On October 11, 1908, the bass singer of the left choir in the Cathedral of the New Athos Monastery, novice Panteleimon Kuranda, did not attend Matins. Novice Mikhail Koshelov, sent to wake him, knocked on his cell door and called him to join the choir, but received no response. Before the early Liturgy, monk Dometian also tried to rouse him to assist with singing and reading the Epistle, but again failed to wake him. When Panteleimon still did not appear for the later Liturgy or the midday meal, a fellow singer climbed through his window to shake him awake. Yet he neither responded nor stirred, even when shaken vigorously. The door was forced open, and choirmaster Hierodeacon Paramon entered with a group of brethren, but their efforts to wake him proved futile.
They summoned the monastery’s senior medic, monk Misail, who examined Panteleimon but found no signs of illness. Those present saw only a sleeping man, though his hands were unusually pale and cold, his cheeks flushed, and his brows and eyelids twitching faintly. His expression seemed rapturous rather than ordinary. When ammonia was held to his nose, Panteleimon awoke abruptly, sat up, scanned the room, and cried out in Ukrainian: “You are not those ones!” Covering his face, he wept bitterly, later explaining he had not recognized the brethren as they appeared in his vision.
By noon, the brethren dispersed. Panteleimon’s confessor, Father Ilian, arrived and learned he had slept for 16 hours, during which he experienced the following vision, recounted here in his own words:
*On October 10, 1908, after Compline, I returned to my cell. Feeling drowsy, I extinguished the lamp and lay down. Upon falling asleep, a bright light filled the room. I rose and sat on my bed. The light intensified—brilliant yet unlike sunlight. My deceased nephew, a boy of five who had died eight years prior, appeared and said, “Come with me.” When I asked where, he insisted, “You will see.” We walked first through a field, then approached a sea crisscrossed with paths—some wide and flower-strewn, others narrow and treacherous. People traversed the wide paths joyfully, while those on narrow ones wept, slipping into the water. Youths in boats rescued those who managed to climb back, ferrying them away.
My nephew urged me onto a perilously narrow path. Though fearful, I gripped his hand. I soon fell into the sea but clung to his garment, and he pulled me back. At the sea’s end, two roads diverged: one broad and verdant, the other littered with sharp stakes. The righteous took the wide path, singing hymns; sinners were driven by demons onto the thorny road, whipped and chained. My nephew explained these were those who disregarded fasts, feasts, and the Sacraments, living only for earthly pleasures.
A radiant youth then guided me to blackened gates. Beyond lay darkness, stench, and spiraling stairs descending to doors inscribed: “Weep for a time” and “Weep and wail endlessly.” In the abyss, I saw souls burning like logs—punished for sodomy—and others in cauldrons of boiling water. A prideful woman I recognized refused to help others escape, damning herself. Monks who criticized their monasteries sat in darkness, soot pouring from their mouths.
Elsewhere, liars had black foam dripping from their lips; misers were combed with sharp rakes; fornicators hung bound in chains. A scale appeared: my sins stacked on one side, outweighed by a prayer book I’d once gifted a pilgrim. Demons fled, and my guardian angel smiled.
We crossed a frozen river. Those guided by elders passed safely; the prideful drowned. My confessor helped me cross. Further on, a boiling cauldron held souls punished for careless prayers and grudges in church. Deceivers who stole donations were drenched in tar, coins forced into their mouths. A negligent monk’s habit repelled demons, protected by the Theotokos’ intercession.
Dancers, punished for reveling on holy days, writhed in agony. At a cliff, almsgivers clung to walls with offerings given willingly; the grudging fell. Finally, we reached gleaming gates. Within, resplendent churches held prosphora for the punctual. Monks and layfolk adorned with flower crowns rejoiced.
Approaching the monastery, I beheld the Theotokos, radiant and majestic. She instructed my angel to return me, saying, “His time has not yet come.” My guardian, revealing himself, blessed me with an icon of St. Panteleimon and vanished.*
Postscript
Panteleimon, 29, a peasant from Chernigov Province, had served two years in the monastery, tending the choir and kitchen. Previously a volunteer in the Russo-Japanese War, he was discharged as a senior sergeant. His vision, shared privately, eerily mirrored forgotten sins and unresolved grievances among the brethren, affirming Scripture: “Wherewithal a man sinneth, by the same also shall he be punished” (Wisdom 11:16).
Source: St. John’s Monastery, Kiev, Ukraine
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