On Old Believer Missionary Work #
By M.A. Dzyubenko
The word “missionary” sounds offensive and threatening to Old Believers. For centuries, persecutions from the dominant church unfolded precisely under the banner of “missionary activity.”
Yet this should not overshadow one of the chief commandments of Jesus Christ, addressed to the Apostles and to all of us: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you” (Matthew 28:19–20). The Lord gave His blessing to His followers precisely for missionary preaching—for the spreading of the Gospel—which is both the duty and the very essence of the Church. Its universal character is not merely granted but mandated, and it must be continually affirmed and proven by missionary activity.
Missionary work is manifold. It is by no means limited to preaching in words. It is also preaching by personal example, by prayer, by one’s way of life, by culture, by art, by civilization. All these means can be used to influence a person freely to turn toward the true faith.
The Russian Church remembered this commandment of the Lord, and there is neither the need nor the space here to offer a survey of the history of Russian missionary work. But I will permit myself to remind the reader that the movement of zealots for church piety in the 1630s–1650s—a movement that in many ways is close to Old Belief—was precisely a missionary movement. Father Ioann Neronov and his likeminded companions, after the catastrophe of the Time of Troubles, acutely felt that Rus’ was in need of unceasing Gospel preaching, that deep down it was still far from being a Christian land—otherwise there would not have been such widespread atrocities and betrayals as stained the Russian history of the early 17th century (as indeed that of earlier and later times as well).
The work of Ioann Neronov in Nizhny Novgorod was not limited to the small Church of the Resurrection of Christ: he undertook an active preaching and social ministry, which was unusual not only for his time but even for ours. Above all, he revived preaching in general, which had disappeared in Rus’ since the Mongol invasion and had not resumed, partly due to the widespread lack of education among the clergy, and partly due to fear of heresies. As his Life recounts: “But Ioann, reading the divine books with discernment, interpreted every passage clearly and very simply, for the plain folk who listened. Teaching the people, he bowed to both sides down to the ground, with tears praying that all who heard would take care by every means for their salvation.” Moreover, Neronov encouraged even his parishioners to preach the Word of God, and he himself did not limit his preaching to the church: after the service, he would go into the streets and squares of the city “carrying with him the book of the great luminary John Chrysostom, called the ‘Margarit’,” and “declared to all the path of salvation.” At the church, he organized a women’s shelter with a monastic rule, a school, and gave aid to the poor, the sick, and wanderers.
Many examples of missionary behavior are found in the Life of Protopope Avvakum. One such example is his account of how he healed Simeon, the son of the noblewoman Evdokia Kirillovna:
“I was not at home; the child fell ill. In fear, she, angered at me, sent the child to a whisperer—some peasant healer. When I found out, I was angered with her, and a great quarrel arose between us. The child grew worse; his right hand and foot withered, like little sticks… I saw that the devil had hardened her heart, so I went to the bishop, begging him to bring her to her senses. And the Lord, most merciful God, softened the soil of her heart: in the morning she sent her middle son Ivan to me—he wept, asking forgiveness on his mother’s behalf, walking around my stove and bowing. I lay naked on the stove under birch bark, the protopopitsa was in the stove, the children scattered here and there; it was raining, clothes were gone, the winter shelter leaked—we were tossed about every which way… Then they brought the sick child, and she ordered him laid before me; and all were weeping and bowing. I got up, fetched my epitrachelion out of the mud, and found some holy oil. Praying to God and censing, I anointed the child with oil and the cross and gave a blessing. And the child, by God’s grace, was restored to health—his hand and foot whole again.”
It is clear that Avvakum’s personal example—his firmness and compassion—attracted the noblewoman and confirmed her in the true faith.
The task of a missionary is precisely this—to convince not by abstract, scholastic arguments, but by a righteous life, by bearing the image of Christ upon oneself, to show that a true Christian is more perfect than those who only appear to be such.
Take, for example, the well-known account of how Peter I saw the merchants from Vyg at the St. Petersburg Exchange. What did he inquire about first of all? Whether they conducted their trade honestly. In the same way, the sincere diligence of the Vygovtsy in the search for the Olonets ore deposits helped them avoid the early destruction of their monastic community and, in the end, drew many thousands of souls to Old Orthodoxy. It was considerations of the Old Believers’ diligence and sobriety (both spiritual and physical) that guided Catherine II when she permitted them to return from abroad, to settle the Volga region, Siberia, and Crimea, and to establish the Rogozhskoye and Preobrazhenskoye quarantine cemeteries in Moscow.
There are also many examples of what might be called deferred missionary work, or delayed preaching. In the second half of the 17th century, relatively few people knew of the martyrdom of the nun Theodora (Morozova) and her companions. Their lives, like Avvakum’s Homily dedicated to them, circulated only within Old Believer circles. But from the second half of the 19th century, when these texts were printed and became available to the reading public, the image of the noblewoman-nun invariably moved hearts—not only evoking compassion but also sympathy for the faith for which she gave her life. The same can be said for the Life of Protopope Avvakum.
It is well known that after the War of 1812, the influence of Old Belief among the common people increased significantly. Many converted to Old Orthodoxy during that time, and it was then that some of the later-famous merchant dynasties were founded. For example, it was at that time that Mikhail Yakovlevich Rebuschinsky became an Old Believer. What motivated these converts? In a time of hardship for the country, they saw the advantages of Old Belief—its sincere, unfeigned, serious, and hard-earned patriotism, its brotherly Christian unity.
A single figure like Ataman Matvey Platov was more convincing than a multitude of writings in defense of the Old Faith. It is no coincidence that just ten years after the Patriotic War, Alexander I issued a decree forbidding the reception of runaway priests: the state sensed a powerful rival in the struggle for souls and hoped in this way to weaken and eliminate it.
The reign of Nicholas I confirmed a principle crucial to any missionary work: no matter how monstrous the prejudices sown by the authorities against Old Believers, they inevitably began to dissipate upon contact with the best among them.
Let us recall Notes from the House of the Dead by F.M. Dostoevsky, and remember that they were written by a recent member of the Petrashevsky circle. In the penal colony he encountered two types of Old Believers. One was “a people of strong development, clever peasants, extraordinarily well-versed in Scripture and slavishly literal, powerful dialecticians in their own right; proud, arrogant, cunning, and intolerant to the highest degree.” Let us honestly admit that this type is well known to us—and we even tend to cultivate it. The other was “an old man of about sixty, small, gray-haired,” from Starodub, sent to penal labor for burning down a church of the official Church. “Perhaps even more learned than the others, he avoided disputes. He had an exceedingly sociable character. He was cheerful, often laughed—not with the coarse, cynical laughter of the convicts, but with a clear, quiet laugh, filled with childlike innocence, which somehow especially suited his gray hair.” “He was so unlike the other prisoners—there was something so peaceful and gentle in his gaze, that I remember looking with special delight at his clear, bright eyes, surrounded by fine, radiant wrinkles. I often spoke with him and have rarely met such a kind, good-natured soul in my life.”
So is it any wonder that in 1862, when censorship weakened and a flood of Old Believer publications emerged (The Life of Protopope Avvakum, The History of the Vyg Old Believer Hermitage by Ivan Filippov, etc.), it was the Dostoevsky brothers’ journal Vremya that was among the first to print extensive and sympathetic reviews of them?
The wider the activities of the Old Believers spread, the more spheres they embraced, and the more willingly they engaged with society—without compromising their faith—the greater the growth in the influence of Old Orthodoxy. This is one of the secrets of the so-called “Golden Age of Old Belief.”
Thus, every Old Believer must constantly remember that, by being such, he no longer belongs to himself, but to God and to the Church. His entire life, all his labors, his entire conduct must testify to the truth of the faith he has chosen—that is, it must itself be a form of preaching. Otherwise, it will become a testimony of the opposite sort; neutrality in this matter is impossible.
Up to this point, we have spoken of the preaching of Old Orthodoxy among Russians—that is, among those in whose milieu the memory of the 17th-century Church schism is still alive. However, it is well known that since the 1680s, a significant portion of the zealots for ancient piety were forced to live not only among those of other confessions, but among people of different languages and cultures.
All the more astonishing, then, is the tenacity of the opinion that Old Belief—or, as it was until recently still called, “the schism”—was ethnically monolithic. “We know of no example of its successful spread among Little Russians, Poles, or Finnish tribes” (V. Kelsiev). But we do know such examples—and quite a few of them! Everywhere the Old Believers found themselves, they attracted the local population—not by force, not by coercion, but by personal example. And that is why among the Old Believers we find Karelians, Finns, Poles, Ukrainians, Belarusians, Romanians, Jews, Tatars, Americans, and Germans. The example of the Georgian (Iberian) Old Orthodox Church is inspiring. There are quiet but highly significant contemporary mentions of Chechen Old Believers. In my view, there is a pressing need for a comprehensive study that would demonstrate the universal character of Old Orthodoxy.
And yet, of course, Russians still predominate. This is often taken as proof of the divine election of the Russian people, of their unique receptiveness to God—and with that, many are content to rest. But I remind you: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.” Not a single one is called unreceptive or unchosen. That means what is needed is conscious, purposeful preaching. It is not enough merely to live, defending ourselves from the encroaching world and hoping that somehow, by a miracle, the world will come to us, will hear and see us. We must understand that no equilibrium exists or can exist between the Church and the world: if the Church does not advance upon the world, then the world, even if not openly hostile, will quietly, gradually begin to take possession of our souls. This is borne out by the history of many Old Believer settlements in America, where the people were satisfied simply to live in peace, made no effort to preach to the surrounding population—and as a result, are now gradually but inexorably assimilating into that population. The same can happen to all of us. A life of ease is not given to the Christian.
There is also another reason—geopolitical—for considering the spread of Old Orthodoxy among other peoples. The Russian population in Russia is steadily declining: many years of social experimentation, which show no signs of ending, appear to have taken their toll. Meanwhile, even the most basic needs of industry require the constant import of laborers from abroad—both from nearby (the former Soviet republics) and from afar, especially from the East. For instance, it is known that on Russia’s Far Eastern border territories, about one and a half million Chinese now reside, and plans are underway to officially admit as many more in the coming years. In my opinion, protesting this is useless; and to demand any kind of racial segregation—or worse, to participate in violent acts—is simply criminal.
In order that our country not be forced—albeit in a softened form—to repeat the fate of Byzantium, we must turn evil into good: we must accept inevitable immigration and remember our missionary duty. Today’s immigrants live in closed-off communities of fellow countrymen; they understand that the outside world is hostile to them. Has anyone attempted to treat these people in a Christian way, to preach the Gospel to them—not only in word, but in deed, in action? In Russia, I know of no such examples, though there are isolated cases of, say, Chinese people converting to mainstream Orthodoxy. And yet many immigrants and even seasonal workers come from countries where Christianity is either forbidden or entirely unknown. What do they see here, in our “Orthodox country,” and what will they take back with them when they return home? Will they want to become Orthodox?
It seems to me that we are now faced with the task of broad Gospel preaching specifically among immigrants. Let these people have a different native language, a different native culture—no one is forbidden from coming to the true faith. They may in fact find it easier to accept Old Believer worship, since unison znamenny chant and other elements of our tradition are closer to traditional Eastern culture than is part-singing and the overall cultural appearance of mainstream Orthodox churches.
Our forebears a hundred years ago understood the importance of open preaching. It is no coincidence that the long-forgotten question of building an Old Believer church in Jerusalem was raised at All-Russian congresses and councils. Such a church would be a powerful witness to Old Orthodoxy in the capital not only of Christianity, but of other monotheistic religions as well.
And though today we have incomparably fewer opportunities than a century ago, and though we face countless more immediate and unresolved concerns—though the very idea of such a project now seems like madness, and though we presently lack such broadly educated zealots—how many times in the history of the Church has She taken up a cross that seemed unbearable?
Mikhail Alexandrovich Dzyubenko – State Literary Museum, Moscow
Published in the collection Old Belief: History, Culture, Contemporary Life, Vol. II — Moscow, 2005