Time to read: 18 minutes(s)

Priest Vadim Perminov hesitates on the threshold of the Church of St. John the Baptist. He says he doesn't want to attract unnecessary attention, but then finally makes up his mind, takes a deep breath, as if about to dive, and opens the heavy door. The church is flooded with sunlight.

"Did you get the priest's permission?" a parishioner in a headscarf looks sternly at the photographer, who managed to snap a couple of shots.

Father Vadim had served here for twenty years: he performed weddings, baptisms, and funeral services. Today, he came in as an ordinary parishioner—bought a candle and stood at the altar. The saleswoman in the church shop recognized him, leaned over the counter, and whispered, "Come back. We've been waiting for you." A few minutes later, he emerged, confused: the place was the same, but he felt out of place. Now, to take photographs in the church, you have to ask someone else for permission.

Last summer, Father Vadim refused to read a prayer mentioning "victory" in the war and lost his parish. Since then, he's been without work or plans. 

"NeMoskva" tells the story of a priest searching for his place in a small town—and in the world that "lies in evil." 

Father Vadim, 49, remembers the emotions with which he wrote letters to Metropolitan Nikodim of Novosibirsk and Berdsk and Patriarch Kirill. He didn't want to remain silent and needed to "clearly state his position."

"I had no illusions that he [the patriarch] would read it. I understand that he doesn't care about me at all. I just wanted the [Novosibirsk] metropolitan not to shelve my letter. That's how things are usually done here: they're pushed down to a lower level. [I wanted] someone from the diocese to call him [Nikodim] and say, 'You have someone there who sent a letter, so look into it,'" he says.

On April 19, 2024, Father Vadim, who had already lost his parish in Kuibyshev and been exiled to a rural parish 110 kilometers from home, sat down at the computer. 

“I testify that throughout the entire time the prayer is read About Holy Rus'"I haven't read it, don't read it, and don't intend to. Guided by the Holy Scriptures, to which I swore an oath, and my conscience, I consider it unacceptable to pray for victory in a fratricidal war between Orthodox Christians. In my conviction, I am free and responsible; my word is final and not subject to revision," he wrote on a piece of paper and, by his own admission, "felt a sense of relief." (The editorial staff has a photo of the letter – editor’s note). 

Before this, Father Vadim says, he led an "inner life" and simply avoided saying the prayer, which he considered immoral. Until then, he hadn't publicly expressed his views, but he felt internally that it was necessary to do so. 

"By that time, I'd been quietly exiled to a rural parish. I thought, 'No, guys, this won't do.' Because my brothers [anti-war priests] are being deprived of everything: housing, their livelihoods, thrown out onto the street with their children, defrocked, deprived of their homeland. And you're just sending me to a parish? Do you think this will go smoothly, quietly? And I wrote [a letter]. If you've chosen the path of confession, you have to follow through. So I wrote and waited for punishment. I knew it would come," he admits.

Nobody responded to his letter. 

^{In the Church of John the Baptist in Kuibyshev}

Punishment for the disobedient priest from Kuibyshev indeed soon followed. In June 2024, by decree of the Bishop of Kainsk and Barabinsk (The document is at the editorial office’s disposal – editor’s note) Father Vadim was taken out "out of state", forbidding him to give a blessing or wear the priestly cross. Another minister, the bishop's nephew, was appointed in his place. After 30 years of service, Archpriest Vadim Perminov was left without a church or a cross.

Vadim Perminov was born in Barabinsk, a town of 40 residents ten kilometers from Kuibyshev. He was first introduced to the Bible around eighth grade. In the early 90s, he says, it became "fashionable" to embrace faith, and priests began being invited to schools for class sessions. 

At one of these meetings, Vadim learned about Sunday school. He says he was simply curious, so he went there with a classmate. He delved into the Bible, learned prayers, and read the lives of the saints. What struck him most in the life of Sergius of Radonezh was his humility and desire to serve others—and he decided he wanted to live like that.

The parents were not churchgoers, but they reacted calmly and with curiosity to the fact that their teenage son became interested in Sunday school.

“The main thing was that he didn’t smoke in the entryways,” he chuckles.

After finishing school, Vadim wanted to enroll in a theological seminary, especially since such an educational institution had reopened in Tomsk after being closed for many years. But his parents had a more "practical" view of their son's future. He decided to "show obedience" and, on his father's recommendation, enrolled in the Kuibyshev Technical School to major in electrical engineering. After six months of struggle, he realized it wasn't his thing and left for seminary.

Their son's decision was a tragedy for his parents. They feared he would become a withdrawn hermit monk and never start a family. Vadim Perminov did end up having a family: a year before graduating from seminary, he married Galina, a girl from his school. He met her in the schoolyard when he made a playful remark about a cigarette he'd smoked. They then became close at a disco, and afterward, they began exchanging romantic notes. 

"She was far from religious," Father Vadim says of his wife. "But my faith didn't repel her; I saw curiosity on her part. I'd sneak out [from home] to Easter night services, for probably three years in a row. She came to one of the services. When I was already studying at seminary, she also came to God. That familiar word, love, plays a big role here. We simply fell in love."

Soon after, they had their first son. Father Vadim and mother Galina now have five children, three of whom are still minors.

Father Vadim continued his studies and traveled to Siberian villages to conduct services. This, he says, was the custom: "young priests were used to fill various gaps." By the end of his graduation, he recalls, out of the 18-20 men who entered the seminary, seven remained. Of these, only three became priests. Father Vadim calls this situation typical: not everyone can withstand the rigors of seminary education and the training in obedience. According to him, the "attrition" was severe:

Ordination [to the priesthood] is one of the seven sacraments of the Church. It is available only to married men and those who have taken monastic vows. Therefore, if a seminarian hadn't managed to marry by the end of his studies, he would simply graduate with a diploma and then somehow arrange his life. I know those who were never able to marry, for example, and then took monastic vows. I also know those who simply went into [secular] work with their diploma.

After graduating from seminary, Father Vadim and his family moved to the village of Severnoye, on the far edge of the Novosibirsk region, for two years. What happened, as the priest describes, was that the young priest "filled the gap" and was sent to the most remote parish. In 2000, the family returned to Kuibyshev. It was here, in the Cathedral of the Nativity of John the Baptist, that Vadim Perminov served until 2024.

"The most pressing issue for priests is housing. Few have their own. Mostly, they either rent apartments or are given service apartments that belong to the church. We lived in a service apartment for many years. We didn't even have a stool of our own. All we had were our children and books. So some bishops skillfully exploit this issue—the housing issue. They know that priests are very dependent on them. They can use this to exert pressure if someone speaks out. It can even lead to blackmail. But what else can they do? They have nowhere else to live. Like serfs, — he explains.

Father Vadim recalls returning from church to the apartment the church had provided them, often praying while gazing at the starry sky. Help arrived—the family received housing. under the program to support large families, and was later able to exchange it for a house with a garden right here in Kuibyshev. Father Vadim considers all this an answer to his prayers. 

The priest recalls what he accomplished during his twenty years of service in Kuibyshev: he restored the church, rebuilt the domes, created an equestrian club, and organized classes for children with disabilities. 

Now he tries to visit his once beloved church as little as possible. His last visit was to the Easter service, where he managed to blend into the crowd and avoid running into the bishop who fired him. No one can forbid him from attending church, but it's hard to endure the disapproving glances, and "I don't want to embarrass anyone."

Passersby still recognize Father Vadim: some greet him, others look away. One former parishioner approaches, takes his hand in hers, and, leaning in, whispers something. In Kuibyshev, everyone is in plain sight, but words of support are spoken only in hushed tones.

On the way back from church, Vadim Perminov gets to the most difficult part—recounting how he was left without a parish. For a long time, the Kainsk Diocese had been served by a single bishop: "not a tyrant, not a bloodsucker, not an ultra-Orthodox," as our interviewee describes him. In 2020, he was transferred elsewhere, and Kuibyshev was left without a senior cleric for three years. At the end of December, a priest from Novosibirsk, Father Vladimir Biryukov, was appointed administrator of the Kainsk Diocese. Father Vadim recalls that he was expected "on a positive note"—it seemed that a family man over 60 should understand the clergy like no one else. But with the arrival of the new bishop, life in Kuibyshev changed:

"He's one of those people for whom power is contraindicated. Power corrupts people. And absolute power corrupts absolutely. It turned out he was very much focused on the SVO issue. Inspections began at parishes: who was reading the prayer "For Holy Rus'" and who wasn't; donations began to be collected for all sorts of drones, sniper rifles, and so on. They began weaving networks, participating in various propaganda events.

Despite this, the priest did not recite the prayer "For Holy Rus'"—our interlocutor calls it "the Patriarch's Prayer." During the services, as before, he asked God for peace. In conversation, he expressed bewilderment at the age to which the Church had come. After all, Jesus Christ, when he came to his disciples in the Upper Room after the Resurrection, greeted them with words of peace, and now, for such a thing, defrocked. 

A couple of months after his arrival, Father Vladimir invited Father Vadim for a conversation. It began amicably; the bishop acted "fatherly," inquiring about the priest's children and the health of their parents. Then he began his interrogation:

— He asked, “Did you serve in the army? Why didn’t you? And why didn’t your older children serve? Were your parents religious? And do you even support same-sex marriage? Do you say prayers? Why don’t you? Don’t you support our policies and our guys? What, are you for gay-Europe?” And I just sat there and said nothing, which drove him into such a state… It was obvious that it really irritated him. I thought he was going to stab me in the eye.

At the end of the conversation, the bishop said to his secretary, "Let's send him back where he came from. Let him do whatever he wants there." Father Vadim thinks he was referring to the village of Severnoye, from where he moved to Kuibyshev in the early 2000s. But he wasn't sent back there: the position was occupied. He was sent to Ubinskoye—a "troubled" parish, according to the priest. There was almost never a permanent priest there: only those who had committed some misdemeanor, such as being caught drunk, came. The bishop "hid" such priests away from public view—in Ubinskoye. Now it was the turn of the disgraced Father Vadim.

His new posting location was a small rural parish 110 kilometers from home. His salary had also changed: it now barely reached 30 rubles, about half as much as before. The money was tight: Father Vadim looked for part-time work, personally delivering printed resumes, but received no responses. The rest of the time, he spent helping his elderly parents and tending the garden—now he had to rely on what he could grow himself. He traveled to Ubinskoye only on Sundays and holidays, and had to travel in his father's old Zhiguli. 

Our interviewee is certain that someone from the diocese wanted to "curry favor" and reported him. He believes that the diocese viewed him as an irritant, and the church leadership's goal was to "destroy him and send him packing." 

After a month of traveling, he wrote that very letter to the Metropolitan and the Patriarch. He didn't attend the meeting where they decided to dismiss him—he knew everything had already been decided.

"They invited me there with the statement, 'Your fate will be decided there.' But aren't these people taking on too much? They're deciding other people's fates," he complains.

In the official decree of the bishop (The photo is at the editorial office’s disposal – editor’s note) The diocese said it came to this decision due to "failure to perform statutory services and failure to fulfill the obedience of the rector." The term of dismissal is for one year or "until complete repentance."

Read on: God's Word vs. the Word of Authority. "NeMoscow" spoke with church ministers who openly declared their anti-war position 

The dismissal of Vadim's father became known in the media - perhaps a post on his small Telegram channel played a role, where he posted the bishop's order and spoke on this topic. In contrast publications in independent publications появились notes in pro-government Telegram channels and state media, where he was called a "Vlasovite," a "traitor priest," and a "greedy man." A post about the priest from Kuibyshev also appeared on the official social media account of the Kainsk Diocese. Comments were prudently closed.

"How should we assess the categorical refusal of certain clergy to perform the prayer 'For Holy Rus''? It should be assessed as betrayal, regardless of the reason for it: foolishness, confusion, ignorance, greed, vanity, pride, or perhaps they were simply misled and deceived. In any case, these people are true 'Vlasovites in cassocks,' betraying the Russian army, the entire Russian people, their Fatherland, betraying the faith of their fathers and mothers, betraying their flock, betraying the Russian Orthodox Church," quoted Archpriest's note in a VKontakte public group Alexandra Novopashina, dedicated to Father Vadim and anti-war priests in general. 

The publications didn't upset the priest, but the reaction of some parishioners he'd known for decades was unexpected. They stopped greeting Father Vadim, avoided eye contact, and when they saw him, preferred to cross the street. But there were also complete strangers who, on the contrary, began to support the priest. Support also came from those he hadn't expected: for example, several priests admitted they'd like to do the same but couldn't bring themselves to do so.

"And so, practically no one [of the priests] calls. I have no one to talk to. Perhaps one or two parishioners have asked what happened. I think there's some special work going on there [in the parish]. The bishop might say something from the pulpit every now and then [to the parishioners]. Or over a cup of tea [with other priests]. Young ministers, as I said, are in a position of dependence on the church, so they listen to all this. They're absorbing it," he suggests.

But Father Vadim's family supported him unconditionally, especially his older children. It was they, the priest recalls, who helped him open his eyes to certain things. Thanks to them, he stopped watching propaganda programs on television, and then learned about Alexei Navalny's investigations and began to take an interest in them. 

During an epidemic, if you're vaccinated, you might sneeze a couple of times—and that's all the consequences. But someone gets infected and develops a mental illness. If the full force of state propaganda is unleashed upon them, few can resist it without being vaccinated: humans are malleable, fickle, gullible, and suggestible creatures. I've found the answer for myself: for Russians, facing the impending plague and epidemic called "war," Navalny's work and his entire life served as such a vaccination. Those who were vaccinated were able to resist the propaganda. — the priest reasons.

He calls the priests who agreed to read the prayer “On Holy Rus'” victims of propaganda: “they paid too much attention to what was said on television, without having love.” 

Father Vadim's resignation from the Kuibyshev Diocese expires this summer. He harbors no illusions and is confident he won't be rehired, as he has no plans to repent or apologize to the bishop.

Mother Galina continues to work at the cathedral, working in the warehouse that provides charitable aid to large families, single mothers, and the poor. Her salary used to be 27 rubles, but after Father Vadim's dismissal, Bishop Vladimir demanded a reduction. Now she earns 10-12 rubles a month.

Vadim Perminov is trying to find a "secular job," but there aren't many options in small Kuibyshev. Now he laments the fact that he didn't pursue a secular education or profession, instead only graduating from the seminary. Recently, he tried his hand at being a caretaker at one of the town's municipal institutions. He only lasted three days: he and the director met a tough time. 

"I practically saw the essence of a Russian official from the inside. I once asked her [the director], 'Why don't you have toilet paper in the restroom for your employees?' Well, the staff is small—14 people, mostly women. She said there was no money for it. I went online, looked up toilet paper consumption standards in prisons and in the army, and came back to her with the same question. It turned out the reason wasn't money. That became clear during the conversation. She said, 'What if they get used to the good stuff and start asking for something else for themselves?' I sat down for a bit.

For a while, Father Vadim registered with the unemployment office, receiving a monthly benefit of just over 1700 rubles. Then, he says, he was late registering a couple of times, and the payment was canceled. He tried posting his resume online, offering computer repair services—at a basic level of computer skills—but got no responses. He considered creating a Telegram chatbot for Kuibyshev residents, where they could request the services of handymen and laborers. But he lacked the knowledge to build it himself; he needed developers and, once again, money.

In the summer of 2024, Vadim Perminov's father died, and the priest inherited the same 20-year-old Zhiguli. He's considering driving a taxi if other work doesn't work out, but he's unsure of many offers in the small town, and the car is already too old.

The priest's family supports the "Peace to All" is a donation-based project that supports anti-war clergy. It allocates 30-40 rubles monthly to Perminov. This circumstance has been highlighted in publications critical of Father Vadim. In them, "Peace to All" called foreign project for the "recruitment of Russian clergy."

"My state can be compared to weightlessness. I don't feel pulled anywhere, as if I'm floating. One priest told me it's a feeling of freedom. Okay, freedom, but what next? Where to go? That's the main question I'm facing now. I'm asking God for the answer," Father Vadim admits.

He said he would hardly be able to serve in Kuibyshev, especially in the current times and under the current bishop. Sometimes is reading He preaches for Novaya Gazeta and teaches online courses on the Old Testament for those interested.

He can't leave the city yet. His elderly mother lives in neighboring Barabinsk, where he was born, and she needs help. He says he's always dreamed of moving to Belarus—though the regime there is even more brutal toward dissent, but the people, according to Father Vadim, are kind and bright. 

"In almost 30 years of priestly practice, I've seen and heard a lot, so I harbored no illusions about humanity. 'The world lies in wickedness'—those are words from Holy Scripture. And why does it lie in wickedness? Not by itself. Because people live in this world," he says quietly. "But I believe this year was given to me for a reason. There is God's plan in everything. The Lord commanded: 'Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, and pray for those who offend you.' And it took me a year to learn this commandment. I'm not angry at anyone; I love everyone." 

Photo by "NeMoskva"  

Read on: "My Church is Sick." The story of a Samara priest who was forced out of his church for his anti-war posts and decided to become a psychologist. to one day help the Church "find a human face"