The Beginnings of Old Believer Thought #
Vasily Senatov
The ecclesiastical and theological development in ancient Russia still awaits its historian. Despite the extensive study of recent events in church and civil history, the actual development of Christian legal and moral concepts in our land has been scarcely investigated. The flourishing of Christianity in Russia long before the time of St. Vladimir is clearly attested by Blessed Jerome and some of the earliest Arab writers. In addition to the well-known legends about the preaching of the Holy Apostle Andrew the First-Called, there is further evidence that, under the pagan emperors, the bishops of Jerusalem maintained contact with southern Russia and preached there. It is reliably known that Constantine the Great and John Chrysostom played an active role in planting the Christian faith on Russian soil, among the “Russes.”
Christianity entered Russia by three main routes: through the Caucasus and the Black Sea from Syria, Palestine, and Egypt; through Constantinople from Greece; and from the West—from Italy. It is very difficult today to judge the strength and significance of these influences, but it is undeniable that each had its own distinct character. After the Greek influence, the strongest was the eastern one—that is, Syrian-Palestinian. Among the legends found in the oldest Slavic manuscripts, there are many that are absent from the earliest Greek sources—these are translations from Armenian, Syriac, and Coptic. This eastern influence was likely older than the Greek-Byzantine one. During the time of iconoclasm, the Christians of southern Russia maintained contact not with iconoclastic Byzantium, but with Iberia (Georgia), and through Asia Minor with Palestine. Although this path may have seemed unusual for that era, it appears to have been long familiar and well known. It is possible that the South Russian Christians recalled their earliest connections with the original Christian lands—ties that had been forgotten in the 7th and 8th centuries. The apostolic preaching undoubtedly reached the northern Caucasus and from there could have naturally continued further to the Don.
By the time of St. Vladimir, Christianity had not begun in our land—it had already completed its earliest period in Rus’. This was marked by the acceptance from Byzantium of the church’s liturgical rites and canonical structure. But this ritual, purely external and state-imposed structure of the Church did not constitute the foundation or the true spread of the faith itself and the universal Christian ideals. The faith had already been active for centuries prior and had developed not only in breadth but also in depth, nurturing refined moral Christian concepts in people. When the Russians received from the Greeks the external and state organization of the already long-existing Church, they did not receive from them any of the Christian moral principles that pertain to personal and social life. These concepts had already been known to our ancestors before the official triumph of Christianity in Russia; in this respect, our forebears were completely independent of the Greeks, even superior to them: the Greeks were always seen by the Russians as crafty people. Such a view could not have arisen if the Russians in the time of Vladimir had stood morally and spiritually below the Greeks.
In Russia—as at the apex of a cone—the threads of many local Christian churches converged. From Byzantium came liturgical practices and ecclesiastical-canonical order. Skirting Byzantium, religious thought from the more ancient churches of Egypt, Palestine, and Syria made its way here through the Caucasus Mountains—thought marked by Eastern creativity and profound critical insight.
Despite the consistent unity between the Byzantine and Alexandrian Churches, there was a deep, purely human difference between them. From its very founding, beginning with the time of Constantine the Great, Byzantium distinguished itself from all other churches by its external ecclesiastical architecture and the creation of detailed liturgical regulations, and so on. The emperors adorned the patriarchs with magnificent sakkoi; Justinian built the Church of Hagia Sophia. The religious creativity of all other Byzantines, of the whole people, followed this same direction. In contrast, in Alexandria the primary focus was on church teaching—the elevation of the human spirit in Gospel truth, and the construction of all human relationships, both social and political, upon this truth. Traces of this are clearly visible in the writings of Alexandrian Church authors from Origen to Cyril—spanning two centuries. Instead of temporary and localized church-building, which captivated the Byzantines, the Alexandrians sought to address universal, global, and eternal questions: the all-encompassing power of Christianity, which sanctifies every aspect of human spiritual activity, transforms the very nature of human life, and rebuilds law and the state upon new foundations—not on arbitrary or conventional ones like Roman law and statehood, or like all current laws and governments, but upon eternal human principles.
Universal Christian thought was expressed in Alexandria more fully and deeply than anywhere else. For centuries, the Alexandrian Fathers and writers were true ecumenical teachers—models even for such great Fathers as Basil the Great, Gregory the Theologian, and John Chrysostom. The Alexandrians were ultimately unable to realize their grand vision for the reformation of the entire world: they were equally obstructed by Rome, with its conditional legalism and pursuit of hierarchical infallibility, and by Byzantium, with its external and incidental church-building. Yet the very posing of such questions and the very conception of such goals must be regarded as a great merit of the Alexandrian Church.
Traces of ancient Alexandrian thought are evident in the Russian consciousness from the time of Vladimir. In our Slavic tales, the moral element always takes first place; the same is true in the commentaries on Holy Scripture. Even today, in the books of biblical interpretation, the favorite sections among Russians are those marked vozvodnoye, that is, moral interpretation of purely historical events. Alongside the official development of church life and the state’s strengthening of the hierarchy, another kind of religious life continually flowed within the people themselves: the moral elevation of the person, the submission of all things to the judgment of God, the transformation of church and state authority into a moral obligation. Our elites in church and state-building sought to imitate the Greeks in all their liturgical and cultural rituals—even down to the bishop’s sakkos and the royal bramy (ceremonial gates). The people did not resist this upper-level trend, but neither did they regard it as the true essence of religious life; they looked deeper and instinctively—and consciously—strove toward universal and global moral goals and purposes. It is possible that this aspiration is a legacy of ancient Alexandria, which reached us by bypassing Byzantium and even before the official adoption of Christianity.
Let us point to just two legends that clearly express the universal human striving of the Russian people.
In the Menaion of St. Macarius, there is a certain tale. Saint Pambo (an Egyptian ascetic who lived in the famous Nitrian desert in the 4th century, commemorated on July 18) had a disciple. One day, the disciple asked to go to Alexandria to sell their handmade goods. He spent a whole week in the city, and when he returned, St. Pambo questioned him closely about what he had seen, heard, and done in great Alexandria. The disciple recounted how he had seen the Patriarch and received his blessing, how he had spent seven days and nights on the porch of the cathedral of the Holy Apostle Mark, delighting in the wondrous singing of stichera and canons, and the solemn patriarchal services. Bitterly, he began to lament that in their desert they had no leather-bound books, no singing of stichera or canons, and no sight of episcopal services. The saintly ascetic replied: “Wait, all of that will come to us as well—there will be leather-bound books, the desert will resound with loud singing and glorious episcopal services. Bishops will settle in the deserts and ride about on luxurious white horses, surrounded by crowds of priests and singers. And then a great abomination will strike the whole land: the bishops will become lovers of silver, extortioners, gluttons, liars, deceitful, cruel, bloodthirsty, and haters of mankind.” — “Then how can anyone be saved?” asked the disciple. — “Let each one, saving, save his own soul,” replied St. Pambo.
In the book The Passion of Christ, in the first printed edition from the late 17th century—an extraordinary rarity—there is the following account, which has been omitted in all later editions. At the descent of the Lord Jesus Christ into Hades, an innumerable multitude of high priests, kings, princes, hierarchs, nobles, boyars, military leaders, priests, and all kinds of ecclesiastical and civil dignitaries gathered at the gates of hell. Because of the preaching of John the Baptist, all these notables had pressed forward from the nearby and far-off dungeons of hell to the very gates and arranged themselves according to their rank, hoping to greet Christ as representatives of the nobility of mankind, and hoping that He would free them before all others.
When the news of the Savior’s coming spread, the powers of hell drew back, and a great tumult arose among the countless millions. To meet Christ, the people established a sort of order: the first places were taken by the high priests and kings, and so forth. The common people were left to crowd chaotically in the distant background. Entering Hades, the Lord looked with a stern and sorrowful gaze upon the endless ranks of high priests, kings, and all the notable ones—those who had ruled the earth and humanity, the shepherds of souls who had deceitfully handled the word of God. All fell prostrate, and through the ranks trembling in dread, the Lord silently passed on into the far reaches of hell.
There were gathered all those who had been humbled and broken in life—the scorned and ruined, the embittered murderers, starving thieves, fornicators, harlots, and so on. “Your sins are forgiven you,” said the Lord to them, “you suffered greatly on earth because of rulers and governors. You did not keep My commandments, and you did not know love among yourselves. Follow Me.” And Christ led them all out of hell, passing through the innumerable ranks of high priests, kings, and dignitaries—without so much as glancing at them. And all those cried out to the Lord, pleading with Him, “Did we not serve Thee, O Lord? Did we not rule on earth in Thy name? Did we not teach Thy law to the people entrusted to us? And these—whom Thou now takest with Thee—what good have they done Thee? Were they not a disgrace to us on earth, and to Thee?”
“I know,” answered the Lord, “you knew My commandments, and you strove to break them. Because of you, the earth groaned, was soaked with human blood, and covered in iniquities. My heart turns away from you. Depart from Me!”
Even if these tales are factually untrue, they undeniably echo the voice of hoary antiquity and profound, universal human thought. One and the same idea is embedded in both, though the outward form differs. Together, they represent the foundation upon which church and state laws must be built—not accidental or temporary ones, but universal and eternal.
True ecclesiastical development, true church life, is not fully expressed in the outward, physical realm—what can be sensed or observed. It belongs to the inner realm of human rebirth; not the realm of external service to God, but of inward conformity to Him. Theological thought is lofty, knowledge of Holy Scripture is precious—but in themselves, without inner rebirth, all of this is no more than a leather-bound book, which will one day burn and decay, which one can hold constantly in hand and know by heart, and yet remain deeply offensive to God—a bloodthirsty man and a hater of mankind. The singing of stichera and canons is wondrous and moving—but it is only outward artistic beauty and may not be accompanied by inner elevation. Episcopal and royal service is great—but in the episcopal rank one may serve Satan the manslayer rather than Christ the Lover of mankind, and with the royal scepter in hand one may easily become the source of unrest, disorder, and heinous crimes. The knowledge of Scripture, the outward beauty of Christian worship, and episcopal authority itself may fail to be expressions of true church life; they can lose their original meaning and become nothing more than a glossy varnish on a tomb filled with a decaying corpse.
From the time of St. Vladimir, once state authority became Christian, it firmly and consistently began to implement the ecclesiastical patterns of the Greeks. Churches were built, monasteries were established at the courts of princes and boyars, ecclesiastical arts and architecture, iconography, liturgical singing, and splendid celebrations with processions were introduced. Bishops, headed by the metropolitan, were brought into the highest circles of government and acquired a distinct and exalted place in the state hierarchy. In a word, everything that existed in Byzantium was replicated here according to a ready-made model—replicated on a smaller scale and with less artistic refinement in the details.
Alongside this purely external construction—both artistic and juridical—a more vital and powerful movement unfolded. Mercy and Christian love, rather than external law, were held as the highest standard in all human relations. Not the exercise of authority, but the sense of unworthiness before God and man was regarded as the greatest virtue of a person. Even in the absence of outward education and in the midst of widespread illiteracy, there is a striking maturity of moral thought, a rich inner spiritual life, and a deeply poetic fervor with which vast multitudes of Russian people, sparing no effort and even at the risk of their lives, strove after all that was best and most holy in the fullest sense of those words.
Not pride, nor any awareness of personal dignity, did the Russian man place at the foundation of the moral personality, but rather an awareness of his own unworthiness. And from this awareness, he derived the whole range of his political and social rights, as well as the full scope of high moral demands and ideals. A vivid illustration of this is found in the testament of Vladimir Monomakh to his children:
“Receive with love the blessing of the clergy… Let there be no pride in your mind or in your heart, and think to yourselves: we are but dust; today we live, tomorrow we lie in the grave… When on a journey on horseback, if you have no business to attend to, instead of idle thoughts, recite prayers by heart, or at least repeat the short but best prayer: ‘Lord, have mercy.’ Never go to sleep without a prostration to the earth; and if you feel ill, make three prostrations. Let not the sun find you still in bed. Go early to church to offer God the morning praise; so did my father, and so did all good people. When the sun rose upon them, they rejoiced in the Lord.”
In these words, we hear a profound philosophical worldview. Even with a princely crown upon his head, a man must first of all remember his nothingness; state affairs must be interwoven, like beads, with the words of prayer; the day must begin and end with thanksgiving to the Lord. Political and social rights, the entire conduct of human life, are here infused with deep faith, in its pure and complete form, without scholastic or logically dogmatic constructions. Theologically refined and logically difficult concepts—about the two wills, the meaning of hypostasis, and so on—which constituted the foundation and life of religious thought in Byzantium, perhaps never even found their way into Russian religious consciousness. In any case, the entire sphere of Byzantine dogmatic thought, though preserved as a beloved ancestral inheritance, had no practical or vital significance on Russian soil. The believing mind found for itself an entirely new path here—one more important and interesting from the standpoint of universal humanity.
A.S. Khomyakov, despite his respect for Byzantium, rightly reproached it for preserving pagan elements, even if under Christian names. It divided man into two parts: the Christian ascetic, indifferent to all external life, and the suffering Christian, submitting to the arbitrary laws of the state. Civil law remained independent from faith. The emperors, contrary to Christianity, were called divine (divus) and styled as our eternity (perenitas nostra). Laws regarding marriage, slavery, property, and so on retained the indelible mark of pagan indifference to the foundations of morality. The Church, regarding itself as perfect, neither applied nor sought to apply itself to the eternally imperfect order of society, allowing it the ambiguous right to call itself Christian merely on the basis of the professed faith of its members. It did not cultivate in the heart of the Christian a moral desire for harmony between his civic and human duties; it did not instill in him hope for a better future, nor remind him of the great truth that external form must, sooner or later, become the expression of internal substance—and that law must eventually rest not on arbitrary or conditional grounds, but on eternal and human foundations.
In contrast to the above-described Byzantine reality, with its dominant pagan elements, ancient Russian society placed a deep moral principle at the very center of national thought—something essentially Christian and human. The citizen-man was here absorbed into the Christian man, and the moral Christian principle became the foundation of both law and authority. The proud Greco-Roman mind easily and quickly embraced the view of Christ as the source of all power and state authority. But in substance, Christianity in its pure apostolic form gained nothing from this. There was only a substitution of names: Jupiter-Zeus was replaced with the name of Christ the God-Man—or rather, the pagan Jupiter-Zeus was given the name of Christ. Just as before, Jupiter-Zeus had been seen as the giver of royal scepters and high priestly staffs, so now the same view was transferred to Christ. But Christ the Sufferer, the Healer of the sick, the one who shared His table with public sinners, who forgave thieves, who made His first disciples out of those deemed the refuse of society—in short, Christ who lived among and forever remains with the lowly and the afflicted—found no true faith in Himself in either Western Europe or Orthodox Byzantium.
The Russian man, however, first of all believed in Christ the Sufferer, the Helper of all the wronged, the overlooked, the poor, and the downtrodden. Vladimir Monomakh did not believe that his princely authority derived from Christ or rested upon Him; he believed rather that in every important matter it was necessary to say sincerely and humbly, “Lord, have mercy,” and that one must begin and end the day with a prostration before God, and that every human title is perishable and insignificant. Monomakh’s son, Grand Prince Mstislav, according to the Prologue, “did not receive silver or gold into his hand, for he did not love wealth.” These views and examples were not isolated; they fill the oldest Russian chronicles and all the legends of saints composed on Russian soil and spread among the Russian people. These views were the soil in which Russian religious thought was born and grew.
The chronicler Nestor noted of the monasteries: “Many monasteries were founded by kings and boyars and by wealth, but they are not like those founded with tears, fasting, prayer, and vigil.” Power and wealth are not means for the flourishing of faith; there is only one means: personal and communal consciousness in the spirit of Christianity.
Given the above-mentioned Russian views, law in its very foundation acquires an entirely new meaning—another sense and substance—and all social relations are transformed at the root. These views are utterly irreconcilable with the organization of society according to Roman-Byzantine and modern principles, and they sharply highlight the pagan character of many ideas that still appear to be foundational to Christianity. Above all, they reject the notion of Christ as the source or originator of all earthly, and especially ecclesiastical, authority. Rule and domination—especially in Christ’s name—slavery, and the division of people into classes are altogether excluded and revealed to be anti-Christian principles. The church community can only be self-governing, protective of the freedom of each of its individual members. Pastoral care does not lead to any outwardly honored position; it can only be an expression of inner Christian humility and inner Christian love.
Yet all these principles were never destined to develop openly or gain state recognition. The Byzantine principles—essentially pagan and merely cloaked in the name of Christ—gained decisive dominance and were absorbed into the very flesh and blood of state and externally ecclesiastical structures.
Having failed to obtain a dominant position at the top, the truly Christian principles built for themselves a strong and vast nest below, among the common people. Gradually, the people were left alone—seemingly without rulers or representatives—and continued to be nourished solely by moral foundations and ideas of Christian love and humility. In Russian legends, very little space is devoted to Christ as the triumphant ruler, builder of kingdoms and thrones; to the church as a conqueror adorned in gold and silver; or to hierarchs crowning kings and appearing in the full splendor of earthly grandeur. Instead, there are many tales of an entirely different kind and meaning: of Christ in the form of a poor little boy, leading the blind and collecting alms with them from the poorest and most miserable people; of a church in a humble cave with extraordinarily poor furnishings and impoverished worshippers, among whom was found an unknown yurodivy (holy fool) radiant with sanctity; of bishops traveling with a simple staff, in ragged clothing, and in the company of the humblest folk.
Saint Nicholas seizes the executioner’s sword and saves the wrongfully condemned. St. Sergius feeds a bear, serves in a threadbare robe using a wooden chalice, and is granted the miraculous visitation of the Mother of God. In all these tales, deeply human truths shine brightly—there is no aristocracy, no hint of rights or privileges in the usual sense of the word, no suggestion of one class ruling over another.
Under the influence of such moral forces, a unique concept of law—especially ecclesiastical law—developed among the simple Russian people, a concept that has nothing in common with Greco-Roman ideas, bearing witness to a new, profoundly human culture, a new meaning and content of belief, a new social order and way of life.
Over the course of many centuries, the Christian-human ideals among the common folk did not conflict with the Byzantine notions held above, among the ruling classes. In the upper ranks, there were always individuals who burned with the living faith and hopes of the people. Their inner holiness and purity reconciled the people to the purely Byzantine role that these individuals—unwillingly and out of necessity—occupied. But this reconciliation was temporary and forced. The closer time drew to Nikon and Peter I, the more clearly this reconciliation between two fundamentally opposed principles began to unravel, and in Nikon’s era, this temporary and accidental peace was decisively shattered.
The essence of Old Belief is not to be found in ritual, nor in the replacement of one rite with another, but in the very meaning of the people’s faith on the one hand, and in the Byzantine-state status of the hierarchy on the other. In this sense, Old Belief is the legitimate successor of the most ancient Alexandrian Church and is called to renew and further develop the Christian and universal human thought of that Church.
V. Senatov
Church, 1909, No. 1