite accurately some of the negative developments that they have experienced in their own history. His problem was that he was arrogant. New light may be dawning, Misha, but the souls of slaughtered millions still cry out in my heart!

Misha had never seen the priest like this before. He watched his mentor’s shoulders gently heave as he sobbed quietly, head bowed as if he were both weeping and praying at the same time.

Misha respectfully turned his head aside, not wishing to embarrass this man who had taught him so much in so many ways over the past few years. His endless questions had been always answered, his awkward days of transition into young manhood eased through the solicitation of the priest. A long moment of silence passed between them.

Finally, Father Nikolai raised his head and looked straight at Misha. His eyes were still moist, a faint reddish hue surrounding pupils that ever compelled attention.

"I thank God I’ve been able to serve Him in this little village these past twenty years in spite of what the masters of our government in Moscow might have done to suppress it. It hasn’t been easy to maintain the very modest presence the church has had here, but somehow the authorities just let me go on, figuring, I suppose, I was some kind of harmless fool in my

Reviews for Holy Fool, Holy Father

[soccermom15 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Beautifully written. The history throughout this book on the Roman Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church is amazing. I loved reading the journey that these two characters went through and how God had a plan for them. God has a plan for all of us no matter what you want. This book puts you through all the emotions, love, joy, faith, family, and forgiveness. You will be hooked from the first page!I recieved this book from The BookClub Network for an honest review.

[jbarr5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Holy Fool, Holy Father by Nicholas A. MarzianiStarts out with glossary of words and what they mean. This book will entertain you throughout the course of reading it as it has a bit of everything that will keep you interested and turning the pages.Story starts out with the life of Misha as a boy in Russia and how he's trained from others to believe in God and he likes adventure.He hopes to improve by going to school. Love correlation of dance and religion.Love skills the parents teach him so he can survive in the future.Love hearing of the customs, traditions and locations traveled to, so enlightening. Learned so much from the perspective of the priests side of things.Dancing just brings everything together as it holds a special place for both.Loved learning about the love locks, have seen them in locations we've visited but never knew the whole story.It's the little things like Murano glass that makes an appearance here. I search for the other treasures hidden throughout this book.Book goes forward and love the premonitions of things to occur and I can see the world as described in my own eyes and think electric/digital age could expire.Love hearing of the electrical/electronic discussions and all the math and numbers and combined with everything else, it matters.I was given the book by the author via Book Fun (The Book Club Network) and this is my honest review. #BookFun

[hjvanderklis_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Meet Misha and the love of his youth, Anastasia in their coming of age. A love story with timeless and unique elements. Rural Russian village meets larger city. Orthodox boy meets Roman Catholic girl. Extended families trying to influence the young couple's decisions. Holy fools, not only zealous to become a minister for God, but also practicing the gift of prophecy. So, what are you going to do if you feel you have a special calling on your life?How much are you willing to give up to build bridges, cross rivers and find a place in the post-Perestroika era in Russia. Is ballet dance acceptable for devout Christians? Does priesthood or consummation of marriage prevail? Can it be combined? And will love last despite thousands of kilometers distance between Misha and Anastasia?Holy Fool, Holy Father brings you and the couple in unexpected places. A very relatable, readable story. Well-written, with a lot of historical and religious details interwoven in the plot, without becoming an overtly 'Christian novel'.