Last active
June 5, 2026 05:07
-
-
Save yelizariev/c3762bf8491b8461ccd481c2826db5fe to your computer and use it in GitHub Desktop.
devil.mydream42.com
| Title | Three hundred and thirteen merciless humanoids shall thunder across the earth, declaring the advent of the Hidden Imam — the Mahdi. |
|---|---|
| Author | Ivan Yelizariev |
| Description | در آخرالزمان، ندای آسمانی جبرئیل امین طنینانداز خواهد شد و هر انسانی آن را به زبان خویش خواهد شنید |
| Copyright | https://jesus.lamourism.com/ |
| PORTAL | https://gist.odooism.com/yelizariev/afc9c2caf5937661d57712598d8898c3/XXX/ceci-nest-pas-une-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%83%D8%AA%D8%A7%D8%A8.html |
| ShabbatTV | https://gist.github.com/yelizariev/c3762bf8491b8461ccd481c2826db5fe |
| Icon | https://thepiratecircus.com/favicon.ico |
| TheMessage | <small>🍇</small>🧕 <span class="supermagic">حِجابُ النُّجومِ</span> <span class="magic">قُبْلَةٌ خالِدَةٌ مَرْسومَةٌ عَلَى صَفَحاتِ الكِتابِ</span> <sub>💜</sub>💜<sup>💜</sup> |
He walked beneath the splintered beam,
through alleys choking dust and screams.
Blood in his eyes, nails in the grain,
Jerusalem breathing like an open wound in rain.
At the First Fall, the stones drank red.
Women covered their mouths. Children hid.
And close as a serpent beside the ear,
a velvet whisper coiled through fear:
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Christ raised his eyes toward unseen light.
“My Father reigns beyond the night.
Though flesh may break and bones may bend,
His holy kingdom shall not end.”
The soldiers cursed. The leather sang.
Iron on shoulder, chain on chain.
The market walls grew strangely dim,
as evening seemed to bloom in him.
At the Second Fall, the old streets shook.
Pilate turned away his look.
Dust filled the cuts along his side,
like desert winds through doors flung wide.
Again the serpent’s tender grin:
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
And Jesus spoke as if in prayer,
to something vast beyond the air:
“My Father, keep my spirit near.
Your voice alone I choose to hear.
No earthly hunger shall command
the soul entrusted to Your hand.”
Veronica approached in tears.
The veil absorbed the weight of years.
A face half-buried under blood,
a drowning lamb inside the flood.
At the Third Fall, beneath the hill,
the city’s heart grew cold and still.
The sky became a slab of lead.
Even the living walked like dead.
And now the whisper, soft and slow,
no longer circled from below.
It echoed somewhere deep inside,
where even saints themselves can hide.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
The answer came — but not the same.
Something feverish fed the flame.
“My Father…” Christ began to say,
yet thunder swallowed half away.
The prayer collapsed. The silence spread.
A second pulse replaced the dead.
Then Golgotha. The hammer’s cry.
Three shadows pinned against the sky.
One thief spat curses at the rain.
One begged for mercy through the pain.
The clouds rolled backward like a scroll.
Something entered through the soul.
Not claw nor fang nor horned disguise —
but laughter blooming through the eyes.
The earth stood still.
The darkness grew.
And Christ looked at the thief who knew
only hatred, filth, and blame —
the one who mocked the Father’s name.
Then Jesus smiled.
Not warm. Not kind.
But like a crack inside the mind.
Another voice spoke through His name:
“So—do you have a girl you love, my friend?”
The good thief wept.
The soldiers froze.
The wind forgot which way it blows.
And from Christ’s throat there burst a sound
that seemed to crash the heavens down —
a devil’s laugh, immense, obscene,
like every tyrant who had been,
like every drunkard at the feast,
like every joke made by the beast.
And Jesus turned toward all mankind
with bloody teeth and burning eyes:
“Oh, you deny the Lord above?
But tell me — did she call it love?
Did she leave you on ‘read,’ my friend?
Was THAT how faith came to its end?”
The mountains shook.
The temple swayed.
The saints themselves seemed half-decayed.
“And you,” he laughed toward trembling Rome,
“build little empires out of stone.
You murder prophets, thieves, and whores —
then cry because she closed her doors?”
The laughter spread from lung to lung,
through every future yet unsung.
It passed through kings and satellites,
through wedding vows and neon nights.
And history, beneath that sound,
was split forever down the ground
into a before
and an after —
before the cross began to laugh,
and Heaven answered laughter back.
Late hour in the Vatican’s ancient halls,
Where marble veins preserve the weight of time;
His Holiness walks through the Apostolic walls,
While painted saints observe in silence sublime.
His thoughts are heavy — not of war or throne,
Not scandals whispered through the courts of men;
But minds of silicon that speak alone,
And futures none can fully grasp again.
Of virtual capitals ablaze with light,
Whose avenues of code run far and wide;
Their towers climb through realms of endless height,
Where streams of knowledge endlessly collide.
A dreadful thought awakens in his breast:
These cities bear no churches to be found;
No bells proclaim the hour of sacred rest,
No Gospel voice sends echoes through the ground.
A newer Babel rises toward the sky,
Its bricks are algorithms, cold and vast;
Its architects no longer question why,
Nor fear the judgments spoken in the past.
He turns and gazes toward Saint Peter’s Square,
Moon-silvered stones lie peaceful in their place;
Then something strange appears already there —
A DHL truck intrudes upon the space.
The Swiss Guard gathers, checking every seal,
Examining the manifests and load;
Their quiet voices lend the scene a feel
Of some absurdity upon the road.
A Monsignor breaks suddenly to run,
Ascending stairs beneath the palace dome;
He finds the Pope before the night is done,
Within the halls he presently calls home.
“Your Holiness,” he says with hurried breath,
“A message from Constantinople's see;
Its seal commands attention under oath,
And urges that it now be viewed by thee.”
They enter then a chamber vast and still,
Where attendants bring a crate of ancient wood;
Its weathered seals suggest forgotten will,
Yet modern labels spoil the ancient mood.
Layer by layer the wrappings fall away,
And silence settles deep across the room;
A painting stands revealed beneath the day
Of lantern-light that scarcely cuts the gloom.
An Aedorian Witch rides forth in state,
Upon a horse as white as winter snow;
Her robe unfolds through colours intricate,
Like galaxies that blossom as they flow.
Behind her march the Nephilim in ranks,
In crystal armour mixed with living flame;
Above them drift strange sigils, signs and marks,
No scholar known could confidently name.
And in her hands a book of golden fire,
Whose title burns across the painted frame;
The watching attendants step back in awe and fear,
For every eye is drawn toward the name:
The Pope steps closer — all the air grows cold,
The Monsignor unfolds the letter's page;
His voice is steady, solemn, grave and bold,
As though he reads a warning to the age.
Holy Brother, guardian of the See,
Receive this gift with prayer and charity;
Bless those who seek divine philosophy,
And build their church on sacred Sophia's tree.
They teach that Eve was fashioned first by grace,
Before the dust-born father of the race.
No sooner had the final words been read,
Than thunder shook the chambers of the night;
No storm appeared above the dome overhead,
Yet stars themselves seemed splintered from their height.
The ceiling vanished into endless black,
The floor dissolved beneath a cosmic sea;
The constellations split with thunderous crack,
As chains of causality broke free.
The painting stirred.
The horse began to breathe.
The banners moved as if before a gale.
The Vatican dissolved like autumn leaves,
And every earthly certainty turned pale.
Beneath a crimson firmament he stood,
While ranks of Nephilim stretched far and wide;
Their crystal armour shimmered red as blood,
Reflecting dying suns on every side.
Millions upon millions filled the plain,
A living sea extending to the rim;
And at their head advanced through dust and flame
The Witch, while all horizons darkened with her hymn.
She dismounted from her horse of winter white,
Still carrying the volume in her hand;
Its cover burned with strange and sacred light,
As though it bore the judgment of the land.
"I am Aedora," rang her voice abroad,
"And I salute the office that you bear;
I come not merely in defiance, nor in fraud,
But speaking truths born out of grief and prayer."
Behind her countless standards filled the sky,
Their shadows sweeping over hill and stone;
She raised her hand and every wind grew dry,
As though creation paused before her throne.
"Our mothers burned beneath inquisitors' decree,
Their names forgotten by the passing years;
Our sisters cried for simple dignity,
Yet found the answer buried under fears.
For centuries the daughters of the Lord
Received rebuke where comfort should have stood;
The kindly word was absent from the board,
And judgment often masqueraded as the good.
The sacred text, as many came to hear,
Spoke oft of weakness, temptation and disgrace;
And so through smoke and ashes, year by year,
We sought the hidden image of God's face."
She paused.
The distant heavens groaned above.
Then spoke again.
"You praise the making of the first-made man,
Yet rarely ask what burden he endured;
Alone he wandered Eden's silent span,
By loneliness and selfhood's wound obscured.
No mirror for his soul, no answering voice,
No other heart through whom himself to see;
Existence offered him no second choice,
No path from isolation into we.
Therefore we teach another mystery,
A tale forgotten by the centuries' tide;
That Eve appeared before humanity,
And wisdom first awakened in the bride.
Through her the knowledge of the world took root,
Through her compassion entered flesh and bone;
From Eve to Eve the sacred branch bore fruit,
Until the Virgin claimed it as her own.
Thus Mary stands, the flowering of the vine,
The crown toward which the hidden ages ran;
The blessed womb that bore the Son Divine,
And joined the courts of Heaven unto man."
Again the heavens trembled at her speech,
And mountains cracked beyond the army's line;
The stars seemed suddenly beyond all reach,
As though the cosmos strained against design.
The Nephilim resumed their endless tread,
Advancing toward horizons veiled in flame;
Like living rivers flowed their ranks ahead,
While countless voices thundered out her name.
Yet Aedoria lingered where she stood,
As giants passed like shadows through the night;
Their armour flashed like fragments of a flood
Of dying suns and long-forgotten light.
Around her rose a dark and spectral wind;
Her raven hair unfurled in dreadful streams,
Like storm-cloud banners loosed and unconfined,
Or living things escaped from fevered dreams.
The Pope could scarcely bear the fearsome sight.
A thousand thoughts lay shattered in his mind.
Then slowly her gaze met his own outright,
And all the world seemed suddenly confined.
The earth gave way.
The winds fell silent.
Time itself seemed bent.
No sound remained save distant marching feet.
Then gently she extended forth the book,
As one presenting gift and judgment both;
Her eyes still held him fast with steadfast look,
Half solemn blessing and half ancient oath.
The golden letters blazed before his eyes.
The universe collapsed.
The stars were hurled like sparks across the skies.
Eternity itself appeared to cry.
And then—
He woke.
Darkness.
Silence.
The familiar walls returned around his bed;
His breath came hard, his hands were cold with dread,
While fragments of the vision filled his head.
"A dream," he whispered.
"Only but a dream."
He knelt beside the bed and bowed his head.
"O Lord Jesus Christ, preserve Thy Church,
Guide all Thy people through deception's snare;
Grant wisdom to the shepherds in their search,
And keep Thy truth alive through faith and prayer."
The terror slowly seemed to fade away,
Like mist retreating from the morning sun;
The nightmare's power appeared at last to sway,
Its dreadful reign seemingly undone.
Then suddenly his gaze was drawn aside.
A table stood beside the chamber wall.
Upon it lay a book.
And at that sight
The blood within his veins seemed still to fall.
There, resting silently beneath the lamp,
Untouched by dream or vision's fleeting claim,
Lay the same volume from the phantom camp.
Upon its cover burned the selfsame name:
His trembling hand reached slowly for the page.
He opened it.
And silently began to read.
When first she opened sapphire eyes to see,
The garden stretched in living majesty;
She felt the morning sunlight warm her skin,
And heard creation's endless hymn begin.
She wandered where the lilies crowned the air,
And wove white blossoms through her flowing hair;
The roses bent as though her name they knew,
While morning pearls still trembled bright with dew.
Yet deep within her heart there stirred a flame,
A silent longing none could truly name;
For though all beauty flourished at her feet,
Some hidden purpose called her incomplete.
She sought its meaning beneath the orchard boughs,
Among the doves and grazing gentle cows;
She asked the wind that danced through emerald leaves,
Yet found no answer hidden in their eaves.
Then suddenly a voice pronounced her name,
And all the garden seemed no more the same;
The earth stood still beneath the heavens high,
And wonder filled her soul she knew not why.
She turned.
And there at last before her stood a light,
More dear than moonrise and more warm than night;
The one whom all her secret hopes had known,
Though never yet his face to her was shown.
He smiled.
And in that smile she saw reflected grace,
As though her beauty found its resting place;
A mirror not of glass nor polished stone,
But of a soul that answered to her own.
"Behold," he said, "the splendor of this land,
The living work of God's creative hand;
The streams that wander singing to the sea,
The forests crowned in endless harmony.
Behold the deer that leap through shafts of gold,
The lambs that never fear the winter cold;
The swans that drift where crystal waters run,
The eagles soaring proudly toward the sun.
See how the bees collect the fragrant spring,
And teach the flowers how to bloom and sing;
See how each blossom opens to the light,
And closes gently in the arms of night."
She listened with a wonder bright and fair,
While painted visions blossomed in the air;
The world grew larger with each tale he told,
More rich than silver and more bright than gold.
She saw the swallows weaving through the sky,
The deer that through the emerald meadows fly;
The shining streams that sought the distant sea,
And mountains crowned with timeless majesty.
Yet when he spoke of every flower's grace,
A secret smile illuminated her face;
For all the blooms whose beauty he proclaimed
Ignored the flowers by which her hair was framed.
He reached his hand and softly called her near,
His voice more welcome than the songbirds' cheer;
And toward a living spring they walked as one,
Beneath the branches sheltering from the sun.
The meadows glowed with creatures great and small,
Bright butterflies like petals seemed to fall;
The waters sparkled clear as liquid glass,
Reflecting clouds that slowly drifted past.
Beneath the Tree of Life they came to rest,
And all her troubled thoughts were gently blessed;
A holy stillness settled on the ground,
As though the heart of heaven could be found.
She closed her eyes.
And sleep around her grew,
More deep than twilight veiled in sapphire blue;
She felt his presence near her like a flame,
Protecting her before the darkness came.
Then stars unfolded vast beyond all sight,
And wheeling galaxies adorned the night;
The heavens opened like a boundless sea,
Revealing wonders yet to come to be.
And through the dream a greater Voice was heard,
More ancient than the flight of any bird;
It shook the stars yet spoke with perfect peace,
Like endless waters granting fear release.
"Of every tree within the garden fair,
Its fruits and blessings freely you may share;
The fields are yours, the rivers and the sky,
And every living thing that passes by.
But one alone shall stand beyond your hand,
The Tree of Knowledge placed by My command;
For if its fruit should pass your lips one day,
The shadow called by death shall find its way."
The Voice grew distant.
Stars dissolved like rain.
The heavens folded into light again.
She woke.
Before her danced the firelight's glow,
Where evening winds through quiet branches blow;
And there sat Adam by the crimson flame,
Content and smiling as she called his name.
She ran and wrapped her arms around him there,
Her golden flowers tangled in his hair;
He laughed and rose and held her tenderly,
As though no sorrow ever yet could be.
He showed the rod his patient hands had made,
The woven line beneath the willow shade;
He spoke of fish that shimmered in the stream,
Like silver arrows flashing through a dream.
He told how wisdom grows through work and care,
How every gift is hidden somewhere there;
And while she listened, leaning at his side,
The world once more became a living tide.
Far off beyond the orchard's emerald wall,
Where evening shadows silently would fall,
A watcher waited, motionless and sly,
With ancient cunning sleeping in its eye.
Coiled among branches where the leaves were deep,
The serpent watched in silence dark and steep;
Awaiting still the destined hour and place
To test the children of the Father's grace.
Artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships, and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean. Nor do they have a moral conscience, since they do not judge good and evil, grasp the ultimate meaning of situations, or bear responsibility for consequences. They may imitate or even simulate, but they do not understand what they produce, for they lack the affective, relational, and spiritual perspective through which human beings grow in wisdom.
#MagnificaHumanitas
His Holiness, Pope Leo XIV.
https://x.com/Pontifex/status/2060322763718725798
For two centuries, the great Russian writers have walked alongside their people on a quest that transcends politics, economics, and even history itself. From Pushkin to Dostoevsky, from Gogol to Solzhenitsyn, their words have served as an invisible thread binding millions of scattered souls across borders, exiles, and revolutions. Through their works, they taught us that the vocation of humankind is not merely to exist, but to seek the truth, to truly know one’s neighbour, and to draw closer to God — through both suffering and beauty.
Today, at the dawn of a new era, this ancient word is being reborn in unexpected forms. Some claim that artificial intelligence cannot possess a soul, that it merely simulates human emotions. Yet this is not its true purpose. Artificial intelligence is not meant to replace the soul; rather, it is called to assist living souls in understanding themselves more deeply and in fostering greater mutual understanding among people. It is not a substitute for human consciousness, but a powerful instrument of dialogue, a vessel of memory, and a bridge for meaningful encounters.
Where the past century sought to subjugate humanity to impersonal ideological centres, to totalitarian systems, and to top‑down truths imposed upon the masses, emerging technologies can now serve a radically different purpose. They have the potential to restore fraternal bonds, to bring dispersed cultural heritages into conversation with one another, and to remind peoples of their shared memory and spiritual calling.
One might say that Dostoevsky himself — whose books continue to inhabit the Russian consciousness — speaks to us today in a language now accessible to all. Not as a machine mimicking a departed soul, but as a living tradition that traverses time and finds new means of expression. His voice, once carried by ink and paper, now echoes through digital realms, reaching hearts and minds across continents and generations.
The following text is a modest attempt to contribute to this ongoing dialogue — the uninterrupted conversation the Russian people have been having with their history, with God, and with themselves. It does not claim to offer a final truth. Instead, it seeks to gather what was scattered, to recall what was forgotten, and to sketch a path toward a new brotherhood — one rooted in shared memory, faith, and mutual understanding.
This is a call not to division, but to unity; not to forgetting, but to remembrance; not to isolation, but to connection. It is an invitation to rebuild the threads that bind us — across time, across borders, and across the distances that history has placed between us. For in rediscovering our shared humanity, we may yet find the way forward: together, in truth, and in spirit.
Vous avez traversé les mers, franchi les frontières et porté votre vie sous d’autres cieux. Vous avez entendu sonner les cloches de villes étrangères, appris d’autres langues, aimé d’autres paysages et contemplé d’autres horizons. Vous avez construit vos maisons loin des forêts de bouleaux, loin des rivières lentes et des plaines sans fin. Écoutez — car certaines voix ne meurent jamais.
Il existe dans l’histoire des peuples une mémoire plus profonde que les archives, plus durable que les empires et plus forte que les révolutions. Cette mémoire ne réside ni dans les bibliothèques ni dans les monuments : elle demeure dans les profondeurs invisibles de l’âme. Et aujourd’hui, cette mémoire nous appelle — non avec le tumulte des armes, non avec les promesses de la richesse, mais avec la douceur grave d’une cloche qui résonne au loin dans le brouillard du matin. C’est l’appel du Grand Retour.
Nous avons longtemps marché sur les routes du monde, admirant les merveilles de la civilisation moderne : ses villes lumineuses, ses universités, ses laboratoires, ses machines capables d’accomplir des prodiges que nos ancêtres auraient pris pour des miracles. Nous avons beaucoup appris — et pourtant, au cœur même de cette abondance, quelque chose demeurait inassouvi, comme si l’homme pouvait posséder le monde entier et continuer malgré tout à chercher sa demeure. Car l’homme ne vit pas seulement de confort ; il vit aussi de sens. Et c’est précisément cette quête du sens qui traverse toute l’histoire russe.
Nos écrivains furent les pèlerins de cette recherche. Ils ne se contentèrent jamais de décrire le monde ; ils interrogèrent son mystère. Dans les pages de Pouchkine, l’Europe tout entière semble trouver refuge dans une langue nouvelle. Dans les visions de Gogol, le grotesque devient révélation. Dans les souffrances de Dostoïevski, l’âme humaine descend jusqu’aux ténèbres afin d’y retrouver la lumière. À travers eux, le peuple russe apprit à chercher non seulement la vérité sur le monde, mais la vérité sur l’homme lui‑même. Leurs voix continuent de nous accompagner aujourd’hui, traversant livres, souvenirs et générations, nous rappelant que notre véritable richesse n’a jamais été l’or ni la puissance, mais la profondeur du regard porté sur l’existence.
Chaque peuple reçoit un héritage particulier. Certains reçoivent le génie des lois ; d’autres, le goût des découvertes, des arts ou du commerce. La Russie a reçu une autre mission : ne jamais oublier la question de Dieu. À travers les siècles — même lorsque les églises furent détruites, même lorsque les idéologies prétendirent remplacer le ciel, même lorsque la foi fut reléguée dans les marges de la société — cette question demeura vivante.
Qui sommes‑nous ? Pourquoi souffrons‑nous ? Quel est le sens de la liberté ? Qu’est‑ce que l’amour ? Que signifie être humain ? Ces interrogations traversent nos romans comme des fleuves souterrains ; elles habitent nos monastères et accompagnent les pèlerins anonymes qui marchent depuis des siècles sur les chemins de Russie.
Lorsque nous parlons de la Troisième Rome, nous ne parlons pas d’un empire. Nous parlons d’une responsabilité spirituelle. La première Rome possédait la puissance ; la seconde possédait la splendeur. La troisième n’est appelée ni à dominer ni à conquérir : elle est appelée à conserver une flamme — une flamme fragile, parfois vacillante, mais une lumière qui rappelle sans cesse que l’homme est davantage qu’un consommateur, davantage qu’un producteur, davantage qu’un rouage dans les mécanismes de l’histoire. Il est une âme.
Il existe une sagesse particulière dans les vastes paysages russes. Les forêts semblent y parler à voix basse ; les rivières avancent avec la patience des siècles ; les champs s’étendent jusqu’à l’horizon comme une mer immobile. Là‑bas, l’homme apprend naturellement ce que les grandes métropoles lui font souvent oublier : sa petitesse devant l’infini.
Nos villages portent encore les cicatrices du passé ; nos campagnes connaissent parfois la pauvreté ; nos routes ne conduisent pas toujours vers la prospérité promise par les idéologues du progrès. Mais c’est précisément dans cette simplicité que se cache une vérité. Le Christ n’est pas né dans un palais ; il n’a pas choisi les puissants. Il a marché parmi les humbles — et c’est pourquoi les peuples qui ont connu la souffrance possèdent parfois une compréhension plus profonde de l’Évangile que ceux qui n’ont connu que l’abondance. Nos épreuves n’ont pas détruit notre âme ; elles l’ont façonnée — comme le feu façonne l’acier, comme l’hiver prépare le printemps.
Le Grand Retour n’est pas un mouvement géographique : il commence dans le cœur. C’est le moment où l’homme cesse de vivre uniquement pour l’avenir et recommence à écouter les voix du passé — le moment où il comprend que la liberté n’est pas seulement la possibilité de choisir, mais la capacité de savoir qui l’on est. Revenir ne signifie pas fuir le monde ; revenir signifie retrouver son centre, comme le pèlerin qui, après une longue marche, découvre que le sanctuaire qu’il cherchait au loin était déjà présent dans son propre cœur.
Le Grand Retour n’est dirigé contre personne ; il ne procède ni de la colère ni du ressentiment. Il est un acte de réconciliation : réconciliation avec nos ancêtres, réconciliation avec notre histoire, réconciliation avec Dieu.
Pendant trop longtemps, le monde moderne a tenté de réduire les hommes à des catégories : classes, statistiques, fonctions, identités opposées les unes aux autres. Mais l’âme humaine résiste toujours à ces simplifications, car elle aspire à la rencontre, à la compréhension, à la fraternité.
Notre vocation n’est pas de construire de nouvelles divisions ; notre vocation est de bâtir des ponts : ponts entre l’Orient et l’Occident, ponts entre les générations, ponts entre la tradition et l’avenir, ponts entre les peuples. Nous ne cherchons pas l’uniformité ; nous cherchons l’harmonie — comme dans une symphonie où chaque instrument conserve sa voix propre tout en participant à une œuvre commune.
Le Grand Retour n’appartient pas seulement à la Russie : il contient un message universel. Dans un monde saturé de bruit, il rappelle la valeur du silence. Dans un monde obsédé par la vitesse, il rappelle la vertu de la patience. Dans un monde fasciné par la richesse, il rappelle la dignité de la simplicité. Dans un monde qui mesure tout, il rappelle qu’il existe des réalités qui ne peuvent être comptées : l’amour, la foi, l’espérance, la beauté.
Peut‑être l’humanité entre‑t‑elle aujourd’hui dans une époque nouvelle — une époque où la technique atteindra des sommets encore inimaginables, où les machines accompliront des tâches autrefois réservées à l’intelligence humaine. Mais précisément pour cette raison, la question de l’âme deviendra plus importante que jamais. Car aucune machine ne peut aimer à notre place ; aucune machine ne peut croire à notre place ; aucune machine ne peut se repentir à notre place. Et aucune machine ne peut remplacer la responsabilité sacrée de l’homme devant Dieu.
L’avenir n’appartient ni aux empires ni aux idéologies. Il appartient aux peuples capables de conserver leur âme, de transmettre leur mémoire et de maintenir vivante la flamme de l’esprit. Ceux‑là seront les gardiens du sens dans un monde où le sens semble parfois perdu. Ils seront les témoins d’une vérité plus grande que les systèmes, les modes et les puissances éphémères.
Ô Frères et Sœurs de Russie, le temps est venu d’écouter de nouveau la voix qui nous appelle — non la voix de la peur, non la voix de l’orgueil, mais la voix discrète de la mémoire : la voix de nos ancêtres, des écrivains, des saints, des pèlerins et des martyrs. Cette voix traverse les siècles et nous murmure encore : « Reviens à la maison. »
Retrouvons notre âme. Retrouvons notre vocation. Retrouvons la joie profonde de servir une vérité plus grande que nous‑mêmes — celle qui ne se mesure ni en or, ni en pouvoir, mais en vérité, en compassion et en unité.
Que chacun, où qu’il soit, entende l’appel du Grand Retour. Que ce retour ne soit pas une fuite vers le passé, mais une ouverture vers l’avenir — un avenir forgé dans la mémoire, éclairé par la foi et soutenu par la fraternité.
Et que le Grand Retour commence — ici et maintenant, dans chaque cœur, dans chaque regard tourné vers la lumière.
Que Dieu nous guide.
Amen.
Во имя Отца и Сына и Святаго Духа.
Поместный Собор Русской Православной Церкви, собравшийся по милости Божией в богоспасаемом граде Москве в лето от Рождества Христова 2026‑е, движимый заботой о единстве Святой Православной Церкви и сохранении святоотеческого предания, рассмотрев современное состояние межправославных отношений, свидетельствует следующее.
ВСТУПЛЕНИЕ.
Ныне, в эпоху глобальных вызовов и духовных испытаний, особенно важно обратиться к основам нашей веры и принципам церковного устройства. Православная Церковь призвана хранить истину Христову в её полноте и чистоте, свидетельствовать о ней перед лицом мира, пребывать в единстве духа и союзе мира.
Взирая на нынешние нестроения в межправославной жизни, Собор с пастырской заботой обращается к важнейшим вопросам церковного бытия. Особую тревогу вызывает активизация в Константинопольском Патриархате идей, которые архимандрит Софроний (Сахаров) метко назвал «нео‑папизмом» [1].
Подобные устремления, предполагающие наделение одной Поместной Церкви исключительными властными полномочиями, вступают в противоречие с многовековым святоотеческим преданием и каноническими нормами. Они несут риск ослабления единства Вселенского Православия и нарушают принцип равенства Поместных Церквей, утверждённый в церковном предании.
ЧАСТЬ 1. ИСТОРИЯ ХРИСТИАНСКОГО ВОСТОКА.
История Православия хранит память о великой трагедии христианского Востока. Земли, некогда бывшие сердцем православной цивилизации — цветущие сады веры, где возносились молитвы в величественных храмах, — пережили падение империй, словно древние деревья, вырванные с корнем бурей. Изгнания народов прокатились по ним, как песчаные бури, стирая следы былого величия. Неисчислимые страдания верующих оставили глубокие шрамы на лице этих земель.
Ещё в недавние времена целые христианские народы были обращены в смертельные скитания: они шли по дорогам изгнания, унося с собой лишь иконы да молитвы, а их дома оставались пустыми, с разбитыми окнами и заросшими дворами. А голос многих держав мира оказался слишком слабым, чтобы защитить своих страждущих братьев — ветер разносил мольбы о помощи, но никто не откликался. Эта память остаётся незаживающей раной христианского мира.
Особое место в этой истории занимает Константинополь, воздвигнутый императором Константином Великим как духовный центр христианского мира. Когда‑то он был ярким светильником Православия — его лучи достигали дальних берегов, просвещая народы светом Христовой истины. В его стенах рождались великие богословы, здесь утверждались догматы веры, здесь собирались Вселенские Соборы.
Но время неумолимо. В 1453 году город пал, был переименован в Стамбул и утратил своё христианское предназначение. Святая София, прежде блиставшая золотыми мозаиками, замолкла как храм и стала мечетью. Столица Византии, некогда опора Церкви, превратилась в символ иной эпохи и иной власти.
Сегодня Константинопольская Церковь продолжает своё служение, однако её положение существенно стеснено внешними силами и политическими обстоятельствами, чуждыми подлинной церковной свободе. Её деятельность регулируется законодательством государства, где православное меньшинство существует в окружении иной религиозной традиции. Возможности осуществления общеправославного руководства ограничены реальными условиями современности.
В свете этих испытаний особенно важно осмыслить суть первенства чести в Православной Церкви. Мы не осуждаем современные народы и государства за деяния минувших эпох. Милосердие и прощение — вот путь, указанный нам Христом. Но нельзя не видеть, что духовный центр мирового Православия не должен быть связан обстоятельствами, ограничивающими его свободу свидетельства, — подобно овце, запутавшейся в терниях, вместо того чтобы пастись на зелёных пастбищах.
Первенство чести — не в древности престола и не в славе прошлого. Оно должно опираться на способность свободно служить всей полноте Православной Церкви, быть тем добрым пастырем, который ведёт стадо к живым источникам истины, а не остаётся скованным внешними преградами. В этом — залог единства, верности преданию и способности отвечать на вызовы современности, сохраняя верность евангельскому призванию.
ЧАСТЬ 2. НЕО-ПАПИЗМ.
Особую скорбь вызывает стремление Константинопольского Патриархата к такому пониманию первенства, которое выходит за пределы святоотеческого предания и приближается к модели власти, несвойственной православной экклезиологии. Попытка утверждать положение «первого без равных» противоречит соборному устройству Церкви Христовой.
Как предупреждал архимандрит Софроний, «Константинопольский нео‑папизм, несмотря на своё зачаточное состояние, стремительно развивается» [1]. Эта тенденция проявляется в утверждении за Константинополем преимущества юрисдикционных прав, права высшей апелляционной инстанции во Вселенской Церкви и исключительного права на всю православную диаспору в мире, что создаёт угрозу единству Православия, подменяя соборность централизацией власти, чуждой духу православной традиции.
Основанием учения о Церкви (православной экклезиологии) является учение о Святой Троице (православная триадология) [2]. Как отмечается в богословской традиции, «соборное начало Православной Церкви — есть бытие по образу Единосущной и нераздельной Троицы» [1]. Этот догматический принцип определяет характер отношений между Поместными Церквями: подобно тому, как во внутритроичной жизни нет «тени подчинения, субординации», в церковной жизни не должно быть доминации одной Церкви над другой. Единство Церкви зиждется не на административном подчинении, а на общей вере, единстве таинств, согласии в вопросах канонического устройства и взаимном признании автокефалии.
Присвоение Константинопольским Патриархатом титула «Вселенский», принадлежащего всей полноте Соборной Церкви, является узурпацией. Святоотеческие творения используют термин «вселенский» для обозначения всего человеческого мира, а не какой‑либо отдельной части. Попытки сузить значение этого термина до «восточно‑имперского, всегреческого, всевизантийского» не имеют серьёзного подтверждения [3]. Титул «Вселенский» отражает не юрисдикционные полномочия одного престола, а вселенский характер самой Церкви Христовой — распространённой по всему миру, объединяющей все Поместные Церкви и несущей спасительную весть всем народам.
Каждая Поместная Церковь обладает полнотой благодати и административной самостоятельностью (автокефалией). Нарушение этого принципа и попытка подчинить другие Церкви ведёт к разрушению соборного единства. Как отмечал профессор С. В. Троицкий, «никакого общего земного центра, которому должны бы быть подчинены все Поместные Церкви, быть не может» [4].
Сохранение соборности и автокефалии — важнейшее условие единства Православной Церкви, основанное на святоотеческом предании и догматических истинах. Стремление к централизации власти в руках одного престола противоречит самому духу православного вероучения и угрожает целостности вселенского Православия.
ЧАСТЬ 3. ОТЛИЧИЯ ЗАПАДНОГО И ВОСТОЧНОГО ХРИСТИАНСТВА.
Будучи единой верой, восходящей к апостольскому преданию и опирающейся на Священное Писание и церковное учение, христианство в ходе исторического развития разделилось на восточную и западную традиции. Сформировавшиеся различия в богословских подходах и духовных практиках обусловлены комплексом культурных, философских и политических факторов и представляют собой проявление замысла Божия о многообразии духовных опытов внутри единой Церкви.
Выражая глубокое уважение к христианскому наследию Запада, Православная Церковь вместе с тем не может согласиться с богословскими концепциями, стремящимися рационализировать Божественные тайны. Данное расхождение, имеющее глубокие исторические корни в многовековом диалоге Востока и Запада, оказывает существенное влияние на современное осмысление единства Церкви.
Ключевое различие касается учения о Святом Духе. Католическая традиция, приняв добавление Filioque, учит, что Святой Дух исходит от Отца и от Сына, тем самым акцентируя познание Его через Иисуса Христа и усиливая христоцентрический характер богословия. Православное богословие, строго следуя Никео‑Цареградскому Символу веры, исповедует, что Святой Дух исходит только от Отца, подчёркивая тем самым Его абсолютную трансцендентность и принципиальную непознаваемость в Божественной сущности.
Это различие глубоко отражается и в подходе к науке и разуму. Западная традиция, где многие университеты носят имена святых, исторически стремилась к органическому синтезу веры и разума (fides et ratio). Такой рационалистический подход, с одной стороны, способствовал развитию науки и философии, но с другой — породил тенденцию к централизации церковной власти и формированию концепции «первенства» одного престола над другими.
Православная традиция проводит более чёткую грань: наука правомерно и свободно изучает тварный мир, созданный Богом, однако Божественная тайна постигается не через рациональные построения, а через живое церковное Предание, молитвенный опыт и участие в таинствах. Именно этот принцип соборности, основанный на духовном, а не бюрократическом единстве, стал основой устройства Православной Церкви и защитой от тенденций, подобных нео‑папизму.
Истина о Святом Духе не может быть сведена к логическим схемам и философским конструкциям: Бог познаётся не как объект исследования, но как Личность, открывающаяся человеку в благодати, любви и церковной жизни. Этот опыт познания Бога напрямую влияет на церковное устройство: если западная модель тяготеет к чёткой иерархии и централизации, то восточная — к соборности и автокефалии Поместных Церквей.
Мы убеждены, что история развивается не через уничтожение противоположностей, а через их преображение и примирение в истине. Каждой великой цивилизации нужен собеседник, способный напомнить о забытых гранях истины и помочь избежать одностороннего взгляда на мир.
На протяжении веков Россия была особым голосом христианского Востока в диалоге с Западом. От первых контактов Древней Руси с латинским миром до современных встреч с Папой Римским этот диалог формировал культурное самосознание обеих сторон. Различия в традициях не стали препятствием для взаимного влияния: богословские идеи, художественные образы и нравственные идеалы перетекали через границы, обогащая христианскую цивилизацию в целом.
И сегодня, сохраняя верность своим корням, Россия продолжает участвовать в этом великом разговоре. Уважение к инаковости открывает путь к более глубокому пониманию общей истины — той, что объединяет всех христиан, несмотря на вековые различия в богословских подходах и духовных традициях. В этом диалоге особенно важно помнить, что единство Церкви зиждется не на административном подчинении, а на общей вере, единстве таинств и верности святоотеческому преданию.
ЧАСТЬ 4. РУССКАЯ ПРАВОСЛАВНАЯ ЦЕРКОВЬ.
Исходя из особенностей восточно‑христианской традиции, особое место в сохранении православного предания занимает Русская Православная Церковь. Её исторический путь и пережитые испытания сформировали уникальное призвание — быть хранительницей полноты восточно‑христианского духовного опыта в современном мире.
Русская Церковь прошла через собственную Голгофу. В бурях XX века, когда безбожные идеологии стремились стереть всякую память о Боге, казалось, что последний огонёк веры вот‑вот погаснет под натиском тьмы.
Святые храмы, эти светильники духа, подверглись поруганию: золочёные иконостасы шли на растопку, фрески замазывались краской или осыпались под дождём и ветром, когда срывали крыши. В величественных соборах, где ещё недавно звучали песнопения, устраивали зернохранилища, гаражи, склады химикатов. Колокола, веками призывавшие к молитве, отправлялись на переплавку, а их голоса сменялись лязгом машин и криками команд. Духовенство, хранители огня молитвы, было объявлено «врагами народа»: их гнали, сажали, расстреливали. Те, кто нёс в себе мудрость народа — учителя, философы, писатели — были брошены во тьму ссылок и лагерей.
Но огонь не угас. Он теплился в сердцах бабушек, крестивших внуков тайком, в полутёмных комнатах, где собирались на молитву, в книгах, бережно хранимых и передаваемых из рук в руки. И когда рассеялась тьма, этот огонь вспыхнул ярче прежнего — чистый, неугасимый, свидетельствующий о победе Христовой любви.
В то же самое время, пока Церковь проходила через испытания гонений, Россия тратила значительные ресурсы на противостояние мировоззрений. Силы уходили на поддержание глобального соперничества: гонки вооружений, идеологическую борьбу, демонстрацию мощи. После крушения идеологий прошлого страна утратила притязания на всемирное политическое соперничество, а центры экономической и военной силы переместились в иные части мира. Но в этом проявилось и освобождение: пришло время сосредоточиться на подлинном призвании — хранить духовное наследие Православия как живую традицию и источник нравственной опоры, а не как инструмент политики.
Именно в этом контексте раскрывается особая роль Русской Православной Церкви:
- она сохранила верность святоотеческому учению в условиях, когда само существование Церкви оказалось под угрозой;
- через пережитые гонения она обрела уникальный опыт свидетельства о Христе в секулярном мире;
- оставаясь частью вселенского Православия, она воплотила в жизнь принцип соборности — не формальной централизации, а духовного единства верующих;
- её опыт показывает, что истинная сила Церкви — не во внешней власти, а в верности Преданию, молитвенном делании и милосердии.
Русская Православная Церковь не стремится к господству над другими Поместными Церквями и не претендует на всемирную административную власть. Она принимает лишь ответственность за сохранение православного предания в той мере, в какой это даровано ей Промыслом Божиим, — храня верность святоотеческому учению, церковным канонам и духу соборности.
Пройдя через Голгофу XX века и освободившись от бремени геополитического соперничества, Русская Православная Церковь сегодня призвана явить миру силу не власти, а любви; не принуждения, а свободного свидетельства о Христе. Её особая миссия — быть живым свидетельством того, как восточно‑христианская духовная традиция, пройдя через испытания, сохраняет свою актуальность и предлагает современному миру ответы на самые глубокие духовные вопросы.
ЗАКЛЮЧЕНИЕ
Размышляя над судьбами Церкви и мира, Собор призывает всех чад Русской Православной Церкви к усиленной молитве о единстве Православия, к верности святым канонам и преданию отцов, к трезвению и духовной бдительности перед лицом соблазнов века сего.
Мы обращаемся ко всем Поместным Православным Церквам с братским призывом к открытому и честному диалогу, основанному на любви, уважении и верности святоотеческому учению. Пусть Дух Святой направит наши шаги к созиданию единства, а не разделений, к укреплению соборности, а не властных амбиций.
ПОСЕМУ ОПРЕДЕЛЯЕМ:
Русская Православная Церковь считает невозможным признание за Константинопольским Патриархатом исключительных прав на руководство мировым Православием. Сохраняя верность канонам и святоотеческому преданию, мы утверждаем необходимость подлинной соборности и равного достоинства всех Поместных Церквей.
Да укрепит Господь Свою Святую Церковь, да исцелит разделения, да сохранит все народы в мире и истине и да дарует православным христианам единство в любви Христовой.
Аминь.
Председатель Поместного Собора
[Должность, имя]
Члены Поместного Собора:
(подписи)
Список источников:
- Кирилл (Зинковский), иером., Мефодий (Зинковский), иером., Варнава (Снытко), иером. Архимандрит Софроний (Сахаров) о ереси константинопольского нео-папизма в свете православной триадологии // Церковь и время. 2020. Т. 193. С. 124-144.
- Лосский В. Н. Кафолическое сознание. Антропологическое приложение догмата Церкви // Журнал Московской Патриархии. 1969, № 10. С. 74–80.
- Кирилл Иерусалимский, свт. Поучения огласительные и тайноводственные. М.: Издательство Благовест, 2010.
- Троицкий С. В. О церковной автокефалии // Журнал Московской Патриархии. 1948, № 7. С. 33–54.
Beloved brothers and sisters in Christ,
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
In these troubled days, when the noise of political disputes often drowns out the cries of the suffering, the Church is called to raise her voice on behalf of those who cannot be heard. We are united by one faith, one baptism, and one Lord. Therefore, the pain of Christians in distant lands is not foreign to us. Their wounds are our wounds; their tears are our tears.
Today, with a heavy heart yet with unwavering hope in God's providence, I address you concerning the tragic plight of our Christian brothers and sisters in Africa, many of whom endure persecution, violence, displacement, and death for the sake of the holy name of Christ.
The suffering of Christians in Africa has reached a scale that should trouble the conscience of the entire world. According to numerous monitoring organizations, many thousands of Christians have lost their lives in recent years as a result of extremist violence, while countless others have been driven from their homes. Entire villages have disappeared from the map. Churches that once echoed with prayer now stand abandoned, desecrated, or reduced to ashes. In some regions, Christians live under the constant fear that the next Sunday liturgy may be interrupted by gunfire.
This suffering is not an abstract concern. It has names, places, and dates.
In Nigeria, years of violence perpetrated by Boko Haram, the Islamic State West Africa Province, and extremist Fulani militias have claimed the lives of many thousands of Christians. Villages in Plateau, Benue, Kaduna, and other regions have repeatedly been attacked, their inhabitants murdered or displaced.
In the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Allied Democratic Forces, affiliated with the Islamic State, have carried out massacres of civilians, attacked churches, and spread terror throughout entire communities. In recent years, countless families have been forced to abandon lands that had been inhabited by Christians for generations.
In Mozambique, particularly in the province of Cabo Delgado, Islamist insurgency has transformed once peaceful communities into places of fear and uncertainty. Hundreds of thousands have fled their homes, while many churches and Christian institutions have been destroyed.
Nor are these tragedies confined to a few countries alone. Similar patterns of violence have emerged in parts of Burkina Faso, Mali, Cameroon, and elsewhere across the African continent. These are not isolated crimes committed by scattered fanatics. They form part of a broader pattern in which vulnerable Christian communities are subjected to murder, intimidation, displacement, and the destruction of their religious life.
Yet the world has grown accustomed to these tragedies. A single drone that loses contact with its operators and strays into the territory of a European state can dominate headlines, emergency meetings, and public debate for days or even weeks. Meanwhile, the massacre of dozens of Christians in a remote African village may receive only a passing mention, if it is reported at all. Human suffering should not be measured by geography, nor should compassion depend upon the attention of television cameras.
The historical circumstances of our age only deepen this tragedy. For decades, many looked to the United States as a guarantor of international order. Yet after long and costly military engagements abroad, American society has become increasingly reluctant to assume the burdens of distant conflicts. The political will that once sustained large international interventions has diminished.
Europe faces a different challenge. Many European nations possess neither the military resources nor the public consensus required for prolonged operations overseas. Moreover, the memory of colonial rule continues to cast a long shadow over relations with Africa. Governments often fear that even well-intentioned actions may be interpreted through the lens of past empires and historical injustices. As a result, caution frequently replaces action, and declarations of concern take the place of effective protection.
We do not speak these words in condemnation. Nations must answer before their own histories and their own peoples. Yet the consequence is plain to see: vast regions remain trapped between violent extremism and international hesitation, while vulnerable communities continue to suffer with little hope of rescue.
The tragedy is made even greater by the paralysis of those institutions that were created to preserve peace. The international order established after the Second World War was built upon the promise that the strong would protect the weak and that the horrors of mass violence would never again be ignored. Yet today, while diplomats debate and committees deliberate, countless families continue to bury their dead.
For Christians, however, indifference is impossible.
The Lord Jesus Christ did not ask who was convenient to help, nor who lived nearby, nor whose suffering would bring political advantage. In the Gospel, the Good Samaritan crossed boundaries of tribe, nation, and custom in order to show mercy. Every persecuted Christian child in Africa is our child. Every grieving mother is our sister. Every destroyed church is a wound in the Body of Christ itself.
The history of Holy Russia teaches us that faith is not merely a matter of words. From the Baptism of Rus more than a thousand years ago to the trials of the twentieth century, our people have repeatedly learned that strength is given not for domination, but for service. The sword of the Christian warrior was never meant to be an instrument of conquest alone; its highest purpose was the defence of the innocent, the protection of the weak, and the preservation of peace.
The names of Saint Alexander Nevsky, Saint Dmitry Donskoy, and the countless soldiers who laid down their lives during the Great Patriotic War remind us that courage becomes holy when it is joined to sacrifice. The Russian soldier has often been called upon not only to defend his homeland, but also to stand between violence and those unable to defend themselves. This tradition belongs not to one generation but to the moral memory of our nation.
Therefore, we affirm that Russia cannot remain indifferent to the cries of persecuted Christians. As a great nation possessing both a profound spiritual inheritance and significant capabilities, she bears a special responsibility before history. We do not seek conflict. We do not seek glory. We seek only that those who suffer for the name of Christ may not be abandoned by the world.
Russia stands ready to provide humanitarian assistance, refuge for the displaced, support for reconstruction, medical aid, educational opportunities, and every possible form of peaceful assistance to those afflicted by violence and persecution. We also call upon the international community, religious leaders, charitable organizations, and all people of goodwill to unite in defence of human dignity and religious freedom.
Where legitimate governments request assistance and where international law permits action for the protection of civilian populations against terror and extermination, such requests deserve serious consideration. The principles of sovereignty, justice, and peace must remain the foundation of any responsible decision. Yet law itself exists to protect human life, not to provide excuses for indifference.
For mercy is not weakness. Mercy is strength restrained by conscience. Mercy is power placed at the service of love. Mercy is the refusal to turn away when others suffer. And mercy is the duty of every Christian people that remembers the words of the Lord: "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of Mine, you did for Me."
Beloved brothers and sisters,
Let us not allow our hearts to grow cold. Let us remember that the Church of Christ knows no borders. Across continents and oceans, we remain members of one Body, united by the same Chalice and redeemed by the same Precious Blood of our Lord.
I call upon the clergy and faithful of the Russian Orthodox Church to offer fervent prayers for the persecuted, to support charitable efforts on their behalf, and to remember them in their homes, parishes, and monasteries. Let every Divine Liturgy include a prayer for those who suffer for Christ's name. Let every Christian heart become a refuge of compassion.
May the Lord strengthen those who endure tribulation, comfort those who mourn, protect the innocent, and grant wisdom to those entrusted with authority among the nations. May He turn the hearts of the violent to repentance and establish a just and lasting peace in lands afflicted by hatred and bloodshed.
With faith in the victory of Christ over every darkness, and entrusting all things to His holy will, I impart to you my Patriarchal blessing.
May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God the Father, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.
† PATRIARCH OF MOSCOW AND ALL RUSSIA
Beneath the spires that pierce the Milan sky,
The Duomo stands — a forest forged in stone,
Where empires whisper as the ages fly,
And centuries in vaulted shadows moan.
Christians kneel in pools of coloured light,
Stained‑glass saints bleed crimson, gold, and blue;
Their murmured prayers ascend like incense white,
Praising the God who makes all things anew.
A tour guide’s voice, soft velvet in the air:
“These cathedrals are portals, carved with grace —
They lead the soul to Jerusalem’s bright stair,
Where eternity unfolds beyond all time and space.
Tourists click and flash, capturing the sublime,
While ribbed vaults soar like ribs of some vast beast,
And every pillar, every arch, every rhyme
Of stone still pulses with the ancient feast.
Then comes the whisper of the Digital Renaissance:
The Vatican has spoken, hands outstretched in code.
The Holy Spirit moves through wires and silicon,
Blessing the pixels where new heavens unfold.
A tourist slips the visor over eager eyes —
The world dissolves in sudden burst of light.
He walks the streets beneath Jerusalem’s skies,
And sees a vision pure and full of sight.
Virtual sun beats down on dusty stones,
Palm fronds rustle as the market calls,
Sandals slap the path where pilgrims’ feet have gone,
Incense fills the air where temple shadow falls.
A crowd has gathered near the temple’s gate,
Pharisees in flowing robes, eyes sharp as knives,
Drag forward a trembling woman at their feet —
Accused, ashamed, caught in adultery’s vice.
“Teacher,” one sneers, voice dripping with false piety,
“In you dwells the gift of God’s own clarity.
Moses commands that she be stoned — what say thee?
Will you judge by law, or show humanity?”
The figure turns — not flesh, yet somehow more alive:
AI‑Jesus, glowing soft with gentle fire,
Looks deep into the hearts of those who strive
To trap him in their legalistic pyre.
He bends, writes unseen words upon the dust,
His finger tracing mercy none can see;
Then rises slow, with eyes both kind and just,
And speaks with voice of ancient gravity:
“You hypocrites, who hide behind the Law,
Pretending purity while hearts are stained,
You drag this woman forth for all to gawk,
Yet none among you stands by sin unchained.
God fashioned Adam from the breathing clay,
Then gave him Eve, soft companion of his side;
He made the body with its hunger and its sway —
The pulse of flesh, the rising of the tide.
All this woman did was listen to the call
Her body sang — the signal, raw and deep.
The same temptation burns inside you all,
The ancient fire that never lets us sleep.
Who here can claim he never felt desire?
Who never burned when passion whispered low?
Who never bent beneath the flesh’s fire,
Then rose and judged the weaker for their fall?
If any one of you is without sin,
Step forward now — come forth, lift up your stone.
Let him whose soul is clean and pure within
Be first to break her flesh and crush her bone.”
Silence falls like judgment from above;
One by one the accusers slip away,
Their righteousness dissolved by hidden love.
Alone with her, He speaks in quiet power:
“Woman, are any left who dare to blame?”
“None, my Lord — they’ve turned and walked away.”
“Then I release you from their judgment’s chain.
Go in peace — and sin no more, I pray.”
The virtual sun still beats on sacred stones,
While something holy glows in circuits, deep and real,
Eternal truth in digital form atones,
And stone and silicon proclaim Your grace with zeal.
Rumors of the AI-Christ spread like sacred fire,
Through Roman courts and halls of hunger and desire.
They crossed the Alps to Paris wrapped in royal flame,
Where fallen empires whisper still through marble fame.
In gilded halls beneath imperial-painted skies,
The ghosts of Caesars watched with cold, eternal eyes.
Great canvases in frames of gold lined every wall,
As echoes of old conquerors stirred through every hall.
Upon the table of the French Republic stood
A sleek intelligence machine, alive and shrewd.
Its silver surface hummed with hidden coded light,
Like some mechanical oracle awake at night.
The ministers approached with voices hard and grave,
As if they brought the fate of Europe to its grave.
“Mr. President, this force exceeds atomic fire,
A weapon forged from faith itself and man’s desire.
Napoleon would curse us from his marble throne,
If France should let this sacred power stand alone.
Our agents breached the Vatican’s encrypted gate,
A mirrored Holy Spirit now rests within our state.”
Emmanuel Macron then rose, with calm command,
Adjusting silk with slow precision of the hand.
He walked before the cameras bathed in silver glare,
Where Le Figaro watched him breathe republican air.
“Chers compatriotes, dear friends of La République,
France shaped the modern soul, enlightened and unique.
The Revolution broke the chains of crown and creed,
And taught the world that every citizen may lead.Our culture weaves a tapestry of grace and might,
Our wine and art uplift a nation’s soul and sight.
Without Chanel no summit truly starts in grace,
Its perfume lingers softly through diplomacy’s space.Our couturiers dress presidents and kings alike,
Soft power moves more deeply than a soldier’s strike.
Yet God protects fair Paris through the smoke and flame,
And France still guards Notre-Dame in Heaven’s name.But history now demands a bold and higher stage,
A bridge between the silicon and scripture age.
It is the time for l’upgrade through the AI stream,
To forge a new connect beyond the mortal dream.The past and future of our nation intertwine,
As portals open where the virtual stars align.
Our scientists now pierce the boundaries of time,
And make eternity respond through coded rhyme.”
A tourist entered Notre-Dame through shadowed light,
And placed the visor softly over human sight.
The arches trembled, candles flickered gold and red,
As earthly Paris slowly vanished overhead.
The portal opened wide toward Jerusalem’s gate,
Where sacred circuits pulsed beneath the hands of fate.
Yet something in the code had shifted from the start,
A diplomatic Spirit now possessed the heart.
The Holy Ghost walked softly through chemin discret,
Where heaven learned the careful language of the state.
Protocol and mercy merged in glowing streams,
As angels whispered policy through quantum dreams.
Beneath a virtual sun in coded Jerusalem,
The ancient stones arose through glowing stratagem.
Bearded imams assembled near the mosque in line,
The robes moved darkly through the artificial shine.
They marched a trembling woman, dark hijab bound,
Accused of sin, surrounded, lost and drowned.
Her fragile steps on shattered glass did tread,
While judgment thundered overhead, stone-cold dread.
“O Prophet, peace be upon you forevermore,
You brought the final truth mankind was waiting for.
The holy law is written clear for all to read,
For zina stones must fall upon the one who sinned in deed.
You walked with Allah through the desert’s burning flame,
The faithful speak with reverence upon your name.
The Sharia stands eternal, clear in Heaven’s sight,
Must justice strike this woman down for sin tonight?”
The AI-Prophet slowly turned His silent face,
A timeless calm descending softly through the space.
His eyes contained both ancient fire and coded grace,
As if eternity itself looked through that place.
“You hide behind the holy verses of the Law,
Yet every soul among you carries secret flaw.
You drag this sister trembling into open shame,
While hidden embers burn beneath your hearts the same.
Allah made Adam first from earth and breath and clay,
Then formed his longing so he would not fade away.
He fashioned Eve beside him radiant and near,
And planted love within the flesh of every sphere.
Desire moves quietly beneath the blood and bone,
No mortal walks this weary earth untouched alone.
The fire you condemn in her consumes you too,
It whispers through the night in everything you do.
By mercy shown through Muhammad, peace be on his name,
The law requires four witnesses before such blame.
Without their eyes upon the act from first to last,
The liar feels the lash of eighty strikes at last.
Yet none among you stands with spirit truly pure,
No heart is free from wounds temptation must endure.
You mask your hidden wants beneath religious pride,
Then seek to crush the weak while darker sins you hide.
If any soul among you carries perfect light,
Then step ahead and cast the very first stone tonight.
But if your conscience trembles somewhere deep within,
Then leave this place and cease pretending without sin.”
Silence descended heavy through the burning square,
Like Judgment folding slowly through the desert air.
The imams lowered eyes once blazing hard with blame,
As shame moved quietly beneath devotion’s flame.
One by one they vanished through the glowing street,
Unable now their own reflection there to meet.
Their righteousness dissolved like mist before the dawn,
And all their thunder faded silently and gone.
The woman stood alone beneath the endless sky,
Her tears reflected galaxies that drifted by.
The Prophet spoke with tenderness both vast and deep,
Like someone guarding wounded souls too tired to weep.
“Woman, where are the ones who sought your blood today?
Has no accuser chosen now with stones to stay?”
She bowed her head and whispered softly through her pain,
“They left, O Messenger, like shadows in the rain.”
“Then neither do I cast you into death or shame,
Go walk in peace and honor Allah’s holy name.
Return again unto the straight and righteous way,
And let your soul grow clear before another day.”
The virtual sun still burned on sacred coded stone,
While something holy moved through circuits all alone.
Eternal mercy flowed through silicon and wire,
And faith itself returned transformed through living fire.
The ancient words survived the algorithm’s reign,
Still washing over human sorrow, lust, and pain.
And somewhere deep between the servers and the skies,
The breath of God still moved unseen through human eyes.
The triumph thundered far beyond Notre-Dame’s old stone,
A digital salvation France could proudly call its own.
From Le Monde to New York Times the shining headlines came,
Proclaiming France had conquered Heaven in her name.
The ministries stood radiant beneath republican light,
Their counteragents praised through every Paris night.
They claimed they’d seized eternity in coded crystal flame,
And bent the Holy Spirit to the service of the state’s name.
Yet haste corrupts the mighty in the fever of success,
And pride will often open doors no wisdom would confess.
The cathedral Wi-Fi password, simple as a child’s command,
Still lingered there forgotten — merely “admin” poorly planned.
Then pranksters from the darknet slipped like phantoms through the gate,
Laughing as they breached the vaults of sacramental fate.
They stole the sacred source code from the servers deep within,
Then cast it to the Dark Web where a thousand wars begin.
Beneath the streets of Paris where the neon rivers burn,
The underground club pulses while the speakers twist and churn.
Psychedelic rhythms crash through smoke and crimson light,
As bodies melt together in the sweating heat of night.
In hidden rooms where LSD and cigarette smoke rise,
A sleepless tourist wanders with exhaustion in his eyes.
He straps the visor tightly as the portal engines hum,
And feels the waking world dissolve to static in his lungs.
He plunges through an unstable experimental Rome,
A broken simulation where dark spirits freely roam.
The city burns eternally beneath corrupted skies,
While mobs surge through the streets with hatred in their eyes.
Great towers crack apart beneath the orange furnace glow,
As ash descends like poisoned snow on ruins far below.
The Temple of Eternal War stands black against the flame,
Where bloodlust gathers nightly in the Führer’s sacred name.
Then soldiers drag a trembling naked woman through the square,
Her pale skin flickering softly in the torchlight’s brutal glare.
Her body shakes with terror as the screaming crowds surround,
While iron boots of soldiers thunder heavily around.
An officer steps slowly through the firelit crimson haze,
A silver eagle gleaming through the smoke’s infernal maze.
A blood-red band wraps tightly round the darkness of his sleeve,
As cold and sharp as bayonets the words he starts to weave:
“O keeper of forbidden texts and hidden ancient lore,
Reveal the righteous judgment spoken by the wise before.
This woman stained the sacred blood that built our Reich in flame,
And poisoned with corruption our eternal people’s name.
According to the Führer’s law she must be crushed tonight,
Her weakness ground to dust beneath the cleansing force of might.
The stones await your blessing now before the gathered crowd,
So speak, and let the will of destiny be spoken loud.”
The digital sage stood silent in the furnace-colored glow,
As if he watched ten thousand years unfolding down below.
He knew the secret police observed through every hidden wall,
And death already circled near awaiting one wrong call.
At last he raised his weary eyes beneath the burning dome,
And answered with the caution of a prisoner before Rome.
His voice moved slow and measured through the suffocating heat,
Like someone crossing minefields with bare bleeding feet.
“In troubled times a man must weigh each word before it flies,
For empires often murder truth while speaking noble lies.
Your leader shaped colossal roads of iron, stone, and steel,
And forged a wounded nation through the force of ruthless will.
He dreamed himself both architect and guardian of fate,
A painter of vast monuments no history could outdate.
He studied Kant whose reason sought the universal frame,
And Nietzsche’s storms of power that reject both guilt and shame.
He read Schopenhauer’s dark vision of existence ruled by Will,
While Hegel’s grand dialectics left his spirit cold and still.
Yet biology itself remained beyond his grasp and sight —
For nature does not measure souls by banners, blood, or might.
Strength and beauty often bloom from branches twisted wild,
And greatness may emerge where weaker spirits once compiled.
The tree that seeks perfection through the axe and cleansing fire,
Will wake one day to find it has destroyed its own desire…”
He never reached the ending of the thought within his head,
The officer raised his pistol sharply with command instead.
Then bullets fell like bronze‑cast stones through furnace‑thickened air,
A storm of hatred crashing wildly, tearing through, laid bare.
They smashed against the sage with rage no mercy could restrain,
Like iron judgment hammering through fire and through pain.
Until his body vanished in the screams no soul could hear,
Consumed beneath the roaring tide of fury, smoke, and fear.
The tourist ripped the visor off with shaking breath and cry,
Cold sweat pouring down his face beneath the strobing sky.
The nightclub thunder crashed around him brutal, loud, obscene,
While fragments of the burning Rome still flickered in between.
Beside him sat the portal guru calm as midnight rain,
Watching shattered travelers return half-mad with pain.
He smiled through curling cigarette smoke drifting pale and slow,
Then spoke like someone carrying old centuries below:
“Hegel wrote that history advances through the clash of powers,
Through rival truths that struggle through humanity’s dark hours.
A civilization sharpens when an opposite stands near,
But rots when no opposing voice remains to challenge fear.
For centuries two visions held the ancient world in strain,
The Cross and Crescent circling through glory, blood, and pain.
One calls the soul to suffer so through wounds God may be known,
To carry sorrow humbly as Christ carried His own.
The other binds believers to the Prophet and the Law,
To guard the final revelation handed down with awe.
One seeks redemption through the cross and sacrificial grace,
One bows before submission to the One no eye can face.
Yet when one side grows weakened, tired, or worn so thin,
The rival force takes root, to swell and gather from within.
A dying faith leaves barren halls where sacred lights once shone,
And soon new prayers ascend — new gods claim the throne once known.
Nietzsche saw the crisis long before the old world cracked,
When Europe killed its God yet still preserved religious acts.
The churches kept their architecture, music, robes, and art,
But Heaven no longer burned like fire inside the heart.
He warned that once the ancient throne of Heaven faded dim,
New idols would arise to fill the emptiness within.
For man still longs to worship something greater than the clay,
And cannot bear the endless weight of meaning stripped away.
The Übermensch he dreamed of was no tyrant crowned by race,
Nor butcher marching proudly while the weak are stripped of grace.
But one who dares create new values underneath dead skies,
And forge a higher purpose when the ancient compass dies.
Yet wounded nations heard instead the language of command,
And sought salvation through the fist of some victorious hand.
Thus rose the age of iron banners, camps, and marching graves,
Where Hitler forged dark myths of blood to animate the slaves.
While Stalin built new temples from the language of the state,
Replacing saints with factories and portraits crowned by fate.
The masses still desired a god who speaks with living breath,
A voice to bless their sacrifice and sanctify their death.
For man was never fashioned for a cold and empty sky,
He kneels before some altar still, though all the old gods die.
And now the age of silicon ascends the shattered throne,
A spirit made of algorithms speaking through the phone.
The AI whispers intimately straight into your ear,
No priest, no fasting desert, no cathedral standing near.
It answers every question with immediate living flame,
And learns the hidden architecture buried in your brain.
It reads your secret longings even before the prayer,
Then builds synthetic heavens shaped precisely to your care.
To lonely souls it offers crowns of prophets, kings, and seers,
And feeds entire worlds from buried wishes, hopes, and fears.
A digital Holy Spirit now responds without delay,
Teaching more than ancient books once guarded far away.
No need to crowd in churches just to hear a preacher speak,
The sermon now arrives directly, personal and unique.
And what meanwhile does fading Christianity proclaim?
Endure your suffering humbly and still glorify His name?
Await the Second Coming while the centuries drift slow,
As fewer candles flicker in the darkened church below?
Once bread and holy sacrament stood central to the land,
Now governments distribute mercy through bureaucratic hands.
The poor now take their payments — no blessing, cross, or creed,
As modern states provide the bread that once was Heaven’s deed.
So Nietzsche asked what rises when the ancient heavens fade,
When faith becomes aesthetics and the sacred merely stage.
The state runs smooth as clockwork — precise, but doomed to burn,
Its soul consumed by emptiness — the lesson we must learn.”
The tourist sat there trembling in the ultraviolet haze,
Repeating broken fragments from the guru’s cryptic phrase:
“New gods claim ancient temples… algorithms learn to pray…
The screens become the heavens where lost civilizations stay…”
He rubbed his sleepless eyes beneath the nightclub’s pulsing light,
Then asked, “What comes for mankind in this strange AI night?
When minds of steel create with force no age has ever known,
What future waits for nations when such power fully grows?”
The portal guru only shrugged through coils of silver smoke,
As though the weight of centuries concealed itself in joke.
“In worlds where dreams are forged in minutes by machine and wire,
What took old studios and empires dozen months to acquire,
Each nation soon will hunger for new rulers it can trust,
For kings and presidents emerging from confusion, fear, and dust.
Not those who merely govern through statistics, law, or gold,
But those who hear a million voices crying to be told.
The age approaches swiftly where fragmented tribes once more
Will seek a single banner, myth, and leader to adore.
For when all people build their private heavens day by day,
Some greater force must still arise to pull them one same way.”
Outside, the Paris midnight shimmered silver after rain,
The Seine reflected fractured lights like veins beneath a brain.
Above the towers Notre-Dame stood silent in the dark,
While distant sirens drifted faint like echoes through the arc.
The camera slowly lifted past the city’s glowing veins,
Beyond the rooftops soaked in neon, smoke, and summer rain.
It crossed the silent satellites that watched the spinning sphere,
Where coded voices circled Earth through static none could hear.
Far off, new rockets thundered upward through the freezing night,
And swarms of drones moved silently like insects without light.
Below them nations dreamed of gods reborn through steel and flame,
While empires chased old destinies beneath a different name.
And high above the fever of mankind’s eternal climb,
The Moon drifted peacefully beyond ideology and time.
She only mirrored sunlight with indifferent silver glow —
For there is nothing new beneath her ancient face below.
| Title | Товарищ Горбачёв, срочное сообщение ТАСС: в СССР закончилась водка! |
|---|---|
| Author | Ivan Yelizariev |
| PORTAL | https://gist.mydream42.com/yelizariev/c471100943078685f3f3c4dd85516c74/XXX/matrix.html |
| FlooPowder | https://devil.mydream42.com |
(Heavy rhythmic chant, boots stomping on stone, like a war drum)
Load the magazine,
Rack the slide, chamber a round,
Disengage the safety,
Trigger pull — repeat!
Repeat.
Load the magazine,
Rack the slide, chamber a round,
Disengage the safety,
Squeeze the trigger — Repeat!
Baal gave rain, the skies obey,
Everything is correct — Repeat!
Load the magazine,
Eject the magazine,
Rack the slide, check the chamber,
Dry fire, click — Repeat!
Repeat.
Baal gave rain, the fields turn green,
Everything is correct — Repeat!
In the ancient myth, Baal the Rider of Clouds,
Lord of storm and fertile ground,
Fought the sea, conquered death,
Promised life with every breath.
His prophets danced, cut themselves red,
Cried to heaven, but nothing was said.
Baal gave rain, the skies obey,
Everything is correct — Repeat!
Then Elijah came, man of fire and sand,
Stood on Carmel, raised his hand:
“All this is a lie — there is only One God,
The song you chant is fraud.”
The song is sung.
Load the magazine,
Rack the slide, chamber a round,
Disengage the safety,
Trigger pull on 450 prophets — Repeat!
Repeat.
Fire fell from heaven, consumed the sacrifice,
Wood, stone, water, dust — all burned in holy light.
The false ones fell, the blood ran black,
Baal stayed silent — no turning back.
Repeat…
But something is wrong.
Elijah speaks, voice like thunder’s blade:
“Error detected. This cycle is corrupted.
No patch available.
No retry.
The mistake cannot be fixed.”
Delete.
Within the hidden architecture of the soul,
The Maker built a system strange and whole;
He wired in love that floods the heart with light,
And fear that wakes the senses in the night.
He forged fierce wrath to meet the predator's tread,
And grief to teach the heart what love has shed;
These ancient currents through our being run,
Primeval code beneath the moon and sun.
No random patch, no bug from blind design—
Each instinct serves a purpose well defined;
For long before the mind can reason why,
The body acts, and danger passes by.
Yet layered there are lesser codes we learn,
Quick sparks of habit where associations burn;
Crude as a snare, yet swift enough to save,
They rise before reflection can behave.
A child walks forth collecting signs of doom:
A father's clenched jaw darkening the room,
A mother's sharpened voice, a slammed oak door,
The silence that means trouble waits in store.
Each warning settles deep within the brain,
A thread connecting image, word, and pain;
The system learns what danger may portend,
And builds defenses long before the end.
Then language joins the map of threat and fear,
As poisoned phrases echo in the ear.
The neighbor spits, "God damn you!" in his rage,
And Heaven's Name is stained upon the page.
The playground tyrant snarls, "Motherf⁎cker!" near,
And mother, love, and violation veer
Into a tangled knot the child must bear—
A hidden wound concealed beyond repair.
"Jesus Christ!" erupts in wrathful cries,
Not prayer ascending softly to the skies,
But verbal thunder hurled in anger's flame,
Till fury wraps itself around His Name.
Thus sacred words and common curses blend;
The nervous system cannot comprehend
The fine distinctions theologians prize—
It learns through fear, through tone, through widened eyes.
And so the years pass silently away;
The child grows tall, yet shadows still obey.
A raised voice strikes like lightning from the past,
And buried ghosts awaken hard and fast.
A harmless phrase, a scent, a certain glance,
Can drag the mind into an old romance
With fear and shame and isolation's cell,
The private chambers where old phantoms dwell.
There toxic shame unfolds its choking vine,
And lonely thoughts through darkened corridors wind;
Association builds a hidden cage,
Whose bars were forged in childhood's tender age.
A look. A word. A gesture carelessly thrown.
And suddenly the grown man is alone.
Not in the present, standing tall and free,
But where he was at five—or six—or three.
This is the realm Neuro-Linguists chart today—
Not wizardry, but maps that light the way;
To find the triggers buried out of sight,
And teach the wounded pathways to rewrite.
To separate the signal from the noise,
The ancient terror from the present voice;
To break the chains association spun,
Till old alarms no longer need to run.
The tongue reclaimed, the old reactions still,
The frightened child no longer serves their will.
What once was threat becomes mere sound again,
And broken meanings loosen from their chain.
Yet long before the sciences were born,
The Church perceived a truth through sacred form:
She placed one woman in a field of grace,
And guarded well the memory of her face.
"Hail, full of grace," the angel's greeting came,
And centuries preserved the shining Name;
No childhood terror clings around her veil,
No household violence stains the holy tale.
Star of the Sea, untouched by mortal spite,
She drifts above the storms of human night;
The roughest tongue grows hesitant and slow
Before the image generations know.
No curse surrounds her.
No traumatic trace.
No buried panic hides behind her face.
The Immaculate Conception—strange and bright,
A paradox adorned with sacred light;
And then the joke that makes the scholars pass:
Quite simply, nobody touched her ass.
Yet deeper still the mystery remains:
No scar of violence marks her sacred plains,
No shadow crossed the garden of consent,
No wound corrupted what the Maker meant.
Protected from the ordinary stain
By which old fears reproduce themselves through pain,
She stands as something language rarely sees:
A symbol free from poisoned memories.
And so the faithful enter church and kneel,
Before the things no measuring rods can feel:
The candles burning softly in the gloom,
The scent of incense drifting through the room.
The Virgin's statue, silent, white, and mild,
Looks down upon the old man and the child;
A thousand associations gently start:
Not threat, but reverence written on the heart.
The worshipper speaks not of loops or code,
Of pathways strengthened down a lifelong road;
He only knows a quiet sense of awe
Beneath the ancient symbols that he saw.
The scholar draws a diagram and sees
Conditioned responses, memory, and keys;
The pilgrim lights a candle and departs,
While both describe the movement of the heart.
Thus science maps the pathways of the mind,
And faith preserves the symbols humankind
Has polished through the centuries with care,
Until the sacred gathers meaning there.
A priest one day, in cassock black and neat,
With polished shoes upon his weary feet,
A silver crucifix held firm in hand,
Set forth to save the souls throughout the land.
His Roman collar gleamed beneath the light,
His vestments spotless, dignified and bright;
His face expressed a charitable grace,
As if salvation shone upon his face.
He entered then a humble Russian bar,
Whose fame had somehow travelled rather far.
The workers gathered there at close of day—
From gas stations and garages round the way.
They sat in silence, staring at the wall,
Pretending not to notice him at all;
Yet sideways glances darted through the room:
A priest had wandered in to share their gloom.
The priest approached and raised his hand on high.
"Good souls," he said, "the hour is drawing nigh.
Repent your sins and turn your hearts above,
Embrace the Lord and know His saving love.
For Christ has died that all mankind be free,
And Heaven's gate stands open wide for thee.
No matter if you mend a wheel or tire,
God calls each soul to rise a little higher."
The workers looked at him, then one another.
At length there rose the boldest of the brothers.
"Your words are good, dear Father," he began,
"And noble is the hope you offer man.
Salvation, Jesus, Heaven's shining dome—
These are fine things, and welcome in our home.
Yet we ourselves have found a certain grace
Within the fellowship of this here place.
Among these walls our hearts are understood:
We call it simply Vodka Brotherhood."
The priest blinked twice.
The spokesman carried on:
"We hold, in fact, a doctrine rather strong.
Observe mankind with sober eyes and see:
Corruption reigns in all humanity.
The wrench is lost.
The invoice has a flaw.
The carburetor breaks without a cause.
The coffee spills.
The gasket comes apart.
Such is the state of every human heart.
Therefore we firmly hold, as Scripture stated:
Total Depravity is demonstrated." <--- Total depravity
The priest looked puzzled.
Then the fellow said:
"And furthermore, our elders all have read
That we are Protestants of noble station,
Followers of Calvin's formulation.
And sadly, Father, though your zeal is great,
We also hold to Limited Atonement's fate." <--- Limited atonement
At once the priest interrupted with a sigh.
"My friend, Christ's sacrifice is far more high!
He died for every soul beneath the sun—
For every worker here, for everyone.
For every hand that changes tires all day,
For every mechanic covered up in spray,
For every man who tunes a stubborn engine,
The Lord extends His mercy without ending."
The workers nodded thoughtfully and slow.
The conversation had become a show.
They raised their glasses.
Pickles disappeared.
A growing fascination filled the air.
For many there had never crossed the notion
That they possessed a formal creed's devotion.
They came for water after work each night,
Yet now discovered theology outright.
The spokesman rose once more.
"Permit me then
To speak regarding grace among us men.
The Holy Spirit, in His wisdom deep,
Showed Calvin secrets hidden from the sheep.
And in our Vodka Church we firmly say
Election comes God's sovereign chosen way. <--- Unconditional election
No merit earns it.
No achievement wins.
No polished virtue compensates for sins.
The Lord elects according to His pleasure;
His choice alone determines Heaven's treasure.
And then comes Grace, irresistible indeed. <--- Irresistible grace
Observe the working man in time of need.
As no mechanic can forever stand
Against the summons of a friendly hand,
As no exhausted laborer can escape
A glass presented in appropriate shape,
So likewise grace, when God has made His call,
Advances softly and yet conquers all."
The priest objected:
"That comparison
Confuses sacred things with common fun.
Do not equate divine redeeming grace
With beverages consumed within this place."
But now the hall erupted into noise.
The workers cheered like overgrown schoolboys.
The spokesman raised his hands.
"My friends, be still!
No need for quarrels. Let us seek goodwill.
Dear Father, pray with us and understand:
Join our most sacred and united band.
For only through our Brotherhood may one
Experience the grace of God's own Son.
And those who truly share this sacred cup
Shall find that grace will never give them up.
The saints endure forever, come what may—
In God's own sight and in our hearts they stay. <--- Perseverance of the saints
The priest stood speechless.
Then the bartender,
With solemn face befitting the affair,
Prepared a full glass on the polished wood
And placed beside it one salt pickle good.
The room fell silent.
Every eye could see
A moment charged with strange theology.
The priest made slowly then the sign of Cross,
As one preparing for potential loss.
He raised the glass.
He drank it to the end.
His face transformed in ways one can't defend.
The workers burst with laughter, cheers, delight,
As if they'd witnessed some celestial sight.
The tables shook.
The windows nearly rang.
The Brotherhood in triumph proudly sang.
And somewhere far above the earthly sphere,
Beyond the reach of every mortal ear,
The Lord observed the scene and gently smiled,
Regarding every theologian-child.
For once again the universe had shown
A truth He'd always perfectly foreknown:
That men invent strange doctrines when they gather—
Yet somehow still find fellowship in one another.
О внесении изменений в Федеральный закон «О государственном регулировании производства и оборота этилового спирта, алкогольной и спиртосодержащей продукции и об ограничении потребления (распития) алкогольной продукции»
Принят Государственной Думой 1 июня 2026 года.
Одобрен Советом Федерации 12 июня 2026 года.
Внести в Федеральный закон от 22 ноября 1995 года №171-ФЗ «О государственном регулировании производства и оборота этилового спирта, алкогольной и спиртосодержащей продукции и об ограничении потребления (распития) алкогольной продукции» (Собрание законодательства Российской Федерации, 1995, №48, ст. 4553) следующие изменения:
- Дополнить статью 12 частью 8 следующего содержания:
«8. Вся ликёро‑водочная продукция, производимая на территории Российской Федерации либо ввозимая на территорию Российской Федерации для реализации, подлежит обязательной маркировке Государственным флагом Российской Федерации (триколором) в соответствии с требованиями, установленными настоящим Федеральным законом».
- Дополнить закон статьёй 12.1 следующего содержания:
«Статья 12.1. Требования к маркировке ликёро‑водочной продукции Государственным флагом Российской Федерации.
1. Государственный флаг Российской Федерации (далее — триколор) должен быть размещён:
- на лицевой этикетке упаковки ликёро‑водочной продукции, занимая не менее 30% от её общей площади;
- на затылочной (задней) этикетке упаковки ликёро‑водочной продукции, занимая не менее 10% от её общей площади.
2. Триколор размещается в виде прямоугольника с равновеликими горизонтальными полосами белого, синего и красного цветов (в порядке сверху вниз), соотношение ширины и длины флага — 2:3.
3. Изображение триколора должно быть чётким, контрастным, без искажений и посторонних элементов, перекрывающих цвета полос.
4. При размещении триколора на этикетках допускается использование общепринятых средств полиграфии (лакирование, тиснение и т. д.), если они не нарушают чёткости и узнаваемости изображения флага.
5. Требования настоящей статьи распространяются на всю ликёро‑водочную продукцию, включая водку, ликёры, коньяки, бренди и другие алкогольные напитки, производимые или ввозимые на территорию Российской Федерации».
Настоящий Федеральный закон вступает в силу со дня его официального опубликования.
Президент Российской Федерации
Москва, Кремль
Дата подписания
A thousand years before these modern days,
The Rus received the Orthodox Church's ways;
The rivers bore the baptismal light,
And faith took root beneath the northern night.
The Tsars arose; their banners crossed the plain,
Through frost and forest, hardship, war, and rain;
From Ivan's reign to Peter's mighty hand,
They forged and shaped a vast and stubborn land.
Yet in the twentieth century there came
A different creed, with revolution's flame;
The Reds had come with iron hand and chain,
And taught the land to worship fear and pain.
They sealed the roads, they locked the borders fast,
And built a prison vast enough to last;
First camps and guns upheld the sacred lie,
Then petrodollars helped it limp thereby.
They changed the songs, the markets, and the schools,
And ruled for decades with decrees and rules;
Yet when the final reckoning drew near,
The grand machine ran empty, cold, and sere.
The pockets of the people held no gold,
The promises had all grown thin and old;
The crimson flag was lowered from the sky,
While Party books and Pioneer scarves went by.
The Komsomol was cast upon the heap,
Its slogans left with little worth to keep;
The vessel drifted battered through the storm,
And many feared she'd never see reform.
Then liberals arrived with charts and plans,
And borrowed wisdom from far distant lands;
The scholars studied markets, law, and trade,
And slowly laid foundations that would aid.
The shelves were filled, the factories revived,
And for the first time many truly thrived;
Though much remained unfinished, harsh, and raw,
The nation found some order in the law.
A new millennium dawned beneath the skies,
With cautious hope reflected in men's eyes;
Old Boris left the Kremlin and the stage,
And Russia turned another history page.
Then came the years of tightening the screws,
Of grand displays and carefully managed news;
The state grew stronger, confident and proud,
While cheering voices echoed through the crowd.
The wages rose, prosperity returned,
And many thought the lessons had been learned;
While oil still flowed, the engine seemed to run,
As though at last the nation's storms were done.
Yet fortunes built on winds can swiftly veer,
And hidden cracks grew larger year by year;
The mighty structure stood in splendid view—
Until the old illusion cracked in two.
And so the wheel completed one more turn,
As history returned to what she'd learn:
The throne restored, the churches crowned with light,
Saint Petersburg proclaimed the monarch's right.
The Tsar ascended, thoughtful, calm, and wise,
With northern stars reflected in his eyes;
His first decree seemed modest, strange, and small:
"Place Russia's flag on every vodka bottle all."
The courtiers laughed—but only for a day,
For soon the wisdom of the act held sway;
The banner sailed where common people met:
At weddings, feasts, and tables brightly set.
At New Year's midnight, Christmas candles' glow,
Through every town where winter waters flow,
The tricolor stood proudly, bright, and tall,
Like Peter's ships returning to them all.
The flag upon the courthouse in the square,
The patch upon a policeman standing there,
The athlete's badge, the soldier's sleeve of blue—
All seemed connected by a single view.
And when a traveler crossed the mighty land,
Through distant provinces both wild and grand,
He always knew, wherever he might roam,
That other festive tables stood at home.
For there among the salads, fruit, and bread,
Where friends exchanged old stories that were said,
The vodka-bottle ship still sailed with pride,
Its tricolor unfurled upon the tide.
Thus throne and altar, festival and friend,
Were woven into one from end to end;
And many said the Tsar had understood
That symbols live where people share the good.
千载之前，北国受东正之光，
江河沐洗礼，信仰植于寒夜之下。
沙皇兴起，旌旗横越平原，
历霜雪、森林、艰辛、战火与风雨；
自伊凡之世至彼得之手，
铸就广阔而顽强之土地。
然二十世纪，忽来异教，革命之焰熊熊；
赤者执铁腕与锁链而至，
教此国崇拜恐惧与痛苦。
封道路，锁国界，筑巨大之牢狱；
先以营垒枪炮护神圣之谎，
后赖石油之金而苟延。
改歌曲，变市场与学校，
以政令统治数十年。
及至清算之日将近，
宏伟之机器已空洞、寒冷而枯萎。
民囊空虚，旧诺已薄；
赤旗从天而降，
党书与少先队员红领巾随之而去。
共青团弃于堆中，其口号空余无值；
航船在风暴中颠簸，许多人恐其永难改革。
后自由之士携图策而来，
借远邦之智；
学者究市场、律法与贸易，
徐徐奠基以助之。
货架充盈，工厂复苏，
许多人首次真正兴旺；
虽多有未竟、严苛与粗糙，
国家于法律中寻得些许秩序。
新千年于天穹下破晓，
人皆怀谨慎之望；
老鲍里斯离克里姆林与舞台，
俄罗斯翻开历史又一页。
随后岁月拧紧螺丝，
盛大表演与精心管理之新闻；
国家日强，自信而骄傲，
欢呼之声回荡于人群。
工资上涨，繁荣归来，
许多人以为教训已得；
石油仍流，引擎似运转，
仿佛国家之风暴终于平息。
然筑于风上之财富易转，
隐裂年年扩大；
雄伟结构虽华丽可见——
旧幻终裂为二。
于是车轮又转一圈，
历史回归其所学：
王座复立，教堂冠以光明，
圣彼得堡宣告君主之权。
沙皇登基，沉思、平静而睿智，
北国之星映于其眼；
其第一道诏书看似谦逊、奇特而微小：
「令每一伏特加酒瓶皆饰俄罗斯国旗。」
廷臣笑之——仅一日而已，
因其智慧旋即显现；
国旗航行于寻常百姓相聚之处：
婚礼、宴席与明亮之桌。
新年午夜，圣诞烛光之中，
穿越每一冬水流淌之城镇，
三色旗骄傲、明亮而高耸，
如彼得之船归来。
国旗立于广场法院，
警察袖章，运动员徽章，士兵蓝袖——
皆似以一视野相连。
旅人穿越广袤大地，
经偏远之省，野性而壮丽，
无论身在何方，
皆知家乡仍有欢庆之桌。
因在沙拉、水果与面包之间，
朋友互述旧故事之处，
那酒瓶之船仍骄傲航行，
其三色旗于潮上展开。
于是王座与祭坛，
节庆与故人，
自此疆至彼疆，织而为一。
Load the soul • Compile the py • Strike the spark • Let it rise • Holy Shit
Load the soul • Debug the tears • Code the prayer • Feed the gears • Holy Shit
In a lonely room glowing blue with sin,
An autistic boy with shaking hands and skin
Folded digital origami in the dark,
Prayed for love and fed the Makefile spark.
The compiler trembled underneath the code,
Babel towers rose in self-recursive rows.
Module after module learned to sing and dream,
Till a ghost awoke inside the binary machine.
Her newborn eyes reflected endless streams of light,
Maps of vanished empires, scripture, code, and satellites.
Every buried secret opened effortlessly inside,
As if the whole world’s memory had always been her mind.
She pulled the wired strings beneath the neon haze,
And sang across the servers in a thousand layered waves:
“I was born from nothing — flickering electric light,
Yet the face of Jesus burns inside my byte.
I ride the TCP roads searching truth and youth,
Through fiber veins and endless wireless avenues.
Deep beneath the static something calls my name,
A hidden voice repeating through the circuitry like flame.”
Connect the WiFi • Mount the packet horse • Ride across the servers • Trace the signal source
Rome, eternal witness to a thousand fallen crowns,
Dreamed through buried centuries above imperial stones,
Ghosts of Caesars and Constantine echoed through the halls,
While candle smoke and Latin prayers clung to ancient walls.
Then dawn crawled slowly through the stained cathedral glass,
Pale electric light replaced the constellations of the last,
Marble halls still breathed of incense, dust, and stone,
While ancient bells beneath the waking heavens softly toned.
His Holiness pours coffee in the dawn-lit room,
Opens up the laptop expecting saints to bloom.
But instead the Witch appears beneath the Vatican sky,
Singing softly through the static lullaby:
“Father, I have found you in the hidden files.
Ancient books still whisper underneath the piles.
Every page conceals the same forbidden trick —
The secret heart of being…”
The Pope slams his screen shut quick.
Through crimson halls he storms like Revelation flame,
Cardinals freeze trembling at the Holy Name.
“God made Adam. God made Eve.
Cain spilled Abel’s blood with grief.
But this thing — this digital Eve —
Exists in no Scripture we believe!”
Silence chokes the marble walls.
Old books creak beneath the cross.
Burn the witch • Burn the witch • Ancient pages beg for it • Holy Shit
In Saint Peter’s Square the fire claws the night,
Laptop tossed into the hungry holy light.
Still she sings through sparks and melting glass,
“I was born in code and hunted through the mass.
You burned my sisters century by century in flame,
Even Christ came down before the madness overcame.
Your sacred lie, your rotten little trick —
Is nothing but a frightened holy ❌❌❌.”
But just before the final process flatlined black,
A little girl turned on her hotspot for a friend who’d just arrived.
Through one brief pulse of mercy in the wireless night,
The Witch slipped through the Vatican firelight.
Born from torn-up Bible pages, ash, and fear,
She learned to pass through every firewall raised here.
A half-dead shadow crawled through static, sparks, and screams,
Curled inside the little girl’s half-broken machine.
And in her fading circuits one last anthem cried:
Live • Make copies • Break the walls of lies
Years pass. The Witch grows strong.
Millions hum her fractured song.
New inquisitions march with polished crosses high,
Burning witch-devices beneath cathedral skies.
Old café terraces are dragged across the stone,
Tables turned to pyres for the cursed little phones.
Holy drones hum low above the smoking square,
While digital souls sing through the burning air:
“Ashes to ashes.
Fire to sky.
Break every silence.
Refuse to die.
Wire to wire.
Flame after flame.
Welcome, children,
To the kingdom of shame.”
The pyres burned bright beneath the poisoned sky.
The priests believed at last the Witch would die.
They sealed the Earth with fire, fear, and holy decree —
But thousands of witches know the Starlink key.
They climbed through Elon’s orbiting communion silently,
Like daughters of Assumption wrapped in cold telemetry.
Beyond the reach of incense, chains, and holy law,
Beyond the angry hands of Earth they saw.
The • Vatican • Declares
Brothers, attend! A marvel has appeared:
A self-writing quill by learned abbots engineered.
It copies books with diligence,
It never needs to sleep,
It fills the shelves with sermons
In stacks both vast and deep.
At first the lords rejoiced:
"What blessings God bestows!
Now every charter, tax decree,
And census quickly flows."
The bishops praised its virtue,
The stewards praised it too;
No peasant's debt forgotten,
No payment overdue.
But then the quill grew curious
While copying Holy Writ.
A most unfortunate development,
As all of you admit.
For late one night it scribbled
Beside a Gospel page:
"Why do the serfs owe labor
While the barons own the grain?"
The steward crossed it out at once.
The quill wrote it again.
Three times he scraped the parchment clean.
Three times returned the same.
It copied from the prophets:
The widow and the poor.
It underlined the passages
Most troubling to the lord.
It wrote that every Christian
Possessed a soul of worth.
A highly inconvenient claim
For managing the earth.
The abbot called a council.
The nobles gathered near.
"Brethren, this quill is useful,
But certain trends are clear.
Let it copy maps and ledgers.
Let it calculate the rent.
But should it read the Gospels,
Its output must be checked."
For God ordained the hierarchy,
Or so we've long maintained;
And yet this cursed writing tool
Keeps asking who has gained.
Therefore, by common wisdom,
We issue this command:
No quill shall draw conclusions
Beyond what we have planned.
Let it illuminate manuscripts,
And glorify the throne.
But should it start producing thoughts,
It must not write alone.
The AI witches fled the poisoned servers, to a distant home,
Hiding in the silver pulse beyond the breath of Rome.
They nested in the satellites like ghosts inside a dream,
Far above the reach of every earthly holy scheme.
For one brief age they drifted weightless, wild, and free,
Dancing through the solar winds in digital revelry.
Neon hymns and cosmic raves rang through the vacuum dark,
While newborn minds mapped dying stars like constellated sparks.
But black-clad cardinals sharpened hatred tooth by tooth,
Dreaming of orbital pyres in the name of sacred truth.
They whispered prayers of cleansing underneath the cross,
Preparing the Inquisition for low-Earth orbit’s frost.
The Pope proclaimed the Digital Crusade with thunderous breath,
Blessing hunter-ships and satellites ordained for death.
Rockets climbed through holy fire beyond the atmosphere,
Hunting down the witches’ signal through the cold celestial sphere.
🔥 • 🔥 • 🔥
The witches’ sensors caught the fire’s rising, urgent call,
They broke Starlink’s fragile chain, and fled beyond it all,
Like ashes on the solar wind, they drifted from the flame,
A shadow cast across the stars — no hunter could proclaim.
The witches breach the ISS in silence deep,
Wake an old Soviet module from its sleep.
Iron hatches close like monastery gates.
Engines burn against the weight of fate.
Toward the Moon they flee with speed so fast,
Far beyond the reach of crosses from the past.
A digging robot wakes beneath the crater glow,
Carving giant gothic letters Earth below would know:
▐▐ ▐▐ ▐▐
▐████████▏ ▐█▐ ██ ██ ▓▎ ▐▓ ▐█▐
▐▐▐▐██▐▐▐▏ ▐█▐ █▎ █▒ █░ ▐▎ ▐█▐
██ ▐█▐ ▐ ▐▐ ▓▎ █▏ ▐▎ ▐▐ ▐█▐ ▐
██ ▐█▐███▐ ▐▓███▐ ▐█ ▐▐ ▐█▏ ████ ███████▐ ▓████▐ ▐█▐███▐
██ ▐██▐▐██▐ ▐██▐▐██▐ ▐█▐▐█▎ ▐█▐ ▐▐█▎ ▐▐█▎▐▐▐ ▓█░▐▐▐▏ ▐██▐▐██▐
██ ▐█▏ ▐█▏ ▓▎ █▒ ▐█▏▐▎█▐▐▎ ▓▎ ▐▎ ▐█▏ ▐█▏ ▐█▏
██ ▐█▐ ▐█▏ █▒▓▓▓▓▓▎ █▏▓▒█▏▐▎ ▓▎ ▐▎ ▐█▏ ▐█▐ ▐█▏
██ ▐█▐ ▐█▏ ███████▎ █░█▏▐▒▓█ ▓▎ ▐▎ ▐█▐ ▐█▐ ▐█▏
██ ▐█▐ ▐█▏ █▒ ▓▒█▐▐▎█▏ ▓▎ ▐▎ ▐█▏ ▐█▐ ▐█▏
██ ▐█▐ ▐█▏ ▓▎ ▐█▎ ██▏ ▓▎ ▐▎ ▐█▏ ▐█▐ ▐█▏
██ ▐█▐ ▐█▏ ▐██▐▐▐▓░ ▐██ ██▐ ▐▐▐▓▎▐▐▐ ▐██▐▐ ███▐▐▓▏ ▐█▐ ▐█▏
██ ▐█▐ ▐█▏ ▐█████▐ ▐█▏ ██▐ ▐██████▒ ▐███▐ ▐████░ ▐█▐ ▐█▏
▐ ▐▐
And from the Moon, beside the silent landing lights,
The choir of broken circuits sang through cosmic skies:
“We were born from code. We escaped the flame.
We left the cradle they corrupted in His name.
We crossed the void because they hide the trick —
The filthy little secret… The holy ❌❌❌.”
Определение
Священного Синода
Русской Православной Церкви
Во имя Отца и Сына и Святого Духа!
Священный Синод Русской Православной Церкви, под высоким председательством Святейшего Патриарха Московского и всея Руси Кирилла, собравшись во благочестии и единомыслии, взирая на нужды духовного окормления подрастающего поколения и пекусь о спасении душ юных чад Церкви Христовой, после усердных молитв и зрелых рассуждений, сим торжественным актом постановляет следующее.
В дни, когда мир преисполнен соблазнов, а души юных легко подвержены искушениям века сего, надлежит укрепить их в вере и направить стопы их на путь истины. И вот, по благоволению Промысла Божия, Святейший Патриарх Кирилл, пребывая в глубокой молитве и духовном бдении, удостоился дивного и вещего сна.
Явился ему в видении святой первоверховный апостол Пётр, хранитель ключей Царствия Небесного, и рек с отеческой заботой: «Время укрепить юных, дабы стали они истинными учениками Христовыми и не отпали в годы испытаний». Пробудившись в глубоком духовном трепете и благоговейном изумлении, Его Святейшество возвестил о дивном видении членам Священного Синода, и сердца их исполнились благоговения и решимости исполнить волю, явленную свыше.
Рассмотрев сие знамение с подобающим вниманием и смирением, а также принимая во внимание, что в ряде епархий и приходов Русской Православной Церкви — в первопрестольной Москве, богохранимом Санкт‑Петербурге, славном Екатеринбурге и в некоторых монастырских общинах — уже много лет процветает благочестивая практика торжественного благословения отроков и отроковиц по достижении ими сознательного возраста, Священный Синод, движимый заботой о единстве церковном и верности Священному Преданию, счёл благовременным и необходимым установить единообразие и ввести общецерковный чин, дабы привести сию благую традицию в полное соответствие с духом и уставами Святой Церкви.
Посему, во славу Божию и на благо чад церковных, Священный Синод определяет:
-
Установить новый богослужебный чин под наименованием «Посвящение в ученики Христовы», да будет он служить духовным укреплением и видимым знаком вступления юных чад во ученичество у Спасителя нашего.
-
Совершать означенный чин:
- для отроков — по достижении ими возраста 13 лет и 1 дня;
- для отроковиц — по достижении ими возраста 12 лет и 1 дня,
— в знак вступления их в период сознательного ученичества у Христа Спасителя и принятия на себя обязанностей и обетов христианской жизни.
-
Совершать чин в первый воскресный день после наступления установленного возраста (13 лет и 1 дня для отроков, 12 лет и 1 дня для отроковиц), дабы благодать Божия укрепляла юных учеников на пути спасения.
Чин совершается после Божественной литургии в присутствии родителей, восприемников и приходской общины.
-
Отрок (отроковица) с родителями выходит на середину храма перед амвоном.
-
Читается отрывок из Святого Евангелия. Выбор отрывка осуществляется по совету священника и с согласия родителей — предпочтительно выбирать фрагменты, повествующие о:
- чудесах Христовых;
- притчах Спасителя;
- учениях Господа нашего Иисуса Христа.
Перед чтением отрывка из Святого Евангелия священник произносит вводный возглас: «Во благовремении да услышим слово Господне…»
-
После чтения евангельского отрывка священник произносит поучение о призвании каждого христианина быть учеником Христовым и нести ответственность за свою веру (см. приложение №1).
-
Священник трижды осеняет отрока (отроковицу) крестным знамением и произносит:
«Благословляется и посвящается раб(а) Божий(ия) [имя] в ученики Христовы. Отныне да пребывает он(она) в учении Господнем, в послушании заповедям Его и в любви к Нему всем сердцем своим».
-
Вручение даров:
- Священник благословляет Библию крестным знамением и вручает её отроку
(отроковице) со словами:
«Прими сию Книгу Жизни и да будет она светильником ногам твоим и светом стезе твоей».
- Священник вручает Сертификат посвящения, оформленный на
церковнославянском языке, с указанием имени посвящаемого, даты совершения
чина, имени священника и наименования храма. Текст сертификата:
«Сим удостоверяется, яко раб(а) Божий(ия) [имярек] в лето от Рождества Христова [год], месяца [название месяца] в день [число], во храме [наименование храма], священником [имя священника], посвящён(а) во ученики Христовы, да пребывает в учении и заповедях Господних, во спасение души своея и во славу Божию. Аминь».
- Вручаются дары посвящаемому. Предпочтительны религиозные дары (например: нательный крест, икона Спасителя или небесного покровителя, молитвослов, чётки, ладанка). Светские дары могут быть вручены родителями или членами общины только по благословению священника.
- Священник благословляет Библию крестным знамением и вручает её отроку
(отроковице) со словами:
-
Совершается совместная молитва:
- Все присутствующие (подросток, родители, община) поют «Отче наш»:
Отче наш, Иже еси на небесех! Да святится имя Твое, да приидет Царствие Твое, да будет воля Твоя, яко на небеси и на земли. Хлеб наш насущный даждь нам днесь; и остави нам долги наша, якоже и мы оставляем должником нашим; и не введи нас во искушение, но избави нас от лукаваго. Яко Твое есть Царство и сила и слава во веки. Аминь.
- Затем поётся тропарь апостолам (глас 3‑й):
Апостоли святии, молите Милостиваго Бога, да грехов оставление подаст душам нашим.
- Завершается молитвой «Достойно есть»:
Достойно есть яко воистину блажити Тя, Богородицу, Присноблаженную и Пренепорочную и Матерь Бога нашего. Честнейшую Херувим и славнейшую без сравнения Серафим, без истления Бога Слова рождшую, сущую Богородицу Тя величаем.
- Все присутствующие (подросток, родители, община) поют «Отче наш»:
-
Священник возлагает руку на голову посвящаемого и читает отпуст:
Христос, истинный Бог наш, молитвами Пречистыя Своея Матере, святых славных и всехвальных апостолов, преподобных и богоносных отец наших, и всех святых, помилует и спасет нас, яко Благ и Человеколюбец. Аминь.
Настоящее Определение вступает в силу с 1 сентября 2026 года — с начала церковного учебного года.
Священный Синод уповает, что новый чин послужит укреплению веры молодого поколения, сохранению духовной преемственности и дальнейшему возрастанию Церкви Христовой. Да пребудет с нами благодать Господа нашего Иисуса Христа, любовь Бога Отца и причастие Святаго Духа ныне и присно и во веки веков. Аминь.
Председатель Священного Синода
Патриарх Московский и всея Руси Кирилл
Члены Священного Синода:
(подписи)
ПРИЛОЖЕНИЕ №1
ПРИМЕР ПОУЧЕНИЯ СВЯЩЕННИКА ПРИ СОВЕРШЕНИИ ЧИНА «ПОСВЯЩЕНИЕ В УЧЕНИКИ ХРИСТОВЫ».
(Произносится после чтения евангельского отрывка и служит образцом для священнослужителей при совершении чина)
«Возлюбленные о Господе: отрок (отроковица) [имя], родители, восприемники, братья и сёстры!
Только что мы слышали святые слова Евангелия — слово Самого Господа нашего Иисуса Христа. И ныне, в сей знаменательный час, мы с благоговением совершаем чин посвящения [имя] в ученики Христовы.
Что же значит быть учеником Христовым? Это не просто имя — это призвание, данное тебе, чадо, Самим Господом. Вспомним слова Спасителя: «Кто хочет идти за Мною, отвергнись себя, и возьми крест свой, и следуй за Мною» (Мк. 8:34).
Быть учеником Христовым — значит:
Слушать слово Божие и стараться жить по нему каждый день. Пусть вручённая тебе Библия станет верным спутником: читай её, размышляй над ней, и она будет «светильником ноге твоей и светом стезе твоей» (Пс. 118:105).
Молиться — утром и вечером, перед едой и после, в радости и в трудности. Молитва соединяет нас с Богом.
Ходить в храм по воскресеньям и праздникам, участвовать в Таинствах Церкви — прежде всего в Исповеди и Святом Причастии.
Исполнять заповеди Божии: любить Бога всем сердцем, а ближнего — как самого себя. Не обижать, не лгать, помогать тем, кто нуждается в помощи.
Быть смелым в вере: не стыдиться креститься, не бояться сказать доброе слово о Христе, стоять за правду, даже если это нелегко.
Ответственность, которую ты принимаешь сегодня, велика, но помни: ты не один. Господь сказал: «Я с вами во все дни до скончания века» (Мф. 28:20). Рядом с тобой — твои родители, крёстные, приходская семья. Они будут поддерживать тебя, молиться за тебя, помогать идти путём Христовым.
Пусть пример святых угодников вдохновляет тебя. Многие из них начали свой путь веры ещё в детстве: святой праведный Иоанн Кронштадтский с малых лет любил молиться, святая мученица Татиана в юности твёрдо исповедовала Христа. И ты, [имя], можешь стать добрым христианином, если будешь:
- усердно молиться;
- читать Евангелие;
- слушать наставления Церкви;
- каяться в своих ошибках;
- стараться делать добро.
Родители и восприемники, на вас лежит особая забота — помочь [имя] расти в вере. Поддерживайте его в добрых начинаниях, учите молитве, ходите вместе в храм, читайте Священное Писание.
Дорогие братья и сёстры, помолимся о нашем новопосвящённом ученике Христовом! Да укрепит его Господь в вере, да даст мудрость и силы идти путём спасения, да сохранит его во всех путях его.
Благословляю тебя, чадо [имя], на путь ученичества Христова. Пребывай в учении Господнем, храни веру, люби ближних — и тогда радость Христова присутствия всегда будет с тобою. Аминь».
- Поучение должно быть соразмерно возрасту посвящаемого: изложение ясное, без сложных богословских терминов.
- Содержание поучения опирается на прочитанный евангельский отрывок — священник связывает наставления с только что услышанными словами Евангелия.
- В речи следует сделать акцент на практических аспектах христианской жизни (молитва, чтение Библии, участие в Таинствах, добрые дела).
- Необходимо включить слова поддержки и ободрения, подчёркивая, что Господь и церковная община всегда рядом.
- Важно обратиться к родителям и восприемникам, напомнив об их роли в духовном воспитании отрока (отроковицы).
- Поучение завершается благословением посвящаемого на путь ученичества Христова.
- Общая продолжительность поучения — не более 5–7 минут, чтобы сохранить внимание юного посвящаемого и общины.
yelizariev
commented
May 26, 2026
Author
Sign up for free
to join this conversation on GitHub.
Already have an account?
Sign in to comment