PAVEL SEVIARYNETS
The following piece from the book Heart of Stone [Belarusian: Kamennae sertsa] by Pavel Seviarynets was selected for the East-West Church Report by the author’s wife, Volha Seviarynets, as exemplifying the role of faith in his writing. Seviarynets wrote the text in early 2011 while in the main KGB detention center in the Belarusian capital, Minsk, following peaceful opposition demonstrations there on the night of the 19 December 2010 presidential election that were brutally dispersed by riot police as unlawful. The manuscript of this text—sent to the editors of pro-independence newspaper Nasha Niva in response to their request that Seviarynets write a literary or philosophical piece which would pass prison censorship—may be viewed at: https://nashaniva.com/?c=ar&i=52243. The original is in Belarusian.
If God wants to have a serious talk with you alone, He will not explain anything half-heartedly, in passing, taking just half an hour of your time in your kitchen or at the office, where you think you can pay your dues with fussy prayer and furrowed brow. Nor will He hurl signs and wonders after you. He will simply allow you to grow tired of your own confusion until you are at the point of total spiritual suffocation, and then silently enter and close the door behind Him.
Only then, afraid to lift your eyes, feverishly trying to clear your throat and pretending to look prepared, will you hear the unique, incomparable, expectant and reproachful silence of God.
“Er… Lord… Well, You saw everything yourself, right?”
What is there to say? Sorry, of course. “Sorry. I really should have guessed that when attending church once a week, as is proper, you do not get to speak alone. There were so many things to do here. You simply wouldn’t believe…”
You are a pitiful sight. Burning with shame, staring at the toes of your shoes, you realize that He does not need this disgrace, or childish chatter, or your hang-ups. He is not a voter, a journalist, a diplomat, or a police officer. He is not looking for strong pieces in a poor game of chess.
So He is silent, patiently waiting for you to stop fussing and finally, on demand, twist from your neck your little silver key in the form of a cross. “Lord, do you want to see my heart, to be sure?”
You hear your own muttering as if from the other world. There seems to be nothing too bad, at least. After all, you had a look there a couple of days ago and He remained silent. I thought so… “God, I’m sorry.”
The cross jams into a rusty keyhole. Your hands shake and creak annoyingly as you try to turn… and by a musty scent you guess that in fact things are bad, for it will not open at all. “Oh no, no, Lord! Don’t touch, no need… I will do it myself!” You can’t go wrong here—it is your own heart, after all.
“Forgive me, God!” There is nowhere else to go, of course, but standing alongside feels impossible. What is so cold in there? Now, who would have thought it… I’ll try to find out. Taking a breath you climb in, first by feel and then head first. You are terrified, you swear to yourself—and you begin to fall to where there are… stinking sins; some placards and percentages mixed up with newspapers and posters. Rotten arrogance and vanity, reams of conversations with parents, brothers, and sisters all crumpled into a nerve cell, tons of raised tones and an undigested web of grimaces, all woven into strings of comments, farewells to the wind and irritated remarks, cowardly moans; so much was said and not done. How many forgotten and offended souls, general confusion, and finally, complete lethargy and indifference to life! Oh, and failures— you cannot dig to the bottom.
But He simply stands before you, as He once was silent before Pilate. And you understand that it pains Him so much, but you are afraid to look and see tears—tears! —in that eternally silent look, not one of which you are worthy.
Then suddenly, with a salty gulp, you are gazing at the bells ringing on Freedom Square. The cathedral.
The town hall.
Piercing and measured.
You suddenly understand that you are in the very heart of Minsk. Such a place!
How much more time is needed—a month, a year, or a decade—to learn to start with this at the beginning, and not the end? And then you promise to start all over again, and you decide to do without superfluous words, and to listen, finally, to HIM.
Pavel Seviarynets is a prominent Belarusian Christian prodemocracy activist and writer. He is currently imprisoned in Shklov, eastern Belarus..
