Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe: Encounters of Faiths (Studies in Central and Eastern Europe)

Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe Encounters of Faiths

Edited by

Thomas Bremer

Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe

Studies in Central and Eastern Europe Edited for the International Council for Central and East European Studies by Roger E. Kanet, University of Miami, USA Titles include: Thomas Bremer (editor) RELIGION AND THE CONCEPTUAL BOUNDARY IN CENTRAL AND EASTERN EUROPE Encounters of Faiths Graeme Gill (editor) POLITICS IN THE RUSSIAN REGIONS Roger E. Kanet (editor) RUSSIA Re-Emerging Great Power Rebecca Kay (editor) GENDER, EQUALITY AND DIFFERENCE DURING AND AFTER STATE SOCIALISM Stanislav J. Kirschbaum (editor) CENTRAL EUROPEAN HISTORY AND THE EUROPEAN UNION The Meaning of Europe Katlijn Malfliet, Lien Verpoest and Evgeny Vinokurov (editors) THE CIS, THE EU AND RUSSIA Challenges of Integration Stephen Velychenko (editor) UKRAINE, THE EU AND RUSSIA History, Culture and International Relations Forthcoming titles include: John Pickles (editor) GLOBALIZATION AND REGIONALIZATION IN POST-SOCIALIST ECONOMIES Common Economic Spaces of Europe John Pickles (editor) STATE AND SOCIETY IN POST-SOCIALIST ECONOMIES Stephen White (editor) MEDIA, CULTURE AND SOCIETY IN PUTIN’S RUSSIA Stephen White (editor) POLITICS AND THE RULING GROUP IN PUTIN’S RUSSIA Stephen Hutchings (editor) RUSSIA AND ITS OTHER(S) ON FILM Screening Intercultural Dialogue Joan DeBardeleben (editor) THE BOUNDARIES OF EU ENLARGEMENT Finding a Place for Neighbours Studies in Central and Eastern Europe Series Standing Order ISBN 0–230–51682–3 hardcover (outside North America only) You can receive future titles in this series as they are published by placing a standing order. Please contact your bookseller or, in case of difficulty, write to us at the address below with your name and address, the title of the series and the ISBN quoted above. Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS, England

Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe Encounters of Faiths Edited by Thomas Bremer Department of Catholic Theology University of Münster, Germany

Editorial matter, selection and introduction © Thomas Bremer 2008 All remaining chapters © respective authors 2008. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2008 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan¨ is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–0–230–55076–6 ISBN-10: 0–230–55076–2

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This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bremer, Thomas S., 1957– Religion and the conceptual boundary in Central and Eastern Europe : encounters of faiths / Thomas Bremer. p. cm. — (Studies in Central and Eastern Europe) Includes index. ISBN 0–230–55076–2 (alk. paper) 1. Europe, Eastern—Church history. 2. Europe, Central—Church history. 3. Europe, Eastern—Religion. 4. Europe, Central—Religion. I. Title. BR738.6.B725 2008 274.7—dc22 2007052500 10

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Contents Preface Acknowledgements Notes on Contributors

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1 Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe: Introductory Remarks Thomas Bremer The conception of borderlines Church and state, church and nation Church and democracy 2 Geography, Eschatology, and Religious Conversions in the Ninth Century Leonid S. Chekin The missionary task The geography of nations The conversion of Gog and Magog The first conversion of the Rhos 3 Ruthenian Lands and the Early Modern Multiple Borderlands in Europe: Ethno-confessional Aspect Liliya Berezhnaya Frontier history and the Ruthenian lands Early modern Ruthenian identities in the light of A. J. Rieber’s scheme Religious and ethnic, religious versus ethnic Antemurale Christianitatis: Poland or Ruthenia? 4 Confessionalization in the Slavia Orthodoxa (Belorussia, Ukraine, Russia)? – Potential and Limits of a Western Historiographical Concept Alfons Brüning 5 Situational Religiosity: Everyday Strategies of the Moscow Christ–Faith Believers and of the St Petersburg Mystics Attracted by This Faith in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century Ekaterina Emeliantseva v

1 3 4 7 16 17 21 26 29 40 41 44 48 51

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The spiritual brotherhood of Ekaterina Tatarinova Mar’ia Borisova’s Christ–faith community Situational religiosity Domestic life of Mar’ia Borisova’s associates Religious practice of Mar’ia Borisova’s associates Religious practice of Tatarinova’s adherents Conclusion

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6 The Chapel of the Polish Kings: History, Religion, and the Borders of an Imagined Nation Robert E. Alvis

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Mieszko and Boleslaw in Life and death The eclipse of Poland and the rise of Polish nationalism Building the Chapel of the Polish kings Decoding the chapel Aftermath and conclusion

123 125 128 133 140

7 Romanian Orthodox Theologians as Pioneers of the Ecumenical Dialogue Between East and West: The Relevance and Topicality of Their Position in Uniting Europe Mihai Sas
aujan
General considerations of the ecumenical activity of the Romanian Orthodox Church during the first half of the 20th century The position of metropolitan Nicolae Balan (1920–55) of Transylvania regarding the ecumenical movement The position of Professor I. G. Coman towards the ecumenical movement at the Orthodox Conference in Moscow (9–18 July 1948) The Romanian Orthodox Church’s implication in the ecumenical movement after 1961 The relevance and topicality of the mentioned theologian’s ideas in uniting Europe 8 Peace Through Reconciliation: Aktion Sühnezeichen and the Lutheran Church in the GDR David Doellinger Summer camps Annual assembly

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Regional groups Conclusions 9

Religiosity in European Comparison – Theoretical and Empirical Ideas Gert Pickel Introduction Theoretical structures or groups of countries in Europe Data, indicators, and measurement for religious vitality The situation of Religiosity in Western and Eastern Europe 2000 Sources of Eastern European religiosity Conclusion

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Catholic Tradition and New Religious Movements: What Is New in the Present Religious Landscape in Croatia? Zrinka Stimac General information about the religious situation in the Republic of Croatia New Religious movements, ‘New Age’ and familiar phenomena Croation youth in past and present: an overview Conclusion

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The Concept of Canonical Territory in the Russian Orthodox Church Johannes Oeldemann Historical and canonical background The meaning of the term ‘canonical territory’ Some remarks on the assessment of the concept of canonical territory

Index

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172 174 182 182 184 190 193 202 208

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229 230 232 233 237

Preface When the International Council for Central and East European Studies (ICCEES) was founded at the first international and multidisciplinary conference of scholars working in this field, held in Banff, Alberta, Canada, on 4-7 September 1974, it was given the name International Committee for Soviet and East European Studies (ICSEES). Its major purpose was to provide for greater exchange between research centers and scholars around the world who were devoted to the study of the USSR and the communist states and societies of Eastern Europe. These developments were the main motivation for bringing together the very different national organizations in the field and for forming a permanent committee of their representatives, which would serve as an umbrella organization, as well as a promoter of closer co-operation. Four national scholarly associations launched ICSEES at the Banff conference: the American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies (AAASS), the National Association for Soviet and East European Studies in Great Britain (NASEES), the British Universities Association of Slavists (BUAS), and the Canadian Association of Slavists (CAS). Over the past three decades six additional Congresses have been held: in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany, 1980; Washington, USA, 1985; Harrogate, UK, 1990; Warsaw, Poland, 1995; Tampere, Finland, 2000; and Berlin, Germany, 2005. The next Congress is scheduled for 2010 in Stockholm, Sweden. The original four national associations that sponsored the first congress have been joined by an additional seventeen full and six associate member associations, with significantly more than a thousand scholars participating at each of the recent congresses. It is now a little over three decades since scholars felt the need to coordinate the efforts in the ‘free world’ to describe and analyse the Communist political systems, their societies and economies, and East– West relations in particular. Halfway through this period, the Communist system collapsed, the region that was the object of study was reorganized, and many of the new states that emerged set out on a path of democratic development, economic growth, and, in many cases, inclusion in Western institutions. The process turned out to be complex, and there were setbacks. Yet, by 2004, the European Union as well as the North Atlantic Treaty Organization had welcomed those post-Communist states that had met all of the requirements for membership. Not all of the applicant viii

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states achieved this objective; but the process is ongoing. For this reason, perhaps even more than before, the region that encompassed the former Communist world demands study, explanation, and analysis, as both centripetal and centrifugal forces are at work in each state and across the region. We are most fortunate that the community of scholars addressing these issues now includes many astute analysts from the region itself. ROGER E. KANET Series Editor

Acknowledgements This volume stems mostly from papers that were presented at the VI World Congress of the International Council on Central an East European Studies, Berlin, July 2005. However, some additional invited papers, which were not presented on the Congress, have been included. The editor wants to express his gratitude to Roger Kanet (University of Miami), the General Editor of the series, for his invaluable cooperation. The manuscript was made with the help of Judith Wegener, Christopher Mühl and, above all, Maria Wernsmann, who invested enormous effort in her work on the manuscripts – editing, correcting and preparing the texts for publication. Th. B.

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Notes on Contributors Robert E. Alvis, St Meinrad School of Theology, History Department, USA Liliya Berezhnaya, Historian, formerly Gerda Henkel Fellow, Münster, Germany Thomas Bremer, Department of Catholic Theology, University of Münster, Germany Alfons Brüning, Nijmegen University, Institute for Eastern Churches Studies, The Netherlands Leonid S. Chekin, Russian Academy of Sciences, Institute for the History of Science and Technology, Russia David Doellinger, Western Oregon University, Department of History, USA Ekaterina Emeliantseva, Zurich University, Department of Eastern European History, Switzerland Johannes Oeldemann, Johann-Adam-Moehler-Institute for Ecumenics, Paderborn, Germany Gert Pickel, Viadrina University Frankfurt/Oder, Cultural Sociology, Germany Mihai Šašaujan, Bucharest University, Chair of Church History, Romania Zrinka Stimac, Jena University, Graduate School, Germany

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1 Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe: Introductory Remarks Thomas Bremer

There is hardly a subject in Central and Eastern European studies which has gained such attention among scholars in recent years as the study of church and religion. Not only theologians and scholars of religion, but also historians, political scientists, sociologists, and others dedicate intensive attention to questions of religion in Eastern European countries; the latter seem sometimes to be interested even more in religious issues than the first. It seems as if a new field of research has been opened. During the Cold War, research in the social sciences concerning Eastern Europe concentrated on questions of security and cooperation. Issues of church and religion were to a certain degree interesting for scholars of history, on the one hand. It is difficult to understand European history without paying attention to religion, so that it had to be taken into account. But it did not have an impact on the present situation. On the other hand, religion was a topic for people who were engaged in human rights, religious freedom and similar issues. They stressed the situation of the religious communities in communist countries and demanded freedom of consciousness. Of course, these people were not regarded as friendly by the regimes. And there was not so much contact between those two groups, since the latter clearly had another agenda: They were not primarily interested in research, but rather in politics. There were several factors which made it difficult to deal with religion in Eastern Europe at that time: above all, religion was something the communist authorities regarded as backward, and they expected this phenomenon to vanish in the near future. As it gave no signs of vanishing by itself, authorities supported this process by suppressing religion. Therefore, it was not desirable to study something which was contrary to the ruling 1

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ideology. A strong religion would show that the ideology was not right, and that was not allowed to happen. Additionally, access to the sources was quite difficult, partly due to the state restrictions, partly also because of a certain reluctance of the churches and religious communities themselves. Church archives were not, or at least not easily, accessible, and most publications on and by the churches were more easily available abroad. Sometimes there was much more published on a respective church in other countries than in its own country. The rising attention to religion which we notice nowadays, however, is not only due to the fact that it is now, after the political changes, much easier now to work on issues of church and religion. In the West, there was an overall opinion that religion really did not play a prominent role in Central and Eastern European countries any more, with one exception: Poland. People in the West knew about the influence of the Catholic Church in Poland, but frequently it was regarded as a typical Polish way of resistance. As far as other countries were concerned, religion was regarded also by Western scholars and analysts more or less as a purely historical phenomenon, without significant meaning for today and for the future. As we know, the role of religion was to change radically. After decades, in which the churches were not an important factor in Central and Eastern Europe and in which they indeed did not have an impact on society and on the vast majority of individuals, they arose to new significance. Their loss of influence during communism was not only due to the political circumstances and to suppression, but also to social developments. It is not convincing that the societies remained in fact religious, but couldn’t express it because of political conditions. This situation was for sure a consequence of the anti-religious politics of the regimes. These politics, however, had worked, and the churches did loose their influence within the population. Therefore, the rising significance of religious belief after the fall of communism was not just a return to a former situation or a natural reaction after the lifting of suppression, but rather a process of searching for something new, for a new self-identification. If this is true, then we are faced with a certain contradiction since religion does not understand itself as an instrument for obtaining an identity, but rather as an identity of its own, that means it claims to be its own purpose and not to serve another purpose. It is the question how religious communities did and do react on this situation which means in fact a complete different interpretation of their existence. Religion is an explanation of the world, of human existence and of salvation, but not a tool to understand oneself in a national or any other way.

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The conception of borderlines However, when the role of religion had changed and when it was possible to access the needed resources, another issue came up, which was not new at all, but which was widely neglected because of the political division of Europe: Many people had overlooked that there was a historical conceptual division in Europe as well. The different religious traditions between East and West, and in the West between Catholic and Protestant Christianities, had shaped the continent for centuries and came again to the surface. The most prominent expression for the perception of this split was Samuel Huntington’s essay (and later book) on the Clash of Civilisations, where he draws a thick line of division through the European map, between the areas characterized by Western Christianity, and those influenced by the Eastern Christian Heritage. This conception was met with harsh criticism, but it points to an issue which is important and which has not been in the focus of attention for decades. There is one point neglected by Huntington and frequently overlooked in evaluating his conception: Borderlines never succeed in what they are supposed to do, i.e. in dividing areas completely. Borders are always also lines of encounter and contact, and in most cases, historically there are no borderlines in a strict sense, but rather border areas over which borderlines used to change so that these areas belonged to the one or to the other side in certain periods. That means that people, cultures, religions, countries came into touch, be it by military enterprises, by trade, by migration, by other kinds of encounter. Such contacts do not leave cultures untouched; exchange takes place, and there is hardly any culture being completely uninfluenced by a neighbouring one. This is especially important for religion. Religious convictions are obviously of lasting significance and therefore not frequently subject of change. On the one hand, borders between religions are indeed dividing lines, separating one religious tradition from the other. The mere word ‘definition’ which describes (dogmatic) decisions on right and wrong in Christianity, contains the Latin finis, border, in itself: By definitions the church tried to define the borderlines of its doctrine; everyone who could accept such a definition belonged to the church, and whoever found himself outside the borders, was heretic. It is a typical phenomenon of Christianity to put borderlines of doctrinal character, whereas questions of behaviour or of ethics do not play such an important role. But a more thorough glance will show us that religious borderlines, on the other hand, also have a quite different character: they also offer possibilities of encounter and exchange. Even religious traditions in competition usually

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influence each other when in the same geographic region. The field between Eastern and Western Christianity shows that joining character of borderlines clearly. Christian pious practices among Muslims in Bosnia, the ‘unions’ in several areas of Southeast and Eastern Europe, and ‘protestant’ arguments used by orthodox theologians in Russia against Catholic doctrine (and the other way round) are examples for such an influence, and more of them are to be found in this volume.

Church and state, church and nation The confessional differences within Europe can be clearly seen in several issues. One of them, and maybe the most prominent, is the relationship between church and state, church and nation. It seems to be an issue of paramount importance for the question of conceptual boundaries since we can observe commonalties which were influenced by the contact with other churches. The issue of state and nation becomes important for Central and Eastern Europe from the 19th century onward. In the 19th and 20th centuries, these Churches were mostly in a situation which was very different from that of the Churches in the West – however, one must keep in mind that the ideas of where Western and Eastern Europe begin and end have also shifted since then. The Orthodox Church in Eastern Europe was living under specific conditions. In Russia, it was under a very close control through the authorities which led indirectly to a rise of spirituality and of theology, but restricted the area of activity of the Church. One must be aware that part of the clergy in Russia supported this kind of relationship to the state, and that the idea of mutual independence between state and church is a Western idea which was not seen as a necessity or even a desirable position for the church. The Orthodox Church in Russia represented something like an imperial consciousness. It supported the idea of the Russian Empire, with different nations and different religions in it, or maybe better: It could and did not imagine any other idea. Therefore, it was clear that the orthodox Christians in Russia had to belong to the only orthodox church within this Empire. Most of those orthodox Churches which were not within the Russian Empire, namely in South-Eastern Europe, were to live for centuries in an Islamic state. It was only in the 19th century that the respective nations began to gain independence, and that the orthodox Churches within these new states became autocephalous, i.e. independent from the patriarchate in Constantinople which did not enjoy much confidence because of its role in the millet system. Therefore, these churches developed a national

Introductory Remarks

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consciousness which was closely linked with their own nation, but originally not to the state because it was Islamic. Only later, partly only in the 20th century, these churches paid attention to the state. We see that the orthodox churches developed different relationships to their respective state and nation. In a certain sense, the Russian Orthodox Church developed a national attitude only in the last 15 or so years, after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It is for the first time ever in a situation that millions of its faithful live outside Russia, in other states. The Church now puts questions about the political rights of these ethnic Russians in the CIS. It is now in the situation that it bothers with problems which never have been in its horizon – because of this new position. The churches in South Eastern Europe are shifting between a national consciousness, which is very clearly developed, and one which concerns the state. It can never be imperial as it has been in Russia, but it exists since nation states were founded in this particular region. This difference becomes obvious when we compare the relation of Serbian Orthodoxy and of Russian Orthodoxy towards Islam: for nationalist Serbs, the Bosnian Muslims are ‘traitors’ of the faith of their ancestors who should be regarded as ‘former Serbs’, who are ‘in fact’ Serbs, etc. Historically, we find examples of attempts to re-convert them to Orthodoxy. In Russia, there was always a consciousness that Muslims are ‘Rossiyane’, but not Russians – citizens of the Russian state, but not ethnic Russians. They are accepted as members of different nations from the Russian one and therefore as people of another religion within the state, without massive attempts of conversion – such attempts have taken place in former centuries, but without success. What about the Catholic churches in the region? Catholics have frequently been accused of being ‘ultramontanist’, i.e. not loyal to the state in which they live, but rather obedient to the Holy See. Therefore, they were never regarded as reliable. However, one mustn’t forget that within the Catholic church there have always been also movements and tendencies which tried to stress the autonomy of the local church in opposition to Rome. Not only predominantly protestant countries like Germany and Great Britain can serve as examples, but also France or – more important for our topic – the Austrian Empire. Most of the Catholic local churches, which were not in a minority situation, lived under the Habsburgs, with one important exception: Poland, the greatest part of which was divided between Russia and Prussia. Here, among the Catholic Poles, the religious difference to orthodox Russians, protestant Prussians (and to Jews) served as a means to keep Polishness, Polish identity alive. It was certainly not a consciousness based on the state, but on the nation that characterizes the Polish attitude. The fact that the Catholic church is a global and

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transnational organization which theoretically does not know national identification as being more important than the belonging to the Church, did not influence the Polish way of creating an overlapping identity between belonging to the Polish nation and to the Catholic church. There was no need for regarding the doctrine of the Catholic church concerning state and nation since there were no other Catholics in competition. The situation in the Habsburg Empire was quite different: Hungarians, Croats, Slovaks, Czechs, Slovenes and the Poles in Galicia were the main non-German (or non-Austrian) Catholic nations (some of them with a relevant share of protestants within their nation, especially Hungarians and Czechs). Catholicism was also the official doctrine of the state, and steps in order to reach something like a certain tolerance for Orthodox, Protestants, Jews and Muslims were made mainly in order to maintain the unity of the state. The authorities stressed the need to obey the legitimate state structures, and it was (theoretically) easy to argue against complaints of national repression by calling to the God-given rule of the Emperor. The Catholic churches also developed an attitude of national identity, with a similar result, but through a different way than in the Polish case: Here, the power which was perceived as repressing, was also Catholic, so that there was a need to put emphasis on the national issue. It seems that Catholicism became narrowly linked with nationality above all in Slovakia and Croatia, nations which felt themselves suppressed by the Hungarians. Catholics in the Austrian part of the Empire, obviously, did not develop such a strong link between religion and nation, although we find a strong conservative Catholicism in Austria between the two world wars – but rather connected with the state than with a nation. When regarding the Catholic church in the region and in the period when nationalism became an important factor, one mustn’t forget that Catholicism worldwide was very conservative. It would be ahistoric to simply apply the self-understanding of the Catholic church after the second Vatican Council on the situation of the late 19th century. Concentration on the pope, with its extreme expression in Vatican I, hostility to the modern world, disregarding of other Christian churches, not to speak about non-Christian religions, and a consciousness of superiority were the main characteristics of the Catholic Church until the last third of the 20th century, and sometimes it seems even today that this situation is not yet completely overcome. Protestantism does not play a prominent role in Central and Eastern Europe, with some remarkable exceptions. In the 19th century, there was no state with a Protestant majority (if we disregard Prussia). For later periods we have to mention Latvia and Estonia, and one should also

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consider the important protestant groups among Hungarians and Czechs. However, with regard to the question of church and state or church and nation, they are of much less importance than the other Christian churches or than Protestants in Western Europe, for example in the Netherlands. When speaking about the study of religion in Central and Eastern Europe, one should not forget to include Jews and Muslims. Until World War II Jews were a relevant, though discriminated group all over the region. Muslims are important for several reasons; I will mention here only the Ottoman heritage, the special understanding of umma and rayah, the fact that today they form the majority of population in Bosnia and probably also in Albania, and the fact that in today’s discussion, the relationship between Christians and Muslims is seen as the most important issue. It becomes clear that there is not only a different attitude of each religious tradition towards the issues of state and nation, but also differences within the respective community. There is nothing like ‘the’ Catholic or ‘the’ Orthodox position towards state or nation. Some common elements can be identified, but historical, political and societal circumstances seem to play a very important role, sometimes more important than confessional traditions. And, more important, these different attitudes developed also by encounter and exchange between the religious traditions.

Church and democracy A second topic, more generally, which could be addressed here, is the question of Christianity and its position towards democracy and authoritarianism in Central and Eastern Europe. Why did the churches there obviously react in a different matter to these phenomena? It seems that we have a similar situation here as in the question of church and nation. In the early 20th century, at the end of the ‘long 19th century’, almost all churches were critical towards the idea of democracy, of participation, of equal rights for all citizens, etc. The Catholic Church is an authoritarian organization which stresses hierarchy in a strong line from the top to the bottom. This does not always work as is desired, as we could see concerning the issue of nationalism, but it did work in terms of preferring authoritarian structures also in state and society. The Orthodox Church is an organization in which clergy leads the church, but theoretically also laypeople do participate in this function. In some places, remnants of this idea can be found, for example in Romania where assemblies with a majority of laypeople elect the bishops. But practically, in all local orthodox churches laity does not

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play a prominent role, and obedience to the clergy, especially to the bishops, is in fact of high importance. There is a certain exception in this regard with Protestant churches. They do know and respect authority, but it is not so clearly linked with persons. The authority the Scripture enjoys in Protestant, above all Lutheran tradition is, however, comparable to the role of the magisterium of the Catholic church. In reformed tradition, the community has a high degree of authority in regard to its individual members. And historically it can be said, that also Protestant churches were supportive to authoritarian systems. Protestantism contains in itself a certain potential of criticism and resistance, but is not immune against the temptations of power and authority, too. These preconditions must be considered when thinking about the relation of churches towards democracy. Also in Western European countries, it was a very difficult and long lasting process for the churches to accept democratic values. In the 1960s and 1970s, the German Catholic bishops gave recommendations for whom Catholics should vote in general elections, which were read in all churches instead of the Sunday sermon – luckily, the faithful did not like this kind of paternalism any more, voted as they thought it was right, and the bishops had to learn (and did learn!) the lesson that democracy does not mean that Catholics are to vote according to the bishops’ opinion. The important thing here is: We have to deal with very conservative bodies which did not expect the fruits of democracy with open arms. In Central and Eastern Europe, a democratic development was missing in most countries between the two World Wars and in all countries between 1945 and 1990. Churches there had no chance to learn how to live, to react, to behave in a pluralistic society. They were confronted with this situation after the decline of communism, and frequently they perceived the change and its consequences, above all everything which was now new as something threatening, as dangerous. They had to manage the process which took dozens of years for Western Churches, in very short time. On the one hand, they were urged to act in a completely new environment. They had to develop a position towards all kinds of questions concerning social ethics. This is something which is common to all churches in the region. In 2000, the Russian Orthodox Church even published a document ‘Foundations of a Social Doctrine’, which was written partly because of the desire of Western Churches and ecumenical bodies to know something about orthodox positions concerning social ethics. Local Catholic churches frequently adopted common Catholic standpoints and Roman documents, yet without being able to apply them to their concrete context.

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Another kind of reaction which can frequently be found in all Christian traditions in this boundary region is a very suspicious and critical attitude towards the Western World. For people who were victims of the communist system, the ‘West’ was frequently an ideal place of liberty, individual rights, and religious freedom. But it appeared also as a place of moral freedom. For many representatives of churches in Central and Eastern Europe, all negative consequences of Western influence can be described as ‘pornography’. This term subsumes everything between real pornography and the fact that homosexual relations are not criminalized any more. Liberalism, and therefore also democracy are regarded as negative values, and it is not by chance that the Russian Orthodox Church applauded the remarks of pope Benedict XVI., especially his last sermon as a cardinal at the opening mass of the conclave in which he was elected, when he deplored the phenomena of liberalism, individualism, voluntarism, relativism, describing the Church as a stable rock in a stormy sea of all such -isms. As a consequence of this situation, a critical stance towards Europe in all churches in the region can be frequently observed. Europe is regarded as something strange, which is different from ‘us’. One can see paper headlines like ‘We and Europe’ or ‘Europe wants us to . . .’. Of course, sometimes the notion Europe is simply understood as the European Union. Nevertheless, the idea of a Europe to which ‘we’ do not belong is broadly spread. And Europe is connected with all those negative phenomena just mentioned. Concerning the situation of research in the field, it seems that there are several new developments within the last years. Firstly, research on questions of church and religion has intensified. There is a lot of very good and qualified pieces of work. In general, a great progress in the research of church affairs has been made in the last 10–15 years. As a consequence of the fact that research on church and religion is done frequently by social scientists, new methodology from social sciences is applied also in theology and church history which is a completely new phenomenon; field studies are done; and much more about the processes is known than before. Sometimes, overarching studies are lacking. It would be helpful to have the material interpreted in a broader way. But most probably this is a matter of time, and of course, it can be achieved only when there is a relevant amount of field studies. A second aspect is that there is a new situation, namely people from the region studying the churches. This is a relatively new phenomenon, and one can prove it easily when looking at the contributions to this volume. Years ago, in a book with a similar theme, the vast majority of

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contributors would have been people from the United States, the UK, Germany, and other Western countries. Nowadays, there is a fruitful cooperation between scholars from the region itself and from other parts of the world. This changes also the research in a positive way, since there is better access to archives, better knowledge of languages, etc. Interestingly, the vast majority of these studies is done mostly by people who are not theologians. That leads to the consequence that sometimes a theological aspect in the studies done is missing. Even in very good pieces of work, one can feel that an understanding of theological concepts, of confessional traditions or of biblical knowledge would make the research more complete. This does not mean that one can do research on churches only as a theologian, but it is helpful for a better understanding to have theological expertize. Regrettably, only very few studies are written by people who actually belong to the churches of the region. In Western church history, scholars who are linked with the church, who work on theological faculties, or who are engaged in teaching clergy and church staff, form a major share of researchers on church issues. In Central and Eastern Europe, it seems that there are two separated communities: People from the West or from the country itself who do research on churches, church history, sociology of religion and similar topics, who apply modern methodology, who use a comparative approach, and who have good knowledge of central aspects of church history. The other community consists of people within the churches, authors of textbooks, teaching in institutions and courses for clergy formation, who often have a traditional approach, showing the history of their own church exclusively and – as it happens frequently in Eastern Europe – in a mood of defence, or at least in order to confirm their own position. However, these two communities hardly have contact with one another. A good example for this division is the fact that in the Central European University in Budapest, some very good dissertations were written on themes of church history in Eastern Europe, by people who are historians, dissertations which really further the understanding of the local or regional church history, and that at the same time this university (as founded and financed by George Soros) is regarded by many churches as a cradle of liberalism and anti-church feelings, and that frequently means: anti-national feelings. History, and also church history, in Eastern Europe often serves as a tool for confirming a position or a view on one’s own past which already existed before the research process. This is valid also for other fields in humanities, like literature, language, art, but in history it plays a very important role. This includes the fact that frequently the churches are

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very reluctant to accept criticism, and that they do not display enough readiness for self-criticism, i.e. for a critical approach towards themselves, their history (which has not only been a history of glory on the one hand and of suppression on the other hand) and their acts. Again: This is not a privilege of churches in Eastern Europe, but something which has also a long history in the West. *** The articles in this volume reflect on the differences, common features, and points of encounter between religious communities in Central– Eastern and Western Europe. The focus is on the conceptual boundary: which were the mutual influences between the churches in the region in different periods, how were the mechanisms of exercising influence, and how did the confessional backgrounds shape encounters with other traditions, but also with questions arising from historical and political developments. Additionally, other concepts of borders are taken into account, like borderlines within a religious community, e.g. The volume tries to highlight some important examples for such processes; of course, it would have been possible also to find other examples. The articles show cases from the first time when a consciousness about such differences arose, in the 9th century, to the ecumenical tensions and chances of our time. They cover the different regions of this encounter, from Southeast Europe over Ukraine, Russia and the Baltic area. And they concern different fields, from religiosity over theological conceptions to historical developments. It is aimed at giving an insight into the variety and broadness of such encounters of faiths alongside the conceptual borderline through Europe in different periods of times. Leonid Chekin deals with the upcoming of a new awareness of the spatial world which was a result of the imperial idea both in Byzantium and in the West. His comparative study of records about the mission to the Swedes and about the so called ‘First Baptism of Rus’ ’ adds a new dimension to the famous rivalry between Eastern and Western Churches in the second half of the ninth century. They were competing not only for Moravia and Bulgaria, but also for the last frontier of the Christian mission, the ‘ends of the Earth’ in what is known today as Eastern and Northern Europe. But the contribution also shows the importance of early medieval history for Eastern European peoples, and it therefore links the later chapters on modernity with the origins, since the grounds for many important borders in our time were laid then. The chapter of Liliya Berezhnaya deals with the problems of ethnoconfessional relations in early modern Ruthenian lands within the

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framework of recent frontier studies. In the focus of analysis is the concept of Multiple Borderlands suggested by Alfred J. Rieber as applied to the Ruthenian history. The article attempts to discern peculiarities of the ‘Ruthenian case’, namely, the interpolation of religious and ethnic identities, and the meaning of the antemurale christianitatis concept. The analysis allows conclusions to be made about the fusion of the inner peripheral and military frontier status of the Ruthenian lands which occurred in the second half of the 17th century. This process indicated fundamental shifts in religious mentalities and the formation of new cultural and ideological boundaries. Thus, the contribution is dealing with the border issue in its most direct understanding, discussing a region between different border areas. Alfons Brüning’s contribution examines the value of the historiographical concept of ‘confessionalization’ for those Eastern European regions where the Orthodox Church in its Eastern Slavic forms was culturally predominant. ‘Confessionalization’ as a concept initially had been developed to describe the macro-processes in the Latin West, while its initiators from the very beginning claimed its universal significance. In any way, it is an adoption which has to be reflected deliberately. After a recapitulation of the theoretical discussions in Western research of the last years, this adoption is being undertaken on the base of recent studies on church and society mainly in Russia and Ukraine. Some parallels between the Western development and that in the East seem to be obvious, like in case of the inner formation of the Orthodox Church during the Early Modern period. Soon, however, the limits of the concept become clear as well, as e.g. for the dimension of what the ‘confessionalization’ concept included as ‘social discipline’ of clerics or laymen. In this contribution, we have to do with a border transgressing in a double way: Concerning the facts of church history in Eastern and Western Europe (were there parallels, and how far?), and concerning the methodological conception which is used in this article. Ekaterina Emeliantseva’s study discusses the social behaviour and religious self-identification of the Christ–faith believers, a group of circles in 19th century Russia, by emphasizing the relevance of social situations in the analysis of religiosity. Using the cases of Ekaterina Tatarinova’s ‘spiritual community’ in St Petersburg and Mar’ia Borisowa’s Christ–faith circle in Moscow, which practiced ecstatic forms of worship, along with their attendance of Orthodox services, the model of situational religiosity is introduced as a key concept for understanding the social practice of the Christ–faith believers. The subjective sense of belonging – as a member of a private religious circle or as a member of Russian church – varied for

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these religious enthusiasts and non-conformists – in their domestic life, their friendships, their business activities and their religious practices. Thus, the borderline between belonging and not belonging, between the observation of traditional (and canonical) church rules and an alternative faith is transgressed, in a way which shows that there is no clear borderline between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’, but rather a border area. The case study also indicates that boundaries do not necessarily have to do with geographical or regional areas. Religious communities also form ‘areas’ with borders which may be observed – or not. In the 19th century, among the Poles in Prussia arose a consciousness about the medieval history of Poland which resulted in the construction of a chapel for the relics of medieval kings Mieszko I and Boleslaw the Brave. Robert E. Alvis shows in his article the history of the construction of this chapel in Poznan’s cathedral which reveals a lot of this era, much more than of the medieval epoch itself. It is also a history of encounters and of transgressing borders since the Prussian authorities played a decisive role in the process, since the main sculptor of the statues was a Prussian artist and since it was decided to design a Byzantine style chapel which is completely untypical for Poland. Even main national memorials can be subject to influences from ‘the other side’ of the borderline.

Mihai Sasaujan deals with an encounter of faiths in a very special way which is typical for the 20th century, namely within the framework of the ecumenical movement. His study presents the personality of two prestigious Romanian Orthodox theologians of the 20th century, Metropolitan Nicolae (Balan) of Transylvania and Professor Dr Ioan G. Coman from Bucharest, and their active implication in the ecumenical movement. The Romanian Orthodox Church has intensively participated in it at almost all its manifestations until 1948 and contributed to the determination of some of its principles. It was the home of ecumenical congresses and published numerous pages in the Romanian church reviews, concerning the ecumenical movement. An important part was played by the Metroplitan Nicolae, whose attitude towards the ecumenical movement is presented in the article. The year 1948 brought along a forced change of attitude, imposed during the Orthodox conference in Moscow (9–18 July 1948) when all the Orthodox churches which were represented at this conference were asked not to participate in the launching conference of the World Council of Churches in Amsterdam, trying, this way, to break the church relations with the Western churches. The Romanian Orthodox representative in Moscow, Dr Coman, suggested a plan of preparing Orthodoxy to play an important part in the ecumenical movement. Thus, he transgressed the borders imposed by church politics.

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The protestant Church in Germany established in 1958 an organization called Aktion Sühnezeichen which should promote voluntary work in countries like Israel, USSR and Poland as a symbol for reconciliation. David Doellinger researches in his study how this organization worked under the special circumstances of the German Democratic Republic: In a system which did not want to take responsibility for the war, under the auspices of a protestant Church which had a certain autonomy and which was in narrow relation to the protestant Church in West Germany, although since 1969 formally independent. Aktion Sühnezeichen in the GDR tried to establish contacts to Poland and to Czechoslovakia, and it organized summer camps in the GDR. As a non militant organization, it was always in a certain tension to the system which thought of an armed socialism in order to protect peace. In this contribution, it is clearly political borders which are subject of the study. Gert Pickel’s uses in his article an sociological approach. He offers a comparison between Western and Eastern European countries; this means an application of the conceptual borderline conception to today’s situation. While we find declining religiosity on most Western European countries, in the former communist states religion is gaining high influence in state and society. Will this process continue, or are we rather to expect a similar secularization process in Central and Eastern Europe as well? The article shows the difficult and complex conditions for researching this issue, and it offers an insight in similarities and differences on the two sides of the conceptual boundary. Croatia is usually regarded as a homogenous Catholic country. Zrinka Stimac researches the variety of religious phenomena in Croatia. Even if the vast majority of the population is Catholic, we find other Christian and non Christian believers, as well as non believers and adherents of new religious movements. The study shows how new religious movements could gain popularity within the framework of the situation of transition and of an after-war-situation, and how the majority church reacts to these phenomena which shows that it is considered to be a serious religious adversary. The article deals with a shift of borders within a traditional religious community, but it also shows that the shape of this traditional kind of popular religiosity (with phenomena like healing, spells of defence, etc.) has a tendency in itself which is open to other religions or customs from other religions, if they can help solving everyday problems. Johannes Oeldemann presents in his work the problem of the ‘canonical territory’ which is claimed by the Russian Orthodox Church in its conflict with the Roman Catholic church over the last few years. This concept of canonical territory obviously serves above all to fend off competing

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ecclesiastical structures. The canonical territory of the Patriarchate of Moscow of today is based on the expansionary efforts of the Russian Tsars and communist rulers. Except for Georgia and Armenia having independent churches for historical reasons, the Patriarchate of Moscow considers the whole area of the former Soviet Union to be its own canonical territory. The question arises to what extent the concept of canonical territory might be applicable to the present multi-confessional situation in Russia without being abused for an ecclesiological exclusiveness or nationalistic purposes. The mere expression of ‘territory’ shows that the question of borders is within this topic; the attempt of a religious community to define geographically its territory, its area. Thus, the chapters of this volume can offer an insight in different cases were conceptual borders play an important role in Central and Eastern Europe. The also show the importance of religious issues for this border, but also for the understanding of today’s situation in many countries, and of the relation between different countries. We see the historical roots of such phenomena, and we also see that the borderline is not be understood as a strong and unflexible one, but rather as a border area or sometimes as a line which cuts through religious traditions and communities. Hopefully, this volume will also contribute to filling the lacks mentioned earlier.

2 Geography, Eschatology, and Religious Conversions in the Ninth Century* Leonid S. Chekin

At the turn of the twentieth century Archibald Cary Coolidge of Harvard used the concept of northern, ‘or more especially . . . north-eastern’ Europe, in which he included the Scandinavians and the Slavs, or, in state terms, Russia, Sweden, and Poland.1 This concept may appear at a variance with present-day cultural boundaries, but early medieval geographers would agree with such a grouping of areas and peoples. The old Roman limes still served as the border between civilization and barbarity, and the northern region behind this border would be described as a single entity. This chapter brings together records of three enigmatic events of the ninth century, which have received a substantial, though usually separate treatment, and which have occupied a crucial place in the construction of Swedish, Russian, Jewish, and other national histories. One is the earliest mentioning of the conversion of the Khazars to Judaism, by Christian of Stavelot in about 870. The other record is the description of the mission to the Sueones, ‘Swedes’ in the Life of Ansgar, composed by Rimbert about 875. The third record is a circular letter of Patriarch Photius of 867, which informed that a bishop had been sent to the people of the Rhos. The common feature which the three contemporaneous conversion records share is precisely the geographical direction of the three events. The remote north-eastern extremity of the known world where they took place had been marked as a breeding ground of disaster and evil since the days of the biblical Prophets. I will argue that the ninth-century revival of Western and Eastern empires brought along a strong eschatological expectation, which manifested itself in the baptism of the Sueones and the Rhos and which was reinforced by the conversion of the Khazars. This interpretation adds a new dimension to the famous rivalry between Eastern and Western Churches in the second half of the ninth century, 16

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especially during the patriarchate of Photius and the pontificate of Nicholas I. The eschatological expectation could be defined either positively (the last nations to be baptized) or negatively (the people of Gog and Magog). The fear of the negative should be, of course, put in the perspective of the Lord’s coming, which the truly faithful anticipate ‘with a thirsty longing, a vigilant hope, and a faithful love’ (St Augustine commenting on Matt. 24.48–9).2 This expectation provided an intellectual framework and a powerful impulse for the first missionaries who ventured into the northern realm in the ninth century.

The missionary task The newest and the last period of world history, following the descent of the Holy Spirit to the Apostles, should be understood as the spatial spreading of Christianity to the ‘ends of the earth’, which the New Testament directly connects to the anticipation of the Last Judgment: the temporal end is delayed until the mission is completed. According to Matthew’s version of the little Apocalypse, ‘this Gospel of the Kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then it shall be the end’ (Matt. 24.14; cf. Mark 13.10). The connection of Messianic Woes and the missionary task is not a peripheral motif. Some biblical students have tried to show that the theme of the mission as the precondition of the end runs through the Acts of the Apostles and most of Paul’s writings.3 The Apostles are assigned a crucial role in fulfilling God’s plan of redemption: ‘to be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria and to the end of the earth’ (Acts 1.8). According to Roger Aus, Paul desired to reach Spain (Rom. 15.24, 28), precisely because of its location at the extremity of the earth.4 In his letter to a Dalmatian bishop, Hesychius, in 418 St Augustine stated that the apostles had not completed the missionary task. Contrary to what Hesychius suggested, the missionary mandate was addressed not only to them, but to the succeeding generations as well, a fact which further postponed the Lord’s coming. Augustine referred to the people outside of the Roman authority, who were totally unaffected by Christianity. The Church ‘still has room for growth before the prophesy is fulfilled which was made about Christ as prefigured by Solomon: “He shall rule from sea to sea and from the river to the ends of the world”. “From the river” means from the place he was baptised, since that is where he began to preach the gospel. But “from sea to sea” means the

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whole world with its inhabitants, since it is entirely surrounded by the Ocean’.5 A fine distinction follows from Christ’s words, that preaching, not conversion is mandatory and inevitable. As St Augustine put it, ‘in nations where the Church does not yet exist, she must come into existence; but it does not mean that all who live in them must come to believe’.6 For later periods, mission among the Pagans appears more important in eschatological terms than, for example, an attempt to regain the formerly Christian areas of Asia or Africa from the rule of Islam. The conversion of distant tribes was not always high on the agenda. But the fifth-century British missionary bishop in Ireland, Magonus Sucatus Patricius (St Patrick), fancied that he might ‘follow the example of those whom long ago the Lord had predicted to be destined to preach his gospel as a witness to all the nations before the end of the world, and we have therefore seen that it was fulfilled in this way; see, we are witnesses that the gospel has been preached as far as where there is no further human being’. His successful missionary work, which he undertook with the Roman Empire crumbling in the background, strengthened him in his conviction that he was living in nouissimus diebus, ‘in the last days’ (Acts 2.17).7 Indeed, he travelled ‘through many dangers even as far as outlying territories beyond which there was no human habitation and where no one had ever before penetrated capable of baptizing or ordaining clergy or confirming the flock’.8 The mission on the margins of the world belongs to a realm of ideas, which may intersect with the peregrinatio propter Christum, the spiritual exercize in ascetic homelessness and alienation of the world, in particular as it was practiced by Irish monks in the early Middle Ages. It was considered the highest degree of monastic fulfilment, not only to leave behind parents and relatives and to seclude oneself in a monastery, but to leave the monastery at home as well for the wilderness and desert of the distant lands. Such monks were the first settlers of Iceland and other islands of the Atlantic. But the Irish settlers of Iceland had mostly ascetic reasons to undertake their pioneer expeditions. The homeland was sacrificed for a life ‘in the desert’, not for spreading the word of Christ to the ends of the earth. Perhaps it is not fair to deprive the Irish monks who became instrumental in the spreading of Christianity on the Continent of any missionary intentions.9 But although their missionary activities were not completely random and accidental, such as those of St Columban in Gallia since 591, they were a corollary to their primary pursuit of homelessness and ascetic perfection.

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St Columban lived in a quite different world than that of St Patrick. Let us remember the ‘cartographic’ vision, which St Columban had in Bregenz about 611 and which persuaded the saint to put aside his plans to proselytize among the ‘Wends also known as Slavs’. The saint saw an angel who showed him ‘the structure of the world within a reduced circumference, as they usually depict the circle of inhabited lands with a pen on a page’, and who said to him: ‘You see that the earth is still empty. Go to the right or to the left, whichever side you choose, and eat the fruit of your deeds’.10 Columban saw the world as a desert where the work was only starting, whether at the courts of the only superficially Christian Merovingian kings, or among the heathen tribes of the Swabians or the Slavs. St Patrick and St Columban were motivated by two distinct visions of the frontier of Christian civilization: the frontier as a missionary field and the frontier as a desert. Both visions were not necessarily incompatible, but their relative influence strongly correlated with the destinies of the Empire, whether Roman or, later, Carolingian and Ottonian Empires. The missionary program of the Irish, Anglo-Saxon, and other successors of Columban throughout the seventh and the eighth centuries was in principle universal, but they often encountered ‘unripe fruit’ – the tribes who were still not ready to accept Christianity.11 For St Boniface, the tireless baptizer of Germany, there always would remain inconvertible tribes of ‘the unclean origin of Magog’.12 The overwhelming missionary enthusiasm of St Patrick required a certain eschatological optimism, the diminishing margins of the world and an acute feeling of the proximity of the end of the world and of the Christian mission. The grounds for this eschatological optimism would gradually return with the revival of the imperial idea by Carolingian times. The idea of world dominion was at the centre of Roman ideology and politics both before and during the imperial period. Augustus may have defined the temporary borders of the territories under his control, but the ability of his state or system (not labelled as empire as yet) to ultimately fill the whole known world was not questioned.13 In fact, his time was regarded by posterity as if the ideal had actually been achieved. Throughout the Middle Ages, his image was that of the ruler of the whole world and thus the maker of peace. The birth of Christ in the midst of this pax Augusti bestowed a blessing which made Augustus equal to none among world rulers, except perhaps Constantine the Great, the first Christian emperor and the founder of Constantinople. Since the conversion of Emperor Constantine in 312, ‘the Empire was seen as an agent by which the whole world would be Christianized; and the fact

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that the birth of Christ coincided with the reign of the first Roman emperor was thought to substantiate these expectations’.14 In Carolingian times, the ideologues of the empire regarded its growth at the account of the Barbarians as the instrument for the Christianization of the world, and an icon of the spiritual unity of Christians. The actual authority of the Emperor diminished throughout the ninth century: his powerbase was effectively confined to more and more limited territory. But in his panegyrics to Charles the Bald and to Lotaire I, Sedulius Scottus, an Irishman who flourished in Liege between 848 and 858, evoked Vergil’s words in the beginning of the first Georgica, tibi seruiat ultima Thule. According to Sedulius, the fame of the two Caesars reached Thule, the legendary island in the extreme northwest of the known world.15 The rhetoric of the Empire persisted and the traditional geographical names were employed to exaggerate its universality. In the East the imperial idea came down to the ninth century as a result of uninterrupted development. True, the territory under the actual authority of the emperors had shrunken hopelessly, but ideally it still coincided with the ecumene, the whole inhabitable world; the only exception was still, as before, the barbarian chaos on the edges of the world. Thus, in his sermon about a barbarian attack on Constantinople in 860, Photius stressed that a lawless enemy threatens not the old Jerusalem, the capital of one nation, but the city ‘reigning over almost entire ecumene’.16 Byzantine political rhetoric was always laden with religious meaning. As first formulated by Eusebios of Caesarea, the purpose of Empire was to expedite the spread of Christianity by uniting the known world. Hence the missionary task of the Byzantine emperors, exercized in the perfect harmony with the Patriarch. ‘Any gain for the empire was a gain for Christianity and any gain for Christianity outside the confines of the civilized world was a gain for the empire’.17 After a peak of Byzantine missionary activity in the sixth century under Justinian, the mission was a series of incidents rather than a program. By the mid-ninth century, the eastern Empire had been recovering from the conquests by the Arabs in the East, from the Germanic and Slavonic push in Europe, and from the internal strife between the iconoclasts and iconodules. The Empire had once again begun to expand, and it embarked on a large-scale missionary work. The most important form of Byzantine missionary work of that time was, as Ihor Sevcenko put it, not missions by military interventions and freelance activists, but those ‘in which diplomatic activity was camouflaged as a reaction to requests from outside’.18

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With respect to Constantinople’s claim to world dominance and its status as the centre of the ideal world empire, the Arab conquests did not really matter. But the imperial coronation of Charlemagne in 800, which was performed according to the Byzantine model, with the acclamation by citizens and consecration by the Pope, created a much bigger problem for Byzantine imperial claims. From now on, the imperial idea would develop in difficult interaction between the Eastern and Western Empire, in the latter case further complicated by the differences between the approaches of the Pope and the Emperor. The missionary activities of both Eastern and Western Empires intersected in the ninth century, most famously in Moravia and Bulgaria, which resulted in bitter rivalry and in famous polemics between Patriarch Photius and Pope Nicholas.19 Both the Moravian and Bulgarian missions dealt with the peoples which had long been included in the orbit of imperial politics. But even here there were moments of cooperation, to which the careers of St Cyril (Constantine Philosopher) and Methodius, the baptizers of the Moravians patronized by both Constantinople and Rome, amply testify. A certain diffusion of ideas was inevitable.

The geography of nations The revival of the imperial idea resulted in a new awareness of the geographical, spatial world. During the Middle Ages, the principal image of the world was an inheritance from authorities of late antiquity. This picture focused on territory mainly within the borders of the Roman Empire. Therefore, it had to be supplemented when medieval geographers turned their attention to the territories outside the limits of ancient Roman geographic lore, in particular to the area we now call Eastern Europe and Scandinavia. The supply of new information remained scarce despite improvements in transcontinental contacts. To be intelligible, updated geographical and ethnographic knowledge had to fit into a concrete system of geographic ideas established in late antiquity. At the same time, the continuous migration of Altaic peoples, and the menace of Viking raids boosted geographers’ interest in the lands and peoples outside the limits of ancient Roman geographic lore. Both empires shared the Christian vision of history. The geography which early medieval writers and travellers created had a strong and perhaps predominant eschatological aspect. The geographical ideas of the Middle Ages were focused on humanity and its history. Both narrative and cartographic descriptions of the known world represented in the Middle Ages something more than just a snapshot of the earth’s surface.

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The orbs was viewed as the arena of world history: the space of the medieval map of the world or of the narrative description of the earth was not synchronous, but included references to historical events from Genesis to the Last Judgment.20 For those who undertook a mission rather than escape, the ends of the world suggested the idea of barbarity rather than of desert. Behind the Roman limes they envisioned an indistinguishable mix of people. In historiography of the last decades, it has become more acceptable to describe emerging medieval ethnicities as mental categories imposed from the outside, and not as autochthonous institutional, or economic, developments within the barbarian communities. It is partly this trend that continued the reaction against abuses of the nationalist concepts of pre-historic ethnicities;21 on a more positive side, it enabled students of medieval ethnicities to take advantage of developments in literary theory.22 Different models of medieval ethnicity do not always contradict each other, as theoretical constructs were both influencing the social realities and reinforced by the latter. No single explanation of the rise of national states can be adequate. The social power of the imperial geographical and eschatological discourse is just one of the possible explanations, which has been added to the others with the shift of historiographic priorities towards articulation and ideology. The puzzling and contradictory data of medieval literature can more often indicate the fact that the ethnographic map of ‘Scythia’ was to a large extent created by spontaneous outside observers, who structured the chaos of new data according to their own traditional models. The geographical lore of the early Middle Ages has essentially been trying to preserve the ethnical and political situation of the late Roman Empire. Regino of Prüm, who flourished in the early tenth century and who is famous as one of the prophets of modern nationalism wrote in his often quoted Epistle to Hathon that the diverse nationes populorum differ in origins, customs, language and laws (in genere, moribus, lingua, legibus).23 He also wrote a chronicle, where under the year 889 he noted the appearance of the most cruel, fierce and unknown people of Hungarians from the Scythian lands. But when describing the mores of those Hungarians, he fully relied on Justin, a late Roman authority on the Scythians.24 Here we recognize the beginning of the ‘ethnonational’ methodology that offered a common representational model and a standard classification of humanity. The inner contradictions of this model were the same as in the age of nationalism and colonialism. As a South African critic of colonial cartography John Noyes notes, this cartography could never recognize that the natives had ‘their own places’. In fact, the people outside

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the borderline of the mainstream civilization defined and constructed their own spatial order. They also had their own system of symbols, which endowed their spatial order with particular meanings.25 There are of course significant differences in the principles, according to which the medieval and modern worlds of nations are structured. Thus the difference between the nomadic and settled peoples, defined in economic terms, has played a major role in modern historical research.26 But it would be incorrect to project the same concerns into the Middle Ages and to look for a specific ‘image of the nomad’ besides the generic ‘image of the barbarian’.27 When the monasteries were attacked by the barbarians from the North-East, it made no difference for learned observers what kind of tribute-paying population provided funding for the invaders. The definition of nomadism which the medieval authors would give us has rather to do with mobility and uprootedness. Nomadism is just one of the manifestations of a chaotic threat to civilization, which include obscurity, namelessness, lowliness, remoteness, barbarity, nomadism, arrogance, lawlessness, and the absence of leaders.28 For early medieval observers, pinning down the natives to their places meant to organize the chaotic world of the Barbarians according to a teleological concept of history, as a world of territorially defined groups of potential converts to Christianity. The main route of the barbaric attacks against the Mediterranean civilization (the Scythians, Sarmatians, Goths, Huns, and Avars) was from the North and North-East. Scythia, the name of loosely defined region on the northeast margin of the world, became largely synonymous with the idea of barbarity. Thus, one of the earliest medieval maps, the Albi map of the second half of the eighth century (Figure 2.1),29 defines the area between the Caspian and the Black seas as the land of the Barbari. This connotation reappeared in other geographical markers which were thought to characterize the North and North-East: islands of the North, the Caspian Sea, the Maeotian Swamp, or Lake (the Sea of Azov), and the Caucasus Mountains. It was in this area that medieval geographers located the apocalyptic peoples Gog and Magog, whom Satan, according to the Book of Revelation, would call from the ends of the earth before the end of the world. In the Old Testament Book of Ezekiel, Gog, the Prince of Rosh, Meshech and Tubal, inhabited the land Magog in the North. Here Magog is the name of a land. There is another Magog in the Book of Genesis, a son of Japheth. From these Bible verses a legend developed which dominated the picture of the North both in the Christian and Muslim geographic lore of the Middle Ages, the legend about multitudes of troops who were waiting for the end of the world. At some point, the legend merged with

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Figure 2.1 Line-drawing of the Albi Map, from Catalogue Général des manuscrits des bibliothèques publiques des départements de France, 1 (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1849), between pp. 486 and 487.

the motif of Barbarian tribes who had been enclosed by Alexander the Great behind a wall, a mountain, or a gate. The legend about Gog and Magog and the Alexander Gate went through many stages of development in Islamic and Christian traditions, and it was often employed to describe such invaders from the North-East as the Huns, the Avars, the Turks, and so on. In this usage, Gog and Magog do not necessarily retain their eschatological function, but they always signify a quintessential savage Barbarian who breaks all possible laws and taboos. On the largest medieval map, the thirteenth-century Ebstorf map from Lower Saxony, which epitomized the centuries-old tradition of the

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Figure 2.2 The Ebstorf Map, Sheet 2, from E. Sommerbrodt, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte (Hannover: Hahn, 1891), pl. 3.

mappae mundi, the traces of Gog and Magog legend are all over the North (mostly according to the Cosmographia of the mid-eighth century, based on fictitious travel account of a certain Aethicus). The River Olchis, associated by Aethicus with Magog, is identified here with the Volkhov in northern Russia (Rucia). On an ocean close to the Scythian shores, the map shows Turci de stirpe Gog et Magog, the Turks of Gog and Magog extraction. But Gog and Magog themselves are prominently displayed on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea, as two people securely separated from the rest of the world by a wall and a mountain range. They are devouring the torn hands and feet of some hapless victim, who somehow managed to get into their realm (Figure 2.2).30

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It is not quite certain whether we should necessarily interpret the victim’s white hairdo as the martyr’s halo. Perhaps he is here just to illustrate the cannibalistic habit of Gog and Magog, which is described in a legend inside the wall. But one of the legends outside the wall also indicates that the word of Gospel was heard at least in the very proximity to this realm of evil: Hic sancti patres in deserto multa pertulerunt pro Christo, ‘Here in the desert the holy fathers endured much for Christ’. The image of Gog and Magog on the map points to a specific missionary problem. The world of the medieval geographers, who adopted ancient theories of the microcosm, is the Body of Christ. On the Ebstorf Map Christ encloses and embraces all of creation: the Goths, the Franks, the Moravians, the Dog-headed people and the Amazons. Yet could Gog and Magog also be saved? Was a mission in their realm possible?

The conversion of Gog and Magog There was a person who answered this question already in the ninth century. This person, whom some scribes of his main work, Commentary on Matthew, called Christianus Grammaticus, and who in more recent literature is known as Christian of Stavelot dedicated his work to the monks of Stavelot and Malmedy. These two idyllic communities were part of the patrimony of the ill-fated grandson of Louis the Pious, Lothair. Lothair’s struggle for divorce from Teuthberga and for recognition of his illegitimate children as his heirs was the cornerstone of Carolingian politics in Christian’s times, until Lothair’s untimely and shameful death in 867 and the division of his kingdom between his uncles, Charles the Bald and Louis the German in 870. Throughout medieval and modern history the two monasteries in the Ardennes were an easy target for any barbarian attack, as by the red-capped French revolutionaries, who closed the abbey and destroyed its buildings, and by the Nazis with their firing squads. But the first major catastrophe happened at the end of 881 when the Normans, Danarum gens, came to the Ardennes plundering villages and burning towns.31 Both Stavelot and Malmedy were destroyed.32 No buildings or artifacts have been preserved from before that date, except for the relics of St Remaclus, now resting in the local church of St Sebastian, which had been saved from the plunderers by the fleeing monks. This event provides the terminus ante quem for the completion of the Commentary and perhaps for Christian’s life as well. As he defined it, Christian of Stavelot’s priority was to reveal the historic (literal) meaning of the Gospel, which he believed to be the only way of

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disclosing its spiritual meaning. History, according to Christian, was the foundation of all knowledge. That is why commenting on Chapter 24, which deals with Jesus’ discussion of the Last Judgment, Christian used evidence from the Apocalypse. Of verse 12 (‘And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall grow cold’) Christian noted, that this verse referred to the time of the Antichrist. In connection with verse 14 (‘And this Gospel of the Kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then it shall be the end’), he again recalled the helpers of the Antichrist, the peoples Gog and Magog. He added: ‘We are not aware of any nation under the sky that would not have Christians among them. For even in Gog and Magog, the Hunnic people who call themselves Gazari, those whom Alexander confined, there was a tribe more brave than the others. This tribe has already been circumcised, and they profess all dogmas of Judaism. However, the Bulgars, who are also from those seven tribes, are being baptised daily’. This note by Christian is the earliest testimony to what is now commonly known as the conversion of the Khazars to Judaism.33 The news about the conversions of the Altaic tribes provided Christian with the answer to our theological problem: Gog and Magog could and should be baptised. It appears that the people of Gog and Magog had already divided themselves in terms of confession. The people of Gog and Magog were still destined to play their role at the end of the world. Moreover, one of the tribes of Gog and Magog, as Christian of Stavelot noted, had been converted to Judaism. At the same time, the baptism of one of their Hunnic tribes, the fiercest enemies of civilization, signified the ultimate success of the Christian mission. This is the eschatological dimension of the Bulgarian conversion.34 Similar themes are used repeatedly to characterize the northern Barbarians, including the Normans, the Western counterparts of the Khazars. Although the word Barbari itself was not applied to the Normans very often, all the components of the image of the fierce enemies of civilization were at hand35 – despite the fact there had been a long history of both military and peaceful contacts across the frontier and in the key points of international trade as Birca or Hedeby, which prepared ground for the introduction of Christianity.36 St Ansgar’s several missionary journeys to Denmark and Sweden were recorded in the Life of Ansgar (Vita Anskarii, between 865 and 876) by his disciple and successor, Rimbert (c. 830–88). About 851/52 while preparing a missionary trip to the North, St Ansgar had a vision of the late Adalhard (d. 826), the Abbot of both Corbie and Corvey. The abbot quoted prophesies by Isaiah (49.1–7) about the islands, the people far

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away, and about the extremities of the earth. As we learn from the Life of Ansgar, those words apply directly to the land of the Swedes (Sueonum), since almost the whole of Sweden consisted of islands and since ‘the northern extremity of the world lies in the region of the Swedes’.37 Thus, the Life of Ansgar suggested that the mission had reached the ultimate limits of the known world. Does this eschatological awareness accurately reflect the motives behind Ansgar’s trip, or was it introduced by Rimbert? The Life of Ansgar was addressed to the monks of Corbie with the obvious aim of gaining their patronage for the mission, the prospects for which were looking increasingly bleak. As James T. Palmer has demonstrated, the Life of Ansgar had close intellectual links with the works of Paschasius Radbertus (c. 786–860). ‘Radbertus clearly influenced Rimbert’s conception of what was occurring in the north’.38 The life work of Paschasius Radbertus was his commentary on Matthew. The third and final volume of the commentary was compiled, after he had resigned from his position as the Abbot of Corbie (between about 843 and about 849). The civil wars among the Franks and the Barbarian invasions were for him signs of the approaching end.39 He also pointed to the fact that the Christian faith had spread throughout the world. Explaining the words in Matthew 24.14 with the help of St Augustine (not everyone should believe but everyone should have given opportunity to listen to the Gospels), he gave the example of the recent building of churches in the area of certain ‘Danish’ tribes.40 In the ninth century there were other commentators of Matthew like Hrabanus Maurus, who exercized a more cautious historical–critical approach. But Radbertus and other scholars who were interested and engaged in the mission would more likely see the events of their own time as a direct fulfilment of the Scripture.41 Unfortunately, the story of Rimbert’s own life, written soon after his death (888), but edited later (the only manuscript survives from the twelfth century) does not pay enough attention to his missionary endeavours. It reports about his travel across the sea, in particular to Sueonia, but the goal of these reports is to indicate that he often suffered shipwreck like Apostle Paul, or that he often calmed the tempest with a word.42 Rimbert’s correspondence with the renowned theologian, Ratramnus of Corbie (c. 825–c. 870) may further clarify his views on the future of Christian mission. Only Ratramnus’ reply, written before 865, has survived from this correspondence. Ratramnus analyzed information which Rimbert had gathered about the Cynocephales, the monsters who had heads of dogs and who barked instead of talking. Basing on the information

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supplied by Rimbert, Ratramnus speculated that the dog-headed people should be considered human for several reasons. The dog heads and the barking surely make them appear more as beasts than humans. But they lived in villages, which means that they had a society; they practiced agriculture and made clothing of animal skins and even cloth, which means that they possessed skills; and they covered their private parts, which means that they were aware of shame. All of this indicated the presence of a rational soul. In addition, there was the historical precedent of St Christopher who reportedly had a canine’s head.43 There could be differing opinions on what prompted the appearance of the motif of the dog-headed people in general and why it came to the North in particular. They had been spotted in the North well before Rimbert: the popular Cosmographia by Aethicus (a source of the Ebstorf Map), described precisely such a race in the northern regions, on an island called Munitia.44 Scholars have been connecting this and other similar stories to particular northern habits and rituals (fur hats, wolf masks, and so on). The Greek illustrated Psalters of the ninth–eleventh centuries, which depict Christ surrounded by the dog-headed people, suggest Psalm 21(22).16 (‘dogs are round about me’) as another important source of such imagery.45 Whomever Rimbert recognized as the dog-headed people, one should appreciate Ian Wood’s observation that ‘essentially Rimbert was trying to establish frontiers for his work, both physical and conceptual’.46 The geographical definition of the ends of the earth was not enough to set the limits for a universal mission. The islands on the margin of the world appeared as an area where the borderline between the human and the monstrous was no longer clear. It is not surprising that the image of Gog and Magog and that of the dog-headed people had common features and at times appear together in medieval literature. For example, the Revelations of Pseudo-Methodius of Patara, written in Syria in the mid-seventh century and soon translated into Greek and Latin, listed the Cynocephales among the tribes of Gog and Magog (thus becoming an early evidence for the northern localization of the dog-headed people).47 Both represented the ultimate Barbarian threat to Christian civilization and the ultimate challenge to Christian missionaries.

The first conversion of the Rhos At the same time when Christian of Stavelot tried to make sense of the Khazarian and Bulgarian conversions and when Rimbert was looking for

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advice on the future of the mission in the North, the Byzantines also had many opportunities to observe the people of the final days. This was a ‘Scythian’ nation with the name Rhos. Notwithstanding modern controversies about their language and other ethnic markers, the ninthcentury ‘Rhos’ was for both Carolingian and Byzantine observers the same people as the Normans, or, more precisely, the Swedes. Suffice it to recall the testimony of the Annals of St Bertin, the earliest medieval text where the ethnic name Rhos appears. At that period, this book of annals was being compiled at the court of Louis the Pious, by Prudentius (d. 861), future bishop of Troyes. On 18 May 839 an embassy from the last Byzantine iconoclastic Emperor, Theophilus, arrived in Ingelheim on the Rhein, where Louis the Pious, the son of Charlemagne, resided. The embassy was accompanied by a group of people who were identifying their nation as Rhos, the name or title of their king as Chacanus (or, in variant reading, Chaganus), and the reason they were sent to Theophilus as ‘for the sake of friendship’ (the Rhos might have meant the conclusion of a peace treaty). In his letter which the embassy brought, the Byzantine emperor asked Louis to grant these people right of passage since the route by which they had come to Constantinople was unsafe because of savage barbarian tribes. But after a more close investigation of the reason for their arrival, Louis found out that the strangers in fact belonged to the people of ‘Swedes’ (gentis Sueonum). Therefore, Louis started worrying that they were in fact spies both in Byzantium and in the Carolingian empire, and decided to write to Theophilus for additional information while detaining the suspicious people for the time being. The first ‘Russians’ recorded in history are in fact ‘Swedes’.48 From the eighteenth century on, this entry in the Annals of St Bertin has been one of the building stones for the ‘Normanist’ theory of the origin of Russian state, and, correspondingly, a major challenge for competing constructions of Russian national identity.49 The year 839, when the envoys came to Ingelheim, had quite an unfortunate beginning. The annalist had no good news to record. The entry in the Annals of St Bertin started with an episode of the continuous rebellion by Louis the German. The same year Louis was deeply disturbed when he found out about the conversion of deacon Bodo to Judaism (Bodo took the name of Eleazar and fled to Zaragoza). Then we learn about coastal tides that lay waste to Frisia, as well as about worrisome omens in the sky. Right before the story about the embassy of Theophilus, the Annals inform about a letter which Louis received from the King of English after Easter (6 April). The King described in particular a vision

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which a certain pious priest in his land had had after Christmas. The priest learnt that ‘if Christian people don’t quickly do penance for their various vices and crimes and don’t observe the Lord’s Day in a stricter and worthier way, then a great and crushing disaster will swiftly come upon them: for three days and nights a very dense fog will spread over their land, and then all of a sudden pagan men will attack them on a great multitude of boats and lay waste with fire and sword most of the people and land of the Christians along with all they possess. But if instead they are willing to do true penance immediately and carefully atone for their sins according to the Lord’s command with fasting, prayer and alms-giving, then they may still escape those punishments and disasters through the intercession of the saints’.50 The embassy of the Rhos appeared after all these omens and warnings, amidst shooting stars and fiery colours in the sky. It is no wonder that Louis decided to conduct a detailed investigation into the name of this people and the nature of their intentions. More than twenty years later, in 860, the people of Rhos attacked Constantinople, when Emperor Michael III with his army was undertaking an expedition against the Arabs. The attack was described by Patriarch Photius in two sermons. Photius mainly drew his inspiration from Prophet Jeremiah’s prophesies about the northern nation from the ends of the earth (6.22–3): Because of our sins ‘a people has crept down from the north, as if it were attacking another Jerusalem, and nations have been stirred up from the end of the earth, holding bow and spear; the people is fierce and has no mercy; its voice is as the roaring sea’.51 The invaders devastated the outskirts of Constantinople, massacring everything that breathed, throwing people and cattle in one macabre heap of dead bodies. But the city was saved by the same remedy which the pious English priest had advocated in 839: a sincere repentance. According to later sources the people of Constantinople repented sincerely enough to ensure the intercession of the Mother of God, whose garment, preserved in the Blachernae church, was carried around the city walls. Photius does not give the exact name of the invaders in his sermons,52 which may indicate that it was rather new to him: ‘an obscure nation, . . . unknown but which has won a name from the expedition against us, insignificant, but now become famous, humble and destitute, but now risen to a splendid height and immense wealth . . .’.53 However, the pathos of this rhetorical period is to show that God had chosen the unworthiest executioners of his wreath, due to the graveness of the sins of the citizens. The ‘name’ which they had won could just imply ‘fame’,

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as the Rhos had definitely showed up and had been known in Byzantine realm before (a fact which we in particular know from the story in the Annals of St Bertin). But in later Byzantine chronicles, the ethnonym Rhos indeed appears in varying descriptions of this attack.54 Obviously referring to such accounts, the Kievan Primary Chronicle states that the Land of Rus’ received its name in the reign of Michael III, who was the emperor at the time of the Russian attack on Constantinople.55 About 861, shortly after the siege of Constantinople, two missionaries were sent to Khazaria in the North. Those missionaries were Constantine the Philosopher and Methodius, who would later in Moravia start celebrating liturgy in Slavonic. According to the dominant explanation, they went to Khazaria at that time in particular looking for allies against the Rhos. But Vladimir Ivanovich Lamanskii, who was analysing the Life of Constantine at the start of the last century, suggested that their destination was the people of the Rhos itself.56 Indeed, given the generic usage of the word ‘Khazars’ in Latin and Slavonic sources, including the Commentary on Matthew by Christian of Stavelot, and the fact that no Byzantine source could corroborate Constantine’s mission to the Khazars, the trip of Constantine and Methodius remains open to different interpretations. The Maeotian Lake and the Caspian Gates of the Caucasian Mountains to which they sailed from Cherson according to the Slavonic Life of Constantine (the Latin texts provide no topographical data),57 do not necessarily represent the real itinerary. These are the standard geographical markers associated with the northern margin of the known world, the abode of Gog and Magog. Whether or not it was the work of Constantine and Methodius, the Rhos soon appear as a Christian people. In a circular letter sent to the Oriental Patriarchs during the first half of 867, Photius described how this once murderous and cruel people, who had besieged Constantinople seven years earlier, adopted Christianity and received a bishop.58 This time, as opposed to his homilies seven years before, the Patriarch included the name Rhos in the text. This is the first securely dated appearance of the name in a Byzantine source. In the same letter Photius affirmed that the words of the apostles would reach the ends of the known world, the ecumene. We can fill the ends of the ecumene with some concrete geographical knowledge from Photian Library, a collection of book abstracts and less formal reading notes, which Photius compiled at the request of his brother Tarasius in the mid-ninth century, perhaps about 845.59 The library included the Christian Topography by Cosmas Indicopleustes (ridiculed by Photius) and examples of travel literature, such as Antonius Diogene’s

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description of the wonders on that side of Thule and Persica and Indica by Ctesias. Photius also knew the History of the Wars of Justinian by Procopius of Cesarea, which in particular deals with the northeast threat to the Empire (the reading notes mention the Huns, the Maeotian Lake, and the gates built by Alexander the Great).60 All this may have presented the context, into which Photius could place the new northern scare of the Rhos. The name Rhos resembles one of the titles of Gog in the Septuagint version of Ezek. 39:1 (only the accent differs, as the majority of the forms, at least in the earlier sources, have a circumflex instead of the Biblical acute). It has been suggested not once that the form of the name of the Rhos itself was influenced by the Biblical text.61 Since the form of the name is explainable as a borrowing from Slavonic which the invaders more plausibly spoke when dealing with the Byzantines,62 such a suggestion seems to be superfluous. Most recently, Håkan Stang added a new twist to the theory, postulating that the Biblical form had influenced the choice of the ethnic name. When that people first appeared in Constantinople in 838, they might have had a variety of names and forms to offer the imperial secretaries.63 Of course the connection between the fierce invaders and the Rhos of Ezekiel was easy enough to make, and we have hints of such etymologizing in other, mostly later sources.64 There is little doubt that also in 860 the citizens of Constantinople could have searched for a possible apocalyptic meaning of the invasion of the Rhos, who would soon become their unexpected allies and converts to Christianity. Some scholars speculate that Photius himself could not avoid making such an allusion already in his first homily about the attack on Constantinople.65 This is hard to prove, since he used neither the name Rhos, nor Ezekiel’s verses.66 His Jeremiah motives clearly deal with the punishment which can be averted by sincere repentance. These are recurrent motives in the descriptions of the Norman raids. Thus, the anonymous witness of the Norman attack on Stavelot in 881 gives a similar explanation of the event and furnishes his text with similar quotations (Jer. 1.14 and 6.22–3).67 The active optimistic position which Photius and other baptizers of the Rhos and the Sueones maintained clearly differs from the popular superstitious millenarianism. This optimistic position of the circular letter to the Oriental Patriarchs and Rimbert’s Life of Ansgar is based on the eschatological promise of the Gospel that lays down the program for the mission until the end of the earth. Both attempts to baptise the Rhos and the Sueones in the ninth century had political motivations (to check the Viking raids). They were

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also informed by similar ideas about the proximity of the end of the apostolic mission, which permeated both the Latin West and the Byzantine realm. The simultaneous rise of imperial ideology ensured not only intense competition between the Byzantines and the Latins, as in the struggle for the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of Bulgaria. It also resulted in a revision, reorganization, and probably exchange of geographic and ethnographic knowledge about ‘the ends of the earth’.

Notes * The author is grateful to Alexander von Humboldt Foundation for financial assistance in presenting a preliminary version of this paper at the ICCEES World Congress in Berlin (2005). 1. A. C. Coolidge, ‘A Plea for the Study of the History of Northern Europe’, American Historical Review 2, 1 (1896) 34. 2. Letter 199, in M. Wiles and M. Santer, eds, Documents in Early Christian Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), p. 262. 3. Compare O. Cullmann, ‘Der eschatologische Charakter des Missionsauftrages und des apostolischen Selbstbewusstseins bei Paulus’ [The eschatological nature of the missionary task and of apostolic self-awareness in St Paul] [1936], in idem, Vorträge und Aufsätze, 1925–62 (Tübingen: Mohr, Zurich: Zwingli, 1966), pp. 305–36; J. W. Thompson, ‘The Gentile Mission as an Eschatological Necessity’, Restoration Quarterly 14 (1971) 18–27. 4. R. D. Aus, ‘Paul’s Travel Plans to Spain and the “Full Number of the Gentiles” of Rom. IX 25’, Novum Testamentum 21 (1979) 232–62. 5. Letter 199, pp. 259–60. The biblical quote is from Ps. 72.8. See a discussion of St Augustin’s letters to Hesychius in: J. Chocheyras, ‘Fin des terres et fin des temps d’Hésychius (Ve siècle) à Béatus (VIIIe siècle)’ [The end of the earth and the end of time from Hesychius (fifth century) to Beatus (eighth century)], in W. Verbeke, D. Verhelst and A. Welkenhuysen, eds, The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1988), pp. 72–81. 6. Letter 199, p. 261. 7. Confessio 34, see L. Bieler, Libri Epistolarum Sancti Patricii Episcopi, 1: Introduction and Text (Dublin: Stationery Office, 1952), p. 76. English translation is given according to R. P. C. Hanson, ‘English Translation of the “Confession” and the “Letter to Coroticus” of Saint Patrick’, Nottingham Medieval Studies 15 (1971) 14. 8. Confessio 51, in Bieler, Libri Epistolarum Sancti Patricii Episcopi, p. 86; translation in Hanson, ‘English Translation of the “Confession” ’, 18. 9. Compare the brilliant essay by H. von Campenhausen, Die asketische Heimatlosigkeit im altkirchlichen und frühmittelalterlichen Mönchtum [The ascetic homelessness in early Christian and early medieval monasticism], Sammlung gemeinverständlicher Vorträge und Schriften aus dem Gebiet der Theologie und Religionsgeschichte, 149 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1930), pp. 21–3. 10. P. Gautier Dalché, ‘De la glose à la contemplation. Place et fonction de la carte dans le manuscrit du haut Moyen Age’ [From the gloss to contemplation: the

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11.

12.

13. 14.

15.

16.

17.

18. 19.

20.

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place and function of the map in manuscripts of the high Middle Ages], in Testo e immagine nell’alto medioevo, 15–21 aprile 1993, Settimane di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 41 (Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 1994), pp. 697–98. Svod drevneishikh pis’mennykh izvestii o slavianakh [Corpus of the earliest written data about the Slavs], 2 (Moscow: Vostochnaia literatura, 1995), p. 408, comm. 7, p. 463, comm. 5 (commentaries by V. K. Ronin). F. Flaskamp, Die Missionsmethode des hl. Bonifazius [The missionary method of St Boniface], Geschichtliche Darstellungen und Quellen, 8, 2nd edn (Hildesheim: Borgmeyer, 1929), pp. 31–4. By juxtaposing these words with verses from another poem, Flaskamp assumed that ‘Magog’ should be Slavs and that St Boniface excluded the Slavs from salvation because they spoke absolutely incomprehensible languages (Flaskamp thought that the borders of the mission were defined by the spread of Germanic dialects). In fact, that other poem does not really discriminate between the Germans and the Slavs, as it speaks about the favorable disposition to ignorance and sin demonstrated by Germanica tellus, rustica gens hominum Sclaforum et Scythia dura, ‘in the German lands, among the uncultured people of the Slavs, and in wild Scythia’, see E. Dümmler, ed., Bonifatii Carmina [Poems by Boniface], 1, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Poetae latini aevi Carolini, 1 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1881), pp. 13, 16–17; Svod drevneishikh pis’mennykh izvestii o slavianakh, 2, pp. 413–21. See C. Nicolet, Space, Geography and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991). I. Wood, ‘The Conversion of the Barbarian Peoples’, in G. Barraclough, ed., The Christian World: A Social and Cultural History (New York: Abrams, 1981), pp. 85–98. P. Gautier Dalché, ‘Comment penser l’Océan? Modes de connaissance des fines orbis terrarum du Nord-Ouest (de l’Antiquité au XIIIe siècle)’ [How to comprehend the Ocean? The modes of perception of the ends of the known world in the Northwest (from antiquity to the thirteenth century)], in L’Europe et l’océan au Moyen Âge: Contribution à l’histoire de la navigation (Nantes: CID, 1988), pp. 218, 229, n. 7. B. Laourdas, ed., Photiou Homiliai (Thessalonike, 1959), p. 35; C. Mango, trans., The Homilies of Photius, Patriarch of Constantinople (Cambridge, Mass., 1958), pp. 90–1. I. Sevcenko, ‘Religious Missions Seen from Byzantium’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies 12/13 (1988–89) 8; see also: P. Christou, ‘The Missionary Task of the Byzantine Emperor’, Byzantina 3 (1971) 279–86. Sevcenko, 13. F. Dvornik, The Photian Schism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1948); R. Haugh, Photius and the Carolingians: The Trinitarian Controversy (Belmont, Mass.: Nordland, 1975). See A.-D. von den Brincken, ‘Mappa mundi und Chronographia: Studien zur “Imago mundi” des abendländischen Mittelalters’ [World map and chronography: Studies in the “Image of the world” of the western Middle Ages], Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 24 (1968) 118–86; P. Gautier Dalché, ‘L’espace de l’histoire: Le rôle de la géographie dans les chroniques universelles’ [The space of history: The role of geography in the universal

36

21. 22.

23.

24. 25.

26.

27. 28. 29.

30.

31.

32.

33.

34.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE chronicles], in L’historiographie médiévale en Europe (Paris: Éditions du CNRS, 1991), pp. 287–300. Compare B. G. Scott, ‘Archaeology and National Identity: The Norwegian Example’, Scandinavian Studies 68 (1996) 321–42. W. Pohl, ‘Tradition, Ethnogenese und literarische Gestaltung: eine Zwischenbilanz’ [Tradition, ethnogenesis and literary representation: preliminary results] in K. Brunner and B. Merta, eds, Ethnogenese und Überlieferung: Angewandte Methoden der Frühmittelalterforschung (Vienna and Munich: Oldenbourg, 1994), pp. 9–26. F. Kurze, ed., Reginonis abbatis Prumiensis Chronicon [The Chronicle by Regino, the Abbot of Prüm], Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum, 50 (Hannover and Leipzig, 1890), p. xx. Ibid. J. K. Noyes, ‘The Natives in Their Places: “Ethnographic Discovery” and the Representation of Autonomous Spaces in Ovamboland, German South West Africa’, History and Anthropology 8 (1995) 237–64. As in: P. B. Golden, An Introduction to the History of the Turkic Peoples: Ethnogenesis and State-Formation in Medieval and Early Modern Eurasia and the Middle East (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1992). See, for example, A. M. Khazanov, Nomads and the Outside World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), p. 1. Those are the qualities of the people of Rhos listed by Photius, see: Laourdas, Photiou Homiliai, p. 42. Albi, Bibliothèque Municipale, 29, fol. 57v; see: Fr. Glorie, ed., ‘Mappa mundi e codice Albigensi 29’ [World map from the Albi codex 26], in Itineraria et alia Geographica, 1, Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina, 175 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1965), pp. 468–94; L. S. Chekin, Northern Eurasia in Medieval Cartography: Inventory, text, translation, and commentary (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), pp. 93–5, 394. The Ebstorf map was destroyed in 1943 during the bombing of Hannover. Reproductions in E. Sommerbrodt, Die Ebstorfer Weltkarte [The Ebstorf Map of the World] (Hannover: Hahn, 1891); Konrad Miller, Mappae mundi: Die ältesten Weltkarten, 5, Die Ebstorfkarte [Mappae mundi: The oldest maps of the world, 5, The Ebstorf Map (Stuttgart: Roth, 1896); see also: Chekin, Northern Eurasia in Medieval Cartography, pp. 146–61, 459–66. O. Holger-Egger, ed., ‘Ex miraculis S. Remacli Stabulensibus’ [From the miracles of St Remaclus of Stavelot], in Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores, vol. 15, pt. 1 (Hannover: Hahn, 1887, repr. Stuttgart, 1992), p. 439. See source references in E. Dümmler, Geschichte des Ostfränkischen Reiches [A history of the Eastern Frankish kingdom], 3 (Leipzig: Duncker and Humblot, 1888), pp. 158–9; F. Baix, Etude sur l’abbaye et principauté de Stavelot-Malmédy [A study of the abbey and principality of Stavelot-Malmédy], 1 (Paris and Charleroi: Champion, 1924), pp. 99–101. See L. S. Chekin, ‘Christian of Stavelot and the Conversion of Gog and Magog: A Study of the Ninth-Century Reference to Judaism among the Khazars’, Russia Mediaevalis 9, 1 (1997) 13–34. The theme of the end of the earth comes in connection with the conversion of the Bulgars also in another source written not far from Stavelot in the Lower Rhine area. The Annals of Xanten describe this conversion as an

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35.

36. 37.

38. 39.

40.

41.

42. 43.

44.

45. 46.

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appropriate fulfilment of the mission of St Peter (represented by Pope Nicholas) who should pursue his ‘fishing’ of souls until the end of the earth. B. de Simon, ed., Annales Xantenses et Annales Vedastini [The Annals of Xanten and the Annals of St Vaast], Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum, 12 (Hannover: Hahn, 1909), p. 25 (s.a. 868). Compare examples in H. Zettel, Das Bild der Normannen und der Normanneneinfälle in westfränkischen. ostfränkischen und angelsächsischen Quellen des 8. bis 11. Jahrhunderts [The image of the Normans and the Norman raids in the West Frankish, East Frankish, and Anglo-Saxon sources from the eighth to the eleventh century] (Munich: Fink, 1977), pp. 137–8, 200, 208. H. Jankuhn, ‘Das Missionsfeld Ansgars’ [The missionary field of Ansgar], Frühmittelalterliche Studien 1 (1967) 213–21. Finis mundi in aquilonis partibus in Sueonum coniacet regionis. G. Waitz, ed., Vita Anskarii auctore Rimberto. Accedit Vita Rimberti [Life of Ansgar composed by Rimbert. Supplemented with the Life of Rimbert], Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum, 55 (Hannover: Hahn, 1883), p. 55. On eschatological connotations of the image of Scandinavia as an archipelago, see: Gautier Dalché, ‘Comment penser l’Océan?’, 217–33; L. S. Chekin, ‘Pervyie karty Skandinavskogo poluostrova’ [The earliest maps of the Scandinavian peninsula], in Drevneishiie gosudarstra Vostochnoi Evropy, 1999 (Moscow: Vostochnaia literatura, 2001), pp. 44–85. In case of the Life of Ansgar the image could have been reinforced by the actual topography of the area of Lake Malar. J. T. Palmer, ‘Rimbert’s Vita Anskarii and Scandinavian Mission in the Ninth Century’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 55 (2004) 244–5. B. Paulus, ed., Pascasii Radberti Expositio in Matheo Libri XII (IX–XII) [A commentary on Matthew in twelve books by Paschasius Radbertus], Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis, 56 B (Turnhout: Brepols, 1984), p. 1159. Ibid., p. 1165: sicut nuper in quibusdam gentibus Danorum constructas et fabricatas ecclesias quosdamque in eisdem baptizatos nouimus; see also p. 1163. Compare S. Coupland, ‘The Rod of God’s Wrath or the People of God’s Wrath? The Carolingian Theology of the Viking Invasions’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 42 (1991) 538. Waitz, pp. 94–6. E. Dümmler, ed., ‘Epistolae variorum’ [Letters by various authors], No. 12, in Epistolae Karolini aevi, 4, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Epistolae, 6 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1925), pp. 155–7. O. Prinz, ed., Die Kosmographie des Aethicus [The Cosmography by Aethicus], Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Quellen zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittellalters, 14 (München: Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 1993), pp. 114–16. J. B. Friedman, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1981), 59–86. I. Wood, ‘Christians and Pagans in Ninth-Century Scandinavia’, in B. Sawyer, P. Sawyer and I. Wood, eds., The Christianization of Scandinavia (Alingsås: Viktoria, 1987), p. 65. See also: I. Wood, ‘Kinokefaly: Kto oni?’ [The

38

47.

48. 49.

50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55. 56.

57.

58.

59. 60.

61.

62.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE cynocephales: who are they?], in Drevneishiie gosudarstra Vostochnoi Evropy, 2003 (Moscow: Vostochnaia literatura, 2005), pp. 13–35. V. M. Istrin, Otkroveniie Mefodiia Patarskogo i apokrificheskiia videniia Daniila v vizantiiskoi i slaviano-russkoi literaturakh [The Revelation of Methodius of Patara and the apocryphal visions of Daniel in Byzantine and Slavic-Russian literature] (Moscow: Universitetskaia tipografica, 1897), p. 20. F. Grat, J. Vielliard and S. Clémencet, eds, Annales de Saint-Bertin [Annals of St Bertin] (Paris: Klincksieck, 1964), pp. 30–1. See A.V. Riasanovsky, ‘Ideological and Political Extensions of the “Norman” Controversy’, in I. Banac, J. G. Ackerman and R. Szporluk, eds, Nation and Ideology: Essays in Honor of Wayne S. Vucinich (Boulder and New York: East European Monographs; Distributed by Columbia University Press 1981), pp. 337–8. Annales de Saint-Bertin, pp. 29–30; J. L. Nelson, trans., The Annals of Saint-Bertin (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1991), pp. 41–3. Laourdas, Photiou Homiliai, p. 30; Mango, The Homilies of Photius, p. 84. The name Rhos appears only in the titles but not in the texts of the sermons. In the earliest manuscript (the second half of the fourteenth century, Vatican, Cod. Palatino-Heidelbergensis gr. 129), the titles list the Barbarians instead of the Rhos. See Laourdas, Photiou Homiliai, pp. 29, 40. Ibid., p. 42; Mango, The Homilies of Photius, p. 98. For a detailed discussion of both contemporary and later sources, see A.Vasiliev, The Russian Attack on Constantinople in 860 (Cambridge, Mass.: Medieaval Academy of America, 1946). D. S. Likhachev and V. P. Adrianova-Perets, eds, Povest’ vremennykh liet [The Primary Chronicle], 2nd edition (St Petersburg: Nauka, 1996), p. 12. V. I. Lamanskii, ‘Slavianskoie zhitiie sv. Kirilla kak religiozno-epicheskoie proizvedenie i kak istoricheskii istochnik’ [The Slavonic Life of St Cyril as a religious epic work and as a historical source], Zhurnal Ministerstva narodnogo prosveshcheniia, 346 (April 1903) 345–85; 347 (May 1903) 136–61; 348 ( June 1903) 350–88; 350 (December 1903) 370–406; 351 ( January 1904) 137–73. P. A. Lavrov, Materialy po istorii vozniknoveniia drevneishei slavianskoi pis’mennosti [Materials on the history of the development of the earliest Slavic literature] (Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo AN SSSR, 1930), p. 13 (cap. 9). B. Laourdas and L. G. Westerink, eds., Photii patriarchae Constantinopolitani epistulae et amphilochia [Letters and the Amphilochia by Photius, the patriarch of Constantinople], 1 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1983), pp. 50–1. See W. T. Treadgold, The Nature of the Bibliotheca of Photius (Washington: Dumbarton Oaks Center for Byzantine Studies, 1980). R. Henry, ed., Photius: Bibliothèque (Paris: Société dédition Les Belles lettres, 1959–91), especially vol. 1, p. 21–2 (No. 36), vol. 1, pp. 66–8 (No. 63), vol. 1, p. 90 (No. 65), vol. 1, pp. 105–47 (No. 72), vol. 2, p. 140 (No. 166), vol. 5, pp. 182, 186 (No. 241). V. Parkhomenko, U istokov russkoi gosudarstvennosti [At the sources of Russian statehood] (Leningrad: Gosudarstvennoie izdatel’stvo, 1924), pp. 55–6; M. Ia. Siuziumov, ‘K voprosu o proiskhozhdenii slov Ros, Rosiia, Rossiia’ [On the origin of the words Rhos, Rosia, and Rossia], Vestnik drevnei istorii 2 (1940) 121–3. See G. Schramm, ‘Gentem suam Rhos vocari dicebant: Hintergründe der ältesten Erwähnung von Russen (a. 839)’ [They said that the name of their

Geography, Eschatology & Religious Conversions in 9th Century

63. 64. 65. 66.

67.

39

people was Rhos: the background of the earliest mentioning of the Russians (839)], in U. Haustein, G.W. Strobel and G. Wagner, eds, Ostmitteleuropa: Berichte und Forschungen (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1981), pp. 1–10. H. Stang, The Naming of Russia (Oslo: Universitetet i Oslo, Slavisk-baltisk avdeling, 1996), p. 298. A. Vasiliev, ‘Medieval Ideas of the End of the World: West and East’, Byzantion 16 (1942–43) 462–502. Ibid., p. 122; M. Ia. Siuziumov and S. A. Ivanov, ‘Commentary’, in Lev Diakon, Istoriia (Moscow: Nauka, 1988), p. 183. A. Florovskii, ‘ “Kniaz’ Rosh” u proroka Iezekiilia (gl. 38–39) (Iz zametok ob imeni Rus’)’ [“Prince of Rosh” in Ezekiel (38–39) (from the notes about the name Rus)], in Sbornik v chest ’ na Vasil N. Zlatarski (Sofia: Derzhavna pechatnitsa, 1925), p. 516. The attempt to find a reference to Ezekiel and even to the Apocalypse undertaken by Stang, p. 222, is not convincing. Holger-Egger, ‘Ex miraculis S. Remacli Stabulensibus’, 439.

3 Ruthenian Lands and the Early Modern Multiple Borderlands in Europe: Ethno-confessional Aspect Liliya Berezhnaya

The history of the world can be best observed from the frontier.1 (Pierre Vilar) The quotation included in the epigraph testifies for the growing interest towards the history of borderlands in recent scholarship. It reflects the tendency to reconsider the traditional historical narrative through the prism of frontier studies. Such an approach presumes the dialectical relationships between borders and their states – relationships in which border regions often have a critical impact on the formation of nations and states. This ‘view from the periphery’ coined by F. J. Turner in his innovative inquiries,2 was further developed by the generations of both historians and social scientists.3 These studies of border zones, being a very complex and problematic subject, got new impulses in European and American historiography after the Second World War.4 It refers particularly to the comparative studies that have been dominated by their revisions of F. J. Turner. French experience about the rise and consolidation of the centralized state is particularly instructive as interpreted by the Annales school.5 Another research trend is connected with the studies of the symbolic geographies, namely the construction of imaginary borders between civilizations.6 An interest to the frontier studies has been shown not only by historians but other social scientists as well. This late arrival came in noticeable force from geographers and anthropologists. As to the former, it contributed mainly to the geographical redefinition of space and borders in terms of linguistic and social context.7 The growing attention of the latter was perhaps determined by the very fact that anthropology is well placed to view borders from both local and national perspectives, from the distance of capital cities to the villages of border areas with its distinctive culture of everyday life.8 40

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The long frontiers of Eastern European lands, with Russia as a key point, have long attracted attention of those scholars who employed Turner’s concept and its revisions as a point of departure. Recent decades witnessed the significant rise of interest in the topic, which found its reflection in the newly released monographs, as well as numerous journals and web-sites which served the forum for debates on the role of peripheries in the formation of East European identities.9 Mainly, it refers to the imperial past of the region.10 Another ‘hot’ topic is the symbolic division of Europe into three parts (Eastern, Western, and Central) according to the mental and cultural lines. To the great extent such debates share the late 19th century and the Cold War legacy, applying political terms to the definition of cultural zones.11 Yet, there is also another direction in which the research on the East Central European borderlands is conducted. The major emphasis is laid on the roots of the processes that resulted in the emergence of modern frontiers. Scholars belonging to this group are interested in the dynamic of changes which occurred in medieval and early modern times. Particular attention is paid to the borderlands as contested territories located between the great powers.12

Frontier history and the Ruthenian lands This research, which owes much to this scholarship, tends to highlight a new geographical dimension. It is devoted to one of the Eastern European contested zones which is historically known as the ‘Ruthenian lands’. A note on terminology is appropriate here. ‘Ruthenia’, ‘Ruthenian’, the Latinized terms for ‘Rus’’ ‘russkyi’ refers to the early–modern Ukrainian– Byelorussian ethnic community and society, its territories, language, culture, and ecclesiastical life before the distinction between Ukrainian and Byelorussian identities was fully developed.13 The region it applies forms nowadays parts of Ukraine, Byelorussia, Lithuania, and Poland. Geographically, it covers the territories between the Dnieper and the Dniestr Rivers including also the axis Vilnius-L’viv. For centuries this region was known as eastern borderlands of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, whereas the toponym ‘Ukraine’ was applied to the very narrow defined territory.14 After the partitions of Poland one part of the Ruthenian lands grew into the symbol of the lost sovereignty. For the generations of Poles it attained semi-romantic and nostalgic meaning usually associated with the term Kresy Wschodnie (‘Eastern Confines’, ‘Borderlands’).15 Chronologically, the research covers a period from the Union of Lublin (1569)16 commemorating the foundation of the single Polish–Lithuanian

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state roughly till the end of the 17th century when Ruthenian lands were partitioned along the Dnieper River.17 Importantly, these territories lay on the crossroads of many religious, political and cultural trends that formed a peculiar picture of ethnic and cultural co-existence.18 The region constituted a place of transition, a contact zone in both political and cultural senses.19 Moreover, these lands where the locus of the historical encounter of Muscovite Rus’ (turned into the huge multi-national empire and one of the major European powers) and the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. The change from Muscovite Rus’ to Imperial Russia involved not only territorial expansions, but also fundamental administrative, military, and cultural transformations. Apparently, church traditions in the Ruthenian lands played an important role in these changes and, at the same time, were profoundly affected by them. This research aims at placing the Eastern borderlands of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth in the framework of general debates on the complex frontier zones in early modern Europe. In other words, geographical criteria determined comparative approach. The specific focus is on the sphere of interconfessional relations, namely, the processes of confessional formation20 which contributed to the peculiar regional identities. This chapter is divided into three parts. The first deals with historiographical debates on the role of frontiers in the early modern Ruthenian history. The second and the third touch upon the problems of ethnic and confessional boundaries within the Ruthenian society. The last part is devoted to Ruthenian lands as a Christian bulwark exemplifying the major shifts on the ‘cultural map’ of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. Unfortunately, only a few recent studies deal with this region from a comparative borderland perspective.21 Much of the scholarship is still oriented towards the ideologically charged concepts born at the beginning of the 20th century when the history of Ruthenia was described from the geopolitically ‘peripheral’ (okraina) perspective. For example, the noted Ukrainian historian Stepan Tomashivs’kyi from the 1920s and 1930s and the geographer Stepan Rudnyts’kyi placed the early modern Ruthenia at in the crossroads of three worlds, European, Islamic, and nomadic Asian. According to their view, this geographical position determined the ‘bad luck’ which followed Ukrainians and Byelorussians in creating their independent state.22 The ‘metaphysical triangle’ that decided about the main trends in Ukrainian history had later transformed in a binary model, between Eastern and Western cultural poles. Such a construction of ‘us’ in opposition to multiple ‘others’ perceived mostly in terms of confrontation and rejection was recently objected by the Ukrainian Diaspora historians as well as by their Polish colleagues.23

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Much work in this respect has been done in the Przemys´l South-Eastern Scientific Institute whose research fellows coordinated the publication of a book series devoted to the Polish–Ukrainian religious and cultural borders.24 Another significant input is the recent collection of articles edited by Thomas Wünsch and Andrzej Janeczek.25 The book analyses the developments in the borderland society from historical, sociological and culturological points of view. In a way, it is a pioneering approach in treating the processes of assimilation, segregation, religious syncretism, and modernization in the medieval Red Ruthenian society. The authors opt to discover the ‘cultural profile’ of the borderland community focusing on the problems of ethnic, religious, and social contradictions on the eve of the 17th century political and religious cataclysms. This book is a certain breakthrough in the field of the Ruthenian frontier history. Still this topic has yet to receive serious, complex, and ideologically neutral investigation. One of such multidimensional approaches belongs to the noted American specialist in Russian history Alfred J. Rieber. In several recent publications he coined the concept of Multiple Borderlands which served a basis for the comparative research in the history of frontiers.26 The spectrum of Rieber’s comparisons is rather wide, covering the territory of the whole Eurasian continent from the early medieval times to the present. He suggests that ‘the interplay of physical geography, warfare and cultural change shaped frontiers over a prolonged period into an ecological system that fully justifies the use of the term “complex”’. Rieber figures out six characteristic features of such Multiple Borderlands which may be summarized as follows: 1. Complex frontiers were military contest zones where at least three polities, although not always the same set, competed for political and economic domination. As a result state boundary lines were frequently unclear, unstable, and porous. 2. Endemic warfare on the frontiers swept over wide spaces but returned with remarkably regularity to center on a fortress, an oasis, a river valley that provided the strategic key to an entire region. 3. The complex frontiers long continued to be the arena of trading and raiding by nomadic or semi-nomadic and settled populations. 4. Large scale population movements had the dual effect of scattering ethno-cultural groups on opposite sides of state boundaries and jumbling them together in a kaleidoscope of peoples all along the complex frontiers. 5. Following their subjugation to imperial rule the populations of the complex zones displayed ambiguous loyalties toward superordinate authority.

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6. Confronted by the imagined and real threats to stability and security the ruling elites employed a variety of policies oscillating between concessions and repression in order to win over or subdue the local population.27 Rieber defines several such zones on the Euroasian continent, i.e. the Inner Asia, the Caucasus, Triplex Confinium on the Balkans, and the Pontic Steppe. The latter overlaps with what is known as the Ruthenian lands, although somewhat exceeding it (Rieber describes the Pontic Steppe as the territories in the basins of the Dnieper, Dniestr, Bug, and Don Rivers and the Crimea Peninsula).28

Early modern Ruthenian identities in the light of A. J. Rieber’s scheme Now let us see, to which extent the suggested definition could be applied to the history of the early modern Ruthenian lands and what were the specific features of the region in comparison to other European complex borderlands listed by Rieber. At first glance his definition of the Multiple Borderlands perfectly correlates with the major historical developments in the Ruthenian lands.29 These territories were often a battle field of three great powers, Poland, Russia, and the Ottomans. To the much extend, the mixed identities of the borderland population were the result of this contest. Till the beginning of the 13th–14th century when the northwestern and central Ruthenian lands became an arena of expansion for a new power, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, these territories frequently came under attack from the nomadic steppe Tatars (the sack of Kyiv in 1482 by the Crimean khan Mengli Giray is probably the best known example). The strategically important rivers and fortresses of the Ruthenian lands were the objects of the permanent struggle between the major great powers.30 Several recent studies emphasize the influence of these confrontations upon the social conflicts in the cities (L’viv, Kamianets’-Podil’skyi, Polatsk) and the consequent ethnic segregation.31 Rieber underlines that in contrast to the Balkan Triplex Confinium these river fortresses were much more widely distributed and separated by open steppe whether conventional armies were forced to endure the extremes of the climate.32 Mass migrations featured also early modern Ruthenian history (particularly, at the end of the 16th and beginning of the 17th century). This was much due to the tax-free protectionist policy of the Polish government on the borderland territories as well as a result of the diminished Tatars’

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raids. These regions (especially, the Kyivan and Bratslav voievodships) were the destination of the peasant and Jewish migration. Many fled there from the social injustices, since the migrants were allowed not to return back to the previous owners. The frontier took shape through the ethnic and confessional mixture. Colonization had far-reaching consequences for the nobility and magnates, city dwellers and Cossacks. Further, I shall briefly outline its main results in the sphere of ethnic identities on different social levels. Noble estate underwent the most radical transformation. Due to the progress of colonization at the end of the 16th-beginning of the 17th centuries, the number of mixed marriages between Ruthenian and Polish nobility had sharply increased. This process testified for the instability of ethnic and cultural borders. Polish language and the style of life came into fashion. Many historians wrote about Polonization of the Ruthenian nobility at the beginning of the 17th century.33 The quotation from Meletyi Smotryckyi (1610), an outstanding Ruthenian preacher and church leader, has become a commonplace: ‘Where are now the priceless diamonds of the Ruthenian crown, the glorious families of the Ruthenian princes . . . which one cannot count? Where are those who surrounded them . . . , noble, glorious, brave, strong and old houses of the Ruthenian people, which were renowned in the whole world for their prestige, might and courage?’34 Still, these processes could not be unambiguously interpreted. Recent studies shed a new light upon an established stereotype. For example, a Polish historian Henryk Litwin argues that Ruthenian’s middle and lesser nobility did not loose their ethnic distinctiveness. ‘Despite the undoubted progress made by Polonization, these groups preserved their Ruthenian character. It was only the upheaval of the Khmelnitskyi’s Cossack movement which brought about great changes, isolating considerable sections from Polish influence. The weakened remainder succumbed to almost complete Polonization during the 18th century.’35 The question of ethnic identities and demonstrated mixed loyalties, emphasized by Rieber, is one of the most complicated in the Ruthenian history. Its undeniable component is the problem of language used by the privileged estates. The situation of the linguistic diversity brought into being a phenomenon of the ‘trilingual’ Ruthenian elite.36 There was no clear preference of Polish (often used, for example, by Meletyi Smotryckyi) to the Ruthenian (favored by the Kyivan archimandrite Zakharia Kopystenskyi) or Latin (Iurii Nemyrych). The very fact that the Kyivan Caves ‘Patericon’ published by Sylvestr Kossiv (1635) in Polish contained the first clear indications of the Ruthenian ethnic consciousness, testifies for the ‘porosity’ of the linguistic-cultural frontiers.37

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At the same time, Ruthenian was often perceived as the local ‘home’ dialect, it was depreciatingly called ‘a common, plain language’ (prosta mova). The metamorphoses of the ethnic consciousness on the eve of the Cossack wars appeared in the projection of the famous Polish Sarmatian myth upon the Ruthenian political nation. The idea of Sarmatian Ruthenia was often reproduced in the Ruthenian literature from the beginning of the 17th century. The complexity of the ethnic consciousness found its reflection in the self-definition gente Ruthenus, natione Polonus.38 This formulation was however true only for politically and culturally Polonized nobles, not for the town dwellers, Poles, Ruthenians, Armenians, Jews, or Germans. For a long period the shared economic interests harmonized inter-communal relations in the cities, much due to the introduction of the Magdeburg law at the end of the 13th-beginning of the 14th century. However, the general weakness of the Polish urban estate and the relative powerlessness of the royal authority which could not really guarantee the autonomy of either of the community resulted in the destabilization of the inter-ethnic relationship in the Ruthenian cities.39 The split led to the emergence of separate institutions operated by different communities. Each possessed their own churches, cemeteries, hospitals, and schools. Craftsmen guilds were also divided according to ethnic specialization.40 In fact, Ruthenian cities were of two types in this respect, one situated close to the border with Muscovy and the Ottomans, another closer to the core part of the Commonwealth. The first type shared social and ethnic composition which was typical of the urban population of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. The second possessed some features specific only to the borderland territories. Regarding frontier cities, Frank Sysyn argues that ‘no area contained as many men whose social status was in question as the Ukrainian frontier . . . Status, privileges, and obligations were impossible to determine or enforce in towns such as Bila Tserkva or Pereiaslav where officials simply described much of the population as “insubordinate” ’.41 The dividing line between two types somewhat coincides with the border between the Polish Crown lands and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania established after the Union of Lublin. As stated by Sysyn, just on the eve of the Cossack uprisings, towns in the south and east were relatively homogeneous and easy to revolt; in the north and west they were divided into hostile groups and conflicting communities.42 Although the society of frontiersmen rejected the restrains of the traditional division, the existing ethnic and social borders in the cities grew by the mid 17th century into the inter-communal confrontation. It was mostly caused by the military conflicts and the gradual confessional formation.

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The problem of ambiguous loyalties toward superordinate authorities, figured out by Rieber, featured also the history of Cossacks (from the Turkic kazak, or ‘free man’), another important stratum of the Ruthenian society. The term was applied initially to venturesome men who entered the steppe seasonally for hunting, fishing, and the gathering of honey. Their numbers were continually augmented by peasants fleeing serfdom and adventurers from other social strata, including the nobility. The very phenomenon of the Cossackdom belongs to the borderland society. Its ideology, moral codex, and the mode of life were formed by the ‘Great European Frontier’ and were typical of the military detachments active on the early modern Christian–Muslim borders.43 It was the permanent threat from the Tatars in the 15th-beginning of the 16th centuries that influenced the institutionalization of the previously uncoordinated Cossack brigades that ploughed the steppes around the Black and Azov Sees known as the Wild Fields. In the mid 16th century Prince Dmitry Baida-Vishneveckyi managed to gather several detachments around the Castle on the Khortytsa Island near Zaporozhie. Afterwards, Polish kings began to organize the Zaporozhian Cossacks into military colonies to protect external borders. Some detachments were granted privileges of the regular army in return for military services. These efforts were not always successful. Those Cossacks who were not included into the register often crossed the borders of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and plundered the neighboring lands. Attempts to control them institutionally and to limit their numbers through an official register created serious discontent among the Cossacks, who increasingly perceived themselves as forming a distinct estate with inherent rights and liberties. Zaporozhian Cossacks are often compared to other frontier peoples44 as well as the steppe nomads like the Nogai and Kalmyks. Yet they differed from the Uskoks of Senj or other Vlachs in the Triplex Confinium being a more formidable military force and a more serious challenge to the great powers in the region.45 Besides, the difference lies also in the state frontier policy. In contrast to the Habsburgs successful tactics on the South and Central European borders with the Ottomans, the Polish government did not manage to accommodate the demands of the growing Cossack community and to use it in support of state interests.46 As a result, starting in 1591, the Cossacks rose up in revolts that were put down only with great difficulty. Throughout the 16th and the first half of the 17th century the Cossacks fought off domination by Muscovy, Poland and the Ottomans. They often switched sides signing agreements and breaking alliances with each of three powers. The peak of the Cossacks insurrections coincided

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with the Khmelnytskyi revolt during which Cossacks retained their political autonomy, briefly forming a semi-independent state. But, threatened by Polish domination, they signed a treaty with Muscovy in 1654, followed by the Muscovite–Polish war and a series of calamities known as Ruin in the Ruthenian history. Practically, it meant that the attempt to convert border into a unified state failed.47 It led to the ‘closing of the frontier’ and the establishment of a new political border which divided Ruthenian lands into two parts. A half century later it gained also the status of a cultural and religious frontier. Cossacks’ ambiguous identities serve the best illustration to the contradictions and chances for stabilization existing in the early modern triple-frontier zone. Ruthenian, Polish, and Turkish components dominated the formation of their group consciousness. In the course of wars Cossacks and their peasant allies declared themselves protectors of the Ruthenian population and the Orthodox faith, thus appealing to the ethnic affiliation as the key factor of their politics. Yet, sometimes they did not miss a chance to plunder Ruthenian lands, like it was in the case of the Severyn Nalyvaiko’s raid through Volyn’ and the territories of the contemporary Byelorussia in 1596.48 Much of the Cossack ethos, particularly of the Cossacks’ elite, was connected with the ideology of the knighthood often presented in its Polish version. This appeal was modeled according to the popular equation between nobility and knights. Cossacks often referred to themselves as ‘the knights of the Zaporozhian his Royal Majesty Army’ in the correspondence with the Polish government.49 At the same time, the Ottoman element was also an undeniable part of the Cossacks mode of life, economic relations and military insignia.50 This ‘triangle’ typical for the complex borderland communities seems to be even more complicated in the Ruthenian case due to the presence of another factor, namely, religion. The study of interconfessional relations deserves particular attention in this review since it brings corrections to Rieber’s scheme and reveals new peculiarities about the Ruthenian lands as a borderland zone.

Religious and ethnic, religious versus ethnic What are the limitation of the Multiple Borderland concept suggested by Rieber as regards the Ruthenian lands? First and foremost, the scheme describes the border zone mainly in terms of the military frontier. Rieber’s definition emphasizes the history of these lands as the battlefield of three major powers. This ‘secular’ approach imposes certain limitations of looking on the borderland mainly through the socio-political

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lens. The confessional component is presented mostly as an ‘instrument’ in a variety of policies aimed at subduing the local population by the ruling elites. It is a measure of politics and its continuation, not mere, not less. As regards the Ruthenian lands, this approach dominates in Rieber’s interpretation of the Brest Church Union (1596) as well as the passages about the causes of the Cossack rebellion.51 In effect, the ‘borderland’ perspective gives much broader opportunities is studying early modern identities. One of the options is to trace the correlation between the confessional formation and the changes in political and cultural borders. Heinz Schilling, one of the ‘fathers’ of the confessionalization paradigm, has recently addressed the theoretical aspects of this problem. While applying the Weberian macro-historical approach in studying the church–state relations, Schilling defines four zones of the confessional-political identity formation in post-Reformation Europe: the Tridentine Catholic, the Lutheran Protestant, the Reformed Protestant, and the mixed multi-confessional.52 The latter category includes besides Germany and Switzerland also the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and Hungary. Schilling traces the peculiarity in this group in the structurally conditioned process of coupling of the formation of confessions and national (ethnic) identities. He defines the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth as a region where a clear-cut Catholic identity eventually emerged, but where Protestant minorities also retained a strong memory of their great success during the 16th century. Another peculiarity was the situation on the borderlands, namely, in the cities of royal Prussia and on the eastern confines, where the Protestants, Orthodox or Uniates were in the majority.53 Intrinsically, Schilling’s article provides more questions than gives answers. Regarding the multi-confessional societies it is really a wide ocean of problems starting from whether the Greek Orthodox Church participated in the processes of confessional formation and finishing with the question of the specific nature of religious devotion on the frontier zones between Eastern and Western Christianity. Recent scholarship tends to find answers to some of these questions.54 In this study the choice was made only for two of these problems which seem to be crucial in interpreting the history of the Ruthenian lands as a frontier zone. First, what was the specificity of these lands in terms of interconfessional relations? Second, how did the processes of confessional formation influence the changes of political and cultural borders? It seems that one of the major peculiarities of Ruthenia in contrast to other multiple borderlands was a combination of the inner peripheral and military frontier status.55 The former meaning applied remoteness from

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the core (Polish) area as well as the inter-regional character of the frontier, a zone of exchange and conflict.56 Like Transylvania or Ireland, these lands demonstrated the combination of the blurred socio-economic– cultural frontiers and the accelerated processes of identity formation.57 The amalgamation of the inner borderland and the military frontier status is one of the plausible explanations of the Uniate church’s success in the Byelorussian territories. In contrast to the ‘frontier’ Ukrainian voievodships, these lands were closer to the Polish core and did not experience so rapid process of confessional formation.58 Essentially, the abovementioned combination did not survive for a long period. By the end of the 17th century occurred an important transformation of the inner borderland into a military frontier. Among the contributing factors were external influences and confessional formation. This process went through several stages, differentiating on various social levels. The major result was the collation of the religious and ethnic identities. The case with the nobility is one of the most complicated. Recent Ukrainian historiography traces several major periods in the formation of the religious identity among the Ruthenian elite circles. The Brest Union (1596), the incumbency of the metropolitan Peter Mohyla, and the mid-17th century religious conflicts are highlighted as its milestones.59 The most rapid processes occurred in the theological milieu. Church hierarchs were the first to launch a discussion among the Catholics, the Orthodox and the Uniates on the legitimacy of the Brest Union and the peculiarities of ecclesiastical traditions. The debates induced by the Catholic reform and the Orthodox Church revival provided the stimulus for an intellectual movement in Ruthenian lands. A noticeable role in this process was played also by the Protestants whose considerable presence in the 16th century Ruthenian lands was a significant factor in debates.60 The next stage in the formation of religious identities was connected with the reforms conducted in both Ruthenian churches of Greek rite. In 1620s the Uniate metropolitan Joseph Viliamin-Ruts’kyi was known for his monastic reform carried out according to the Catholic standards. He founded the St Basil monastic order oriented toward the missionary activity. Ruts’kyi conducted negotiations with the Orthodox hierarchs about the united Kyivan patriarchate. His initiative was supported by the Orthodox metropolitan Peter Mohyla, also a distinguished theologian, Church reformer, and a founder of the Kyivan Collegium.61 Mohyla was a main apologist of the ‘Ruthenian Zion’ idea with its appeal to the Kyivan Rus’ Orthodox tradition as a keystone of the Ruthenian identity.62

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Theological polemics and reforms paved the way to a significant shift in priorities’ shift, which reflected the ‘nationalization’ of Churches, when confessions were associated with ethnic belonging. The Ruthenian nobility for a long time remained in a way indifferent to these changes. This interconfessional balance survived until the Cossack wars, when they were gradually shattered by the Catholic reform and theological confrontations. The ‘inner resistance’ to religious confrontations found one of its reflections in testaments. Remarkably, there were many Uniate, Orthodox, and Catholic wills in which the legacies went to a ‘foreign church’, i.e. to the religious institutions belonging to other confession.63 Iakovenko describes this phenomenon in terms of the ‘szlachta’s prewar world’.64 Among the factors which caused its collapse was the revival of the Orthodox tradition on the parish level. The church brotherhoods particularly active in the cities turned to be a significant factor in the formation of religious consciousness.65 The Khmelnyts’kyi’s uprising brought the religious confrontations to the highest degree. Historians do not have a single opinion on the sincerity of the Cossacks intentions to defend ‘the Greek faith’.66 The abovementioned Kievan voievoda Adam Kisiel called the Cossacks as people religionis nullius. And it was definitely true for the very beginning of the Cossack’s uprising. However, later the major importance was given exactly to the religious slogans in struggle against the Polish governmental structures. The Cossack administration shared a wide-spread idea that the Uniate church was not a separate confession or religious movement. However, the main enmity was directed against the Catholics and the Jews. These confessional categories were transformed in the public mentality into social and ethnic categories according to the scheme that a Catholic is a Pole and a nobleman, and a Jew is an artisan. As to the Uniates, such a categorization had not yet occurred at this time.67 Cossack insurrections accelerated the transformation of the inner periphery into a military border. This change occurred along the religious/ethnic lines. The further strengthening of this frontier found ideological support in the popular metaphor antemurale christianitatis which has also endured significant modifications in the cause of the 16th–17th centuries.

Antemurale Christianitatis: Poland or Ruthenia? The Ruthenian lands were a borderland within the borderland. It was the second major peculiarity in contrast to other European multiple borderlands. Ruthenia was a territory situated on the confines of a country

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which was long perceived as a contact zone between East and West.68 On the ideological level this concept implemented in the famous definition ‘Poland as the antemurale christianitatis’. In the deservedly famous study by Janusz Tazbir’s this idea is interpreted as a constitutive element of the Sarmatian nobility ethos and as a result of the Catholic reform that occurred in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth in the second half of the 16th beginning of the 17th century.69 The very concept of a ‘bulwark’ belongs to the frontier ideology, aimed at delineating the civilizational and confessional boundaries. Originally, it appeared in all lands which bordered with the Ottomans, referring to Hungary and Croatia as to Austria and Venice.70 The Polish concept of antemurale, although appearing rather late (second half of the 16th century), included also a messianic component. Poles, namely the Catholic noble Poles, were interpreted in the local preaching tradition as the chosen people, placed by the Divine hand in the forefront of the battle against the ‘infidels’.71 Importantly, in the Polish case, the antemurale metaphor meant a country bordering ‘the pagan Muslim or schismatic (Orthodox) states’. Besides the Turks and the Tatars, the list of enemies included also Muscovy and Walachia. J. Tazbir does not see any contradiction in the fact, that among the main opponents were also the Orthodox believers, since they were not considered to be true Christians. Besides the main opposition between ‘Catholic/non-Catholic’, a considerable role was played by the ‘civilization/barbarism’ duality. The ‘otherness’ of Muscovy was explained in terms of differences in customs as well as the despotic nature of the ‘Asian’ monarchy. Muscovy was thus perceived as a country lying outside not only the Catholic respublica Christiana, but also beyond the sphere of freedom.72 A notable case in this respect was an attitude to the Protestants. In the second half of the 16th century the antemurale concept did not yet bear any anti-Protestant character. It was mostly due to the spread of the Calvinist and Lutheran ideology among the city dwellers and gentry, whereas the concept of the ‘Christian bulwark’ was more popular in the Polish elite circles (the royal government, diplomats, and Church hierarchs).73 The situation remained stable approximately till the mid-17th century when the antemurale metaphor was reduced exclusively to the idea of defending Catholicism as the only ‘true faith’. Several factors contributed to this shift in public perception, namely, the progress of the Counterreformation, the strengthening of the Reformed Church in the neighboring countries, as well as the ongoing military confrontations with the Ottomans and Protestant Sweden. As one of the results, the Arian Protestant sect (Polish Brethren) was expelled from the country in 1560.74 How did the antemurale ideology

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influence the interconfessional situation on the eastern borderlands of the Commonwealth? As stated by Tazbir, any of the numerous 16th–17th century texts defending this concept, mentions the Great Duchy of Lithuania as a bulwark of Christianity, although the very geographical position of these lands presumes its forefront role in a struggle against the Islamic threat. Importantly, the antemurale concept was applied exclusively to the core Poland lands, not even Poland and Lithuania.75 Already the first Christian princes of Lithuania strove to prove that their lands were placed ‘on the border of the whole Christian world’.76 They built a specific ‘permanent defense system’ based on detachments of mercenaries. It played on the south-eastern outskirts a role similar to the one of the Austrian system in the Balkans in the 16th century.77 These efforts had nevertheless a little effect upon the perception of the eastern confines of the Commonwealth. J. Tazbir tends to explain this contradiction by the late Christianization of the Great Duchy of Lithuania. He argues as well that the Commonwealth was often associated inside and outside the country exclusively with its core Polish part.78 I dare to assume also the religious factor’s influence in the construction of this attitude. At the end of the 16th – first half of the 17th centuries the great part of the population residing in the Great Duchy of Lithuania remained adherent of the Greek rite churches. The generally negative perception of Muscovy as a permanent neighboring enemy was extrapolated also upon the Orthodox population of the Commonwealth. It was stipulated by social tensions with religious overtones, the official advocacy of the Brest Union, varying royal politics, and the endless military conflicts. Intrinsically, this attitude went through several stages reaching its culmination during the Cossack wars. In this way, political frontiers did not coincide with the mental and ideological confines within society. The mutation of the antemurale concept marked this process. An intangible proof of the fact that the Ruthenian population was often equated with the Muscovites could be obtained from proverbs, some of which date back to the mid-17th century. It is a useful source in studying interethnic and interconfessional stereotypes. Generally, the sayings indicate a direct association between the ethnic names ‘Ruthenian’ and ‘Moskal’ (coming from Muscovy). For instance, the phrase ‘Stubborn like a Ruthenian’ had a parallel expression ‘Stubborn like a Moskal’. The common attitude toward the Ruthenian population regardless of denominational differences was also negative. From 1618 comes the expression ‘Where the Ruthenian steps down, there is no grass on the ground’ (undoubtedly connected with the Cossacks raids). To the same period relate the proverbs: ‘Talk to a Ruthenian, but keep a

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stone behind your back’, or, As long as the world exists, the Ruthenian will not be a Pole’s brother.’79 Paradoxes of confessional and ethnic stereotypes reflected in the selective attitude to the antemurale concept. While the eastern confines of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth were generally excluded from its coverage, some Ruthenian fortresses grew into embodiments of the ‘Polish bulwark’. That was the fate of Kamianets’-Podil’skyi, which from the first half of the 17th century on was called totius christianitatis . . . propugnaculum (‘of the whole Christianity . . . bastion’).80 Perhaps, the explanation to the contradiction is hidden in the strategically important geographical position of the city situated on the border with the Ottomans81 and in the fact that the whole Podolia region formed a part of the Crown lands. In this case, ethnic and confessional composition of the Kamianets’ population seemed to play a minor role in the public perception of the antemurale concept.82 Noteworthy, for the Ruthenian educated circles as well as Cossacks, south-eastern Ruthenian lands constituted a part of the European antemurale christianitatis. This attitude expressed in the abovementioned efforts of the Lithuanian princes to build a defense line against the Ottoman raids, and in the Ruthenian historical narrative, which projected the ‘Polish Sarmatian geography’ to the ‘Empire of Ruthenians’ with Kyiv as a center of the civilized world (exemplified in a poem ‘Camoenae Borysthenides’ [1620]).83 For the Cossacks their military services meant also a fight on the Christian frontier with the Tatars and Turks. Yet, the Cossacks’ antemurale metaphor included some peculiar overtones because of the considerable pattern of Tatar tradition in their mentality and mode of life. Recent studies highlight the ‘Oriental’ element in the Cossack’s external policy and cultural symbolic. It is worth mentioning, that the decline of the Cossacks’ antemurale ideology at the beginning of the 18th century coincided with the Cossack mass flight to the Crimean Khanate.84 This assessment of the factors of conflict and cohesion on the frontier, typical to the early modern borderland military communities, suggests that this society was influenced by two sets of referents. Religious and political divisions separated the people, whereas common cultural values (honor, heroism, manliness) drew them together.85 The changes of the antemurale perception in relation to the Ruthenian lands reflected shifts of the ideological and religious boundaries within the Commonwealth society. At the turn of the 16th and 17th century this axis moved eastwards separating the border Ruthenian lands from the core Polish territories. Confessional formation and the Cossack wars contributed to the strengthening of this line in the next half a century.

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*** Study of Ruthenian lands as one of the early modern European multiple borderlands allows some general observations. In sum, Ruthenian history repeated the main patterns characteristic to other triple-forntier territories. It was placed between the three major powers, Muscovy, the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, and the Ottoman Empire. As well as other complex borderlands its history was featured by colonization and large scale population movements. These processes contributed to the overlapping cultural and ethnic identities particularly characteristic to the elite estates. The activity of Cossack military detachments found its correspondence in other frontier societies placed on the edges of the Christian oicumena bordering the Muslim world. Ruthenian history was also characterized by the ambiguous loyalties of the local population which changed under the influence of external factors and constant military confrontations. Significantly, the study of Ruthenian history demonstrates also some peculiarities of this borderland zone, mostly connected with the collation of ethnic and religious identities at the turn of the 16th–17th centuries. This specificity was exemplified by two major features in the perception of the Ruthenian lands, namely, the shift from the inner borderland into the military frontier status, and the transformation of ideological and religious borders separating these lands from the core Polish territories. As a result, the new political, religious and cultural frontier was established in the mid-17th century terminating the existence of the Ruthenian lands as a territorial entity. This process was fatal for the whole Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth which collapsed several decades later. Interestingly enough, symbolic borders established at the time have survived for centuries, appearing occasionally in the literature on both sides of the Cold War Iron Curtain. An indicative example is a map of the 17th century Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth from Iwo Cyprian. Pogonowski’s Poland: A Historical Atlas (New York, 1988). The drawing remarkably entitled ‘AD 1618, Republic of Poland: the Bastion of Western Civilization’ reveals the main ideological clichés of both early modern and Cold War times. It contains the boldly marked line running along the antemurale christianitatis frontier. Significantly, the Ruthenian lands are indicated as a part of the ‘Republic of Poland’ whereas the territories of the Muscovite Tsardom are designated as ‘Eastern Christianity’. Thus the Ruthenian adherents of the Greek rite are described either as Catholics, or Byelorussians and Lithuanians. The map contains also inscriptions which show how the old stereotypes were transferred into the 20th century political realities. The phrases ‘Republic based on

56

Source: Iwo Cyprian Pogonowski, Poland: A Historical Atlas (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1988), p. 115. Map AD 1618: Republic of Poland: the Bastion of Western Civilization

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toleration and freedom of speech’, ‘AD 1618 height of Poland’s superiority over Russia’, ‘ a federation based on autonomy and freedom of all ethnic and religious groups including the Jews’, ‘Polish eyes on Paris, Polish hearts on Rome, Polish sabers on Russia’ exemplify how the symbolic geography influences popular perceptions and national mythmaking. Such examples can be a fertile field for the further explorations in the Eastern European frontier history.

Notes 1. Cf. P. Sahlins, ‘State formation and national identity in the Catalan borderlands during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries’, in T. M. Wilson and H. Donnan (eds), Border Identities: Nation and State at International Frontiers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 31. 2. F. J. Turner, The Significance of the Frontier in American History (New York: Free Press, 1975) (originally published in 1893); idem, The Significance of Sections in American History (New York: Henry Holt, 1932). This approach was repeatedly criticized from the 1930s onward. An insightful overview is R. Hofstadter and S. M. Lipset (eds), Turner and the Sociology of the Frontier (New York, London: Basic Books, 1968), esp. pp. 3–8. 3. Among the most significant contributions are L. Febvre, ‘Frontière: le mot et la notion’, reprinted in Pour une histoire à part entière (Paris: SEVPEN, 1962), pp. 11–24; G. N. Clark, The Seventeenth Century (Oxford: University Press, 1929), 140–52. Cf. P. Burke, ‘Cultural Frontiers of Early Modern Europe’, Przegla
d historyczny 46 (2005) 205. 4. See the review of the recent trends in the American frontier studies in J. Adelman and S. Aron, ‘From borderlands to borders: empires, nation-states, and the peoples in between in North American history’, The American Historical Review 104 (June 1999) 814–41. 5. A. Burguire and J. Revel, L’espace français (Paris: Seuil, 1989). A pioneering study of the border identities is P. Sahlins, Boundaries: The Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). 6. A classical study is L. Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization in the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994). Other insights are characterized by the studies of the East-West dualism and a Cold War division (the West, the Communist East, and the Third World), for instance, M. Anderson, Frontiers: Territory and State Formation in the Modern World (Cambridge and Oxford: Polity Press, 1996). 7. A. Godlewska and N. Smyth, Geography and Empire (London: Oxford University Press, 1994); History Workshop Journal 39 (Spring 1995), special issue. 8. See the review of recent border studies in anthropology in, T. M. Wilson and H. Donnan, ‘Nation, State and Identity at International Borders’, in Wilson/Donnan, Border Identities, pp. 1–30, esp. pp. 3–6. 9. For the study of Russia’s eastern frontier in the light of Turner’s concept, see M. Bassin, ‘Turner, Solov’ev, and the Frontier Hypothesis: The Nationalist Signification of Open Spaces’, Journal of Modern History 65 (1993) 473–511; idem, ‘Expansion and Colonization on the Eastern Frontier: Views of Siberia

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10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE and the Far East in pre-Petrine Russia’, Journal of Historical Geography 14 (1988) 3–21; special issue ‘The Frontier in Russian History’ of the Journal of Russian History 1–4, 19 (1992); M. Khodarkovsky, Russia’s Steppe Frontier: the Making of a Colonial Empire, 1500–1800 (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2002). On the recent trends see the discussion ‘Frontier and Space in Russian History: Is Turner’s “frontier” useful for Russia’s empire-building?’ (24 June–27 August 2002) on the pages of H-Russia initiated by Prof. Eva Maria Stolberg (Institute of Russian History, University of Bonn). Among the latest contributions, A. Miller and A. J. Rieber (eds), Imperial Rule (Budapest: CEU Press, 2004); eadem (eds), Zapadnyie okrainy Rossiiskoi Imperii (Moscow: Novoie Literaturnoie Obozreniie, 2006). See also a review essay of Peter Gatrell, ‘Ethnicity and Empire in Russia’s borderland history’, The Historical Journal 38 (1995) 715–27. A special issue of Ab Imperio. Studies of New Imperial History and Nationalism in the Post-Societ Space (1, 2003) journal was devoted to the problem of imperial boundaries. A brilliant comparison of the European Imperial powers from the borderland perspective is D. Lieven, Empire: The Russian Empire and Its Rivals (New Heaven: Yale University Press, 2002), chapters on geopolitics. These approaches were often criticized for ignoring the Northern–Southern differences within the European cultural space. Burke, ‘Cultural Frontiers’, 215; E. Busek, E. Brix, Projekt Mitteleuropa (Wien: Ueberreuter, 1986); A. Podraza, ‘How should we understand the term “Central Europe” at the turn of the 21st century?’, in J. Purchla (ed.), Central Europe. A New Dimension of Heritage (Krakow: Mie
dzynarodowe Centrum Kultury: 2003), pp. 23–8; A. Miller (ed.), Tsentralnaia Ievropa kak istoricheskii region (Moscow: Logos, 1996). E. Andor and I. Gy. Tóth (eds), Frontiers of Faith: Religious Exchange and the Constitution of Religious Identities, 1500–1750 (Budapest: CEU Press, 2001); W. Schmale and R. Stauber (eds), Menschen und Grenzen in der Frühen Neuzeit (Berlin: Verlag A. Spitz, 1998); M. Wojciechowski and R. Schattkowsky, Historische Grenzlandschaften Ostmitteuropas im 16.-20. Jh. Gesellschaft-WirtschaftPolitik (Torun´: Wydawnictwo UMK, 1996); G Dávid and P. Fodor (eds), Ottomans, Hungarians, and Habsburgs in Central Europe: The Military Confines in the Era of Ottoman Conquest (Leiden: Brill, 2000). The usage of the term ‘Ruthenian’ was requested by Ukrainian state officials and was recently adopted by leading centers of Ukrainian studies in the English speaking world. B. Gudziak, ‘The Kyivan hierarchy, the Patriarchate of Constantinople and Union with Rome’, in B. Groen and W. van den Bercken (eds), Four Hundred Years Union of Brest (1596–1996): A Critical Re-evaluation, Acta of the Congress Held at Hernen Castle, the Netherlands, March 1996 (Leuven: Peeters, 1998), p. 17, footnote 1. On the etymology of ‘Ruthenia’, E. Nakonechnyj, Ukradene im’ja: chomu rusini stali ukrainciamy, 2nd rev. edn (L’viv: Naukova biblioteka im. V. Stefanika NAN Ukraiiny, 1998). Yet, this term is not commonly accepted. Some historians follow the established tradition of national narratives deriving the ethnic names of the peoples from pre-historical times. For instance, A. S. Kamin´ski, Historia Rzeczypospolitej wielu narodów, 1505–1795 (Lublin: Instytut Europy Srodkowo-Wschodniej, 2000), p. 11. This term was mainly applied to the territories of Kyiv, Braclav, Volyn’, and Podolia voievodships. On the term ‘Ukraine’ in the recent ethymological

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15.

16.

17.

18.

19. 20.

21.

22.

23.

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debates not without some ideological touch, see S. Sheluhin, Ukraina – nazva nashoi zemli z naidavnishih chasiv (Drohobych: Beskyd, 1992), pp. 107–8, 131–3, 135–42, 144–5, 247–8; G. Pivtorak, ‘Pohodzhennia ukraintsiv, rosiian ta bilorusiv ta ihnih mov’, in Mify i pravda pro trioh brativ slovianskih zi ‘spilnoi kolyslky’ (Kyiv: Vydavnychy tsentr Akademiia, 2001), pp. 117–21. The term ‘Kresy’ first appeared in the Wincent Pol’s poems Mohort and Pies´ni o ziemi naszej (1854). In the later perceptions it referred to the eastern lands of the Second Polish Republic. J. Kolbuszewski, Kresy (Wrocl´aw: Wydawnictwo Dolnos´la
skie, 1998). Under the terms of the Union of Lublin, one third of the Ruthenian lands, i.e. Podlasie and Volhynia (with the regions of Kiev and Braclav), became part of the Polish Crown; whereas the remaining territories (including the Byelorussian lands) were under the jurisdiction of the Great Duchy of Lithuania. According to the Treaty of Andrusovo (1667) the western Right Bank reverted to Poland, while Muscovy was confirmed in its possession of the eastern Left Bank, together with Kiev; the lands of Zaporozhia became a Polish-Muscovite condominium (changed in 1686 to solely Muscovite sovereignty). A. Podraza, ‘Problem pograniczy w Europie S´rodkowo-Wschodniej (na przyk´ladzie pogranicza polsko-ukrain´skiego)’, Polska Akademia Umieje
tnos´ci, Prace Komisji S´rodkowoeuropiejskiej IV (1995) 95–104; Kresy i pogranicza. Historia, kultura, obyczaje (Olsztyn: Wydawnictwo WSP, 1995); D. Beauvois (ed.), Les confins de l’ancienne Pologne, Ukraine, Lithuanie, Biélorussie, XVIe–XXe siècles (Lille: Presses Universitaires, 1988). Ch. von Werdt, ‘Halyc-Wolhynien-Rotreußen-Galizien: Überlappungsgebiet der Kulturen und Völker’, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 46 (1998) 69–99. The term is borrowed from E. W. Zeeden, Die Entstehung der Konfessionen. Grundlagen und Formen der Konfessionsbildung im Zeitalter der Glaubenskämpfe (Munich, Vienna: Oldenbourg, 1965). See the latest historiographical review in, J. Arnason, ‘Historians in Search of Borders. Mapping the European East’, in Themenportal Europäische Geschichte (2006) available at: http://www.europe.clio-online.de?2006/Article⫽165; B. Klich-Kluczewska and O. Seweryn, ‘Rediscovering ourselves. Frontiers and identities in Polish historiography of the 19th and 20th centuries (1989–2005)’, in L. Klusáková and S.G. Ellis (eds), Frontiers and identities. Exploring the Research Area (Pisa: Pisa University Press, 2006), pp. 87–100. N. Iakovenko, ‘ “Ukraina mizh Shodom i Zahodom”: proeiektsiia odniiei idei’, in eadem, Parallel’ny svit. Doslidzhennia z istorii uiavlen ta idei v Ukraini XVI–XVII stolittia (Kyiv: Krytyka, 2002), pp. 334–6. Ibid., p. 345. A recent attempt to reconsider Ukrainian history in the light of the Turner’s concept belongs to the L’viv historian Ihor Chornovol: ‘Dyke Pole’ i “Dykyj Zakhid”: Ukraina v svitli Ternerovoji tezy’, Krytyka 6 (2006), available at: http://krytyka.kiev.ua/articles/s.10_6_2006.html; idem, ‘Seredniovichni frontyry ta moderni kordony’, Krytyka 10 (2006), available at: http://krytyka. kiev.ua/articles/s.5_10_2006.html. Other voices in discussion belong to Serhii Plokhy and Andreas Kappeler: S. Plokhy, ‘Kozakoznavstvo bez kordoniv: notatky na koryst’ porivnial’noho analizu’, Ukrains’kyi humanitarnyi ohliad 10 (2004) 63–84. A. Kappeler, ‘luzhnyi i Vostochnyi frontier Rossii v XVI-XVIII viekakh’, Ab Imperio 1 (2003) 51–53.

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24. St. Ste
pnien´ (ed.), Polska–Ukraina.1000 lat sa
siedstwa, vols 1–5 (Przemys´l: Pol´ udniowo-Wschodni Instytut Naukowy w Przemys´lu, 1990–2000); . G. Babin´ski, Pogranicze polsko-ukrain´skie: Etnicznos´c´, zróznicowanie religijne, . tozsamos´c´ (Kraków: NOMOS, 1997); Z. Budzyn´ski and J. Kamin´ski-Kwak (eds), Dwa pogranicza. Galicja Wschodnia i Górny S´la
sk. Historia-Problemy-Odniesienia (Rzeszów: Wydawnictwo URz, 2001). Another noted center of the border studies in Poland is the Institute of History, University of Maria Skl´odowskaCurie in Lublin. Among the recent publications: M. Ma
dzik and A.A. Witusik (eds), Na pograniczu kultur, je
zyków i tradycji (Lublin: Wydawnictwo UMCS, 2004). 25. T. Wünsch and A. Janeczek (eds), On the Frontier of Latin Europe: Integration and Segregation in Red Ruthenia, 1350–1600 (Warsaw: Institute of Archeology and Ethnology of the Polish Academy of Sciences, University of Constance, 2004). See my review in Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas. 26. D. Roksandic´, ‘The Triplex Confinium. International Research Project: objectives, approaches and methods’, in idem (ed.), Microhistory of the Triplex Confinium: International Project Conference Papers (Budapest, 21–22 March 1997) (Budapest: CEU Institute on Southeastern Europe, 1988), pp. 7–25. 27. A. J. Rieber, ‘The Frontier in History’, in International Encyclopedia of the Social and Behavioral Sciences, vol. 9 (Amsterdam, New York: Elsevier, 2001), 5812–17; idem, ‘The Comparative Ecology of Complex Frontiers’ in Rieber/Miller, Imperial Rule, p. 178. 28. Rieber, ‘The Comparative Ecology’, 185; idem, ‘Triplex Confinium in Comparative Context’, in D. Roksandic´ and N. Štefanec (eds), Constructing Border Societies on the Triplex Confinium (Budapest: CEU History Department, 2004), pp. 14–18. 29. A brief outline of the Ruthenian history from the borderland perspective is presented in L. Berezhnaya, ‘Vvedeniie. Rusinskiie zemli v 13–18 vekah’, in M. Dolbilov and A. Miller (eds), Zapadnyie okrainy Rossiiskoi Imperii (Moscow: Novoie Literaturnoie Obozreniie, 2006), pp. 15–32. 30. J. Ochmian´ski, ‘Organizacja obrony w Wielkim Ksie
stwie Litewskim przez napadami tatarów krymskich w XV–XVI wieku’, Studia i materialy do Historii Wojskowos´ci 5 (1960) 367–8; O. Apanovych, ‘Fortetsi ukrains’koi linii’, in Ukrainskyi istoryko-geografichnyi zbirnyk, vol. 2 (Kyiv, 1972), pp. 105–12. 31. S. Rohdewald, ‘Von Polocker Venedig’: Kollektives Handeln sozialer Gruppen einer Stadt zwischen Ost- und Mitteleuropa (Mittelalter, früher Neuzeit, 19. Jh. bis 1914) (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2005), esp. ch. 4 ‘Polock in der Adelsrepublik’: J. Kurtyka, ‘Podolia: the “Rotating Borderland” at the Crossroads of Civilizations in the Middle Ages and in the Modern Period’, in Wünsch and Janeczek, On the Frontier of Latin Europe, pp. 177–81. L’viv, once called ‘a city with erased borders’ ( Joseph Roth) attracted particular attention of the early modern frontier and social historians. R. Lesniak, ‘Armenien in Lemberg: Grenzen sozialer Inegration in den Städten Rotrueßens in Spätmittelalter und früher Neuzeit. Eine Skizze’, in ibid., pp. 229–40; J. Wyrozolimski, ‘Zwischen Osten und Westen. Lemberg im Mittelalter’, in A. Czacharowski (ed.), Nationale, ethnische Minderheiten und regionale Identitäten in Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Torun´: Wydawnictwo UMK, 1994), pp. 7–14; P. Fässler, T. Held and D. Sawitski (eds), Lemberg-Lwów-Lwiw: Eine Stadt im Schnittpunkt europäischer Kulturen (Köln: Böhlau, 1993); M. Kapral, Natsional’ni hromady L’vova XVI–XVIII stolit (sotsial’no-pravovi vzaiemyny) (L’viv: Piramida, 2003).

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32. Rieber, ‘The Comparative Ecology’, 185. 33. Mostly determined by the works of Mykola Kostomarov i Mykhailo Hryshevs’kyi. 34. M. Smotryckyi, ‘Thre–nos, tobto plach iedynoi svitoi vselens’koi apostol’s’koi tserkvy . . .’, in Ukrains’ki humanisty epokhy Vidrodzhennia, vol. 2 (Kyiv: Osnovy, 1995), p. 313. The most insightful biography of Meletij Smotric’kyi is D. Frick, Meletij Smotryc’kyj (Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1995). 35. H. Litwin, ‘Catholicization among the Ruthenian Nobility and Assimilation Processes in the Ukraine during the years 1569–1648’, Acta Poloniae Historica 55 (1987) 83. 36. N. Iakovenko, Narys istorii seredniovichnoi ta ranniomodernoi Ukrainy, 2nd edn (Kyiv: Krytyka, 2005), pp. 300–1. 37. G. Broggi Berkoff, ‘Rus´, Ukraina, Ruthenia, Wielkie Ksi¸estwo Litewskie, Rzeczpospolita, Moskwa, Rosja, Europa S´rodkowo-wschodnia: o wielowarstwowos´ci i polifunkcjonalizmie kulturowym’, Contributti Italiani al XIII Congresso Internazionale degli Slavisti (Ljubliana 15–21 agosto 2003), a cura di A. Alberti, M. Garzaniti and St. Gazonio (Pisa: Associazione Italiana degli Slavisti, 2003), 325–87; Ia. Iseievych, Ukraina davnia i nova. Narod, religiia, kultura (L’viv: NAN, 1996). 38. A Zie
ba, ‘Gente Rutheni, natione Poloni. Z problematyki ksztal´towania sie
ukrain´skiej s´wiadomos´ci narodowej w Galicji’, Polska Akademia Umieje
tnos´ci, Prace Komisji Wschodnioeuropejskiej 8 (1995) 61–8; T. Chynczewska-Hennel, S´wiadomos´c´ narodowa szlachty ukrain´skiej i kozaczyzny od schyl´ ku XVII wieku (Warszawa: Polskie Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1985); eadem, ‘Gente ruthenusnatione polonus’, Warszawskie Zeszyty Ukrainoznawcze VI–VII (1998) 35–44; N. Iakovenko, Ukrains’ka shlakhta z kintsia XIV do seredyny XVI stolittia (Kyiv: Naukova dumka, 1993); eadem, Parallel’nyi svit. Doslidzhennia z istorii uiavlen ta idei v Ukraini XVI–XVII stolittia (Kyiv: Krytyka, 2002); F.E. Sysyn, ‘The Problem of Nobilities in the Ukrainian Past: the Polish Period, 1569–1648’, in I. Rudnytsky (ed.), Rethinking Ukrainian History (Edmonton: CIUS Press, 1987), pp. 29–102. 39. M. Kapral, ‘Legal Regulation and National (Ethnic) Differentiation in Lviv, 1350–1600’, in Wünsch/Janeczek, On the Frontier of Latin Europe, pp. 211–12. 40. J. Krochmal, ‘Ethnic and Religious Integration and Segregation in Przemys´l, . . 1350–1600’, in idem, Krzyz i menora. Zydzi i chrzes´cijanie w Przemys´lu w latach 1559–1772 (Przemys´l: Towarzystwo Przyjaciól´ Nauk w Przems´lu, 1996), p. 207; J. Motylewicz, ‘Spol´eczno´sci etniczne w miastach wojewódstwa ruskiego w XVI XVIII wieku’, in Studia Przemyskie, vol. 2 (Przemys´l: Pol´udniowowschodni Instytut Naukowy, 2004), pp. 13–36. 41. F. Sysyn, ‘Ukrainian Social tensions before the Khmel’nyts’kyi Uprising’, in S. H. Baron and N. Sh. Kollmann (eds), Religion and Culture in Early Modern Russia and Ukraine (DeKalb: Nothern Illinois University Press, 1997), p. 58. 42. Ibid., 63. 43. S. Lep’iavko, Velykyi kordon levropy iak faktor stanovlennia ukrains’koho kozatstva (XVI st.) (Zaporizhzhia: Tandem-U, 2001), p. 49; Ia. Dashkevych, ‘Kozatstvo na Velykomu kordoni’, in Ukrains’ke kozatstvo: suchasnyi stan ta perspektyvy doslidzhennia (Materialy ‘krugloho stolu’), Ukrains’kyi istorychny zhurnal 2 (1990) 20. For a detailed analysis of the Cossack Frontier in the comparative perspective see also V. Brekhunenko, ‘Typologiia stepovoho

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44.

45. 46.

47. 48. 49.

50.

51.

52. 53. 54.

55.

56.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE kordonu levropy i perspektyva doslidzhennia istorii shidnoievropeis’kykh kozatstv’, Ukraina v Tsentraino-Shidnii levropi 6 (1998) 453–86. B. Varga, ‘Istorychni paraleli hardukiv Ugorschyny ta kozakiv Ukrainy za period XVI–XVII st’, in Chetvertyi mizhnarodnyi kongres ukrainistiv. Istoriia (Odesa, Kyiv, Lviv: Mizhnarodna asotsiatsia ukrainistiv, 1999) p. 178. Rieber, ‘The Comparative Ecology’, 185. Lep’iavko, Velykyi kordon Ievropy iak faktor stanovlennia ukrains ’koho kozatstva, p. 52; idem, Ukrains ’ke kozatstvo u mizhnarodnyh vidnosynah (1561–1591) (Chernyhiv: Siverians’ka dumka, 1999), pp. 9–12; G. Ruthenberg, The Austrian Military Border in Croatia (1522–1747) (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1960). Rieber, ‘The Comparative Ecology’, 186. Iakovenko, Narys istorii, p. 267. V. Scherbak, Ukrains’ke kozatstvo: Formuvannia sotsialnoho stanu. Druha polovyna XV–seredyna XVII st. (Kyiv: Vydavnychy dim “KM Academia”, 2000), esp. ch. 5 ‘Zarodzhennia stanovoi ta natsionalnoi svidomosti’. O. Galenko, ‘Luk ta rushnytsia v lytsars’kii symvolytsi ukrains’koho kozatstva: paradoksy kozats’koi ideologii I problema shidnoho vplyvu’, in Mediaevalia Ucrainica: mentalnist’ ta istoria idei, vol. 5 (Kyiv: Akademiia Nauk Ukrainy, 1998), pp. 93–110; Mappa Mundi. Zbirnyk naukovych prats na poshanu Iaroslava Dashkevycha z nagody iogo 70-richchia (L’viv: M.P. Kots’, 1996), N. Iakovenko, ‘Ukraina mizh Shodom i Zahodom’ in eadem, Parallel’nyi Svit, p. 363. ‘By the end of the sixteenth century, under the impulse of the Catholic hierarchy and especially the Jesuit Order, expansion into the region became part of the movement to convert schismatics (the Orthodox population) through the creation and promotion of the Uniat Church’, Rieber, ‘The Comparative Ecology’, 184 passim, also 186–7. H. Schilling, ‘Confessionalisation and the rise of religious and cultural frontier in Early Modern Europe’, in Andor/Tóth, Frontiers of Faith, p. 26. Ibid., pp. 26, 31. See the recent scholarship’s review by A. Brüning, ‘Confessionalization in Slavia Orthodoxa (Byelorussia, Ukraine, Russia)? – Potential and limits of a Western historiographical concept’ in this volume. The term ‘inner periphery’ in relation to early modern period is a subject of scholarly interest since the fundamental work of I. Wallerstein, The Modern World Systems, 3 vols (New York: Academic Press, 1977–89). It is often applied to the metropoly/colonial economic relations (H.-H. Nolte, ‘Innere Peripherien. Das Konzept in der Forschung’, in idem, ed., Innere Peripherien in Ost und West [Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2001], pp. 7–32; idem, ‘Von Andalusien bis Tatarstan. Innere Peripherien der frühen Neuzeit im Vergleich’, in N. Boškovska-Leimgruber (ed.) Die frühe Neuzeit in der Geschichtswissenschaft: Forschungstendenzen und Forschungserträge [Paderborn: Schöningh, 1997], 127–44), although some recent contributions re-orient the scholarship toward the ethno-confessional, social, and cultural structures of the peripheries. See, the forthcoming book series A. Miller (ed.) Imperskiie okrainy Rossii, which covers the history of such Russian ‘inner peripheries’ as Siberia and the Volga–Ural region. An acclaimed example of such studies is O. Lattimore, Inner Asian Frontiers of China (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989).

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57. Some Polish scholars explain the rapid formation of ethnic and religious consciousness in Ruthenian lands by the psychological complex of periphery. W. Pawluczuk, ‘Pogranicze narodowe czy spol´eczne’, in Pogranicze. Studia spol´ eczne, vol. 3 (Bial´ystok: UB, 1999), p. 24; M. B. Topolska, ‘Rola wyznania w procesach kulturotwórczych w Wielkim Ksi estwie  Litewskim w XV–XVIII wieku’, in D. Dolan´ski (ed.), Religijnos´c´ na polskich pograniczach w XVI–XVIII wieku (Zielona Góra: Oficyna Wydawnicza Uniwersytetu Zielonogórskiego, 2005), p. 223. 58. A. Mironowicz, Prawosl´awie i unia za panowania Jana Kazimierza (Bial´ystok: Orthdruk, 1997), p. 319. 59. F. E. Sysyn, The formation of modern Ukrainian religious culture: the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries’, in G. A. Hosking (ed.), Church, Nation and State in  Russia and Ukraine (London: Macmillan, 1991), pp. 1–22. 60. I. Ševcenko, ‘Religious Polemical Literature in the Ukrainian and Belarus’ Lands in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries’ in, idem, Ukraine between East and West: Essays on Cultural History to the Early Eighteenth Century (Toronto, Edmonton: CIUS Press, 1996), pp. 149–63; N. Iakovenko, Narys istorii, pp. 221–4. 61. S. Golubev, Kievskii Mitropolit Petr Mogila i iego spodvizhniki (opyt tserkovnoistoricheskogo issledovaniia), 2 vols (Kyiv: Korchak-Novitskii, 1883–98).  62. I. Ševcenko, The Many Worlds of Peter Mohyla (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985); A. Zhukovskyi, Petro Mohyla i pytannia iednosti tserkov (Kyiv: Mystetctvo, 1997); N. Pugacheva, Ideino-polemicheskaia mysl’ restavratsionnoi deiatelnosti Petra Mogily in Chelovek i istoriia v srednieviekovoi filosofskoi mysli russkogo, ukrainskogo i belorusskogo narodov (Kyiv: Naukova dumka, 1987), pp. 132–39; N. Nikitenko, Volodymyrs’ky memorial Sofii Kyivs’koi chasiv Petra Mohyly in Petro Mohyla, bohoslov, tserkovny i kulturny diiach (Kyiv: Dnipro, 1997), pp. 159–67; eadem, ‘Petro Mogyla – ktitor Sofii Kyivs’koi’ in L. Dovga and N. Iakovenko (eds), Ukraina XVII stolittia: Suspilstvo, filosofia, kultura (Kyiv: Krytyka, 2005) pp. 387–94; L. Berezhnaya, ‘Topography of Salvation. Kyiv–the New Jerusalem in the Ruthenian Literary Polemics (end of the 16th–beginning of the 17th century)’, in L. Berezhnaya, ‘Topography of Salvation: “Kyiv–the New Jerusalem” in the Ruthenian Literary Polemics (end of the 16th–beginning of the 17th century)’, in D. Frick, S. Rohdewald, S. Wiederkehr (eds), Das Großfüístentum Litauen und die östlichen Gebiete der Krone Polens als interkulturelle Kommunikationsregion (15–18. Jh.) (Forschungen zur osteuropäischen Geschicte, 71) (Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz Verlag, 2007), pp. 253–78. 63. N. Iakovenko lists several such cases. N. Iakovenko, Parallel’ny svit, pp. 45–47. Another example is the testament of a Catholic nobleman, Vilnius city treasurer, Stanisl´aw Zenowicz, who donated equal amount of money to the Catholic and the Uniate St Trinity Hospitals (1665). M. Borkowska, OSB, Dekret w niebieskim fiarowany parl´amencie. Wybór testamentów z XVII–XVIII wieku (Kraków: Spol´eczny Instytut Wydawniczy ‘Znak’, 1984), p. 33. More on the Ruthenian testaments in the light of interconfessional relations see in L. Berezhnaya, Death and the Afterlife in Early Modern Ukrainian Culture (Berlin, in press). 64. N. Iakovenko, Parallel’ny svit, p. 63. 65. Ia. Isaievych, Bratstva i ich rol’ v rozvytku ukrains ‘koi kultury XVI–XVII st (Kyiv: Naukova dumka, 1966). The English version of the book is idem,

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66. 67. 68. 69.

70.

71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76.

77.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE Voluntary Brotherhood. Confraternities of Laymen in Early Modern Ukraine (Edmonton: CIUS Press, 2006); S. Rohdewald, ‘Von Polocker Venedig’, pp. 252–99. See S. Plokhy’s review ‘Imagening early modern Ukraine’ on N. Iakovenko’s Parallel ‘nyi svit in Harvard Ukrainian Studies, vol. XXV, no. 3/4 (2001) 267–80. S. Plokhy, The Cossacks and Religion in Early Modern Ukraine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). T. Chynczewska-Hennel (ed.), Mie
dzy Wschodem i Zachodem. Rzeczpospolita XVI–XVIII w. (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Fundacji ‘Historia pro Futuro’, 1993). J. Tazbir, Polska przedmurzem Europy, 2nd edn (Warsaw: Twój styl, 2004); idem., Rzeczpospolita i s´wiat. Studia z dziejów kultury XVII wieku (Wrocl´aw: Ossolineum, 1971), pp. 63–78 (chapter ‘Przedmurze jako miejsce Polski w Europie’). W. Weintraub argues that the antemurale idea did not enjoy much popularity in the 15th century Polish Kingdom. W. Weintraub, ‘Renaissance Poland and Antemurale Christianitatis’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies 3–4 (1979–80) 920–30. See also P. W. Knoll, ‘Poland as “Antemurale Christianitatis” in the Late Middle Ages’, Catholic Historical Review 60 (1974) 381–401; U. Borkowska, ‘The ideology of “antemurale” in the sphere of Slavic culture (13th–17th centuries)’, in The Common Christian Roots of the European Nations: An International Colloquium in the Vatican, vol. 2, (Florence: Le Monnier, 1982) pp. 1206–21; H. Hein-Kircher, ‘Antemurale christianitatis. Grenzsituation als Selbstverständnis’, in H. Hecker (ed.), Grenzen. Gesellschaftliche Konstitutionen und Transfigurationen (Europäische Schriften der Adalbert-Stiftung Krefeld Band 1) (Essen: Klartext, 2006), pp. 129–48; M. Deszczy n´ska, ‘Wyobrazenie przedmurza w pis´ mmiennictwie schylku polskiego os´wiecenia’, Przeglad Historyczny 92 (2001) 285–300. Endre Angyal traced commonalities in the cultural tradition of these early modern ‘borderland bastions’. He argued that a specific version of the Baroque culture was peculiar to the ‘world of the bulwarks’ chain’. It is characterized by the ‘remnants of the Crusades and Reconquista spirit in the times, when for the rest of Europe it was merely a requisite of the literary romanticism’. E. Angyal, S´wiat sl´ owian´skiego baroku (Warsaw: Pan´stwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1972), p. 108. Cf. J. Tazbir, Polska przedmurzem Europy, p. 69. Idem, Rzeczpospolita i s´wiat, p. 69. Ibid., p. 64, idem, Polska przedmurzem Europy, p. 43, passim, p. 60. This was also a reflection of the widely spread view that Russian nobles did not enjoy feudal rights but only those privileges granted by the tsar. (I owe this remark to Prof. A. J. Rieber). J. Tazbir, Polska przedmurzem Europy, p. 51. N. Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 1. The Origins to 1795 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), p. 189. J. Tazbir, Polska przedmurzem Europy, p. 73. ‘Epistola Boleslai magni ducis Lithuaniae, ad concilium Basileense (1435)’, in E. Martène and U. Durand (eds), Veterum scriptorum et monumentorum historicorum, dogmaticorum, moralium amplissima collectio. T. 8. Complectens varia concilia, episcoporum statuta synodalia cum amplissima collectione actorum ad concilium Basileense pertinentium et duplici historia concilii Tridentini (Paris: Montalant, 1733), p. 623. Cf. electronic version: http://www.starbel.narod. ru/varia.htm Kurtyka, ‘Podolia’, 177–8.

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78. J. Tazbir, Polska przedmurzem Europy, p. 73. 79. More instances in: A. Kepin´ski, Lach i Moskal. Z dziejów stereotypu (Warsaw, Cracow: Pan´stwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1990). See also, H. Grala, ‘O genezie polskiej rusofobii’, Przegla
d Historyczny 83 (1992) 135–53; D. S´wierczyn´ska, Przysl´owia sa na wszystko (Warsaw: PWN, 2001). 80. J. Tazbir, Polska przedmurzem Europy, p. 73. 81. In the second half of the 17th century the city was situated exactly on the demarcation line between the Turkish Podolia and the Ruthenian territories of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. Kurtyka, ‘Podolia’, 181. 82. W. Romanow-Gl´owacki, ‘Kamieniec Podol´ski: urbs antemurale christianitas’, Pamie
tnik kijowski 3 (1966) 96–127; A. O. Mandzy, A City on Europe’s Steppe Frontier: an Urban History of Early Modern Kamianets-Podils ‘ky, Origins to 1672 (Boulder: East European monographs, 2004). 83. N. Iakovenko, ‘Latyna na sluzhbi kyievo-rus’kii istorii (“Camoenae Borysthenides”, 1620 rik)’, in eadem, Parallel’ny svit, pp. 279, 290. 84. O. Galenko, ‘Luk ta rushnytsia’, in Mediaevalia Ucrainica, p. 94. 85. A notable example is the frontier blood brotherhood on the Balkans, analysed in W. Bracewell, ‘Frontier blood-brotherhood and the Triplex Confinium’, in Roksandic´/Štefanec, Constructing Border Societies, pp. 29–46, esp. p. 43.

4 Confessionalization in the Slavia Orthodoxa (Belorussia, Ukraine, Russia)? – Potential and Limits of a Western Historiographical Concept Alfons Brüning

The early Modern history of Western Europe received the label of an ‘age of confession’ in many recent publications. Reference was being made here to the concept of confessionalization, developed initially in German historiography of the late 1980s, and spread then throughout historiographical science on Western European countries. But what about the Orthodox East? Have there been processes of confessionalization in the Orthodox Church of Eastern Europe comparable to those described for most of the European regions of Western, Latin Christianity? The question itself had been asked not long after the very concept had been created, at a time when the real research base was still limited mainly to some case studies on German history, along with a number of pioneer works on Roman Catholicism.1 The once rather modest beginnings of the concept, on the other hand, did not withstand its claim for universal significance for an understanding of Early Modern historical processes. Confessionalization, as the Berlin historian Heinz Schilling, one of the inventors of the concept, pointed out repeatedly, was meant from its very start to be a comparative concept for European history in general, and to be operating in a universal historical perspective.2 While in the meantime numerous case studies have tried to estimate its value for the hemisphere of Western Christianity, its adoption for the Eastern European part of Christianity seems to be a greater challenge than it once had been considered.3 Yet this challenge is apparently taken successively. Hints at a possibly similar development in the Eastern hemisphere have somewhat accumulated in recent works, written by specialists of Russian, Belorussian and Ukrainian history of Early Modern times. The first steps, sometimes reluctant, sometimes hasty, have been made to take the risk, and get over this presumably significant boundary between 66

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Latin and Byzantine Christian culture. This chapter is going to systematize these, for the time being, rather disparate attempts, in order to estimate the real value of the concept of confessionalization for a better understanding of the Orthodox part of Europe. To avoid misunderstandings, a short but concise summary of the concept is needed first. ‘Confession’, the key word in this concept, is to be understood as a uniform and coherent religious community, shaped ideologically around written dogmatic texts, unique rites and a clear scheme of hierarchy – all of which arose in the time of religious concurrence between Catholicism and Protestant denominations since the first half of the 16th century.4 Confessionalization was the next step. As expressed by the authors – the initial creators were the Berlin historian Heinz Schilling, and his Freiburg colleague Wolfgang Reinhard – it meant the penetration of state, politics and society on all levels by confessional adherences after the Reformation and through the concurrency of confessions, an intensification of inner structures in church and state, a reinforcement of church discipline, the formation of a new type of clergy, and, in connection with all this, the development of a close cooperation of church and state, ideologically as well as practically. One immediate result was the quite well-known religious confrontations, from disputes up to the level of wars, throughout 16th and 17th century Europe. The long-term outcomes of this process should be then a modernization of state and society, and the rise of confessional absolutism during the ‘confessional era’ in European history.5 In fact, the concept – or even the paradigm, as its creators tended to name it – has since then been reconsidered for most of the regions of Early Modern Europe, be it Spain,6 France,7 England, even Ireland,8 Sweden9 as well as East Central Europe, as Bohemia, Poland–Lithuania, Slovenia or Hungary.10 No wonder that through intensive case study verification over years, the concept itself experienced a number of critics, greater precisions and changes. The pretension for universal historical significance had to be diminished, some of the initial elements were to be called into question. Confessionalization, in the end, ceased to be regarded as a paradigm, including all the pretensions of the term, but it apparently is now the more regarded as a universal historiographical research tool of promising value. So it might seem appropriate to state, that the concept of confessionalization continues to dominate historical debates on Early Modern Europe for a greater part, and perhaps on a higher level than it was able to do still a decade before. What were the debates about? The question should be, how critical discussion so far had contributed to a reshaping of the concept, that

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possibly made it more applicable for the Orthodox East as well. A concise recapitulation of the critique expressed so far has to take into account mainly four categories, some of which, however, seem to be less important for our purpose.11 The first of them is macro-historical criticism. The second refers to the periodization of the alleged process of confessionalization. The third concerns the role of theological truth in this process, including the question of specific characteristics of different confessions, which may limit the possibilities of comparison. Finally, critique is aimed at what had been called the ‘etatistic narrowing’ or ‘top-to-bottom approach’ of the concept. The first among these points, i.e. criticism in the macro-historical perspective, opposes the elder concepts of secularization (including rationalization in Max Weber’s understanding) to the claim of the confessionalization concept to portray a fundamental process in Western society. In other words, the question is, whether religion was in fact as decisive as the confessionalization concept wants to have it. According to the critics, there are numerous exclusions, and numerous fields of social and cultural activities the confessionalization concept does not hit and describe. An important example concerns the ideas of tolerance and religious freedom, by themselves contradictory and likely to be more than only exceptions in the light of what Wolfgang Reinhard had called the overall ‘pressure for confessionalization’.12 Consequently, the pathway to modernity should not have been paved by confessionalization and its inherent strengthening of religious adherences, but mainly proceeded from secularization. Whatever theoretical perspective was being taken, for the historian there remained a large field of elements and developments in Early Modern Europe, which were by their very nature non-confessional, or at least in fact never affected by confessionalization, as e.g. Roman law, the Humanist intellectual community (res publica litteraria), mystical and spiritual traditions, etc. Critique of the confessionalization concept, consequently, did not fail to indicate these phenomena.13 It remains an open point, however, how important they all were for what the concept in dispute describes as the generally dominating lines of history. Where are the exceptions, and what is the rule (perhaps to be even confirmed by several exceptions)? The protagonists of the ‘confessionalization’ concept often stressed their intention to re-establish a necessary sensitivity for the role of religion and religious reform in Early Modern Europe, which had been unduly neglected in previous historiography with its focus on mere social structures and economics. Additionally, as Wolfgang Reinhard pointed out in response to his critics, modernity of structures should be also recognized where it was in fact not intended by

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the protagonists of religious reforms (it hardly ever was, of course), and besides the process of confessionalization, taking into account the originally sociological roots of the concept, was meant to be multidimensional and complex enough to integrate the named critical points.14 For our purpose here, questions of periodization seem of lesser interest for the time being, as long as the very question of the applicability of the concept for the Orthodox Church remains open. To some degree this might also be said about the claims of cultural specifics on the part of each of the confessions, as they have been stressed, for example, by Thomas Kaufmann in his studies of German Lutheranism in the early 17th century.15 It is not yet clear whether these specifics necessarily had to be contradictory to a process of confessionalization, or whether they could be integrated in a concept, which is then, once more, to be regarded more as the ‘genotype’ of historical development, alongside the ‘phenotypes’ of concrete confessional milieus. The argument yet has its somewhat practical implications, for historiography and church historiography in particular has itself long been an important element of confessional milieus. For a time reaching far into the 20th century church history was practised almost exclusively by members of confessional camps and stamped by their theological background. Consequently the more ‘functional’ attitude towards religion, which is included in the ‘confessionalization’ concept and its neglecting of questions about theological truth, has been criticized repeatedly by church historians professionally connected with theologian faculties of German universities.16 As we shall see soon, the phenomenon of a confessional – and, later nationally oriented-historiography is as crucial in the Orthodox world as it was in the West. Different from the West, stereotypes there are far from being overcome, and show a strong living force. In comparison with these, for the time being, rather marginal points of critique the fourth one appears to be much more essential. Once again, it is about the limits of the confessionalization concept, yet it does not only refer to those fields, which confessional structures could not reach, but to the limits and weaknesses of confessional structures themselves. In other words, did the formation of clear boundaries and coherent religious groups, and the strengthening of religious discipline among the believers really take place with the overwhelming, deep-reaching force, the concept tends to postulate? When Wolfgang Reinhard stated that confessionalization was to become the first phase of what previous historiography had tried to describe as ‘social discipline’ (Sozialdisziplinierung17) and the church, right through its collaboration with the state, stepped into the gap between governmental demands for discipline and the recalcitrance of

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the people to follow these demands, when it motivated them religiously to subordination and a disciplined way of life and behaviour,18 exactly this was to form another weak point of the concept in the eyes of the critics. In fact in many of the sources of that alleged disciplining character, all the catechisms, church orders, visitation protocols, etc. even if now of church provenance, still there was left enough space for resistance to the common people. Being normative by their very nature, these sources obviously do not include sufficient evidence about whether the commoner really followed the written demands, and the texts therefore tend to merely describe the intentions of their authors rather than a real historical process. So Reinhard might have only shifted the problem from the sphere of the state to that of church authorities, but not have resolved it. As research of recent years has shown, some agreement of the subjects, some readiness to take part in disciplining processes is in fact decisive for any real success of disciplining attempts from above, and in the long run neither church nor state was able to achieve anything by mere means of oppression. Nevertheless Reinhard’s argument in the light of the same results of recent research still can seem persuasive, because obviously church and state in their efforts did profit from the subject’s agreement. Yet the process finally leading to a ‘disciplined’ and, in this respect, modern society was by far more complex than a simple ‘top-to-bottomapproach’ as once suggested. In this process of mutual agreement between the organs of power and the common people the final results often differed from the initial intentions of the reformers, and more often, as a matter of grief for those reformers, there were at first glance few results at all. In the long run, however, the impact of confessional norms on societal development can in fact be observed, even where the pressure from above failed to be very strong. ‘Confessionalization from below’ at least sometimes met halfway the reform efforts from above.19 *** These are probably the main guidelines to be taken into account for any actual operation with the confessionalization concept on the ground of the so-called Slavia Orthodoxa. Our survey is now to form the background for a re-examination of developments in the Orthodox Church in Belorussia, Ukraine, and (Muscovite) Russia. For sure, within the limits of this article, this can hardly be undertaken in a more than superficial way, and it is therefore for a greater part about a re-examination of works already done. As we have noted, science meanwhile has made its first steps towards an application of the confessionalization concept in the Slavic Orthodox environment – steps which shall be estimated on the

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following pages, by asking whether they can show a perspective for any usefulness of the confessionalization concept as a research tool for the study of Eastern Christian religious and cultural history. Building reflections on these pioneer works includes detecting misunderstandings, where they exist and showing perspectives rather than delivering already well-grounded results on our own. Finally, two further introductory remarks seem to be necessary on ‘confession’ and confessionalization in Eastern Slavic Orthodoxy, simply to outline the problem one has to face in stepping over the border from Western to Eastern Christianity. On ‘confession’: It may be well called into question, whether Orthodox Christendom is able to form a ‘confession’ at all, in the more narrow sense of the concept. Of course, the term is in widespread use as a name simply for a Christian denomination, be it Catholic, Lutheran, Reformed, Anglican or whatever else. In everyday language and habits it might be completely legitimate then to speak about an Orthodox confession as well, but in must be stated in this concrete context, that the term is quite more specific within the framework of ‘confessionalization’. Here it means a societal group rather than only a branch of Christian religion. Confessional adherence, following the concept, has its significance for social processes and social mobility, political decisions and ideologies. Significantly enough, the key text of the Lutheran confession, the so-called Confessio Augustana, has, for example, first been presented before the Imperial Council (Reichstag) in German Augsburg, with the Emperor himself at its head, not before any church synod. There are other examples of a similar illustrative quality: Interconfessional marriage by the time became an exclusion, tending to damage seriously the social reputation of the participants. In German Bavaria, as in many other Catholic regions, the government required an oath on belief in the Holy Virgin (quite impossible to take for a strict Protestant) from applicants for public service. All these examples show the practical significance, the secular consequences as one may say, of the formation of confessions in Early Modern Europe.20 This definition in regard of the social, not only religious significance, however, has to be taken into account in examining, whether Orthodoxy can accurately be named a confession as well, or at least finally developed into a such. Secondly, confessions in the West were built mainly around dogmatic texts, as, in the first place, the confession texts of the Protestant denominations (Bekenntnisschriften) and the Roman professio fidei, composed and released after the Catholic council of Trent. As a matter of fact, Orthodox Christendom devotes much less significance to dogmatics in

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comparison with its overall high esteem of rite and liturgy. Even in the West the different confessions in the further process of ‘confessionalization’ stressed ritual elements especially, when they were able to demonstrate the right faith and the difference to the alleged heretics of the other side.21 Nevertheless, Western Christianity in these times defined the faith of the believer by its content, by its congruence with dogmatic formulas of one confession, not primarily by liturgical practice. The latter, indeed, is by far more the case in Orthodoxy. So even if one has to do with a dogmatic document on the Orthodox part as well, as may be the ‘Orthodox confession of faith’ of the Kievan metropolitan Peter Mohyla, compiled in 1640, a text which seems at first glance quite similar in place and function to the Western counterparts, its real significance for an alleged confessionalization deserves to be examined very carefully.22 *** At first sight, the Belorussia and Ukraine of today, in older Polish historiography usually called the kresy, offer a promising landscape for enquiries about confessionalization processes. But a closer look also should reveal a number of temptations and traps. A fact well known, the earlier historiography in fact offers tempting schemes in black and white, of clear camps and dramatic confrontation between ethnic, political and confessional groups. The picture drawn here looks as follows: Polish Catholicism with its tendency to spread on the Eastern parts of Poland–Lithuania stands against an old established Ruthenian Orthodoxy in these lands. After the famous Union of Brest in 1596, the Uniate church entered into its long lasting heroic struggle for self-assertion between the frontiers, between the distrust of resentful Roman Catholics, and the enmity of the Orthodox.23 Meanwhile the Ruthenian Orthodox, after having resisted papal attempts to capture them by the Union in Brest, from that time onwards began their own struggle to preserve not only the right and pure faith of their ancestors, but by this also their cultural and ethnic – if one author is at least wise enough to avoid then the puzzling term ‘national’ – identity.24 From the perspective of numerous works in Western languages, the Ukraine especially, became an ideological battlefield between Rome, Constantinople and, finally, Moscow.25 Although it is not possible here to weigh up carefully all the relevant titles, some of them at their time nevertheless had been valuable contributions to our knowledge,26 a basic problem might have become already clear. The religious drama on the stage, outlined in these works, seems to welcome openly the confessionalization concept, for all the allegedly necessary elements already exist: confessions well defined in their specifics, confessional antagonisms, concurrence over

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the common believer, and, after all, religiously motivated wars since the mid-17th century, etc. More recent historiography, however, had to destroy to some degree this alleged paradise for the confessionalization specialists, ironically right at that time when the concept was being invented. It was obviously the biographical genre, which finally helped outstanding representatives of modern Ukrainian historiography (mainly in the diaspora of Canada and the United States) to get over long lasting stereotypes, and led to a better understanding of the complex formation processes really happening within the society of the Polish–Lithuanian East in early modern times.27 That did not mean that views about social formation were furthermore dissolved. Particularly it was now the pattern of an ethno-cultural, in its type early modern national consciousness among the population of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth which had been maintained, and gained more attention among the scholars.28 As soon as it was pointed out that these types of an ethno-cultural self-understanding of social groups were to a high degree determined by religious affiliation, once again the confessionalization concept seemed easily applicable, and on occasion was readily adopted – sometimes without further reflection.29 If there was a first reflection on the concept by Eastern scholars, on the other hand, it did not escape misunderstandings either. So the Moscow historian Mikhail Dmitriev, while highly recommending the ‘confessionalization’ concept for a better understanding of the socio-cultural developments generated around the Union of Brest, simultaneously puts it in a line with other processes, such as Counter-reformation, Catholic reform, and attempts for interconfessional reconciliation.30 The original intention of the concept, however, was to integrate at least two of the named processes, i.e. Counter-reformation and Catholic reform, which were to form in fact the main elements of what then was to be named the ‘Catholic confessionalization’.31 What Dmitriev obviously had in mind, was not so much a fundamental and systematical process of ‘confessionalization’ of church, state, society and culture, as was intended by the creators of the concept, but rather a ‘confessionalization’ of mind and mentality, with respect to the political and ecclesiastical elites in particular. Later on, one finds some reluctance in generally connecting ongoing processes with the concept in his comprehensive study on the genesis of the Union of Brest.32 A single exception is Dmitriev’s judging of the role of the Polish government on the way towards the Union. When he outlines the change from initial hesitation towards an open and decisive engagement within the ruling circles of the Rzeczpospolita and King

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Sigismund Vasa in particular, the naming of this change as a ‘confessionalization’ of politics seems to him completely appropriate.33 Another main contribution to our question is Serhii Plokhy’s recent study of the religious attitudes of the Ukrainian (Dnipro) Cossacks during the seventeenth century (until about 1670).34 Plokhy’s work aims to depict the specific dialectics in the relationship of the Cossacks to the Orthodox faith. He rightly concedes that there was little if any religious component in the Cossack revolts up to the second decade of the 17th century. Only after the restoration of an Orthodox, non-uniate hierarchy in Kiev under the protection of large Cossack units the latter began to see and present themselves as defenders of the Eastern rite, and to behave correspondingly. On the other hand, the Orthodox faith itself was being transformed by the elite of the Cossack movement into what might be called the ideology of an arising Cossack state. Orthodoxy thus became what these circles made out of it. Soon after the great uprising of the famous hetman Bohdan Khmelnyts’kyi had broken out, it turned into a military faith, and from this time battles and campaigns were motivated with religious slogans. Plokhy sums up his image like this: ‘Having entered the religious fray, Cossackdom readily adapted and transformed Orthodoxy into a rebel faith, but, in the process, even more profoundly changed and transmuted itself.’35 He refers to the ‘confessionalization’ concept, which apparently serves him as the common background in European history and simultaneously as a tool for a closer interpretation of the Cossack wars in the light of the religious wars throughout 17th century Europe.36 Although his book does clearly not tend to describe the ‘ideological’ formation process within the Cossacks and the official documents released by them as a ‘confessionalization’ itself, there was, in his view, nevertheless a strong influence by this general framework of European religious history, by which Ukrainian Orthodoxy consequently had also been affected. As he demonstrates on the basis of a rich source material, Orthodox religion became more and more the keystone in the ideological base for the Cossack’s revolts. Simultaneously, their – alleged – confessional homogeneity gave them good arguments in their negotiations with Muscovy. It was not by chance that the Pereiaslav agreement of 1654 was legitimized on both sides primarily in terms of religious commonality.37 Plokhy’s book undoubtedly gives insight into the motives of the Cossack wars, and, by the perspective it opens, on the self-understanding of the elite in the Cossack hetmanate during the following decades. Among others, it is particularly the question of church–state relations, which is under discussion here. ‘In most of Europe, including the Polish and Lithuanian lands of the Commonwealth, aristocratic opposition to

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royal authority developed in tandem with the Reformation movement, especially with Calvinism. In the Ruthenian lands of the Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, magnate opposition developed mainly under the banner of Orthodoxy.’38 However, the Cossacks, even the more educated elite with noble roots among them for long stood isolated, because, at first, nobles in the Commonwealth in fact have been wavering between criticism and loyalty, and, secondly, the Orthodox church with its persistent distrust of other Orthodox centres such as Moscow and Constantinople did so as well. Furthermore it is not clear, taking into account the mainly official character of the sources on which Plokhy relies, which social part and ideological direction among the still rather disparate Cossack troops he is describing – and which were the others. If it is about the Cossack’s elite, how does this upper circle relate to the rank and file Cossacks? As the Cossacks were still not in any respect a homogenous social community, their religious adherences most likely were not yet completely uniform either.39 As we can learn from this study once more, there was quite a difference between the ideological constructions among the Cossack elites, somewhat made up on the ground of a defence of the Orthodox faith, and the religious adherences of the rank and file Cossacks – which were, obviously, nevertheless mobilized by this ideology. Plokhy’s study has sometimes been perceived as a description at least of mirroring processes of confessionalization in the Ukrainian (and, allegedly, later the Russian) Orthodox church during the 17th century.40 What he depicts, however, is the shaping of an ideology rather than the impact of purely confessional views in Orthodox society. Discussion about Plokhy’s theses, and even more about the possible conclusions, occurred to a great extent in Ukrainian historiography. One particular question, the relation of the Cossacks to the Orthodox faith lies, of course, at the core of these discussions. First, that they transformed Orthodox religion into a ‘rebels’ faith’, as even Plokhy himself presents it, is perhaps more true in the sense that their Orthodoxy in many senses followed a logic of war. The furor of their campaigns in fact often levelled out any confessional differences, so that during these wars Orthodox monasteries, churches and villages could not feel any safer than those of Catholics or Uniates. The Cossacks’ war faith was in part bearing characteristics of an ‘eschatological’ sense and will for destruction.41 One might argue that this contains phenomena like the soldiers’ striving for loot, which are likely to be met among all troops during the Thirty Years’ War, where the psychological laws of the war situation exerted their influence. But the attitude towards religion among the Cossacks had its history before,

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and this attitude was quite far from being homogenous even before the uprising. So the question remains open, as to the extent the ideological agenda of the elite, with or without its religious elements, had ever reached the average Cossack warrior. The masses’ religiosity, theoretically speaking, not only lacked most of the basic characteristics that might be regarded as undeniable preconditions for finding an Orthodox confession, but hardly fit the image of Orthodox belief, which the church reformers in Kiev wanted to establish. During the first half of the 17th century, and most probably also in the second half there was, alongside undoubtedly Christian and Orthodox forms of religious practice, quite an amount of what the Kievan clerics would have called simply superstition, such as magic rituals, belief in demons, spiritism or simply local customs that had never been tested on their applicability with what could be called the ‘official’ Orthodox faith (or Orthodox ‘confession’) – if, after all, something like that already existed by that time.42 There is some reason to assume, that the ‘rebels’ faith’ of the Cossacks during the Khmel’nyts’kyi uprising, took quite a bit from the rather folkloristic sources of local customs and every day’s religious life in the borderland society. But this was in fact what the official confessions in the West for a long time tried to combat and put down. The connection of the Cossacks with Orthodox religion is something of a stereotype in historiography that Plokhy tries hard to differentiate. Before him, Ukrainian historiography quite often has outlined the process in which the Cossacks of the East grew into the role of warriors for the Orthodox faith, and for guarantees for the preservation of a traditional heritage of the Ruthenian people.43 Yet there is evidence for the other side of the medal, namely that the Orthodox population of the Eastern provinces long hesitated to regard them as such. Their relation towards the Cossacks was sometimes quite critical. The grievances of the local dietines, where the assembled Orthodox nobles repeatedly asked for help against the raids and attacks of different Cossack units, add a nuance which once in a while had been forgotten in traditional historiography.44 It may be true that the commoners in these provinces up to 1648 slowly but surely learned to ground their hope for restoration of their rights, and those of their Eastern faith on the Cossacks, but, first, there were alternatives as even the protestant magnates,45 and, secondly, they also never ceased to regard the Cossack’s wildness and unpredictable actions with distrust and fear.46 Religion most probably was not, or not alone, at the heart of growing enmity. Social and economic tensions as, e.g. the rising power of the magnates at the expense of a petty nobility, the steady suppression and

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re-enserfment of the peasantry, played a significant role in the growing discontent in the East, and contributed as much as pure religious confrontation in generating the final conflict.47 A closer examination of the sources has shown that expressions of feelings of religious discrimination, although they might have somewhat accumulated in the voice of rumour among the folks, in their origin more than once can be traced back to quite secular, and often locally limited conflicts.48 To be accurate, these facts by themselves do not automatically uphold an adoption of the confessionalization concept for the Ukrainian and Belorussian lands. We have early examples, as in Heinz Schilling’s key study of the Duchy of Lippe in North Western Germany, where religious antagonisms also have sharpened already existing social and economic conflict lines and contributed to a development into confessional homogeneity in the end.49 But, there it was the church, or, better, the already formed confessional churches, who played this outstanding role in the process of formation of societal entities. What is decisive, then, in the case of the Cossacks in Poland–Lithuania, is the fact, that their religiosity – the Cossack’s ‘rebel faith’, as Plokhy called it – obviously gained its shape along with an increasing alienation from the official Orthodox church, its representatives and their reform efforts. But can there be confessionalization not only without, but in part even against the church? On the other hand, what about the face of the church itself? Did the churches follow the path to confessionalization? What is true, the church, for its part, not long after the, in fact, dividing Union at Brest in 1596 slowly but surely brought serious reforms on the way. Reform efforts were actually already at the root of the decision of some of the Ruthenian Orthodox bishops to join the Union with the Roman papacy, when they hoped to gain support from above, be it from the Polish government, or from Rome.50 After the Brest synod, when most of the lay people and some of the clerics openly demonstrated their disagreement with this rather self-willed step of their bishops, there were furthermore two branches of the Orthodox church in Poland–Lithuania – one that followed the Union, and another that preserved its loyalty to the patriarchal see of Constantinople. Yet both of them soon, at the latest after about 1610, began to introduce quite a number of reforms to improve their inner status, and it was the new situation of concurrence (among themselves, as with the Western confessions, with Protestantism and with the Catholic church after Trent), which made these reform efforts resolute and in part even aggressive. Paradoxically enough, many of the models and examples for reform steps were being taken from the Western counterparts, and it was

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in particular the Catholic church after Trent that provided both Orthodox branches with ideas how to deepen faith, fight heresy (or, in their eyes, Catholic apostasy) and to strengthen the discipline of priests and monks. These models were, to be sure, not taken without cautious and deliberate reflections.51 Nevertheless, perhaps not by chance alone, the endeavours of the Eastern rite churches in most respects corresponded quite well with the scheme that once Wolfgang Reinhard had developed to sum up the decisive measures of the Western confessions in the period of confessionalization.52 Within these schemes the decisive steps are the following: to regain clear theoretical ideas about the theological background of one church, to spread and establish new norms of ecclesiastical and Christian life, to exert and strengthen propaganda on behalf of the confessional church, to use education to spread and deepen knowledge about the new orders and images, to discipline the adherents, to broaden the execution of rites (especially those with a clear distinguishing quality) and to influence language. Already a superficial examination of the reforms in both Orthodox camps in the Ruthenian lands of later Ukraine and Belorussia in the early 17th century seem sufficient to show that they carried out most of the points of this programme as well. On the part of the Uniates, the initiatives belonged to their second metropolitan, Josif Veliamyn Ruts’kyi. His main achievement consisted in a re-organization of the Basilian order, with a centralization of hierarchy, a stressing of the importance of education and mission, which brought these monks closer to the image of Western religious orders as, e.g. the Jesuits, while the spiritual traditions of Eastern monastic life tended to come second. As the Uniate church simultaneously preserved the habit of Orthodoxy that made the bishops and higher clerics come exclusively from the monasteries, Ruts’kyi’s reform of the Basilians directly affected his church as a whole, helping to create the new type of clerics which the times obviously required.53 In addition, there were a number of synods between that of Kobryn in 1626 and Zamos´c´ almost a hundred years later, in 1720, where at least the intention to strengthen discipline among lay people and clerics, and the intention of improving steadily the education system was openly declared. Regular – more or less regular in fact – church visitations were to provide the responsible bishops with the necessary information about the state of their eparchies and their flock.54 Ruts’kyi’s collaborator Josaphat Kuncevych, who later became a martyr, being murdered in Vitebsk in 1623, composed a catechism and strict regulations for the Uniate priests.55 Another book of rules of this type, then called ‘metryka’, was published later by the bishop of L’viv, Iosif Shumlians’kyi, in 1687, about ten years after the latter had converted

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secretly to the Union, and once again started to improve ecclesiastical life in his diocese.56 In general, the main contributions to a strengthening of church discipline, and, as a consequence, to the formation of what might be called a ‘uniate confessional consciousness’ of the regions of Western Ukraine, were under way mainly only in the last decades of the 17th, and the first decade of the 18th century.57 Endeavours of the Orthodox Church had quite a similar face, and started from the famous Monastery of the Caves in Kiev. Though there were slight beginnings of reform already in the years after 1600, initiated by the archimandrites Elisei Pletenec’kyi and Zakharii Kopystens’kyi, the outstanding figure in the Orthodox reform process was their successor and, after 1633, also Kievan metropolitan Peter Mohyla (1596–1646). Mohyla’s most significant contribution was the Kievan College, founded in 1632 on his initiative and financed mainly out of his personal purse, which by its adoption and transformation of Western standards was the first institution of higher learning within the Slavic Orthodox World. Sons of nobles, as well as future priests were now to achieve their education here on purely Orthodox grounds.58 Of high importance were, furthermore, Mohyla’s re-editions of purified liturgical and canonical books, as his Nomocanon (1629), the missal (Sluzhebnyk, twice in 1629 and 1639), and above all, the sacramentary book (Trebnyk) of 1646, which should later be of great influence in Muscovy and Russia. Together with this, Mohyla made first steps towards the founding of a church consistory, and had also carried out first church visitations within his dioceses.59 A church council in 1640, among others, released the first Orthodox catechism under the title of ‘Confessio Orthodoxa’.60 A number of corresponding examples can perhaps be easily be mentioned. All of them obviously hint at the fact that what might be called the structural, not only the mental part of confessionalization, was quite present also in the branches of the Eastern rite churches in Ukraine and Belorussia. Ukrainian historiography has come to concede, albeit with some hesitation, that all these reform efforts could be regarded as beginnings of a confessionalization process.61 The hesitation, however, seems as justified as any optimism with regard to the superficial similarities. For one of the key questions remaining is what real effect on the re-shaping of religious life all these reforms had? This includes, in the light of our previous discussion of the confessionalization concept and its critique, to what extent the objects of the reform endeavours, the lay people and the lower clergy, reacted to the new demands in a positive way and thereby contributed to bringing the re-shaping actually on its way. As we can easily presume meanwhile, in the Ukrainian lands their response was for the greater part completely negative.

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First, the very state of religious education within the lower classes of the population was, at its most, elementary, and that was even more true for the specifics of church, rite and dogma. Among the lay people in the Eastern parts of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth there was, during the 17th century at least, obviously very little knowledge about decisive differences between the churches in concurrence. So it was, on the one hand, a widespread stereotype, that the Union had to be regarded as a step from the part of the Poles to infiltrate and spoil the ‘Rus’ faith, but on the other hand there were apparently very few people able to say what Uniatism really meant. The intensive literal polemics about the Union, so widely discussed in historiography science since the middle of the 19th century, supposedly had their effect only within a limited circle of clerical intellectuals, and did not leave traces among the common folk. The only thing that was more or less commonly known was that the Uniates during the service prayed for the Roman pope.62 Yet there is evidence that even this was not always the case, so that religious practice hardly could have contributed to a development of confessional consciousness.63 Consequently, it was presumably also not confessional consciousness that was to form the basis on the Cossacks’ faith and the inherent enmity towards everything regarded as Catholic, Polish or Uniate. On the part of the newly erected Uniate church, efforts to strengthen religious discipline among the lower clergy and the lay people was obviously as fruitless as literary propaganda. For example, in the case of the Uniate clergy, there are steady complaints about its deplorable moral and cultural standards throughout the 17th and 18th centuries, and it does not seem as if any improvement was achieved at all over this time. Lack of even the basic education including literacy and knowledge of Slavonic, and on the other hand drunkenness, brawls, quarrels, insults alongside dubious economic activities with windmills, inns and alcohol, or the requirement of exorbitant taxes for sacramental services, remained the subject of repeated laments by the responsible bishops.64 As for the Orthodox, church reform not only failed to improve religious discipline, let alone to win the approval of the lay people, but also drove the masses into severe opposition. As we can also learn from Serhii Plokhy’s work discussed above, it was the disagreement of the people and the Cossacks, in particular, to the reforms initiated by the Orthodox metropolitan Peter Mohyla that led the former into the revolt in the years 1637–38. Later on, the actions of the Cossack army and the hetman more than once met the opposition of the higher Orthodox clergy, who rarely shared the self-belief of these Cossacks as alleged ‘warriors of faith’. Tensions between the top and the bottom of the Orthodox church

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persisted at least until the subordination of the Kievan metropolitan see to the patriarchate of Moscow in 1686.65 There may have been some success in improving church life, nevertheless, at least in comparison with neighbouring Muscovy. When after 1667 parts of the Eastern regions of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth came to the Muscovite Tsars, the Uniate population of the Ukrainian lands apparently converted more easily to Orthodoxy than did their coreligionists in the Belorussian regions. Recent science has presumed that the reason for this is to be found in the already more advanced state of Orthodoxy in Ukraine, where, as a result of the reform efforts of the Kievan centre, the difference between Uniatism and Orthodoxy was felt less than in relation to the ‘backward’ Muscovite church and its habits next to the Belorussian territory.66 These are yet weak indications for the time being (we have heard already about the situation on the side of the Uniates), and it is also true that in the years after 1686 the Kievan hierarchy had to restart its reform programme for lays and lower clergy almost from zero. For example, protocols of the Kievan synod of 1691, with their description of liturgical and moral standards, which were needed to be introduced in the eparchies, clearly reflect the still deplorable status of religious life at the end of the 17th century. It seems hard to suppose that this level should already indicate a progress.67 *** Meanwhile, at this time the Kievan metropolitanate was a part of Muscovite Russia, and subordinated to the Moscow patriarch. Since the middle of the 17th century, Ukrainian monks and scholars had brought many elements of reform to their new lords, be it higher education, purified liturgical books or organizational skills. A fact well known is that clerics of Ukrainian provenance dominated Russian ecclesiastical culture in the ranks of teachers, writers and especially bishops far into the 18th century.68 Continuing our reasoning on the possibilities of confessionalization in the Slavic Orthodox hemisphere, it might be asked whether that allegedly confessional ‘mentality of the reforms’ in the Kievan metropolitanate69 was now the real heritage of the Ukrainians to the Muscovite, and later Russian Tsardom. In fact the direction of the reform steps taken in Muscovy from the middle of the 17th century onwards was, at first sight, quite similar. Long before their living place had become a part of the Muscovite territory, the Kievans had begun to exert their literal and cultural influence on circles of reformers in Moscow. This was particularly true in the case of the so-called ‘zealots of piety’, who gathered in the capital from about 1640 onwards. Most significant

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personalities of the following years, as the archpriest Avvakum, and the later patriarch Nikon, apart from the younger Tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich himself, belonged to that circle, united by their will to improve religious life in Muscovy, which they regarded as the remaining bulwark of true Orthodox Christianity.70 How can the very fact be interpreted that the most influential figures of Muscovite Russian history in the second half of the 17th century during their younger years were probably under the influence of that confessional ‘mentality of the reforms’ in Kiev? Does that whatever thin ‘path of confessionalization’ in the Orthodox church lead from there to Moscow? Asking a question like this is, of course, more a matter of rhethoric. What is true, however, is that Muscovite religious history up to the early 18th century also offers quite a number of promising points and figures for an adaptation of the confessionalization concept – or, to put it from the opposite perspective, it awaits the historian familiar with the concept with several traps and temptations. The undoubted influence of Ukrainian – or, in a more adequate terminology, Ruthenian – Orthodoxy in this period is one of them, and should be discussed more deliberately. Some attempts have been also made in historiography on Muscovite Russia to adopt the confessionalization concept. Their outcome yet is quite disparate. As an example, temporary cooperation between the German university of Tubingen and that of St Petersburg generated a volume of collected articles on probable similarities between German and Muscovite Russian development.71 Apart from some promising insights on parallels in religiosity and theology between East and West, however, the overall result is perhaps more capable of illustrating both the theoretical difficulties to bridge the gap between East and West and the practical ones in bridging coordinating separated working traditions in historiography. The Russian reader may benefit from the volume primarily through the editor’s introductory article with its depiction of the genesis of the confessionalization concept, but even there reflections on its applicability to early modern Russian history is hardly to be found.72 More optimistic in this respect proved to be the German specialist on Russian history Stefan Plaggenborg, who connects the question for confessionalization with that of the modernization potentials of 17th century Muscovy in general. Plaggenborg rightly points at the fact that quite a number of the topics in Wolfgang Reinhard’s already mentioned scheme for structural confessionalization73 apparently did exist in the Russian Orthodox church of that time as well – even if the very problem of whether Orthodoxy is able to form a confession in the strict sense of the term is taken into account.74 Regardless of the critique on the concept and its implications of a modernization by formation

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of religious structures, which we have mentioned above, Plaggenborg´s approach certainly deserves more attention than it has received so far. Other, separate attempts to clear the potential of questions for modernization in the case of Muscovite Russia actually ignore the confessionalization concept for the time being.75 Indeed one might wonder whether the concept and its implications really ‘have long been axiomatic to historians of Russian religion and society’, as the American historian Robert O. Crummey has stated in a recent essay on Muscovite religious culture and the ecclesiastical elite.76 As we have just noted, there are similarities as well as traps and temptations. To start with one crucial point: for both the confessionalization concept and Muscovite religious history, the relationship between church and state is of central significance. While in the West, in the perspective of the concept, church and state closely collaborated to introduce discipline and religious uniformity for the benefit of both of them,77 the Russian state and church still had to clarify their relationship within the traditional Byzantine framework of the so-called symphonia, an ideal of mutual addition of the spiritual and the political and legal sphere with its often unclear separation of responsibilities. The Greek tradition actually gave the state and the Emperor a predominance, and when, through the deposition of the high-handed patriarch Nikon in December 1666, the Tsar obviously won the struggle of previous years, this happened with reference to the Greek tradition. Yet in fact the harmonic ideal of the symphonia was given up in favour of a pure predominance of the state, i.e. the Tsar in particular. This new predominance of the secular power, however, was not immediately accompanied by a merger of state and church institutions. The monastery’s office (monastyrskii prikaz), for instance, once founded to administrate the vast land holdings of the monasteries, was simultaneously diminished in its significance during the sessions of the council.78 Like secular rulers in the West since the Middle ages, the Russian Tsar still in the 17th century held responsibility for the church, and in particular it was his obligation to persecute and erase heresy if necessary. After the councils of 1666–67 hereby continued to be a state crime.79 Interests of the state in purity of faith, along with a general lack of suitable secular personal in administration, even before Peter the Great, resulted in a number of rather civil obligations being laid upon the priests, be it denunciation of alleged state crimes or heresy, or be it registering deliberately the status and religious activities of their flock members. Thus, a process of engagement of the lower clergy for the state’s purposes began in the period before the Petrine reforms, which were then only to enforce a tendency already set up. It should be noticed, however,

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that the later enlargement had a less religious character, and focussed more on pure governmental needs, such as taxes, service potentials of the population, etc.80 So even if there were signs of cooperation between church and state in the field of religious discipline and uniformity, first, in comparison with the West the prevalence was perhaps more on the side of the secular needs of the state, and secondly, this cooperation rarely found its expression in equivalent administrative structures. So if relationship between church and state in Russia is looked at more closely, a number of problems are revealed. Ideologically there might have been a vision for a ‘confessional’ Orthodox state in Russia as well. It seems more appropriate, however, to state that it was still in the process of being formed. Some of the later constitutive elements of Russian state ideology still had to be formulated and integrated until the end of the century.81 In the field of theology itself, the synods of 1666–67 truly set the standards for liturgical practice, but it was only in the 1680s that anything approaching a theological dispute in the strict sense took place among Russian orthodox clerics.82 Correspondingly, until the end of the century there was no agreement to be reached about a coherent concept of schooling, giving favour either to Greek theology and language, or to the methods brought by the Ukrainians, with their adoptions from the Latin and Catholic scholar world.83 Russian Orthodoxy, even in the 17th century, was very far from having a clearly formulated doctrinal corpus comparable in any respect to that of the Western confessions. What is true – one might follow here the conventional argument – that written texts are in general less constitutive for an Orthodox church than liturgy and rite, and Russian Orthodoxy in this respect succeeded to develop its characteristics as much as did the Western confessions. In such a perspective, similar, e.g. to Thomas Kaufmann’s above-mentioned statements on Lutheranism,84 there appears then on the Orthodox part, what might be called a specific Orthodox confessional culture, notwithstanding Orthodox participation in the general process of confessionalization. What makes this statement still problematic, is that, in the long run, striving for dogmatic clarity proved to be inevitable for Russian theologians as well. Apart from the fact that simple backwardness is something different from cultural specifics, it was the significant wavering of Orthodox theologians of the 17th century between Catholic leanings (often hinted at in case of the Ukrainians) and covered Protestantism (e.g. in case of Feofan Prokopovich after 1700), that became a matter of complaint and irritation for both Western and Orthodox church historians. Here the profile that the confessionalization scheme requires was obviously not achieved.85

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While the ideological and theoretical (as church–state relations) side of the medal already causes some unresolved problems, on the structural side there are still further doubtful elements. To reach the effectiveness of a church–state cooperation in spreading norms, discipline and religious conformity, that was, despite all hindrances, finally known in the West, for the Russians was little more than wishful thinking. That was certainly not due to a lack of effort and good intentions. So, at first glance, there seems to be another striking parallel between Russian Orthodoxy and the Catholic church in particular, becoming obvious through the figures of a number of outstanding bishops of a new type, who energetically took over the burden of reforming ecclesiastical life in their dioceses. Educated and well informed in theological and ritual literature, with clear ideas about what church and piety should be like, capable and experienced in administration, and rigorous in their will to bring an order to religious life, people like the Bishop Afanasii of Kholmogory represented a type of hierarch similar in some respects to the Catholic bishops after Trent, and the reforms of the Milan bishop Carlo Borromeo in particular.86 Until the middle of the 18th century, most of them had come from the Ukrainian lands and had profited from the better level of education there, namely the famous Kievan academy. They were generally recruited from the group of men that has been named the ‘educated monks’. While joining monastic life more or less formally, these new clerics almost entirely concentrated on the achievement of literacy and higher learning, regarded as weapons to defend Orthodoxy against all heresies by words, texts, and, if the call from above gave them the opportunity, by reform activity as bishops. As long-time inhabitants of monasteries, they gave comparatively little space to a spiritual life in prayers and tranquillity, as is of high significance in the Eastern tradition.87 It is also this type of man, who is able to demonstrate differences again in respect, e.g. to the Catholic church. First, they were simply much less successful in their endeavours. Even in case of such an energetic personality as the named Bishop Afanasii, all their efforts to lift up clerical behaviour, church discipline and to establish an educational system amounted to little more than humble beginnings. For example, despite all efforts to increase education among the parish priests, the average level of learning among the lower clergy still remained quite rudimentary for a long time.88 Similarly, their influence remained limited even as far as the election of parish priests was concerned, for, in the most parts of Russia and Ukraine, this had for centuries been a prerogative of as local parish itself, and the parishioners stubbornly insisted on their traditional right, even if the candidates presented to the bishop for consecration by

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no means fitted the new requirements.89 Secondly, the inner structure was much weaker than in the Western churches. The bishop’s traditional staff of collaborators was apparently quite small, and badly qualified, and an improvement in this situation was not in sight. Most of the eparchies, especially in the north, saw the founding of a consistory only in the third decade of the 18th century.90 Furthermore, the connections between the sometimes remote eparchies and the centre were rather loose, and once the bishop had reached the place of his destination, he could rely only on his own skills and forces. Opposition at the local level was often strong enough, coming from monasteries, peasant or noble communities, and only very gradually did the implementation of the Nikonian reforms succeed in overcoming them.91 As far as we know, there was no such thing in the Russian church at that time as the periodical visits ad limina of the Catholic bishops to the Roman pope in Catholicism after Trent. The contrary side of this was that bishops in their independency on the local see could, and in fact often did, act as self-will local potentates, suppressing their flock by means such as taxation, church norms and discrimination. Patriarch Nikon was in fact not the only one among the hierarchs to claim for himself the title of ‘velikii gosudar’.92 In the West, church reform, confession-building and confessionalization grew on the basis of concurrence between different confessional denominations, which forced each part to mobilize all forces to strengthen structure and loyalty inside their communities. Although it has been argued, that from the outbreak of the schism (raskol) in the middle of the 17th century the situation in the Muscovite Tsardom was similar, once again at least gradual differences seem to be more important. Only at the end of the 17th century did the Russian Old Believers succeed in forming more or less coherent ecclesiastical communities with their centres in the northern periphery, at Vetka and Vyg. Simultaneously, the process of the formation of what Robert O. Crummey has called a ‘textual community’ continued but came to a temporary end at about 1700.93 Before, resistance to the church reforms had been more unspecific often merging with rather secular, but equally violent opposition of the peasantry against new taxes, labour requirements and restrictions of their right to move, all of which had already been determined by the new codex (ulozhenie) of 1649.94 As Georg B. Michels has shown in his numerous publications mainly on the Old Believers, even in the religious sphere opposition to the church reforms was nurtured from quite disparate sources, and only rarely was the moving force a clear religious alternative. The decisive reasons for resistance, therefore, are more often to be found at the local level, within existing conflicts, but now to be enforced by the undoubtedly harsh and

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non-diplomatic implementation of Nikon’s far-reaching liturgical changes.95 Besides, these liturgical reforms did not meet with a homogenous tradition that could be identified as the ‘old Russian’. The religious reality in the Russian lands of the late 17th century was in fact not that of the Stoglav and the Domostroi, i.e. the key documents of a first reform period around 1551. What in fact existed were conglomerates of years’ old local rites, wonder belief, semi-pagan customs, feasts and seasonings, which had already been a cause for anger and complaint for the so-called ‘zealots of piety’ in the 1640s – rigid priests such as Avvakum, Ivan Neronov and even Nikon himself, and, last but not least, the pious young Tsar Alexei. These, of course, were the elite. The average parish priest continued to be a part of this world of a mixture between paganism, folklore and Orthodoxy, rather than the representative of the pure faith the officials tried to make out of him.96 It may be true that the Western confessions in the further course of events shared a similar situation when dealing with their lay people, among whom local rites, folkloristic traditions and beliefs were also widespread. But they dealt with the problem of what they called ‘superstition’ in a situation of mutual concurrence, which in the Russian church did not exist on a similar level. The Uniates and Old Believers were forming rather inferior religious communities after about 1700 on the general level of Muscovite society, and there was obviously no definite confessional alternative to the Tsar’s Orthodoxy. On the other hand, the amorphous ground for resistance proved to be long-living. Science on Russia still holds up a general scepticism about what for the West has been defined – within the confessionalization scheme, among others – as social discipline. Such processes hardly ever took place on a comparable level.97 For the time being exceptions may confirm the rule. Recent research, however, has detected some influence, e.g. of the ecclesiastical norms of marriage and family life,98 and of the Orthodox liturgical calendar99 on everyday life already existing at the turn of the 17th century. The impression is, however, that the lay population gave their approbation only to some of the church norms, where and when they promised some benefit in avoiding conflicts, while in other spheres, as the already mentioned election of priests, or the folkloristic and magic customs, the parishes still for some time preserved the rather independent character of their religious life. *** After all this, an answer to the question of whether there was also confessionalization in the Slavic Orthodoxy must sound ambiguous. At first, if

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scholars have detected something like a ‘confessionalization of mind and mentality’ among the political, and the clerical elite, this is far less than it seems. But it is also perhaps of some significance and should not be neglected, for it is usually the mind and the ideology, that stands at the beginning of any attempt to form new structures. On the other hand, the next step towards the formation of structures shows differences in quality as well as in quantity. Basically, when the scheme proposed by Wolfgang Reinhard, which we have used on occasion, describes reform steps undertaken by the church and its subordinate institutions in particular, one should have in mind that these steps do not always result in something completely new. In fact, there is an old, almost ‘classical’ scheme of church reforms, that does not in any way lead automatically to confessionalization. Enforcing the discipline of the clerics, increasing levels of education and strengthening internal structures have, since ancient times, been the measures the Christian churches considered necessary to cope with a crisis. Similar endeavours, consequently, can be seen in the Byzantine church of the Early Middle Ages, in the Roman Catholic Church at the 4 Lateran Council around 1214, and also at the Stoglav Synod in Muscovy in 1551. Confessionalization in all these cases was certainly not the theme. Where, then, can one find in fact the new qualities of the reforms of ‘Confessional Europe’? Perhaps, in many respects the image of the Ukrainian Reforms before 1648, and those in Muscovy after 1654, in this sense still bear a rather conventional image. Parallels, e.g. with Wolfgang Reinhard’s scheme do not have to indicate a type of confessionalization. The striving of the Orthodox church, and the Muscovite Tsar at the end, had more in common with the Western Emperors and the Catholic Church of the late Middle Ages, fighting repeatedly with their heresies and unconventional movements, all the lollards, hussites, flagellants, etc. which appeared on the scene over the centuries before the Reformation. Other similarities seem to be contradictory to this impression, and to show more of a confessionalization development, as the work of the Russian ‘educated monks’ and bishops may show. Taking into account that Orthodoxy by its character is hardly capable (nor willing) to form a confession in the Western sense even structural similarities are sometimes yet the more striking. As an initial result of the comparative use of the confessionalization concept as a research tool for the Eastern Church, one might be content with the statement that there perhaps was a certain degree of confessionalization in the East Slavic Orthodoxy as well. The crucial question then is, however, what does that mean? To know about similarities and

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differences in the light of the confessionalization concept is certainly a step forward. The real outcome of such a comparison will apparently only be accessible if we know how to interpret in detail the similarities and differences.

Notes 1. Cf. the passage in H. Schilling, ‘Die Konfessionalisierung von Kirche, Staat und Gesellschaft – Profil, Leistung, Defizite und Perspektiven eines geschichtswissenschaftlichen Paradigmas’ in idem and W. Reinhard (eds), Die katholische Konfessionalisierung (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus 1995), pp. 1–49, here esp. p. 8, and the following discussion, p. 48. 2. ‘Es ist europäisch vergleichend angelegt, und nimmt eine universalhistorische Perspektive ein.’ – H. Schilling, ‘Konfessionalisierung der europäischen Länder und ihre Folgen für Kirche, Staat, Gesellschaft und Kultur’, in J. Bahlcke and A. Strohmeyer (eds), Konfessionalisierung in Ostmitteleuropa. Wirkungen des religiösen Wandels im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert in Staat, Gesellschaft und Kultur (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1999), pp. 13–62, p. 16. 3. Apparently, the protagonists of the ‘confessionalization’ concept themselves had to concede this challenge. H. Schilling, e.g. on occasion has slightly diminished the pretension to universality, tending to limit the value of ‘confessionalization’ to Latin Christianity of Western Europe, cf. idem, ‘Confessionalisation and the Rise of Religious and Cultural Frontiers in Early Modern Europe’, in E. Andor and I. G. Tóth (eds), Frontiers of Faith. Religious Exchange and the Constitution of Religious Identities 1400–1750 (Budapest: CEU Press, 2001), pp. 21–35, p. 22f. 4. Most important for this structural understanding of the term ‘confession’ had been the contribution of Tübingen historian E. W. Zeeden, cf. idem, ‘Grundlagen und Wege der Konfessionsbildung im Zeitalter der Glaubenskämpfe’, Historische Zeitschrift 185 (1958), pp. 249–99; idem, Die Entstehung der Konfessionen. Grundlagen und Formen der Konfessionsbildung im Zeitalter der Glaubenskämpfe (Munich, Vienna: Oldenbourg, 1965). 5. Key texts for the concept are, for example, W. Reinhard, ‘Gegenreformation als Modernisierung? Prolegomena zu einer Theorie des konfessionellen Zeitalters’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 68 (1977) 226–52; idem, ‘Konfession und Konfessionalisierung in Europa’, in idem, ed., Bekenntnis und Geschichte. Die Confessio Augustana im historischen Zusammenhang (Munich: Voegel, 1981), pp. 165–89; idem, ‘Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung? Prolegomena zu einer Theorie des konfessionellen Zeitalters’, Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 10 (1983) 257–77; H. Schilling, Konfessionskonflikt und Staatsbildung. Eine Fallstudie über das Verhältnis von religiösem und sozialem Wandel in der Frühneuzeit am Beispiel der Grafschaft Lippe (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1981); idem, ‘Die Konfessionalisierung im Reich: Religiöser und gesellschaftlicher Wandel in Deutschland zwischen 1555 und 1620’, Historische Zeitschrift 246 (1988) 1–45 (English translation: idem, ‘Confessionalization in the Empire. Religious and Societal Change in Germany between 1555 and 1620’, in idem, Religion, Political Culture and the Emergence of Early Modern Society: Essays in German and Dutch History (Leiden, New York, Cologne: Brill, 1992), pp. 205–45). For a good summary cf. also idem, ‘Confessional Europe’, in T. A. Brady,

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8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE H. A. Oberman and J. D. Tracy (eds), Handbook of European History (Grand Rapids, Mich.: W. B. Eardmans, 1996), pp. 641–81. Three volumes contain the first results of the communication process about the paradigm, each of them being devoted to one of the main confessions in Western Christianity: H. Schilling (ed), Die reformierte Konfessionalisierung in Deutschland (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1986); H.-Chr. Rublack (ed), Die lutherische Konfessionalisierung in Deutschland (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1992); W. Reinhard and H. Schilling (eds), Die katholische Konfessionalisierung (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995) – cf. footnote1. See A. M. Poska, ‘Confessionalization and Social Discipline in the Iberian World’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 94 (2003) 308–18. See James A. Fair, ‘Confessionalization and Social Discipline in France, 1530–1685’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 94 (2003) 276–92; Raymond A. Mentzer, Andrew Spicer (ed), Society and Culture in the Huguenot World 1559–1685 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press 2002). See U. Lotz-Heumann, Die doppelte Konfessionalisierung in Irland. Konflikt und Koexistenz im 16. und in der ersten Haelfte des 17. Jahrhunderts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000). See M. Asche, A. Schindling (eds), Dänemark, Norwegen und Schweden im Zeitalter der Reformation und Konfessionalisierung. Nordische Königreiche und Konfession 1500 bis 1650 (Münster: Aschendorff, 2003). See the articles in Bahlcke/Strohmeyer, Konfessionalisierung in Ostmitteleuropa. Further reflections are presented by J. Deventer, ‘ “Confessionalization” – a Useful Theoretical Concept for the Study of Religion, Politics, and Society in Early Modern East-Central Europe?’, European Review of History 11 (2004) 403–25. On Poland–Lithuania the author of this survey is about to present an own contribution, see A. Brüning, ‘Unio non est Unitas – Polen–Litauens Weg ins Konfessionelle Zeitalter (15–18), (first as Phil. Diss., Berlin 2004), forthcoming. On Bohemia cf. the recent remarks of St Plaggenborg, ‘Konfessionalisierung in Osteuropa im 17. Jahrhundert. Zur Reichweite eines Forschungskonzeptes’, in Bohemia 44 (2003) 3–28, esp. 8–18. On Slovenia see R. Pörtner, ‘Confessionalization and Ethnicity: The Slovenian Reformation and Counter-Reformation in the 16th and 17. Centuries’, Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 93 (2002) 239–77. For the following summary see the well-grounded overview of U. LotzHeumann, ‘The Concept of “Confessionalization”: a Historiographical Paradigm in Dispute’, Memoria y Civilización 4 (2001) 93–114, esp. 103ff. Reinhard, ‘Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung’; for the critique see e.g. W. Schulze, ‘Konfessionalisierung als Paradigma zur Erforschung des konfessionellen Zeitalters’, in B. Dietz and St Ehrenpreis (eds), Drei Konfessionen in einer Region. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Konfessionalisierung im Herzogtum Berg vom 16. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert (Köln: Rheinland-Verlag, 1999), pp. 15–30. See A. Schindling, ‘Konfessionalisierung und Grenzen von Konfessionalisierbarkeit’, in idem and W. Ziegler (eds), Die Territorien des Reiches im Zeitalter der Reformation und Konfessionalisierung. Land und Konfession 1500–1650, Vol 7: Bilanz, Forschungsperspektiven, Register (Münster: Aschendorff, 1997), pp. 9–44. For a response of W. Reinhard see idem., ‘“Konfessionalisierung” auf dem Prüfstand’, in Bahlcke and Strohmeyer, Konfessionalisierung in

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17.

18.

19.

20. 21. 22.

23.

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Ostmitteleuropa. pp. 79–88; for the sociological leanings of the concept, mainly from the theoretical frameworks of T. Parsons and N. Luhmann, S. W. Reinhard, ‘Konfession und Konfessionalisierung in Europa’. Other aspects of critique went a step further, when the idea of a ‘modernization’, for itself an assumption of German historiography of the 1970s, was put into question. The discussion consequently affected the ‘confessionalization’ concept as well, of which ‘modernization’ is a constitutive element. Cf. L.Schorn-Schütte, ‘Konfessionalisierung als wissenschaftliches Paradigma?’, in Bahlcke and Strohmeyer, Konfessionalisierung in Ostmitteleuropa, pp. 61–77. On the discussion about ‘modernization’ in the context of German ‘Gesellschaftsgeschichte’ see H. U. Wehler (ed), Modernisierungstheorie und Geschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1975). Th. Kaufmann, Dreißigjähriger Krieg und Westfälischer Friede. Kirchengeschichtliche Studien zur lutherischen Konfessionskultur (Tübingen: Mohr, 1998). See idem, ‘Die Konfessionalisierung von Kirche und Gesellschaft. Sammelbericht über eine Forschungsdebatte’, Theologische Literaturzeitung 121 (1996) here esp. col. 1121.; W. Ziegler, ‘Kritisches zur Konfessionalisierungsthese’, in P. Frieß, R. Kießling (eds), Konfessionalisierung und Region (Konstanz: Universitätsverlag, 1999), pp. 41–53. The classical study for the term is G. Oestreich, ‘Strukturprobleme des europäischen Absolutismus’, in idem, Geist und Gestalt des frühmodernen Staates (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1969), pp. 179–97. ‘Meines Erachtens füllt die Kirche diese Lücke. Sie stellt ihren Apparat zur Verfügung und ermöglicht den Konsens der Betroffenen. Auf diese Weise wird “Konfessionalisierung” zur ersten Phase der “Sozialdisziplinierung” ’ – cf. Reinhard, ‘Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung’, 276f. For a summary of this aspect of critique see Lotz-Heumann, ‘Confessionalization’, 109–14; among the most important contributions to the discussion since Reinhard’s thesis was formulated have been e.g. H. R. Schmidt, ‘Sozialdisziplinierung? Ein Plädoyer für das Ende des Etatismus in der Konfessionalisierungsforschung’, Historische Zeitschrift 265 (1997) 639–82; M. Prinz, ‘Sozialdisziplinierung und Konfessionalisierung. Neuere Fragestellungen in der Sozialgeschichte der frühen Neuzeit’, Westfälische Forschungen 42 (1992) 1–25; M. R. Forster, Catholic Revival in the Age of the Baroque. Religious Identity in Southwest Germany, 1550–1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); A. Holzem, ‘Die Konfessionsgesellschaft. Christenleben zwischen staatlichem Bekenntniszwang und religiöser Heilshoffnung’, Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 110 (1999) 53–85. Cf. Reinhard, ‘Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung’, 268–77. Cf. Ibid., 266. For further reflections on this point see A. Brüning, ‘Confessio Orthodoxa und europäischer Konfessionalismus – einige Anhaltspunkte zur Verhältnisbestimmung’, in R. O. Crummey, H. Sundhaussen and R. Vulpius, (eds), Russische und Ukrainische Geschichte vom 16–18. Jahrhundert (⫽Forschungen zur osteuropäischen Geschichte, vol. 58) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz 2001), pp. 207–21. For examples for the mostly apologetic historiography of the Uniate church of former times cf., e.g. J. Pelesz, Geschichte der Union der ruthenischen Kirche mit Rom von den ältesten Zeiten bis auf die Gegenwart, vols 1–2 (Würzburg: L. Woerl,

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25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32. 33.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE 1878–80). The claim of former Uniate historiography for representing an Ukrainian National Church is clearly represented in J. Madey, Kirche zwischen Ost und West. Beiträge zur Geschichte der ukrainischen und weißruthenischen Kirche (München: Ukrainische Freie Universität – Monographien, 15, 1969). Among the numerous examples of this direction see esp. V. Antonovych, Ocherk sostoianiia pravoslavnoi cerkvi v Iugo-Zapadnoi Rossii s poloviny XVII do konca XVIII st., preface to Arkhiv Iugo-Zapadnoi Rossii, vol. IV, part I (Kiev: Tipografiia E. Fedorova, 1871). On the fate of the volume see also the comments of the editors in the reedition of the text in V. B. Antonovych, Moia spovid’. Vybrani istorychni ta publicystychni tvory (Kiev, Lybid’ 1995), pp. 767f. Of similar tendency is F. I. Titov, Russkaia pravoslavnaia cerkov v pol’skolitovskom gosudarstve v XVII–XVIII vv. (1654–1725), vol. 1: Zapadnaia Rus’ v bor’be za veru i narodnost’ v XVII–XVIII vv. (Kiev 1905). Cf. E. Winter, Byzanz und Rom im Kampf um die Ukraine (Leipzig: Harrassowitz 1942). For a thorough catalogue of the vast literature on the topic, with its numbers provided also with short comments, see I. Patrylo, Dzherela i bibliohrafiia istorii ukraiins’koi cerkvy, part I–II (Rome: Zapysky ChSVV, 1975, 1988). A deliberate, albeit sometimes positivistic overview of a greater part of the literature is now V. Lastovs’kyi, Istoriia pravoslavnoi cerkvy v Ukraiini naprykinci XVII–XVIII st: Istoriohrafichni aspekty (Kiev: Logos 2006). I have in mind particularly F. E. Sysyn, Between Poland and the Ukraine. The Dilemma of Adam Kysil (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985); see also his comments on another exemplary topic of the time, idem, ‘Peter Mohyla and the Kiev Academy in Recent Western Works: Divergent Views on Seventeenth-Century Ukrainian Culture’, in Harvard Ukrainian Studies 10 (1986) 156–87; D. A. Frick, Meletij Smotryc’kyj (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995). Cf. the articles in I. Banac et al., (eds), Concepts of Nationhood in Early Modern Eastern Europe, thematically specialized volume of Harvard Ukrainian Studies 10 (1986), nos 3, 4. See, for example, the – apart from this quite solid – chapter by J. Oswalt, ‘Die Regionen Weißrußlands im Zeitalter der Konfessionalisierung’, in D. Beyrau and R. Lindner (eds), Handbuch der Geschichte Weißrußlands (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck u. Ruprecht, 2001), pp. 344–58. Simultaneously, this is also the only work on Belorussian Early Modern History to receive the confessionalization concept at all, while native historiography seems to have completely ignored it so far. Cf. M. V. Dmitriev, ‘Centrobezhnye i centrostremitel’nye tendencii v rozvitii evropejskogo khristianstva’, in idem, B. N. Florja and S. G. Jakovenko (eds), Brestskaia uniia 1596g. i obshchestvenno-politicheskaja bor’ba na Ukraine i v Belorussii v konce XVI – nachale XVII v. (Moscow: Indrik 1996), pp. 15–32, esp. pp. 26ff. See on this mainly Reinhard, ‘Gegenreformation als Modernisierung?’; idem, ‘Was ist die Katholische Konfessionalisierung?’, in idem/Schilling, Katholische Konfessionalisierung, pp. 419–53. M. V. Dmitriev, Mezhdu Rimom i Car’gradom. Genezis brestskoi unii 1595–1596 gg. (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Moskovskogo Universiteta, 2003). Ibid., pp. 272ff.; see also idem, ‘Die Kirchenunion von Brest (1596) und die Konfessionalisierung der polnischen Ostpolitik in der Regierungszeit

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34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40. 41.

42. 43.

44. 45.

46.

47.

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Sigismunds III.’, in Chr. Augustynowicz and A. Kappeler et al. (eds), Russland, Polen und Österreich in der Frühen Neuzeit. Festschrift für Walter Leitsch zum 75. Geburtstag (Wien et al.: Böhlau 2003), pp. 159–77. S. Plokhy, The Cossacks and Religion in Early Modern Ukraine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). Ibid., p. 344. Ibid., Introduction, pp. 10–13. Ibid., p. 342; on the relations with Orthodox Muscovy prior to 1654 see ch. 8, pp. 274–333. Ibid., p. 73. On the in fact quite complex composition of the Cossack social state see already C. Kumke, Führer und Geführte bei den Zaporoger Kosaken. Struktur und Geschichte kosakischer Verbände im polnisch-litauischen Grenzland (1550–1648) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1993). See e.g. the review by A. Lavrov, soon to be published in the Journal of Ukrainian Studies. (I am grateful to Professor Lavrov for his manuscript.) Cf. N. Yakovenko, Skil’ki oblich u viini: Khmel’nychchyna ochyma suchasnykiv, in eadem, Paralel’nyi svit. Doslidzhennia z istorii uiavlen’ ta idei v Ukraiini XVI–XVII st. (Kiev: Kritika 2002), pp.189–228. See for example W. A. Serczyk, Na dalekiej Ukrainie. Dzieje Kozaczyzny do 1648 roku (Cracow: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1984), pp. 175–9. Cf. most recently V. Shcherbak, Ukraiins’ke kozactvo. Formuvannia social’noho stanu (Kiev: Vydavnichyi Dim ‘KM Akademiia’, 2000) (esp. ch. 5.2); V. Holobuc’kyi, Zaporozhs’ke kozactvo (Kiev, Vyshcha shkola, 1994). Cf. Arkhiv Iugo-Zapadnoi Rossii, part II, vol. 1, Introduction, pp. XXIX–XXXI and ibid., no. 12, p. 118; no. 21, pp. 228–50, etc. For a most interesting study on the patronate of the Protestant Radziwill princes in Lithuania over their Orthodox subordinates see now
R. De¸giel, Protestanci i prawosl´ awni. Patronat wyznaniowy Radziwillów birzan ´ skich nad Cerkwia¸ prawosl´ awna ¸ w ksie¸stwie sl´ uckim w XVII w. (Warsaw: Neriton, 2000). Cf. B. N. Floria, ‘Otrazhenie religioznikh konfliktov mezhdu protivnikami i priverzhencami unii v “massovom soznanii” prostogo naseleniia Ukrainy i Belorussii v pervoi polovine XVII v.’, in M. V. Dmitriev, L. V. Zaborovskii, A. A. Turilov and B. N. Floria (eds), Brestskaia uniia 1596 g. i obshchestvenno– politicheskaia bor’ba na Ukraine i v Belorussii v konce XVI – pervoi polovine XVII v., part II: Brestskaia uniia 1596 g. Istoricheskie posledstviia sobytiia (Moscow: Indrik, 1999), pp. 151–73, esp. pp. 157ff., 165. Plokhy’s reflection on social and ethnocultural factors, which shaped Cossack identity alongside with religious ones, is mainly in ibid., ch. 4, pp. 145–75. Elsewhere in historiography, nuances are set differently, with less emphasis on religion. See F. E. Sysyn, ‘Ukrainian Social Tensions before the Khmel’nyts’kyi uprising’, in S. H. Baron and N. Sh. Kollmann (eds), Religion and Culture in Early Modern Russia and Ukraine (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1997), pp. 52–70; idem, ‘Orthodoxy and Revolt: The Role of Religion in the Seventeenth-Century Ukrainian Uprising against the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth’, in J. D. Tracy and M. Ragnow (eds), Religion and the Early Modern State. Views from China, Russia and the West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 154–84. See also the critical review of Plokhy’s book by G. B. Michels, in The American Historical Review 108 (2003), no. 5.

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48. M. V. Dovbyshchenko, ‘Realii ta mify relihyinoho protystoiannia na Volyni v kinci XVI – pershoi polovyni XVII st.’, in Socium. Al’manach social’noji istoriji, vyp. 2 (2003) 57–82. Dovbyshchenko’s article refers critically, among others, to the results published by Floria, ‘Otrazhenie religioznikh konfliktov’. 49. See H. Schilling, Konfessionskonflikt und Staatsbildung. Eine Fallstudie über d. Verhältnis von religiösem und sozialem Wandel in der Frühneuzeit am Beispiel der Grafschaft Lippe (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1981). 50. See the extent recent monograph by B. Gudziak, Crisis and Reform. The Kyivan Metropolitanate, the Patriarchate of Constantinople, and the Genesis of the Union of Brest (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998). 51. The problem of Orthodox adoptions of Western models and an alleged undue transformation of the Eastern faith by this adoption has for long been discussed, especially since the critique of father G. Florovskii in his Puti russkago bogosloviia (Paris: YMCA, 1937), esp. pp. 50ff. I have tried to treat this question in A. Brüning, ‘Peter Mohyla’s Orthodox and Byzantine Heritage. Religion and Politics in the Kievan Church Reconsidered’, in H.-J. Torke, ed., Von Moskau nach St Petersburg. Das russische Reich im 17. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2000), pp. 65–90. 52. See Reinhard, ‘Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung’, 263–8. 53. A concise monograph on Ruts’kyi and the Uniate reforms, fitting with contemporary standards, is probably still a matter of desire. Informative, although tendentious in spots, is M. Szegda, Dzialalnos´ c´ prawno-organizacyjna Metropolity Józefa IV Weljamyna Ruts’kiego (1613–1637) (Warsaw: Akademia teologii katolickiej, 1967); see also S. Senyk, ‘Rutskyj’s Reform and Orthodox Monasticism: a Comparison. Eastern Rite Monasticism in the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth in the Seventeenth Century’, Orientalia Christiana Periodica 48 (1982) 406–30. 54. See I. Skochylias, ‘Heneral’ni vizytacii v ukraiins’ko-bilorus’kykh ieparkhiiakh uniats’koii mitropolii. 1596–1720 roky’, in Zapysky Naukovoho Tovarystva im. Shchevchenka 238 (2000) 46–94. Idem, Sobory l’vivs’koi eparkhii XVI–XVIII st. (L’viv: Vydavnyctvo UKU, 2006). The latter work, with a thorough historical introduction and a vast collection of materials, was available to me, unfortunately, only in the very final phase of the composition of this chapter, and therefore could be taken into account superficially. 55. Cf., ‘Der Katechismus des hl. Josaphat, Martyrer-Erzbischof von Polotzk’, in Der christliche Osten 15 (1960) 92–101; ‘Regeln des Hl. Josaphat für seine Priester’, Der christliche Osten 16 (1961) 27–30, 50–61, 91. 56. Cf. recently P. Wawrzeniuk, Confessional Civilizing in Ukraine. The Bishop Iosyf Shumliansky and the Introduction of Reforms in the Diocese of Lviv 1668–1708 (Södertörn: Södertörn högskola, 2005). 57. Skochylias, Sobory l’vivskoi eparkhii, Introduction, pp. xcff. 58. Cf. A. Sydorenko, The Kievan Academy in the 17th Century (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 1977), together with the critical remarks by F. E. Sysyn, ‘Peter Mohyla and the Kiev Academy in Recent Western Works: Divergent Views on Seventeenth-Century Ukrainian Culture’, in HUS 10 (1986) 156–87, here esp. pp. 158–60. 59. On Mohyla one can still refer to St T. Golubev, Kievskii Mitropolit Petr Mogila i ego spodvizhniki, vol. 1 (Kiev: Korchak-Novickij, 1883), vol. 2 (Kiev: KorchakNovickij, 1898); see furthermore A. Zhukovs’kyj, Petro Mohyla i pytannia iednosti

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60. 61.

62. 63.

64.

65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70.

71.

72. 73. 74. 75.

76.

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cerkov, 2nd edn (Kiev: Mystectvo, 1996) (on Mohyla’s renewal of hierarchy and structure see ibid., p. 99, with further references); Ihor Shevchenko, ‘The Many Worlds of Peter Mohyla’, in idem, Ukraine Between East and West (Edmonton: Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies Press, 1996), pp. 164–86. See Brüning, ‘Confessio Orthodoxa’, passim. The outlined developments are treated deliberately in Plokhy’s book as well, who states that especially Mohyla’s reforms ‘helped to set the whole Orthodox world on the path of confessionalization’ – cf. Plokhy, The Cossacks and Religion, ch. 2, pp. 65–99, on Mohyla esp. pp. 95ff. (quotation p. 97); N. Iakovenko, Narys istorii seredn’ovichnoii ta rann’omodernoii Ukraiiny, 2nd edn (Kiev: Kritika, 2005), pp. 285–92. The chapter is entitled ‘Pershi kroky na shliakhu konfesionalizacii: “mentalnist’ reform” ’. Cf. Floria, ‘Otrazhenie religioznykh konfliktov’, 153. Cf. M. V. Dovbyshchenko (ed), Pam’iatky. Arkhiv ukraiins’koi cerkvy. Vyp. 1: Dokumenty do istoriii unii na Volyni i Kyivshchyni kincia XVI – pershoj polovyny XVII st., vol. 3 (Kiev: Ukrains’kyi Derzhavnyi Naukovo-Doslidnyi Inst. Archivnoi Spravy ta Dokumentoznavstva, 2001), p. 76f. Cf. Aleksander Kossowski, ‘Blaski i cienie unii kos´ cielnej w Polsce w XVII–XVIII w. w ´swietle z´ ródel archiwalnych’, in Ksiega pamiatkowa ku czci jego ekscelencii X. biskupa Mariana Leona Fulmana, czes´ c´ III: wydzial nauk humanistycznych (Lublin: Katolicki uniwersytet Lubelski, 1939), pp. 62–132, esp. pp. 64–9.; I. Chistovich, Ocherk istorii zapadno-russkoi cerkvy, chast’ 2 (St Peterburg: Tipografiia Depart. Udelov 1884), pp. 376–9. A vivid portrait of religious life in the Uniate parishes has recently been drawn by Wawrzeniuk, Confessional Civilizing, pp. 101–40. Cf. Plokhy, Cossacks and Religion, pp. 142, 236–273. Cf. O. P. Kryzhanivs’kyi, Serhii Plochii, Istoriia cerkvy ta relihiinoii dumky na Ukraiini, vol. 3 (Kiev: Lybid’, 1994), p. 78. ‘Kievskii sobor 1691 g.’ in Kievskie Eparkhial’nye Vedomosti, No. 8 (1865), part 2, 313–29. Almost exhaustive on this point is still K. V. Kharlampovich, Malorossiiskoe vliianie na velikorusskuiu cerkovnuiu zhizn’ (first Kazan, 1914, reprint The Hague: Mouton, 1968). Cf. footnote 61 above. See Kharlampovich, Malorossiiskoe vliianie, pp. 95–146. On the ‘zealots of piety’ see W. Heller, Die Moskauer ‘Eiferer für die Frömmigkeit’ zwischen Staat und Kirche (1642–1652) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1988). A. Prokopiev (ed), Konfessionalizaciia v zapadnoi i vostochnoi Evrope v rannee Novoe vremia. Doklady russo-nemeckoi nauchnoi konferencii 14–16 noiabria 2000 g. (St Petersburg: Aleteiia, 2004). idem, ‘Vvedenie. Reformaciia, Kontrreformaciia, Konfessionalizaciia’, in idem, Konfessionalizaciia, pp. 5–29. See notes 5 and 20 above. See Plaggenborg, ‘Konfessionalisierung in Osteuropa’, 18–28. See for example J. Kotilaine and M. Poe (eds), Modernizing Muscovy. Reform and Social Change in Seventeenth-century Russia (London/New York: Routlegde/ Curzon, 2004). R. O. Crummey, ‘Ecclesiastical Elites and Popular Belief and Practice in Seventeenth-century Russia’, in Tracy/Ragnow, Religion and the Early Modern

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77. 78.

79. 80.

81.

82. 83. 84. 85.

86.

87. 88. 89.

90.

91.

92.

93.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE State, pp. 52–79. It is mainly religious reform from above, what Crummey tends to sum up by the term ‘confessionalization’, cf. ibid., p. 62. Cf. for example Reinhard, ‘Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung’, 268–77. Cf. Deianiia moskovskikh soborov 1666–1667 godov, ed. N. I. Subbotin (Moscow 1893, Reprint Westmead 1969). See also W. von Scheliha, Russland und die orthodoxe Universalkirche in der Patriarchatsperiode (1589–1721) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz 2004), esp. pp. 294–312; Plaggenborg, ‘Konfessionalisierung’, 22f. Cf. Polnoe Sobranie Zakonov Rossiiskoi Imperii, vol. 2, no. 1163, pp. 647–50 (1685). See D. Coulter, ‘Church Reform and the “White Clergy” in Seventeenthcentury Russia’, in Kotilaine and Poe, Modernizing Muscovy, pp. 291–316, here esp. pp. 310–15. For the eighteenth century, see G. L. Freeze, The Russian Levites. Parish Clergy in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1977), pp. 29–33. This is true, for example, for the heritage of Kievan Rus, which apparently only in the second half of the 17th century became an integrated part of Russian self-consciousness and the state ideology. See E. L. Keenan, ‘On Certain Mythical Beliefs and Russian Behaviour’, in F. Starr (ed.), The Legacy of History in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (Armond et al.: Sharpe, 1994), pp. 19–40. On this dispute about transsubstantiation and eucharisty cf. Scheliha, Russland und die orthodoxe Universalkirche, pp. 441–64. Ibid., ch. III, pp. 327–34. Kaufmann, Konfessionskultur. From the Russian orthodox part see for example the famous work by G. Florovskii, Puti russkago bogoslovia. An example from Western historiography is for example Th. G. Masaryk, Russische Geistes- und Religionsgeschichte, vol. 1 ( Jena 1913, reprint Frankfurt a. M.: Büchergilde Gutenberg 1992), p. 41. G. B. Michels, ‘Rescuing the Orthodox. The Church Policies of Afanasii of Kholmogory’, in R. P.Geraci, M. Khodarkovsky (eds), Of Religion and Empire. Missions, Conversions and Tolerance in Tsarist Russia (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2001), pp. 19–37. On the type of the ‘educated monks’ see I. Smolitsch, Geschichte der russischen Kirche, vol. 1 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1964), pp. 392–98. Coulter, ‘Church Reform and the “White Clergy” ’, pp. 292–6. On the tradition of the priests being elected by the parishioners in the 17th century (and before) see P. V. Znamenskii, Prikhodskoe dukhovenstvo v Rossii so vremeni reformy Petra (reprint St Petersburg: Izdat. Dom ‘Kolo’, 2003), pp. 193–235; Smolitsch, Geschichte der russischen Kirche, pp. 431ff. A. V. Kamkin, Pravoslavnaia cerkov na severe Rossii (Vologda: Vologodskij Gosudarstvennyj Pedagogi¤ceskij Inst., 1992), pp. 101ff.; Smolitsch, Geschichte der russischen Kirche, p. 370f. Cf. G. B. Michels, ‘The Patriarch’s Rivals: Local Strongmen and the Limits of Church Reform During the Seventeenth Century’, in Kotilaine and Poe, Modernizing Muscovy, pp. 317–41. For a correspondent example see idem, ‘The Rise and Fall of Archbishop Stefan: Church Power, Local Society, and the Kremlin during the Seventeenth Century’, in Torke, Von Moskau nach St Petersburg, pp. 203–26. Cf. Robert O. Crummey, The Old Believers and the World of Antichrist. The Vyg Community and the Russian State 1694–1855 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1970).

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94. Cf. Plaggenborg, ‘Konfessionalisierung’, 21, who argues, however, that rightly this combination of social, political and religious conflict is potentially a sign for confessionalization. 95. See in particular G. B. Michels, At War with the Church. Religious Dissent in Seventeenth Century Russia (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999). For an interesting case study in this context see A. Lavrov, ‘“Alter Glaube” und “Neuer Glaube” in einem einzelnen Bezirk: Der Fall Kargopol’ (1653–1700)’, in A. Kappeler (ed), Die Geschichte Russlands im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert aus der Perspektive seiner Regionen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz 2004), pp. 199–219. 96. See Crummey, ‘Ecclesiastical Elites and Popular Belief’, passim. On the parish priests in this context see, e.g. E. B. Smilianskaia, ‘Pravoslavnyi pastyr’ i ego “suevernaia” pastva (k izucheniiu naraodnoi religioznosti v Rossii pervoi treti XVIII v.)’, in M. S. Kiseleva (ed), Chelovek mezhdu Carstvom i Imperiei. Sbornik materialov mezhdunarodnoi konferencii (Moscow: Inst. Cheloveka RAN, 2003), pp. 407–15 (with further references on the topic). 97. See the overview by L. Behrisch, ‘Social Discipline in Early Modern Russia’, in H. Schilling (ed), Institutionen, Instrumente und Akteure sozialer Kontrolle und Disziplinierung im frühneuzeitlichen Europa (Frankfurt a. M.: Klostermann, 1999), pp. 325–57. 98. D. H. Kaiser, ‘ “Whose Wife Will She Be at the Resurrection?”. Marriage and Remarriage in Early Modern Russia’, Slavic Review 62 (2002), no. 2, pp. 302–23.; N. Boskovska, Die russische Frau im 17. Jahrhundert (Köln et al.: Böhlau, 1998). 99. D. H. Kaiser, ‘Quotidian Orthodoxy: Domestic Life in Early Modern Russia’, in V. A. Kivelson and R. H. Greene (eds), Orthodox Russia. Belief and Practice under the Tsars (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), pp. 179–192.

5 Situational Religiosity: Everyday Strategies of the Moscow Christ–Faith Believers and of the St Petersburg Mystics Attracted by This Faith in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century* Ekaterina Emeliantseva

. . . In the churches, where sacramental and ritual services are held in public every day, it is impossible for spiritual people . . . to devote themselves to free acts and thus to the revelation of the Holy Spirit therein.1 Thus wrote Martyn S. Urbanovich-Piletskii (1780–1859), Councillor of State and member of Ekaterina Tatarinova’s Spiritual Brotherhood, in 1837 to the Holy Synod explaining his motivation for participating in special worships which featured ecstatic spinning and dancing accompanied by praying, singing, and prophecy. These practices were called ‘radeniia’ and adopted from the mystical tradition of Christ–faith;2 participants believed to experience the Holy Spirit descending on them.3 Ordinary townspeople of peasant origin and peasants – who constituted the majority of the Christ–faith movement – did not compose in this time period ‘personal accounts’ of their spirituality.4 This is why I examine on the one hand the privileged members of St Petersburg society who practised Christ–faith rituals in the community that was led by Ekaterina Tatarinova (1783–1856), and on the other the more common commune of Christ–faith believers that existed simultaneously in Moscow and was led by a townswoman Mar’ia Borisova (born c. 1780). By challenging the roles of the clergy and liturgy, the Christ–faith believers – a Russian mystical movement that emerged in Central Russia at the end of the seventeenth – beginning of the eighteenth century – were searching for a personal religious experience in private surroundings of 98

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their ascetic communities. Since they never broke with the church, however, they could attend Orthodox services as well. Historical research has emphasized the peculiarity of Christ–faith believers attending both private worships and regular services in the church. By discussing the character of these believers’ affiliation with the church – whether it was only ‘outward’ and ‘formal’, in contrast to their affiliation with the Christ–faith mystics as ‘internal’ and ‘sincere’ – Eugene Clay and Laura Engelstein tended to label this strategy ‘dissimulation’ or ‘dissembling’, although both do not interpret this behaviour as merely ‘subterfuge’ and leave the question to a certain degree open, stressing much the ambiguity of the evidence from the sources and of the social position these believers occupied.5 I shall argue that on the level of everyday activities this practice can be better described as situational religiosity. Then the social behaviour of the members of these groups indicates that their subjective sense of religiously determined social belonging was neither one-dimensional nor constant. Using the cases of Ekaterina Tatarinova’s Spiritual Brotherhood in St Petersburg and Mar’ia Borisova’s Christ–faith commune in Moscow, I will exemplify the possibility of a varying religious identity and socializing – as Russian-Orthodox and as a Christ–faith believer or a member of a private spiritual circle – in different social situations as a strategy of everyday behaviour. In a broad sense, the mystical movement of Christ–faith believers can be seen as part of a process of fragmentation and personalization of faith that intensified in the eighteenth century and was manifest in various, often vehement forms in many parts of Europe. In Western Europe this process was marked by both the distancing of social groups from the church and an increasing indifference towards issues of religious bestowal of sense. Also it was accompanied by a simultaneous intensification of religious conservatism, which rejected the Enlightenment’s criticism of religion and church. The eighteenth and early nineteenth century was not only an age of enlightenment, but also of religious ‘enthusiasts’ – of Pietists and Herrnhuters, of Methodists and ‘Inspired Congregations’ of radical Pietism, and of mystics.6 Similar developments, though in other forms, can be observed in eighteenth-century Russia too:7 AntiEnlightenment Opposition of the monastic clergy as a reaction to the secularization carried out by Catherine the Great in the second half of the 18th century, divisions and polemics between the monastic and the parish clergy over their social status and jurisdiction, this all was the breeding ground for the religious awakening Russia experienced in this period:8 The revival of Eastern Orthodox monastic spirituality, the rapid

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dispersal of the dissenters of various origins – the dynamics within the OldBelief which Aleksandr Lavrov described as a kind of ‘confessionalization’,9 the emergence of the so-called ‘Spiritual Christians’ in the second part of the eighteenth century,10 or the differentiations within the Christ–faith which led in the 1770s to the emergence of the radical wing of the Skoptsy, which practised self-castration, and finally, the flourishing of the mystical freemasonry in Russia accompanied by the interest in various kinds of West-European mystics among those segments of the educated society which were disillusioned with the rationalism of the Enlightenment and to a certain degree even skeptical of the established Church.11 All these movements and phenomena are symptomatic of the intensified fragmentation and personalization of traditional religiosity, which were accompanied in the eighteenth century by the gradual disappearance of the ‘traditional integrity and cohesion of parish and community’ first of all in the cities of central Russia.12 My goal in this essay will be: to outline the social profile of both groups, which will then allow for an elaboration of the concept of situational religiosity as a strategy in the groups’ everyday behaviour.

The spiritual brotherhood of Ekaterina Tatarinova The commune in St Petersburg was referred to as a Spiritual Brotherhood or Spiritual Community and led by Ekaterina Tatarinova (1783–1856), born Buksgevden, a Baltic baroness who in 1817 converted from the Lutheran to the Orthodox faith and, following her conversion, was bestowed with the ‘gift of prophecy’.13 The commune emerged shortly after Tatarinova’s mystical awakening and soon counted up to 70 members of various ages, sex, and social status. In 1822, the group was banned by Alexander I, together with all so-called secret societies, i.e. Masonic lodges and other non-official gatherings. Nevertheless, the clandestine meetings continued in a small circle of some 15 members until the whole group was arrested in 1837. All its members were subsequently banished to distant monasteries. The affiliation with Tatarinova’s communion was the main unifier of the community, which otherwise was a socially heterogeneous group. Among the members of the circle were high-ranking officials like General Yevgenii A. Golovin (1782–1858);14 Privy Councillor Vasilii M. Popov (1771–1842), the director of the Department for Public Education and secretary of the St Petersburg Bible Society;15 Councillor of State Martyn S. UrbanovichPiletskii (1780–1859), the director of the Institute for the Blind;16 Aleksandr P. Dubovitskii (1782–1848), a noble landowner;17 Vladimir L. Borovikovskii (1757–1825), the prominent painter;18 and Prince and Princess

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Engalychev.19 At the other end of the social spectrum, the group also featured ordinary townsmen of peasant origin like trumpeter of the Cadet Corps Nikita Fedorov,20 or Tatarinova’s ward, Anna Vasil’eva, and her maid Luker’ia. Tatarinova’s associates could however transcend their social status within the ‘brotherhood’, as the members of lower ranks could well occupy rather high positions as prophets and prophetesses within the circle, as for example the trumpeter Fedorov or the maid Luker’ia.21 The acknowledgment of Tatarinova’s religious leadership led her associates into a simultaneous affiliation with the spiritual commune of Tatarinova on the one hand, and with the Orthodox community of the Russian church on the other. They never broke with the church and kept attending Orthodox services as well. This peculiar situation forced them to split their religious practice into a public profession of faith to the Russian church, and a private, practised creed. This dual religious affiliation puts Tatarinova’s associates on the boundaries of traditional religiosity in nineteenth-century Orthodox Russia. Their contemporaries failed to classify the circle among the established categories of religious affiliation. Thus St Petersburg society speculated in 1826: ‘For quite some time now parties are congregating at Colonel Tatarinov’s wife’s; some say they belong to some religious sect; others say she experiences the past, foretells the future and deals in other such superstitious practices; but those better acquainted with this woman attest that the people she gathers are bound to disturb the peace and quiet of the state.’22 Since the group never developed any tight doctrine, it is rather difficult to associate it with a single religious movement. Its belief and practice reflected a number of different mystical traditions due to diverse social background of its members. Influenced by the contemporary mystical literature popular in Russia at the time – namely the works of German pietism and French Quietism – it divided religiosity into the exterior and the interior by emphasizing personal inner faith, the personal unification with God.23 The writings of Jeanne-Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon (1648–1717) particularly, were well known in Tatarinova’s circle.24 The influential French mystic was noted for her advocacy of Quietism, an extreme passivity and indifference of the soul, even towards eternal salvation, wherein Guyon believed one became an agent of God.25 The mystical heritage of West European origin was introduced and distributed in Tatarinova’s circle by the educated elite.26 However, Tatarinova’s commune adopted the most crucial element of its religious practice, radeniia, from the Russian peasant mystical movements of Christ–faith and Skoptsy. It was in St Petersburg in the early 1810s during meetings with Kondratii Selivanov, the patriarch of the

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Skoptsy, that Tatarinova picked up her ecstatic manner of preaching. She then went on to practise this preaching by whirling and dancing with her followers in the privacy of her apartment: first at Michailovskii castle, where she lived until 1821, then in her private residence on the periphery of St Petersburg near the Moscow gate, where she had settled with some adherents in three small houses. This state of affairs lasted until the mid-1830s, when under Nicholas I and his ideologist Uvarov, religious policy towards religious groups and movements became much more restrictive. Tatarinova’s group was subsequently reproached for its ‘heresy’.

Mar’ia Borisova’s Christ–faith community At the same time in Moscow, the commune of Christ–faith believers led by Mar’ia Borisova was also reproached for their ‘heretical gatherings in private’.27 The Christ–faith in Moscow traces its origins back into the last decades of the seventeenth century, when it began to disseminate in central Russia.28 The particular community later led by Borisova received a large boost to their association from a number of the peasant Christ– faith believers who moved to Moscow from the St Petersburg region in the last decades of the eighteenth century – a period when the Skoptsy movement began to settle there.29 Mar’ia Petrova Borisova (born c. 1780), a wealthy and literate townswoman who traded in food and employed a small kustar’ group in the weaving of belts and ribbons, headed this Moscow Christ–faith community from the late 1820s, after the death of the former leader Ul’iana Vasi’eva Snurochnika in 1828.30 In the mid-1830s, this commune numbered up to 150 members, the majority of which – over 100 – were women.31 Male associates constituted just a minority of the group; their social position however was rather high, as most of them were Christ–faith prophets.32 Also, the group’s guidance by Borisova, whose authority was more that of an organizer and teacher and whose house was the most important meeting place for radeniia, was shared by the spiritual authority of a male Christ–faith prophet, a certain townsman Grigorii Torzhinov (born c. 1772).33 In 1827, the group was denounced for its alleged practice of castration and affiliation with the Skoptsy movement. After an examination of their bodies yielded no charges, however, all members were released. Yet their attendance of both private and official worships remained suspicious in the eyes of the authorities nevertheless, and in 1837 the gatherings at Borisova’s were forbidden. In contrast to the St Petersburg group, the social composition of Borisova’s commune was more homogeneous: small city traders and

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artisans of peasant origin composed the majority of the group. The Moscow group owed its religious unity in no small degree to family ties; new members were usually gained through kinship networks. United by their family background, they also shared vital economic interests: the majority of the group was busy in the textile kustar’ production and in the food trade. Several times a year they gathered for radeniia at Borisova’s house near the Sukharev Tower market and in the dwellings of other associates, aiming to experience the Holy Spirit descending on them. At the same time they regularly went to Orthodox worships in their parish churches,34 confessed to Orthodox priests and received communion – despite their extra-church religious practices and the acceptance of the spiritual guidance of a non-clerical person. Eugene Clay pointed out with convincing argument that there is no single answer to be given for the entire movement as to whether this strategy was only a kind of dissimulation caused by persecution, or whether the Christ–faith believers accorded some legitimacy to Orthodoxy as well. Clay continued to stress the division between ‘private’ and ‘official’ faith of these believers, even though he supposed that at least some of these believers ‘attributed some limited legitimacy to the established Church’ and ‘probably considered themselves to be members of a spiritual elite within the Church’.35 Indeed, as I shall argue for the cases of Borisovas’s and Tatarinova’s associates, the religious practice and self-identification of these believers were too complex to be neatly divided into ‘public’ and ‘formal’ Orthodoxy and ‘private’ and ‘sincere’ Christ–faith in the Moscow commune or a complex of Christ–faith related practice in the St Petersburg circle. Rather, the way these believers coped with different religious authorities and affiliations in their everyday life and the interweaving of these affiliations can be better described as situational. This is why I conceptualize the everyday strategies of these Christ–faith believers and related mystics as situational religiosity.

Situational religiosity The concept was inspired by the idea of situational and fragmented self-identification as elaborated for ethnic groups36 and applied by some German researchers to German–Jewish life in the late nineteenth century.37 Already at the beginning of the twentieth century, the Russian philosopher and historian of religion Lev Karsavin stressed in his work on the medieval religiosity in Italy, that the religiosity of people has to

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be seen – contrary to religion – as a ‘subjective side of religion’ which is always in flux.38 However, the sociological origins of the notion of situational religiosity – the significance of the social situations for the analysis of religious practice – can be traced back to the work of British anthropologist Edward Evan Evans-Pritchard in the mid-1930s. In his monography about the African Zande he commented on the ‘plasticity of [Zande] beliefs’: ‘I have tried to show also the plasticity of beliefs as functions of situations. . . . A man in one situation utilizes what in the beliefs are convenient to him and pays no attention to other elements which he might use in different situations.’39 Russian historian Aaron Gurievitch pointed out a similar phenomenon in his analysis of the ambiguous religious practice of the medieval Christians in Western Europe, who still practised some ‘pagan’ rites after their being baptised: ‘This “paganism” of which parish priests accused their flock, was highly conditional; as soon as people attended church services, came for confession and were able to recite the Creed . . ., it is difficult not to consider them Christians.’40 American anthropologist Robert Orsi and David D. Hall’s group described dynamic heterogeneity of religious practice in the contemporary United States, working with the concept of ‘lived religion’. By emphasizing tensility, hybridity, ambivalence, and multifariousness of religious experience, when ‘people appropriate religious idioms as they need them, in response to particular circumstances’, the group aimed to overcome still dominant traditional notions of a firm dualism of official/unofficial, elite/popular, learned/unlearned religiosity.41 Aleksandr Panchenko pointed in this work on the sacred places and the religious practice of the peasants in the Northwest Russia to a general non-systematic ‘situational character’ of peasants’ faith.42 The model of situational religiosity is close to the concepts and notions mentioned above, yet the advantage of this term lies in stressing the relevance of social situations for the analysis of religious practice and social relationships. I shall introduce the model of situational religiosity as a key concept for understanding the social practice of the Moscow Christ–faith believers and Tatarinova’s associates. The term situational religiosity describes two aspects of their religiosity: 1. The religiosity of these believers cannot be reduced to only one religious affiliation embracing all spheres of their social life. 2. The multiple religious loyalties of the Christ–faith people and Tatarinova’s associates varied greatly in their significance for everyday communication in different social surroundings.

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In my analysis of Christ–faith believer religiosity, I differentiate two levels of religious boundaries along which their identifications were constituted: 1. The first level corresponds to institutionally determined religious boundaries: Before the introduction of the state’s religious reform and the Declaration of Freedom of Conscience in 1905, institutionally determined religious boundaries – the ascriptive religious status of Greek– Russian Orthodoxy – constituted the legal and social status of the Christ–faith believers irrespective of how they perceived themselves.43 On the institutional or structural level these believers could only exist as Orthodox: the religiously determined association with Tatarinova’s or Borisova’s circle and the acknowledgement of their religious leadership did not effect any changes in legal status of their associates as Orthodox subjects and members of their parish. 2. The second level of religious boundaries along which the Moscow Christ–faith believers’ and Tatarinova’s associates’ religious identifications were constituted refers to religious margins produced and articulated in the everyday actions of people, in their behaviour and their self-representations. On this level only, on the level of a subjective sense of belonging, could these believers articulate their specifically Christ–faith or other identifications. The term situational religiosity thus refers to this second level of constituting religious boundaries, to a process of everyday symbolic interaction. Situational religiosity denotes a strategy and the possibility to individually negotiate religious affiliation. Despite the notion of the firm religious boundaries as defined by the state and church institutions on the structural level, these boundaries were much more blurred on the level of everyday activities where the coexistence of rivaling subjective interpretations were possible. Even by non-dissenting Orthodox believers the religious practice was highly particularistic and local. It differed from village to village and consisted of an array of local cults, rituals, and customs.44 Also, the Orthodox clergy was not uniform in their attitudes towards the Christ–faith and whatever the case – whether the parish priests were unable to get control over their flocks45 or simply were lenient in their duties and disinterested in these dissenters within their parishes or even sympathized with them – the Christ–faith believers and the Orthodox clergymen of Moscow or St Petersburg had thus established a ‘modus vivendi’ where these believers from the official point of view would practise their particular beliefs in private only, but act as Orthodox in the public sphere.46

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In the mid-1830s, though, the state’s policy towards religious movements became much more restrictive: both groups were subsequently reproached for their ‘heresy’ and their members were banished to distant monasteries or imprisoned. However, the religiously determined self-identifications of Borisova’s and Tatarinova’s adherents could not be neatly divided into ‘public’ Orthodoxy and ‘private’ Christ–faith belief or mystics related to it; they would vary depending on the social setting. Domestic life, festivities, religious practice, neighborhood associations, friendship, marriage, education, club and society activities, business – all these areas can be considered social situations in which these believers’ different subjective senses of belonging may be observed. I will subsequently focus only on some elements of domestic life and religious practice in Borisova’s commune and conclude by pointing out some similarities to the everyday behaviour of Tatarinova’s associates.

Domestic life of Mar’ia Borisova’s associates Although Borissova’s associates were scattered through the different parts of the city, the significant part of the group lived close to her house near Sucharev Tower.47 Some members possessed their own houses, while others lived as laborers at their co-religionists’ dwellings. The decoration of their houses resembled those of ordinary Moscow townspeople, including Orthodox icons. Additionally, however, the houses owned by Borisova’s associates featured special praying rooms. The windows of these rooms faced the backyard or garden and were especially fitted out for radeniia: furnished with benches, tables, an altar with icons and candles, they even presented white shirts and towels ready to wear during the ecstatic spinning. The most important praying rooms for the commune were those at Borisova’s house. But the community also regularly gathered at other associates’ – at the place of Arina Grigor’eva Berdnikova or Matrena Kalugina, both of whom were townswomen of Moscow, or at the sisters Shestov’s, who had their own house in the Sucharev district. The group’s eating habits – the rejection of alcohol, tobacco, and sometimes meat – resembled some of the Old Belief and had the function of separating the Christ–faith believers from the Orthodox.48 Yet this was not always possible, not even in the domestic sphere – because not always would all members of a family be attracted by the Christ–faith. The Egorov family provides an example, where only the father and his daughter Anna

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were Christ–faith adherents, while Anna’s two brothers retained the Orthodox faith and did not participate in the radeniia that took place in their house; they even went on to forbid Anna and their father from inviting guests for these special worships. Obviously not every aspect and every situation of the domestic life of Anna Egorova and her father was dominated by the Christ–faith.49 A significant number of Borisova’s associates lived as lay sisters in the Moscow monasteries. The domestic life of these Christ–faith believers was strongly determined by the Orthodox rite. The Rozhdestvenskii monastery in particular was home to several of Borisova’s associates. They lived here as lay sisters, and one of these sisters was Avdot’ia Filipova Kuznetsova (born c. 1757).50 A peasant woman from the Kazan’ district, she moved to Moscow under Catherine II, registered as a townswoman and lived with her brother. Avdot’ia remained a virgin, and after her brother’s death in 1813, she entered the monastery, became a lay sister and made her living weaving belts. She met Mar’ia Borisova at the same monastery while Borisova was educated there in reading and writing; presumably Avdot’ia started visiting radeniia at Borisova’s after the latter became the head teacher of the Moscow commune. The idiorrhythmic way of living at Rozhdestvenskii monastery and her position as lay sister allowed Avdot’ia to have specific mystical experiences outside the church structures, but it also forced her to earn her living with some artisan work, the raw material for which she got through the economic networks in Borisova’s commune.51 While the Orthodox rite played a decisive part in Avdot’ia’s domestic life in the monastery, there continued to occur situations like the radeniia at Borisova’s where her Christ–faith sense of belonging moved to the foreground. Another associate of Borisova’s at the Rozhdestvenskii monastery, the lay sister Dar’ia Petrova, agitated for the Christ–faith even in her cell, inviting relatives from the city.52 Thus both Russian–Orthodox elements and specific traits of the Christ–faith practice constituted the domestic life of Borisova’s associates.

Religious practice of Mar’ia Borisova’s associates Religious practice of the Moscow Christ–faith believers was not only guided by Mar’ia Borisova and other Christ–faith authorities. They accorded some legitimacy to Orthodoxy too: Borisova’s associates regularly went to worship in the church, confessed to Orthodox priests and received the Holy Communion. It is peculiar, however, that before going to worship

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in church and receiving the Holy Communion there they received some kind of special Christ–faith Communion that featured bread pieces brought from Ul’iana Vasil’eva, the Christ–faith goddess from the city of Kostroma.53 The bread loaves brought from Kostroma were brought to Moscow and broken into small pieces at Mar’ia Borisova’s house, then distributed among the believers, who also used them to bless the year’s food stock – flour, sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers – and to protect it from spoiling. So, the peculiar rituals these believers practised encompassed very different elements – Orthodox rite, Christ–faith interpretations and some elements of folk tradition.54 Still this specific mixture was marked by some kind of hierarchy that set the authority of the Orthodox Church lower than that of the Christ–faith. The Moscow community also received special Christ–faith water from the Kostroma goddess Ul’iana Vasil’eva.55 In the winter the frozen well water from Vasil’eva’s house was brought in basins to Moscow and melted at Borisova’s, where the associates would receive it in glasses. This holy water was deemed too precious for tasks like protecting and clearing wells that had been soiled by the presence of snakes or by human waste – Epiphany Water from the church was used on these occasions. Water from Kostroma could only be used for the blessing of food, never of the well, since the water from the well was also used for the bath house. So, both religious authorities, the Christ–faith prophetess and the Orthodox Church, played their part in the religious practice and in the private living of the Moscow Christ–faith believers, depending on the circumstances.

Religious practice of Tatarinova’s adherents Tatarinova’s adherents, who mainly originated from the other end of the social spectrum, also were devoted in their ‘private sphere’ to both, to the church and to their prophetess. The diary56 of Vladimir L. Borovikovskii (1757–1825), who belonged to Tatarinova’s circle from 1819 until his death in 1825, allows rare insights into the daily life between two spiritual authorities that was characteristic of the Christ–faith believers. In 1919, at the age of 62, the known painter and Councillor of the Imperial Academy of Arts, Vladimir Borovikovskii, came into contact with Tatarinova through his friend Martyn Urbanovich-Piletskii, the Director of the Institute for the Blind.57 Borovikovskii subsequently visited the private gatherings at Tatarinova’s in Michailovskii castle nearly every other day and participated in radeniia for several hours, which took place

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mainly on Sundays and Wednesdays. During the same period, however, especially on Sundays, he went to church for mass before joining Tatarinova’s circle in the afternoon, as he recorded in his diary: 15th, Sunday [ July, 1819]: Heard mass at Kazanskii Cathedral. . . . In the afternoon, at 4 o’clock, met M. S. [⫽Martyn Stepanovitch Urbanovich-Piletskii] and continued [radeniia]. [We] got together and sang. Nikita Ivanovich [⫽Fedorov] prophesied. K. F. [⫽Ekaterina Filippovna Tatarinova] came down to the gathering and prophesied to me with grace a lot of promises.58 Some weeks earlier, one day after Borovikovskii had gone through a special ‘rite of passage’ practised in Tatarinova’s commune, he also confessed in church: 26th, Monday [May, 1819]: Yesterday [they] put me [to bed?] for Communion, I read ordinary canons to the Holy Spirit, to Jesus and to Mary, to the Holy Guardian Angel and to the Holy Communion. At 6 o’clock in the morning [I did] ordinary prayer, hours, and prayer to the Holy Communion. Came to the Church of soldiers’ orphans, confessed to father Aleksei [⫽Malov]. Martyn Stepanovich [⫽Urbanovich-Piletskii] gave me 25 Rubles, in commemoration of my having communicated in the brotherhood today.59 According to the ‘rite of passage’ as practised in Christ–faith communities, the novice had to kiss the cross or an icon and to recite a special oath – to swear to keep the life within the community and the Christ–faith belief in secret, specially while confessing in church.60 This ritual was enriched in Tatarinova’s circle by some other peculiar practices and further details. The most surprising moment in Borovikovskii’s account on his initiation is that he went to church immediately after the incorporation into the brotherhood, even though the clergymen Borovikovskii confessed to were sympathizing much with the group. It was Aleksei Ivanovich Malov (1787–1855), at that time the priest in the church of the department for the orphans at the ‘military seminary’, the school for the children of the military clergy. He knew Tatarinova’s circle well and was even informed to a certain degree about her gatherings at Michailovskii castle.61 Furthermore, Borovikovskii mentioned him in the diary as ‘our confessor’. In the same breath, however, he expressed some fears about the denunciation of the circle by the clergy.62 So, even though Borovikovskii visited the church after his incorporation into the ‘brotherhood’ and it was one of their

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sympathizers within the clergy he confessed to, he obviously still kept a distance from the Orthodox institution concerning his religious practice at Michailovskii castle. In his occupation as a painter, Borovikovskii was also devoted to both religious authorities – to the church and to Tatarinova. He painted icons for different churches in St Petersburg and other cities. At the same time he also painted for Tatarinova’s circle – icons, but also a special group portrait of radeniia participants at Michailovskii’s which was titled ‘Sobor’. This term could have very different meanings – as a gathering or community in general, as a ‘church’ in both senses – a building and community – as a church council or a service held by several clerics, and also as a gathering of the believers in the church for celebration on the second day of feasts.63 In the Christ–faith and Skoptsy tradition, however, this term was used for their private radeniia-gatherings or for the rooms where they took place.64 The title of Borovikovskii’s painting surely denotes this last meaning. Then, he also referred in his diary to the gatherings at Tatarinova’s as ‘Novyi [⫽new] Sobor’.65 Obviously, he considered Tatarinovas’ circle as a new ‘religious community’, but complementary to the Orthodox institution and not opposing it in every situation. Some information about Borovikovskii’s sense of differentiation between Tatarinova’s adherents and his other, Orthodox, surroundings can be drawn from a remark about a certain friend of Borovikovskii’s, Yakov Alekseevich [⫽Il’in],66 who did not belong to the brotherhood, but once visited Tatarinova and discussed religious matters with her. Borovikovskii mentions him as an ‘ordinary Orthodox believer’ [russ. obyknovennyi pravoslavnyi].67 So the differentiation between him and his friend was obviously expressed in the adjective ‘ordinary’, but not in ‘Orthodox’ – otherwise he would not have needed this specification. What can be assumed from this expression is that Borovikovskii considered himself to be different from the ‘ordinary Orthodox believers’, but to be Orthodox nevertheless. For Borovikovskii it was obviously possible to accept simultaneously both the authority of the church and the guidance of Tatarinova and to combine the affiliation with the Orthodox institution depending on the situation with those peculiar radeniia for enriching one’s personal spiritual experience. For his contemporaries, however, this ambiguity was highly suspect – all the more as the ‘Orthodox identity’ and the sense of belonging to ‘Orthodoxy’ was a matter of actual debate even by those ‘ordinary Orthodox’ contemporaries when the state and church authorities under

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Nicholas I vigorously aimed to ‘standardize’ belief and practice of their subjects and to clarify the ‘limits of acceptable devotion’.68 And just like the ambiguity of the Moscow Christ–faith believers had done one decade later, ‘uncertain’ affiliations of Tatarinova’s associates caused public comment: After his death in 1825, Borovikovskii’s friends and colleagues among the state and church authorities accused Tatarinova’s brotherhood to be superstitious and to be plotting against the state.

Conclusion The function and significance of the Christ–faith in a community of ordinary townspeople of peasant origins, to be sure, cannot be equated with that in a community of a well-educated, noble elite. The stressing of individuality in the testimonies of Tatarinova’s adherents is certainly much due to the discursive frames of the sentimental and mystical texts the authors were influenced by. This is obviously not to be expected for testimonies among Borisova’s associates, since most of these testimonies were composed by state or church authorities. Still, in spite of some differences in doctrine and their social origins, these groups can be seen as examples of the fragmentation of a traditional sense of religious affiliation. The everyday strategies and selfidentifications of the adherents of these groups show some similarities that can be described as situational religiosity. Their affiliations with the Church or with a private religious group were not all-embracing, but would vary in different social situations. Furthermore, in the case of Tatarinova’s commune we can observe transcending confessional borders and intermingling of various mystical traditions of Western and Eastern European traditions. *** To summarize, the situational approach to religiosity emphasizes the fact that variability is the essence of religiosity in terms of structuring social relations in diverse situational contexts. Using the cases of the Moscow Christ–faith believers and of the St Petersburg mystics attracted by the Christ–faith tradition, I have exemplified the possibility of varying religious identifications: of the interplay of secular and religious, of Orthodox, Christ–faith and folk elements in different social situations as a strategy of everyday behaviour. Although their provisional character must be borne in mind, for the historical context of the religious culture in late eighteenth- and

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early nineteenth-century Russia these findings allow for more differentiated insights into a general process of fragmentation and personalization of faith, within which a specifically Christ–faith way of coping with the social change can be observed: It led to avoiding and transcending of the officially set religious boundaries, and in the case of the educated elite to a peculiar intermingling of Western and Eastern mystical traditions.

Notes * I would like to thank Aleksandr L’vov, Irina Paert and Heiko Haumann for their helpful comments on his article. 1. Sekretnye bumagi po delu o prinadlezhnosti General-Leitenanta Golovina i Statskogo Sovetnika Piletskago k Sekte Tatarinovoi [Secret Documents Concerning the Case about the Affiliation of the Lieutenant General Golovin and the Councillor of State Piletski with the Sect of Tatarinova], Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Istoricheskii Arkhiv, St Petersburg [Russian State Historical Archive] (herafter RGIA), f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 45, l. 36ob. 2. The main scholars who have discussed the Christ–faith are K. K. Grass, Die russischen Sekten [The Russian Sects], 2 vols. (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1909–14); J. E. Clay, ‘God’s People in the Early Eighteenth Century. The Uglich Affair of 1717’, Cahiers du Monde russe et soviétique 26 (1985) 69–124; idem, ‘The Theological Origins of the Christ–faith [Khristovshchina]’, Russian History 15 (1988) 21–41; idem, Russian Peasant Religion and Its Repression: The Christ–faith (Khristovshchina) and the Origins of the “Flagellant” Myth, 1666–1837 (Ph D diss, University of Chicago, 1989); A. Etkind, Chlyst. Sekty, Literatura i Revolutsiia [Khlyst. Sects, Literature and Revolution] (Moscow: NLO, 1998); L. Engelstein, Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom. A Russian Folktale (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1999); eadem, ‘Personal Testimony and the Defence of Faith: Skoptsy Telling Tales’, in L. Engelstein and S. Sandler (eds), Self & Story in Russian History (Ithaka: Cornell University Press, 2000), pp. 330–50. A. A. Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo: fol’klor i tradicionnaia kul’tura russkich misticheskich sekt [Christ–faith and Skoptsy–faith: Folklore and the Traditional Culture of the Russian Mystical Sects] (Moscow: OGI, 2002). For the Russian nineteenth-century publications, see the discussion by Panchenko. Ibid. 3. In their faith, these mystics referred to the passage about King David’s dancing in front of the ark: 2 Kings, 6:12–22. 4. I use the term ‘personal accounts’ here as equivalent to the German term ‘Selbtzeugnisse’ and different from ‘ego-documents’ in the way that the former are composed and recorded by the believers themselves. Of course, there are numerous testimonies of the Christ–faith people in the court records. They were, however, composed (with some very few exceptions) mainly of the church and state authorities. For the Definition of ‘Selbstzeugnisse’, see B. v. Krusenstjern, ‘Was sind Selbstzeugnisse? Begriffskritische und quellenkritische Überlegungen anhand von Beispielen aus dem 17. Jahrhundert’ [What are, Selbstzeugnisse’? Critical Considerations on the Term and the Sources with the Examples from the Seventeenth Century], Historische Anthropologie 2 (1994) 462–71.

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5. Clay, Russian Peasant Religion and Its Repression, pp. 98–106; Engelstein, Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom, pp. 23–4, 48, 93–4. Engelstein discusses this aspect only for the experience of the Skoptsy, but this could well be seen as the general phenomenon of both the Christ–faith believers and the Skoptsy, even though the situation of the Skoptsy was clearly more radical. 6. For the process of fragmentation and personalization of faith in Western Europe, see K. v. Greyerz, Religion und Kultur: Europa 1500–1800 [Religion and Culture: Europe 1500–1800] (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000). 7. Cf. Laura Engelstein’s addressing some parallels in the development of the religious culture in Western Europe and Russia in the nineteenth century. L. Engelstein, ‘Holy Russia in Modern Times: An Essay on Orthodoxy and Cultural Change’, Past and Present 173 (November 2001) 129–56. 8. O. Tsapina, ‘Secularization and Opposition in the Time of Catherine the Great’, in J. E. Bradley and D. K. Van Kley (eds), Religion and Politics in Enlightenment Europe (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001), 334–89, cf. E. A. Vishlenkova, Religioznaia politika: oficial’nyi kurs i “obshchee mnenie” Rossii aleksandrovskoi epochi [Religious Politics: the Official course and the “common opinion” in Russia of the Age of Aleksandr] (Kazan: Izd. Kazanskogo universiteta, 1997). 9. A. S. Lavrov, Koldovstvo i religiia v Rossii, 1700–1740gg. [Sorcery and Religion in Russia, 1700–40] (Moscow: Drevlekhranilishche, 2000), pp. 60–74; on the earlier period, cf. G. B. Michels, At War with the Church. Religious Dissent in Seventeenth-Century Russia (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999). 10. Cf. E. B. Smilianskaia, Volshebniki, bogokhul’niki, eretiki: Narodnaia religioznost’ i ‘dukhovnye prestupleniia’ v Rossii XVIII v. [Magicians, Blasphemers, Heretics: Popular Religiosity and ‘Religious Crimes’ in 18th-century Russia] (Moscow: Indrik, 2003), pp. 243–5; G. L. Freeze, ‘The Rechristianization of Russia: The Church and Popular Religion, 1750–1850’, Studia Slavica Finlandensia VII (1990) 101–36. 11. On the freemasonry in Russia, see D. Smith, Working the Rough Stone. Freemasonry and Society in Eighteenth-Century Russia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1999); A. I. Serkov, Istoriia russkogo masonstva XIX veka [The History of the Russian Freemasonry in the 19th Century] (St Petersburg: Izd. im. N.I. Novikova, 2000); G. Marker, ‘The Enlightenment of Anna Labzina: Gender, Faith, and Public Life in Catherinian and Alexandrinian Russia’, Slavic Review 59/2 (2000) 369–90; cf. Rafaella Faggionato, ‘From a Society of the Enlightened to the Enlightenment of Society: The Russian Bible Society and Rosicrucianism in the Age of Alexander I.’, Slavonic and East European Review 79/3 (2001) 459–87. For the dispersal of Western European mystics in the early 19th century, see A. N. Pypin, Religioznye dvizheniia pri Aleksandre I. [Religious movements under Aleksandr I.] (Sankt-Petersburg: Akademicheskii Proekt, 2000, repr. 1916); H. Haumann, ‘ “Das Land des Friedens und des Heils.” Russland zur Zeit Alexanders I. als Utopie der Erweckungsbewegung am Oberrhein’ [„The Land of Peace and Salvation”. Russia in the Age of Aleksander I. as Utopia of the Pietists from the Upper-Rhine], Pietismus und Neuzeit 18 (1992) 132–54; cf. O. A. Tsapina, ‘The Image of the Quaker and Critique of Enthusiasm in Early Modern Russia’, Russian History 24/3 (autumn 1997) 215–277.

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12. G. L. Freeze, ‘The Disintegration of Traditional Communities: The Parish in Eighteenth-Century Russia’, Journal of Modern History, 48 (March 1976) 32–50; idem, Russian Levites: Parish Clergy in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977); cf. V. Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 20–1. 13. On Ekaterina Tatarinova and her circle, see N. F. Dubrovin, ‘Nashi mistikisektanty. Ekaterina Filippovna Tatarinova i Aleksandr Petrovich Dubovitskii’ [Our Mystic-Sectarians. Ekaterina Filippovna Tatarinova and Aleksandr Petrovich Dubovitskii], Russkaia starina 84 (1895) Oct. 33–64, Nov. 5–43, Dec. 51–93; 85 (1896) Jan. 5–51, Feb. 225–63; P. Kukol’nik, ‘Anti-Fotii. Otvet ochevidtsa na stat’iu, pomeshchennuiu v Russkom archive 1873 goda, pod zaglaviem: “Iz zapisok Iur’evskogo archimandrita Fotiia” ’ [Anti-Fotii. Response of an Eyewitness to the Article, placed in the Russian Archive of the Year 1873, titled: ‘From the Notes of the Archimandrite Fotii of Iur’ev], Russkii archiv 3 (1874) 589–611; I. P. Liprandi, ‘O sekte Tatarinovoi’ [On the sect of Tatarinova], Chteniia v Imperatorskom Obshchestve Istorii i Drevnostei Rossiiskich pri Moskovskom Universitete 4/5 (1868) 20–51; Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 182–6; ‘Tatarinova, Ekaterina Filippowna’, in Russkii Biograficheskii Slovar’, vol. 20 (St Peterburg, 1912), pp. 316–20; RGIA, f. 797, on. 8, g. 1837, d. 23759, Ob otkrytii sekty Tatarinovoi, bliz S. Peterburga, i o nakazanii uchastvovavshich v nei lic [On the Discovery of Tatarinova’s Sect, near St Petersburg, and on the Punishment of the Persons who had Participated in it]; Gosudarstvennyi Archiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii [State Archive of the Russian Federation] (hereafter GARF), f. 109, op. 5, g. 1830, d. 81, O sobraniiach u St Sov. Tatarinovoi [On the Gatherings by the Councillor of State’s wife Tatarinova]; GARF, f. 109, op. 12, g. 1837, d. 202, O Sekte Tatarinovoi [On Tatarinova’s Sect]. 14. V. Fuks, ‘Iz istorii mistitsizma. Tatarinova i Golovin’ [From the History of Mysticism. Tatarinova and Golovin], Russkii vestnik, Jan (1892) 3–31; Yu.V. Tolstoi, ‘Ocherk zhizni i sluzhby E. A. Golovina’ [Essay on the Life and Service of E. A. Golovin], in P. Bartenev (ed), Deviatnadtsatyi vek. Istoricheskii sbornik, izdavaemyi Petrom Bartenevym, vol. 1 (Moscow 1872), 1–64; RGIA, f. 1018, op. 9, b. d., d. 178, Svedenie o znakomstve gen.-leit. G(olovina) s Tat(arinovoiu) i sviazi s neiu, za tem posledovavshei [Information on the Acquaintance of Lieutenant General Golovin with Tatarinova and about his ensuing Relations with her]. 15. An. El’nickii, ‘Popov, Vasilii Michailovich’, in Russkii biograficheskii slovar’, vol. 14 (St Petersburg, 1905), 531–4; RGIA, f. 797, op. 8, g. 1837, d. 23759v, Ob otkrytii sekty Tatarinovoi, bliz S. Peterburga, i o nakazanii uchastvovavshich v nei lic, chast’ 3: O Tainom Sovetnike Vasilie Popove [Part 3. On the Privy Councillor Vasilii Popov]. 16. RGIA, f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 45, Sekretnye bumagi po delu o prinadlezhnosti General-Leitenanta Golovina i S. S. Pileckago k sekte Tatarinovoi; RGIA, f. 797, op. 8, g. 1837, d. 23759d, O sekte Tatarinovoi, chast’ 5: O Statskom Sovetnike Martyne Piletskom [Part 5. On the Councillor of State Martyn Piletski]. 17. GARF, f. 109, op. 2, g. 1827, d. 358, O prinadlezhashchem k sekte g-zhi Tatarinovoi, podpolkovnike Dubovitskom [On the Affiliation of the Lieutenant Colonel Dubovitski with the Sect of Mrs. Tatarinova].

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18. T. V. Alekseeva, Vladimir Lukich Borovikovski i russkaia kul’tura na rubezhe 18–19 vekov [Vladimir Lukich Borovikovski and the Russian Culture on the Turn of the 18th-19th Century] (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1975), p. 317; ‘Iz zapisnoi knizhki chudozhnika V. L. Borovikovskogo’ [From the Notebook of the Painter V. L. Borovikovski], in Bartenev, 213–219; V. L. Borovikovski, Zapiski [Notes], in GARF, f. 109, op. 5, g. 1830, d. 81, l. 35–89ob. 19. RGIA, f. 797, op. 20, g. 1850, d. 44321, O prichastnosti k sekte s. s. Tatarinovoi kniazhnych A. i S. Engalychevych i kniazia Engalycheva [On the Affiliation of the Princesses A. and S. Engalychev and of the Prince Engalychev with the Sect of the Councillor’s of State wife Tatarinova]; GARF, f. 109, op. 12, g. 1837, d. 202, ch. 8, O sekte Tatarinovoi, chast’ 8: O docheriach Kollezhskago Sovetnika Kniazhnach Anny i Sofii Engalychevych [Part 8: On the Collegiate Councillor’s Daughters, the Princesses Anna and Sofia Engalychev]; GARF, f. 109, op. 12, g. 1837, d. 202, ch. 10, O sekte Tatarinovoi, chast’ 10: O kniaze El’pidifore Engalycheve [Part 10: On the Prince El’pidifor Engalychev]. 20. RGIA, f. 797, op. 8, g. 1837, d. 23759zh, Ob otkrytii sekty Tatarinovoi bliz S. Peterburga, i o nakazanii uchastvovavshich v nei lic: chast’ 7: O Tituliarnom Sovetnike Fedorove i zhene ego [Part 7: On the Titular Councillor Fedorov and his wife]. 21. Borovikovski, Zapiski. These transgressions, however, were restricted by other categories and could be limited only to certain situations. While the trumpeter Fedorov was a respected authority of the ‘brotherhood’ next to Tatarinova’s, her maid Luker’ia could transgress her lower status only during the radeniia. 22. Ekaterina Tsyzyrova, Zapiska o polkovnice Tatarinovoi [Note on the Colonel’s wife Tatarinova], 27.03.1826, GARF, f. 109, op. 5, g. 1830, d. 81, O sobraniiach u St Sov. Tatarinovoi , l. 90–91, here l. 90. 23. For the impact of German Pietism on Russian culture, see Haumann, ‘ “Das Land des Friedens und des Heils” ’. 24. Spisok knigam i bumagam, naidennym u lic, zhivushchich na dache Tituliarnogo Sovetnika Fedorova [The List of the Books and Papers Found by the Persons Living in the Summer House of the Titular Councillor Fedorov], in RGIA, f. 797, op. 8, g. 1837, d. 23759a, Ob otkrytii sekty Tatarinovoi, bliz S. Peterburga, i o nakazanii uchastvovavshich v nei lic, chast’ I: Obshchiia rasporiazheniia [Part 1: General Instructions], l. 14–15ob. 25. See for example, M.-Fl. Bruneau, Women Mystics Confront the Modern World: Marie de l’Incarnation (1599–1672) and Madame Guyon (1648–1717) (Albany : State University of New York Press, 1998). 26. The better educated members of this circle read Guyon and other mystics in their original languages. For other members Vasilii Popov translated some parts of Guyon’s writings into Russian. He also translated some commentaries to the Bible of the German pietistic inspired Catholic missionary Johannes Evangelista Gossner (1773–1858) who advocated ecumenical union of all confessions and in 1820 became one of the directors of the St Petersburg Bible Society. After the publication of Gossner’s commentaries in Russian translation in 1823, he was expelled in 1824 from Russia at the request of the conservative Orthodox circle around the archimandrite Fotii. Vasilii Popov became involved in this affair too. RGIA, f. 797, op. 8, g. 1837, d. 23759v, l. 35–35ob.; RGIA, f. 1341, op. 303, g. 1824, d. 84, O d. st sov. Vasilie Popove, osuzhdennom za pravlenie knigi pastora Gossnera [On the Full Councillor of

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27.

28.

29.

30. 31.

32.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE State Vasilii Popov, sentenced for the editing of the book of pastor Gossner]. On Fotii and his intrigue against Gossner in the so-called ‘Case Gossner’, see Yu. E. Kondakov, Archimandrit Fotii (1792–1838) i ego vremia [The archpriest Fotii (1792–1838) and His Time] (Sankt-Petersburg, 2000), pp. 182–207; cf. Pypin, Religioznye dvizhenia pri Aleksandre I., pp. 218–36. RGIA, f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 46, Ob otkrytoi v Moskve sekte Chlystov [On the Discovered Chlysty Sect]; RGIA, f. 796, op. 118, d. 1291, Delo ob otkryvsheisia v Moskve tainoi sekte, izvestnoi pod imenem Chlystovshchiny (1837–1848gg.) [The Case about the Secret Sect appeared in Moscow, known as Chlysty-faith]. For the Christ–faith people in Moscow, see N. Varadinov, Istoriia ministerstva vnutrennich del. Vos’maia, dopolnitel’naia kniga. Istoria rasporjazhenii po raskolu [The History of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Book Eight, Supplement. The History of the Instructions on the Schism] (Sankt-Peterburg, 1863), pp. 435–42; 501–4; 618–21; N. V. Reutskii, ‘Moskovskie “bozh’i l’iudi” vo vtoroi polovine XVIII v v XIX stoletii’ [The Moscow “People of God” in the Second Half of the 18th and in the 19th Century], Russkii vestnik, vol. 159 (May 1882) 5–79; I.G. Aivazov, Materialy dlia issledovaniia russkich misticheskich sekt, vyp. 1. Christovshchina. [Materials for the Study of the Russian Mystical Sects. Issue 1. Christ–faith], vol. 1, Petrograd 1915, pp. 36–77. Since this movement did not feature any firm and centralized organization, different people and circles were later linked with the origins of this particular commune, as for example with the legendary Ivan Timofeevich Suslov (died c. 1716), who was, according to the Christ–faith tradition, a peasant from Murom and settled in Moscow as a small trader, where he started his proselytizing for the Christ–faith. Cf. Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 123–5, 189–91; Clay, Russian Peasant Religion and Its Repression, pp. 283–8. Later the group tended to keep a clear distance from the Skoptsy – fearing probably both the ideological expansion of the latter and the severe persecution by the state and church authorities. Pokazania krestianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837 [Testimony of the Peasant Girl Irina Fedorova Lisina from 7.08.1837], RGIA, f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 46, l. 2–15. Cf. Reutskii, ‘Moskovskie “bozh’i l’iudi” ’,14–15; Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 191–2. Cf. Reutskii, ‘Moskovskie “bozh’i l’iudi” ’, 18–19, 31, 37–8. By the arrest of the group at Borisova’s house during radeniia on 15 June 1837, there were 70 participants, 58 of whom were women. Aivazov, Materialy dlia issledovaniia russkich misticheskich sekt, pp. 38, 54–56. Gender aspects cannot be addressed here at length and will be the topic of another publication. For the discussion on gender by the Old Believers, see for example, I. Paert, Old Believers, Religious Dissent and Gender in Russia, 1760–1850 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003). On the ‘feminization’ of Orthodox monasticism, see Brenda Meehan, ‘Popular Piety, Local Initiative, and the Founding of Women’s Religious Communities in Russia, 1764–1907’, in S. K. Bathalden (ed), Seeking God. The Recovery of Religious Identity in Orthodox Russia, Ukraine, and Georgia (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1993), pp. 83–106; cf. G. Marker, ‘God of Our Mothers: Reflections on Lay Female Spirituality in Late Eighteenth- and Early Nineteenth-Century Russia, in V. A. Kivelson and R. H. Green (eds), Orthodox Russia: Belief and Practice under

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33.

34.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39. 40.

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the Tsars (University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), pp.193–209; William G. Wagner, ‘ “Orthodox Domesticity”: Creating a Social Role for Women’ in M. D. Steinberg and H. J. Coleman (eds), Sacred Stories, Religion and Spirituality in Modern Russia (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press), pp. 119–45. Vasil’eva inherited the house where, according to their tradition, the legendary founders of the Christ–faith Danilo Filippovitch and Ivan Timofeevich Suslov used to live. Pokazania krestianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837, l. 6ob; Aivazov, Materialy dlia issledovaniia russkich misticheskich sekt, pp. 52–3, 72; Reutskii, ‘Moskovskie “bozh’i l’iudi” ’, 36–9. Some churches, such as the Adreian-and-Natal’ia Church behind the Sucharev Tower, the church of Nikola in Drachi and the Ivanov monastery, were important places of worship to the community as they were linked with their own martyrs and founders. Pokazania krestianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837, l. 12–12ob; Aivazov, Materialy dlia issledovaniia russkich misticheskich sekt, pp. 41–4. Clay, Russian Peasant Religion and Its Repression, p. 104, 109, 193. Laura Engelstein stresses as well in her analysis of the everyday experience of the Skoptsy the division between the ‘inner spirituality and outward conformity’. Engelstein, Castration and the Heavenly Kingdom, pp. 23–4, 48, 93–4. This division was certainly the central element of their creed. The opposition of the ‘worldly’ and ‘spiritual’ is represented in the texts of the Skoptsy as a division between ‘iavny’ [⫽evident] and ‘tainyi’ [⫽secret]. Cf. Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 484, 499, but how the clearness of this division on the discursive level can be projected onto their social practice requires further research. R. Cohen, ‘Ethnicity: Problem and Focus in Anthropology’, Annual Review of Anthropology 7 (1978) 379–403; J. Y. Okamura, ‘Situational ethnicity’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, vol. 4, nr. 4 (October 1981) 452–65; F. Barth, ‘Introduction’, in idem (ed), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries. The Social Organization of Cultural Difference, 4th edn (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1994), 9–38; idem, ‘Enduring and Emerging issues in the analysis of ethnicity’, in H. Vermeulen and C. Govers (eds), Anthropology and Ethnicity. Beyond Ethnic Groups and Boundaries (Amsterdam: Spinhuis, 1994), 11–32. T. van Rahden, Juden und andere Breslauer. Die Beziehungen zwischen Juden, Protestanten und Katholiken in einer deutschen Großstadt von 1860 bis 1915 [Jews and Other Citizens of Breslau. The Relations between the Jews, Protestants and Catholics in a Large German City from 1860 until 1915] (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), pp. 19–23, 133–139. L. P. Karsavin, Osnovy srednevekovoi religioznosti v XII–XIII vekach preimushchestvenno v Italii [The Foundations of the Medieval Religiosity in the 12th-13th Century, mainly in Italy] (Petrograd: Nauchnoe delo, 1915), pp. 3–6. Thanks to Aleksandr L’vov for directing me to this work. E. E. Evans-Pritchard, Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic Among the Azande (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963, repr. of the 1st edn 1937), p. 540. A. Ia. Gurevich, Srednevekovyi mir: Kul’tura bezmolvstvuiushchego bol’shinstva [Medieval World: The Culture of the Silend Majority] (Mosow: Iskusstvo, 1990), p. 49. This notion is not identical with the concept of ‘dvoeverie’ in a sence of a sharp division between the ‘elite’ and ‘folk’ religiosity. Cf. E. Levine, ‘Dvoeverie and Popular Religion’, in Bathalden, Seeking God, 31–52.

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41. R. Orsi, ‘Everyday Miracles: The Study of Lived Religion’, in D. D. Hall (ed), Lived Religion on America. Toward a History of Practice (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), pp. 3–21. For the recent research on religion in Russia, working with the concept of ‘lived religion’, see review article by C. D. Worobec, ‘Lived Orthodoxy in Imperial Russia’, Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 7,2 (Spring 2006) 329–250; see also Steinberg/ Coleman, Sacred Stories; Kivelson/Green, Orthodox Russia; Lavrov, Koldovstvo i religiia v Rossii, 1700–1740gg.; Bathalden, Seeking God. 42. A. A. Panchenko, Issledovaniia v oblasti narodnogo pravoslaviia. Derevenskie sviatyni Severo-Zapada Rossii [Research on Folk Orthodoxy. Sacred Places in the Villages of Northwest Russia] (St Petersburg: Aleteiia, 1998), p. 270. 43. P. W. Werth, ‘Orthodoxy as Ascription (and Beyond): Religious Identity on the Edges of the Orthodox Community, 1740–1917’, in Kivelson and Green, Orthodox Russia, pp. 239–51; Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution, pp. 81–2. 44. G. L. Freeze, ‘Institutionalizing Piety. The Church and Popular Religion, 1750–1850’, in J. Burbank and D. L. Ransel (eds), Imperial Russia. New Histories for the Empire (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1998), pp. 210–49, here p. 215. This diversity, however, still referred to the common grounds of the Orthodox Church as a community constituted by mutual exchanges between the clergy and the lay practitioners. V. Shevzov, ‘Letting the People into the Church. Reflections on Orthodoxy and Community in Late Imperial Russia’, in Kivelson and Green, Orthodox Russia, pp. 59–77; eadem, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution. 45. Cf. Freeze, ‘The Rechristianization of Russia’, 107–8, idem, The Parish Clergy in Nineteenth-Century Russia. Crisis, Reform, Counter-Reform (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983). 46. For the reports of the parish clergy about Borisova’s associates, see Aivazov, Materialy dlia issledovaniia russkich misticheskich sekt, pp. 41–9. 47. Hereandafter: Pokazania krestianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837 [Testimony of the Peasant Girl Irina Fedorova Lisina from 7.08.1837], RGIA, f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 46, l. 2–15; cf. Reutskii, ‘Moskovskie “bozh’i l’iudi” ’, 15. 48. On the Old Belief, see for example, Michels, At War with the Church: Religious Dissent in Seventeenth-Century Russia; Paert, Old Believers, Religious Dissent and Gender in Russia; A. Lavrov, ‘ “Alter Glaube” und “Neuer Glaube” in einem einzelnen Bezirk: Der Fall Kargopol’ (1653–1700)’ [The “Old Belief” and the “New Belief” in a Single District: The Case of Kargopol’ (1653–1700)], in A. Kappeler (ed), Die Geschichte Russlands im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert aus der Perspektive seiner Regionen (Wiesbaden: Harassowitz, 2004), 199–219. For the rejection of tobacco, see R. R. Robson, ‘Old Believers in Imperial Russia. A Legend on the Appearance of Tobacco’, in W. B. Husband (ed), The Human Tradition in Modern Russia (Wilmington, Delaware: A Scholarly Resources, 2000), pp. 19–29. 49. Pokazaniia krest’ianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837, l. 5–5ob. 50. Hereandafter: Pokazaniia Moskovskoi meshchanki Avdotii Filipovoi Kuznetsovoi ot 4.06.1837 [Testimony of the Moscow Townswoman Advotia Filipova Kuznetsova from 4.06.1837], RGIA, f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 46, l. 16–18. 51. For the Christ–faith believers in the monasteries, see Clay, Russian Peasant Religion and Its Repression, pp. 351–378.

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52. Pokazanie Moskovskago 1-i Gil’dii Kupecheskago syna i pochetnago Grazhdanina Antona Vasil’eva Rozanova [Testimony of the Son of the Moscow Merchant of the First Guild and Honorary Citizen Anton Vasil’ev], RGIA, f. 797, op. 87, g. 1837, d. 46, l. 117–118ob. 53. Pokazaniia krest’ianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837, l. 4–4ob. The wealthy peasant woman Vasil’eva lived with her servants and close adherents in the village of Staraia near Kostroma and was said, according to the Christ–faith tradition in that region, to be the last descendant of the legendary founder of the Christ–faith Danila Filippovich in the mid-seventeenth century. Believers from the Moscow-Kostroma region came to venerate her there, and she also visited yearly the Moscow community. Reutskii, ‘Moskovskie “bozh’i l’iudi” ’, 5–10; 32–5. On the Old Belief origins of the special communion by the Christ–faith believers, see Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 128–31. He traces back this practice to the communion with the so-called ‘Our Lady’s bread’ as it was practised by the priestless Old Believers, specially in the Vyg community. 54. Cf. ibid., p. 129, 241–3. 55. Pokazaniia krest’ianskoi devki Iriny Fedorovoi Lisinoi ot 7.08.1837, l. 4ob–5. Cf. Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 242–3. 56. Borovikovskii, Zapiski. Some parts of the diary were published by Petr Bartenev. Cf. ‘Iz zapisnoi knizhki chudozhnika V. L. Borovikovskogo’. 57. Previously, in his earlier years, Borovikovski was much interested in mystical teachings and between 1802 and ca. 1804 he was a regular member of the St Petersburg Masonic lodge ‘The Dying Sphinx’. He probably came in contact with this circle through his friends and colleagues at the Academy of Arts. Soon, however, he became disappointed in this lodge – for some to the present moment unknown reasons. Alekseeva, Vladimir Lukich Borovikovski, pp. 212–6. On the ‘Dying Sphinx’, see Aleksand Etkind, ‘ “Umiraiushchii Sfinks”: krug Golitsyna-Labzina i peterburgskii period russkoi misticheskoi tradicii’ [“The Dying Sphinx”: The circle of Golitsyn-Labzin and the Petersburg Period of the Russian Mystical Tradition], Studia Slavica Finlandensia, XIII (1996) 17–46; Smith, Working the Rough Stone, p. 180; Marker, ‘The Enlightenment of Anna Labzina’. 58. Borovikovskii, Zapiski, l. 40ob. 59. Ibid., l. 37. 60. Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 150–1, 261–70. 61. Dubrovin, Russkaia starina, 84 (1895) 28–29.Nov. 62. Borovikovskii, Zapiski, l. 37ob. 63. Cf. A. Baiburin, L. Belovinskii, Fransis Kont, Polyzabytye slova i znachenia. Slovar’ russkoi kul’tury XVIII–XIX vv. [The Half-Forgotten Words and Meanings. The Dictionary of the Russian Culture in the 18th–19th Century] (St Petersburg/ Moscow: Evropeiskii dom/Znak, 2004), pp. 479–80; G. D’iachenko, Polnyi tserkovno-slavianskii slovar’ [The Complete Church Slavonic Dictionary] (Moscow: Vi’de, 1899), p. 1107; Slovar’ russkogo iazyka XI–XVII vv. [The Dictionary of the Russian Language in the 11th–17th Century] (Moscow: Nauka, 1996), vyp. 23, pp. 77–81; V. Dal’, Tolkovyi slovar’ zhivogo velikorusskogo iazyka [The Explanatory Dictionary of the Living Great Russian Language] (St Peterburg/Moscow: Vol’f, 1882), vol. 4, p. 142; Shevzov, Russian Orthodoxy on the Eve of Revolution, pp. 81–2, pp. 6–7. 64. Panchenko, Christovshchina i skopchestvo, pp. 239, 485, 500.

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65. Borovikovskii, Zapiski, l. 53ob–54. 66. Yakov Alekseevich Il’in, probably the son of an 18th-century freemason Aleksei Yakovlevich Il’in, was one of Borovikovski’s pupils in the first decade of the 19th century. In the 1820s Il’in was the closest friend and colleague of Borovikovski who frequently met his master and sometimes spent several days at his home helping to complete details in paintings. Alekseeva, Vladimir Lukich Borovikovski, pp. 324–237. 67. Borovikovskii, Zapiski, l. 52–52ob. 68. Freeze, ‘Institutionalizing Piety’. All the range of differences in the notion and meaning of Orthodoxy in the life worlds of diverse social groups as well as distinctions which conformed rather to different aspects of the creed had been here in question. Laura Engelstein, ‘Old and New, Nigh and Low: Straw Horsemen of Russian Orthodoxy’, in Kivelson/Green, Orthodox Russia, pp. 23–32.

6 The Chapel of the Polish Kings: History, Religion, and the Borders of an Imagined Nation Robert E. Alvis

Fellow Poles! You know from historical accounts of our nation that the earthly remains of Mieszko I and the corpse of Boleslaw the Brave were placed in Poznan´’s cathedral. It is no secret to you that the first enlightened the lands of the western Slavs through the introduction of the holy Christian religion, and that the second expanded the borders of the state in every direction and, by assuming the title of king, laid the cornerstone of the Polish monarchy and made Poland famous throughout the world.1 So began the 1816 appeal of Teofil Wolicki, archdeacon of the Poznan´ cathedral, calling on Poles to ‘repay the debt of gratitude and love of the fatherland’ by contributing generously to the building of a memorial to two revered leaders from the tenth and early eleventh centuries. Over the twenty-five years that followed, the sentiments set in motion by this appeal eventually manifested in the Chapel of the Polish Kings, one of the more notable architectural achievements in the Polish territories in the nineteenth century. The Chapel of the Polish Kings – or Golden Chapel, as it is more commonly known – was the product in part of a heightened reverence for history that emerged across Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. As the hegemony of traditional Christian conceptions of time broke down, history itself came to acquire the ‘divine epithets of omnipotence, universal justice, and sanctity’, to quote the memorable words of Reinhart Koselleck. It was viewed as an overarching force ‘that connected and motivated everything in accordance with a secret or evident plan to which one could feel responsible, or in whose name one could believe oneself to be acting’.2 History also hardened into a formal discipline, with increasingly sophisticated methods of data collection and analysis designed 121

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to recover scientifically verifiable truths about the past. Swelling ranks of scholars and dilettantes dedicated themselves to the recovery, categorization, and interpretation of the moldering remains of bygone centuries, responding to the insatiable interest of the broader public. While the Golden Chapel was essentially a new creation, its designers understood their efforts as both an act of restoration and a historically accurate representation. In building the monument they took great pains to adhere to tradition and to produce authentic depictions of Mieszko, Bolesl aw, and the era in which they lived. As with many other nineteenth-century commemorative efforts, the historical content of the Golden Chapel was designed to serve a very modern purpose, specifically the cause of national identity. In this era large numbers of Europeans came to identify themselves strongly, if not primarily, with those who shared their language, culture, and/or political affiliation. Within every national movement there emerged theorists who articulated the remarkable qualities that distinguished their nation from others, and history provided much of the raw material for such arguments. The past, it was widely assumed, held important clues to the essential nature of the nation. Despite their purported reverence for history, nationalists often forced it to conform to contemporary ideological needs. As Patrick Geary has argued, national theorists typically operated under the flawed assumption that ‘the peoples of Europe are distinct, stable and objectively identifiable social and cultural units, and that they are distinguished by language, religion, custom, and national character, which are unambiguous and immutable’.3 Working from an essentially static view of history, they projected modern conceptions of nationhood deep into the past, looking for evidence to support the same basic thesis: namely, the proud history of a national group marked by enduring characteristics. In the exercise of such ‘pseudohistory’, as Geary terms it, the period between CE 400 and CE 1000 proved to be especially important. Because this era was vaguely understood and poorly documented, it was something of a tabula rasa upon which modern views of nationhood could be etched. This era lent itself particularly well to nationalist myths of origin, ‘the moment of primary acquisition, when “their people”, first arriving in the ruins of the Roman Empire, established their sacred territory and their national identity’.4 Like most acts of nationalist history-telling, the Golden Chapel reveals more about the age in which it emerged than about the age it seeks to represent. Ostensibly created to commemorate the character and achievements of two distant rulers, the chapel is densely inscribed with narratives

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that reflect the concerns and assumptions of its modern patrons. In this essay I examine the development and ultimate form of the chapel in order to illuminate some prominent contours of Polish nationalist thought in the first half of the nineteenth century. This exercise is especially useful for drawing into sharper focus specific features of the Polish nationalist appropriation of history. It also underscores the interpenetration of Polish Catholicism and the Polish nationalism on a number of levels. Geary is certainly right to call attention to the profound ironies inherent in the nationalist engagement with the past. Time and again, contemporary political programs and ideologies have been masqueraded in period dress, often with costumes so elaborate and seductive that producer and consumer alike have accepted the disguise at ‘face value’, as it were. The Golden Chapel is no exception in this regard. At the same time, the way that religion is represented in the chapel could be said to be doubly ironic. The designers of the chapel wove a narrative of Polish Catholicism in the era of Mieszko and Bolesl aw that was deeply indebted to specifically modern assumptions and political exigencies particular to the nineteenth century. And yet the way the designers instrumentalized religion was strangely in keeping with the policies of the two rulers that the chapel was built to commemorate.

Mieszko and Boleslaw in life and death Most accounts of the origins of Poland’s political history concentrate on the CE tenth century, when various Slavic tribes occupying most of the territory of modern Poland were brought under a common dominion. This unification was the accomplishment of Mieszko I (d. 992), leader of a tribe known as the Polanes. He proved particularly adept at strengthening and expanding his domain and protecting it from the hostile intentions of neighboring powers. In agreeing to be baptised by Catholic missionaries from Bohemia in 966, Mieszko is also credited with introducing Christianity to the Polish people. It is impossible to establish with certainty Mieszko’s motives for accepting baptism, but historians commonly have assumed that internal and international political considerations figured prominently in his decision. He likely recognized Christianity as a means to unify his religiously diverse domain and strengthen it from within through the fruits of Christendom’s culture, including the art of writing, sophisticated models of governance, and an ideology conducive to centralized authority. Additionally, he understood that Christianization had the potential to redefine Poland’s place in the mental mapping of the tenth-century

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world, encouraging European elites to recognize it as a part of the ordered sphere of Christendom rather than that pagan, barbaric frontier. This enhanced legitimacy offered Mieszko a measure of protection from the territorial ambitions of neighboring states like the Holy Roman Empire.5 Seen from this vantage, Christianization served as a complex bordering mechanism, linking Poland with the Christian West while distinguishing it from the other Christian states there. This may also explain Mieszko’s subsequent decision to place his domain under papal protection.6 As the papacy possessed very little military power at this time, its protection would have been purely symbolic. Yet such an arrangement bolstered Poland’s claim to a position in Christendom and insulated it from the encroachment of neighboring centers of Catholic authority, such as the bishopric of Magdeburg. Mieszko’s son, Bolesl aw the Brave, ruled from 992 to 1025 and greatly expanded Poland’s borders through military conquest. He led his army into Little Poland, Ruthenia, Silesia, Moravia, and Lusatia. In the last year of his life he had himself crowned king, thus initiating the Piast royal dynasty. The sprawling state he built disintegrated soon after his death, but its foundations endured. Future Piasts re-established centralized control over much of Boleslaw’s kingdom, creating a political entity that survived, in various permutations, until the late eighteenth century. Like his father, Bolesl aw appears to have understood the relevance of Christianity for the international stature of his state. In 997 Wojciech (Adalbert), the bishop of Prague, was murdered while on a missionary campaign among the pagans of Prussia, just north of Poland. On account of his achievements and the circumstances of his demise, Wojciech was recognized widely as a martyr and saint. Bolesl aw paid a ransom for Wojciech’s relics and buried them in a position of prominence in the cathedral at Gniezno, an act that transformed Gniezno into a center of pilgrimage. In the year 1000, the Holy Roman Emperor, Otto III, traveled to Gniezno in order to venerate these relics. The imperial visit further validated Poland’s place in the Christian political order. Around this same time, the Catholic Church recognized Poland as an independent ecclesiastical province centered around the metropolitanate of Gniezno.7 The political consequences of this development were far reaching. In the words of historian Adam Zamoyski, ‘this underlined the independence of the Polish Church hierarchy from the influence of the older diocese of Magdeburg, which had hoped to control it in the German interest. It also strengthened the Polish state, for in the conditions prevailing all over Europe, ecclesiastical networks were instruments of stability and control’.8

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According to tradition, upon their deaths the bodies of both Mieszko I and Bolesl aw were interred in Poznan´ ’s cathedral, and their graves inspired the faithful veneration of their subjects. The first documented monument to either king – a stone sarcophagus designed to hold Bolesl aw’s bones – emerged much later, most likely in the fourteenth century. By the eighteenth century it was widely believed that the monument was Bolesl aw’s original eleventh-century tomb. Only toward the mid-nineteenth century, after careful analysis of the archival record, did scholars begin changing their views.9 Bolesl aw’s tomb was an ornate stone sarcophagus upon which rested a life-size plastic likeness of the king. An inscription ran around his statue along the edges of the stone lid, and sculpted friezes depicting the Annunciation and Mary’s coronation in heaven decorated the sides of the tomb. The religious imagery on the tomb and its original location in the center of the cathedral suggest that, like St Wojciech’s tomb in Gniezno, Boleslaw’s tomb served as a religious shrine. The royal body likely was venerated as a locus of sacred power, much like the relics of saints.10 Various historical sources imply that the form of Boleslaw’s tomb underwent restoration in the eighteenth century, perhaps more than once. A 1766 letter from cathedral officials to Poznan´ ’s bishop expressed their dissatisfaction with the design of the tomb, describing it as ‘poorly formed’ and ‘outdated’.11 Both the surface decoration on the lid and the figure of Bolesl aw were likely refashioned to better accord with the baroque tastes of the era. It also appears that the tomb was moved from its central location toward the periphery, most likely near the tower at the northwestern corner of the cathedral. This suggests that the cultic veneration of Bolesl aw’s relics may have run its course, and that by this time the tomb had come to serve primarily as a monument to a worthy king. The resituated tomb joined a host of other important church leaders and wealthy patrons of the cathedral along the periphery of the building. The redesigned version of Boleslaw’s tomb did not survive long. In 1790, during the renovation of the cathedral’s façade, the northern tower collapsed, demolishing Bolesl aw’s tomb below. The corpses inside the tomb were interred in a makeshift sarcophagus. Cathedral officials salvaged just two stone fragments from the figurative scenes running along the sides of the tomb.

The eclipse of Poland and the rise of Polish nationalism The tower disaster left church officials without the monument that had most distinguished the cathedral for many centuries. The process of

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replacing it would be greatly affected by political and cultural developments on the national and international level. In 1795 the Polish– Lithuanian Commonwealth disappeared from the map of Europe. Weakened by a fatally flawed political system and external machinations, the state succumbed to repeated partitions at the hands of its neighbors, Russia, Prussia, and Austria. Prussia claimed the city of Poznan´ along with a large portion of northern and western Poland. To Russia fell vast expanses of the state’s eastern territory, and to Austria fell regions to the south. On a political level, the partitions of Poland initially appeared all but impossible to reverse. The country had been absorbed by three powerful states that were united in their opposition to Polish independence. On a social and cultural level, however, Poland continued to exist. Bonds of kinship, language, and custom remained intact, regardless of the new political boundaries, and in many respects the strength and significance of these bonds grew more pronounced over the course of the nineteenth century. The French Revolution was but an early act in a political drama that gradually unfolded across the European continent in the early nineteenth century. The divine right of royal families to power – a principle that had defined the political landscape of Europe for centuries – began ceding ground to the new paradigm of nationalism. Increasing numbers of Europeans embraced the view of a world divided into discrete nations, defined in cultural, linguistic, and/or political terms, tending ideally toward political autonomy. According to this view, power belonged to the nation, not to a privileged caste, and it was the natural right of nations to manage their own affairs. As an anonymous group of Polish nationalists expressed it in 1841, ‘Every nation, regardless of its political situation, exists according to the Creator’s law and design, and therefore has to reach its foreordained place in the order of nations.’12 In the Polish territories of Prussia, Russia, and Austria, these ideas found rapid dissemination and sudden viability in the Napoleonic era. After crushing Prussia and Austria on the battlefield, Napoleon resurrected a Polish rump state dubbed the Duchy of Warsaw. Although this entity did not survive Napoleon’s downfall, it ignited the political ambitions of Poland’s elite and revived their interest in their national heritage. The Treaty of Vienna (1815) subjugated the Polish territories once again to Russian, Prussian, and Austrian control, but many Polish elites remained committed to the dream of an independent state. The precise political form of this imagined state was a matter of intense debate among a range of factions, including constitutional monarchists, democrats, and socialists.

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One principle that Polish nationalists of all persuasions could agree on was the importance of preserving Poland’s unique cultural patrimony as a means of demonstrating to the world their nation’s legitimate claim to political autonomy. As never before, Poles reflected on the nature of the linguistic and cultural links that united them and the long, complicated political legacy established by previous generations. The Polish national character emerged as the dominant theme in all aspects of intellectual and cultural endeavor, including philosophy, history, political theory, literature, and art. The early decades of the nineteenth century witnessed a particularly extensive engagement with the nation’s history. A new generation of historians, including Joachim Lelewel and Jerzy Samuel Bandtkie, celebrated the nation’s past and grappled with its eclipse in the modern era. They employed sophisticated methods characteristic of modern historiography, including an extensive reliance on original source material, the critical analysis of the same, and an exhaustive attention to accuracy and detail. History also provided the inspiration for much of the era’s literature. The three giants of Poland’s romantic era, Adam Mickiewicz, Julius Sl owacki, and Sigismund Krasin´ ski, all drew liberally from historical sources. Their engagement ranged from explicitly historical novels such as Mickiewicz’s Konrad Wallenrod, depicting the fourteenth-century struggles between the Lithuanians and the Teutonic Knights, to the more implicit referencing of the revolutionary ferment of the late-eighteenth century found in Krasicki’s Undivine Comedy. The interest in history found a material echo as well, as Polish elites took to collecting artifacts associated with the former republic.13 Meanwhile, amateur and professional ethnographers toured the countryside in order to record the legends, songs, and cultural practices of the largely preliterate peasantry.14 Driving this concern for history was the well-founded fear that the legacy of Polish civilization was threatened with extinction by the partitioning powers. In order to secure possession of their respective shares of the Polish territories, Russia, Prussia, and Austria were eager to supplant Polish administrative systems and cultural models with their own. In the Grand Duchy of Poznan´ , as the Poznan´ region was known in the years 1815–48, the Prussian government pursued a comprehensive Germanization campaign. It offered inducements of various kinds to encourage German migration to the region. It made German the official language of government and eventually required most forms of public education to be conducted in German. It also tended to favor Germans over Poles in terms of hiring and promotion with the public sector. This campaign was especially intense during the tenure of Eduard Flottwell as provincial

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governor (Oberpräsident) of the Grand Duchy of Poznan´ (1831–41), the period when plans for the Golden Chapel hardened into a concrete proposal and final product. In the quest to preserve their national heritage and nurture their hopes of political independence, Poles also came to rely heavily on the resources and personnel of the Catholic Church. As we have seen, the roots of Catholicism in Poland stretch back to the very origins of the Polish state, and over the centuries that followed the Church insinuated itself into nearly every aspect of Polish life. Unlike many other Polish institutions that did not survive the partitions, the Church continued to flourish under Russian, Prussian, and Austrian rule, and it offered Poles a living connection with the Polish past, a powerful source of social cohesion, and a symbolic language that Poles routinely used to make sense of their experience and to enunciate their hopes for the future. Even secular nationalist leaders drew liberally from the legacy of Polish Catholicism, recognizing its remarkable capacity to engage Polish sentiment.15 As relations between the Prussian government and the Polish population in the Grand Duchy of Poznan´ deteriorated over the course of the 1820s, 1830s, and 1840s, Polish Catholic officials repeatedly coordinated and participated in acts of Polish resistance. Numerous members of the clergy passed over into Russia to participate in the November Uprising of 1830–31, and many more – including Leon Przyl uski, archbishop of Poznan´-Gniezno – lent vigorous support to the Polish bid for independence in the grand duchy in 1848. The Church was so closely identified with Polish national identity that anytime it came into conflict with the Prussian state, even over purely religious matters, it had the potential to enflame nationalist sentiment and complicate Prussian rule. For instance, when Archbishop Martin Dunin of Poznan´ -Gniezno was arrested for defying a Prussian ordinance concerning mixed marriages between Protestants and Catholics, he emerged as a national hero in the eyes of the Polish population.16

Building the Chapel of the Polish kings The swelling interest among Poles in their national history inevitably affected attitudes toward the presence of Poland’s earliest rulers in Poznan´’s cathedral. By the early nineteenth century it was believed that Boleslaw’s tomb contained the bodies of both Bolesl aw and Mieszko I.17 Their reputations as the founders of the Polish state had only grown in significance as Poles explored their history, yet their bodies remained interred in a makeshift tomb. The incongruity grew increasingly unconscionable

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for some Poles. Not long after the tumultuous Napoleonic era came to a close, a concerted effort emerged to commemorate the two leaders on the scale that matched their greatness. As the royal tomb was located in the Poznan´ cathedral, it is not surprising that archdiocesan officials spearheaded the campaign to refashion it. The proposal for a new memorial emerged during the tenure of Archbishop Tymoteusz Gorzen´ ski, but the driving force behind the project in its early years was Archdeacon Teofil Wolicki, a prominent figure in the local Catholic hierarchy. Clues from Wolicki’s biography suggest that he was an ardent Polish patriot, eager to cultivate Polish national identity and promote the cause of political independence. When Napoleon created the Duchy of Warsaw, Wolicki volunteered to serve in its government, taking a prominent role in the National Education Directory. When Prussia resumed control over western Poland and sought to Germanize the region, Wolicki vigorously countered the effort. He fought to preserve the use of Polish in Poznan´’s influential gymnasium (high school), prompting Prussian officials to doubt his loyalty and to seek to prevent his eventual promotion to archbishop.18 Wolicki’s drive to memorialize Mieszko and Bolesl aw was undoubtedly connected to his larger effort to sustain the national awareness of Poles, which he considered threatened by pressures to assimilate into the dominant culture of Prussia. Wolicki issued a call for a new monument to Poland’s earliest rulers in the winter of 1815–16, appealing to Poles from across the territories of the former republic to contribute to what he characterized as a patriotic cause. At the same time he began to contemplate its eventual design. He sought out artists of exceptional talent, engaging the labors of Karl Friedrich Schinkel, Prussia’s building commissioner and renowned architect, and Christian Daniel Rauch, a prominent Prussian sculptor. The initial plan that emerged from these consultations called for the redesign one of the cathedral’s chapels into a mausoleum containing two sarcophagi, an altar, and statues of the two rulers to be sculpted by Rauch. In 1818 a new concept emerged that proposed renovating the Church of the Virgin Mary – a dilapidated gothic structure just across the square in front of the cathedral – and transforming it into a mausoleum for Mieszko and Bolesl aw.19 For all of his enthusiasm and planning, Wolicki’s initial effort failed to get off the ground and disappeared from public discussion for many years. The archival record offers no clear explanation for this misstart, but there are numerous plausible explanations. The first years after the Treaty of Vienna were exceedingly difficult economically, making the climate for an ambitious fund-raising drive highly unfortuitous. Toward the end of the

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decade, the attention of local church officials turned to the Prussian effort to reorganize the administrative structures of the church in the Poznan´ area. Years of negotiation resulted in the 1821 papal bull De salute animarum, which regulated many of the issues in question, but it took considerably longer to implement the changes. Archbishop Gorzen´ski’s death in 1825 and the nearly three-year interregnum that followed further limited the clergy’s ability to focus on the monument. Wolicki never gave up his interest in the monument, and in 1827, when the status of the Catholic Church in the region had stabilized and his election to the office of archbishop was assured, he revived the issue. Wolicki quickly won the enthusiastic support of the area’s leading clergy and aristocracy. At the same time he was careful not to alienate the Prussian establishment, whose opposition could have stifled the effort. In public comments and correspondence with Prussian officials, Wolicki now emphasized the pro-monarchical dimension of the monument, underscoring the great debt Poles owed to their earliest monarchs. He also teased out the blood connection between the ancient Piasts and the Hohenzollern dynasty that currently ruled Prussia. At a time of mounting political discontent among the liberal Polish bourgeoisie and petty nobility, Wolicki described a monument that had the potential to stimulate loyalty to traditional forms of authority and reinforce the legitimacy of Prussian rule in the Polish territories. This helps explain why the proposal earned the endorsement and financial support of some leading Prussian officials, including King Friedrich Wilhelm III and Johann Friedrich Baumann, provincial governor of the Grand Duchy of Poznan´ .20 The organizers of the project launched a major fund-raising campaign, publicizing their appeal throughout Polish areas in Prussia, Russia, and Austria, as well as to nobility living throughout Europe. While earlier proposals to establish a mausoleum in either the cathedral or the Church of the Virgin Mary remained viable, Wolicki, flush with optimism for the fund-raising drive, began to imagine a more monumental statement. He envisioned erecting statues of Mieszko and Boleslaw on the spacious square in front of the cathedral, and he turned to Schinkel for a proposal. Schinkel welcomed the idea of an outdoor monument and eventually proposed erecting two fifteen-foot statues of Mieszko and Bolesl aw on a large pedestal set in front of an amphitheater lined with benches. He paired this with a modest chapel mausoleum that would house two sarcophagi. Wolicki and leading nobles all responded favorably to Schinkel’s grand vision, but it came at an impressive price: well over 50,000 thaler. By early 1829 the fund-raising campaign had netted just 18,000 thaler. It was clear at this point to the project organizers that Schinkel’s proposal

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far exceeded their means. Bitterly disappointed, Wolicki complained in a letter about his ‘heartless fellow nationals’.21 He also began investigating less expensive options. Not long thereafter, on 21 December 1829, Archbishop Wolicki died. Having lost its prime mover, the drive to memorialize Mieszko and Boleslaw stalled. Yet Wolicki’s efforts had awakened considerable interest, and his untimely death stirred in many the desire to realize the idea for which the late archbishop had struggled so hard. The provincial congress (Landrat) authorized a three-man committee to complete the project. The committee consisted of two leading nobles, Titus Dzialyn´ski and Edward Raczyn´ski, as well as a high official in the local church hierarchy, Vicar Leon Przyluski. In 1831 Dzialyn´ski crossed into Russia to support the Polish uprising there, thereby becoming a persona non grata in Prussia and disqualifying himself for his position on the committee. His replacement, Prince Anton Radziwill, died not long thereafter in 1833. Of the two remaining members, Edward Raczyn´ ski was clearly the dominant force. It was his vision that largely would define the eventual form of the monument. Raczyn´ski hailed from one of the region’s most distinguished noble families. His generous contributions to the city of Poznan´, including funding its first public library and a state-of-the-art water system, made him a widely respected figure among its residents. His pedigree, conservative politics, and cultural refinement granted him considerable influence among Prussia’s ruling elite. He appeared ideally suited to see Wolicki’s project to completion. Recognizing the limitations imposed by the fund drive and the cathedral clergy’s strong desire to retain Mieszko’s and Bolesl aw’s traditional place inside the cathedral, Raczyn´ ski decided to drop plans for a large monument on the cathedral square and to focus the project on a redesigned chapel inside the cathedral. Instead of the small side chapel along the northern aisle that Wolicki had designated for the mausoleum, Raczyn´ski proposed using the larger chapel directly behind the main altar, a space that for centuries had served as a repository for the Eucharist. Cathedral officials responded enthusiastically to the proposal, noting in a letter their ‘wish to see in the main diocese of the Church and the most holy place within it beautified in such an appropriate manner, through the installation of a memorial to the introduction of Christianity in this country’.22 Their willingness to dedicate the ‘most holy place’ in the cathedral to a new monument to Mieszko and Boleslaw – displacing the Eucharist in the process! – suggests not only the importance they attached to the memorial, but also the religious value they recognized in it.

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In the redesign of the chapel, Raczyn´ ski retained some of the proposals previously developed for the monument and incorporated many new ideas. He decided, for instance, to have Rauch sculpt statues of Mieszko and Boleslaw, only at a reduced, roughly life-sized scale appropriate for the dimensions of the chapel. Raczyn´ ski personally covered the substantial cost of the sculptures and carefully supervised every stage of their production. On the other hand, he rejected Schinkel’s final design for the chapel interior. In a letter to Vicar Przyl uski he described the drawing Schinkel submitted as ‘a handsome boudoir, but not a funerary chapel for two great monarchs’.23 He sought out other architects and artists for designs more in keeping with his expectations. The final architectonic form of the chapel was the work of Gustav Stier, one of Schinkel’s students in Berlin, and Francesco Maria Lanci, an Italian architect well known and professionally active in Poland. While responsibility for the general design of the chapel belongs to Stier, Lanci contributed many of its details and oversaw its implementation over the course of four extended stays in Poznan´ .24 Stier and Lanci formed the chapel into an octagon topped with a shallow dome. The eight walls of the space terminate in rounded arches near the base of the dome. The western wall accommodates the entrance of the chapel, connecting it to the deambulatory of the cathedral. An altar stands opposite the entrance in front of the eastern wall. The lower portions of the other six walls recede into rounded niches. The upper portions of the northeastern, eastern, and southeastern walls open up into windows that illuminate the space. Two Berlin artisans, Heinrich Müller and Georg Justi, executed the various painted elements within the chapel. They covered the walls with colorful, ornate designs set against a golden background. On the gilded cupola they painted images of God the Father, angels, and a host of saints. Gustav Hesse, a sculptor from Poznan´ , carved many decorative elements for the chapel, including the eight columns punctuating the corners of the room along with their capitals, each decorated with an eagle and nest motif. Hesse and two other artists also carved the eight angels standing atop the capitals. All of this ornamentation was gilded, adding to the impressive visual impact of the space that gave rise to its popular name, the Golden Chapel. Rauch’s statue group stands in the niche in the northern wall. His work depicts an older Mieszko, holding a staff topped by a cross, and a younger Bolesl aw, clad in chain mail and armed with a great sword. Above the group hangs a painting by January Suchodolski entitled Mieszko Breaking the Idols. The altar along the eastern wall is dominated by a colorful mosaic patterned after Titian’s Assumption of Mary from the Church of

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St Mary dei Frari in Venice. The Venetian Libori Salandri executed the mosaic, and he also designed the marble mosaic on the floor. In the niche in the southern wall of the chapel stands a sandstone sarcophagus carved by Hesse. Above it hangs a painting by Edward Brzozowski entitled Bolesl aw the Brave and Otto III at the Grave of St Wojciech. The initial masonry work on the chapel was begun in 1835. The painting and ornamentation of the interior lasted until 1840, although the bulk of the labor was executed in 1837–38. The final touches, including the installation of Rauch’s statues and Brzozowski’s painting, were completed in 1841.

Decoding the chapel Edward Raczyn´ski embodied many aspects of the new historical consciousness that was emerging in nineteenth-century Europe. He displayed a profound reverence for the past, combined with the drive to meticulously authenticate, categorize, and preserve its remnants. He viewed the past through a nationalist lens, identifying nations as enduring categories within which human endeavor unfolds. He dedicated much of his energy to the preservation of Poland’s historical legacy, which he feared was in danger of following the Polish state into obsolescence. Raczyn´ski’s commitment to Polish history manifested in various forms. In 1829 he founded the Raczyn´ ski Library, the first public library in the Polish territories. One of the mandates of the institution was the preservation of Poland’s historical legacy. Raczyn´ski appointed Józef Lukaszewicz, a prominent Polish historian, to run the library, and he funded Lukaszewicz’s prodigious research. He bankrolled the publication of dozens of manuscripts written in the old Republic of Poland and Lithuania, including a nineteen-volume collection of manuscripts from the eighteenth century.25 In addition, Raczyn´ski wrote a couple of notable scholarly historical works himself. He worked off-and-on for twentyseven years on a two-volume survey of the history, socio-economic life, and material development of Great Poland.26 In the same period he completed a four-volume study of Polish medals.27 Raczyn´ski’s historical orientation greatly influenced his approach to the commemoration of Mieszko and Bolesl aw. While financial considerations factored prominently in his decision to abandon plans for an outdoor monument in favor of a mausoleum chapel inside the cathedral, Raczyn´ski also found justification in history for this decision. He was determined to establish continuity between the long legacy of Boleslaw’s tomb and any subsequent act of commemoration. His purpose was not

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to create a wholly new monument, but to preserve a commemorative tradition that linked Poles of his generation to the origins of the Polish nation. As Bolesl aw’s tomb had stood inside the cathedral for centuries, history dictated that the new monument be located inside the cathedral as well. Raczyn´ski displayed the depth of his commitment to this point in a splenetic clash with Schinkel and the new provincial governor of the grand duchy, Eduard Flottwell. In 1834 Schinkel traveled to Poznan´ for the first time and viewed the area in and around the cathedral where, from his office in Berlin, he had envisioned various plans for the monument over the past sixteen years. During his visit Schinkel was struck by the dilapidated Church of the Virgin Mary, which he regarded as an example of ‘pure German architecture’. He returned to the idea raised back in 1818: to restore the church and to turn it into a mausoleum to Mieszko and Bolesl aw. Flottwell immediately warmed to the notion. Determined to promote the culture and national identity of Germans living in the overwhelmingly Polish province, Flottwell likely recognized in Schinkel’s idea an effective means to achieve his goals. The effort to commemorate Poland’s earliest rulers could simultaneously help preserve the German architectural legacy in the Prussian East.28 In a letter to Przyl uski, Raczyn´ ski denounced Schinkel’s surprise proposal as being ‘opposed to the laws of propriety, chronological order, and traditional practice’.29 In keeping with the established opinion of the day, Raczyn´ski believed that the tomb destroyed in the 1790 tower disaster contained the bodies of both Mieszko and Bolesl aw and had stood in the cathedral since the eleventh century. Any effort to commemorate these two leaders, he believed, had to adhere to the precedent established over eight centuries. The cathedral was the only acceptable location for the monument. Raczyn´ ski made his opposition to Schinkel’s latest proposal known to Flottwell, who responded with his own appeal to historical faithfulness. The cathedral, Flottwell noted, had been redesigned so often and so thoroughly over the centuries, and most recently in the eighteenth century, that it qualified as an essentially new structure. On the other hand, the Church of the Virgin Mary, built in the fourteenth century and altered little since, more authentically reflected the medieval era in which Mieszko and Bolesl aw lived.30 Instead of pursuing this argument over historical propriety further, Raczyn´ ski appealed to a higher authority. He presented his chapel design to Prussia’s crown prince and won his endorsement. With such influential backing, Raczyn´ski could confidently consider closed the question of the monument’s location.

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The concern for ‘chronological order’ also influenced Raczyn´ ski’s approach to the chapel’s architectural form. At this time in Europe there had ceased to be one regnant high style in which to build. Rather, architects viewed past architectural idioms (Classical, Romanesque, Gothic, etc.) as a range of viable options from which one could choose. Architects and their patrons weighed the relative appropriateness of various historical styles according to the nature and purpose of the building projects in question. In approaching the question of style, Raczyn´ ski was determined to ‘penetrate the spirit of the time in which the monarchs lived’.31 This criterion allowed him to disqualify Classical architecture, which flourished well before the tenth and early eleventh centuries, as well as Gothic architecture, which emerged only afterward. Raczyn´ ski ultimately concluded that the Byzantine style best ‘reflected the age in which Mieszko and Bolesl aw lived’.32 One problem with Raczyn´ ski’s reasoning in this regard is that there existed almost no precedent of Byzantine architecture on Polish soil. Its one tenuous connection to the early Piasts arose through Boleslaw’s military exploits, which included the capture of Kiev, then the capital of Russia and home to numerous examples of Byzantine architecture. In her fine monograph on the Golden Chapel, Zofia Ostrowska-Ke
blowska argues that Raczyn´ski’s choice should be understood in its wider cultural context. In the period in which the Golden Chapel was conceived and built, Byzantine architecture was emerging as a subject of considerable fascination in the rarified social circles to which Raczyn´ ski belonged.33 There is another factor that should be taken into consideration as well. Raczyn´ ski was well aware that Charlemagne adopted the Byzantine style when he commissioned the construction of a royal chapel at Aachen in the ninth century, patterning the chapel after the Church of St Vitale in Ravenna. If one of the earliest architects of German national greatness, as German nationalists viewed Charlemagne, chose to worship and be buried in a Byzantine-style chapel, would not this style of architecture be appropriate for the early architects of Polish national greatness? There is no direct evidence that Raczyn´ ski was influenced by this kind of logic, but it is certainly in keeping with the political subtext that he sought to inscribe in the chapel. After selecting the Byzantine style, Raczyn´ ski labored to ensure that it was accurately executed. As there were no native exemplars from which to draw, he traveled to Italy and Sicily in the spring of 1836 to study some of the crowning achievements of the idiom. On the trip he studied St Mark’s Basilica in Venice, the churches of St Apollinaris and St Vitalis in Ravenna, the Monreal Abbey in Sicily, and the Franciscan women’s

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cloister in Palermo. He passed on his ideas and observations to Lanci, who incorporated many of them in the ornamentation of the chapel.34 Raczyn´ ski lavished even greater attention on Rauch’s design of the statues of Mieszko and Bolesl aw. Anxious that the sculptures faithfully reproduce the proper bearing and physiognomic characteristics of the early Piasts, Raczyn´ ski conducted extensive research and provided Rauch with a wealth of resources. To acquaint the sculptor with his subject matter, Raczyn´ ski sent him citations of several books on Polish history written in German. He also sent dozens of portraits of Polish kings and nobles, including renderings of Mieszko and Bolesl aw, Kazimierz the Great, Lukasz Opalin´ski, and Jerzy Lubomirski. Like many of his contemporaries, Raczyn´ski believed the Polish people possessed distinctive facial features, and he expected Rauch to capture them. In describing the faces of Opalin´ski and Lubomirski, Raczyn´ ski claimed, ‘I could recognize them as Poles from among thousands’.35 Raczyn´ ski likewise was concerned for the authenticity of the accouterments depicted in the sculptures. Regarding their garments, he encouraged Rauch to use German fashions from the same period as models. According to his reasoning, ‘Mieszko, who was married to a Bohemian and an ally and vassal of the German emperor and who strove to bring European culture to his nation, more than likely imitated German ways, at least externally’. He later supplied Rauch with examples of royal Polish costume and the traditional Polish crown taken from historical sources. To assist Rauch’s modeling of Bolesl aw’s sword, Raczyn´ski sent him a model drawn after a sword taken from the grave of the Polish King Zygmunt August.36 Raczyn´ ski was also careful to include in the project the only surviving material remnants of the earlier tomb of Bolesl aw: two stone fragments from the panels decorating the sides of the old sarcophagus. He had them incorporated into a panel adorning the new sarcophagus, underscoring the chapel’s continuity with the previous monument. Raczyn´ ski revered these fragments because he believed that they came from Bolesl aw’s original eleventh-century tomb. They were hallowed by their temporal link to the very origins of Poland, and their placement in the new chapel served Raczyn´ ski’s determination to faithfully represent the ‘spirit’ of that past age. After the chapel was largely completed, Raczyn´ski went so far as to identify these fragments as the heart of the entire project. ‘I regard the sarcophagus, into which I incorporated the stones and sculptures remaining from the original tomb of the monarchs, as the actual monument, and I had this set in an appropriately decorated and solidly built chapel.’37

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For all the emphasis on authenticity and historical continuity, the irony of the Chapel of the Polish Kings is how utterly novel and profoundly modern the undertaking actually was. While striving to adhere to the formal legacy of the earlier Bolesl aw monument, the designers of the chapel created a Byzantine-inspired space without precedent on Polish soil. While this architectural idiom may have clashed with the rest of the cathedral, its use conformed beautifully with the historicist instincts of nineteenth-century architects and their patrons. The symbolic program of the chapel was similarly innovative and contemporary. In a text he prepared to accompany the completion of the chapel, Raczyn´ ski noted, ‘The committee directing the building of the chapel desired that the place where the remains of Mieszko I and Bolesl aw rest should not only serve as a memorial to their greatness and to the gratitude of the nation, but also that it should serve as a monument to what Poland was in the first age of Lech’.38 The desire to memorialize the ‘first age of Lech’ – shorthand for the origins of Poland – reflected the modern nationalist assumption that human history unfolds within the confines of discrete national cultures that are marked by enduring, clearly identifiable characteristics that readily lend themselves to representation. Regarding the characteristics, history, and destiny of their nation, educated Poles were by no means of one mind. Their views on the question of nation were intimately related to their political orientations, which ranged from the conservative defense of religion, monarchy, and cultural and social traditions to the liberal advocacy of secularism, democratic government, and social reform. The symbolic program of the Golden Chapel clearly reflects the more conservative views of its leading clerical and aristocratic patrons. It emphasizes the central importance of Catholicism to the history of the Polish nation, and it casts monarchical government and Poland’s aristocratic traditions in a very favorable light. The earlier tomb of Bolesl aw, if we recall, was most likely designed to serve as a reliquary for a royal corpse that was regarded as saintly. It demarcated a place where the medieval visitor could achieve exhilarating proximity to the holy and possibly be touched by a miraculous force from on high. The Golden Chapel also describes the intersection of the heavenly and the terrestrial, but the means and extent of this connection are very different. Whereas the earlier tomb presented Boleslaw’s physical remains as a discrete point of contact with supernatural power, the chapel relies on a system of symbols that describe a special relationship between the divine realm, Mieszko and Bolesl aw, and the Polish people. As with the interiors of many Byzantine churches, the Golden Chapel forms an integrated cosmos. Its domed ceiling symbolizes the cope of

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heaven, and figural representations along its vertical axis reflect the traditional Christian conception of the great chain of being. An image of God floats at the apex of the dome, surrounded by a ring of angels, with his right hand raised in benediction. Keeping watch along base of the dome are full-length portraits of twenty saints, nearly all of whom were Polish or had some connection with Polish history.39 The lower level of the chapel is defined by Rauch’s statue group of Mieszko and Bolesl aw, two historical paintings of paradigmatic events in their reigns, and a mosaic depicting the Assumption. The chapel portrays a cosmos, then, of a very particular sort. In placing God in the center of an idealized synopsis of Polish history, the chapel invites onlookers to recognize God’s providential role in guiding the nation. The depiction of a succession of heroic and saintly Poles suggests a people inclined to respond faithfully to their God. The same cluster of ideas is reiterated in a powerful way in Mieszko I Breaking the Idols. Suchodolski’s painting depicts the introduction of Christianity to the pagan Polane tribe. Mieszko sits astride his horse in the center of the image, leading an entourage that includes a man wearing a bishop’s mitre. Members of his tribe kneel and bow before him with their idols spread on the ground. In the distance, men can be seen destroying other religious objects. The theme of idol-breaking has an obvious biblical resonance, recalling to mind the narrative of the Israelite journey to monotheism. Suchodolski’s portrayal of Mieszko as an idol-breaker positions him as a kind of Slavic Moses, leading God’s new chosen people, the Poles, out of the pagan desert and into their true national destiny. Another noteworthy feature of Mieszko I Breaking the Idols is the large banner held aloft by a member of Mieszko’s entourage, which features an image of the Madonna and Child that closely resembles the famous Black Madonna of Cze
stochowa icon. While its provenance is unclear, early records indicate that the icon of the Black Madonna first arrived in Cze
stochowa in the fourteenth century, and it may have begun drawing substantial numbers of pilgrims as early as the fifteenth century. Gradually it emerged as the center of a vibrant Marian cult in Poland, and its reputation was enhanced by claims of its miraculous power. In 1655 the icon became indelibly associated with the fate of Poland itself, when the Swedish army, which earlier had overran much of Poland, was unable to capture Cze
stochowa. The city’s successful defense was attributed to the miraculous intervention of the Blessed Virgin, and news of the event galvanized Polish resistance. Shortly thereafter King Jan Kazimierz proclaimed Mary queen of Poland. These dramatic events helped nourish the notion, long cherished among Polish Catholics, that Poland enjoys a special

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relationship with the Blessed Virgin. Suchodolski’s reference to the Black Madonna technically is an anachronism, projecting the icon’s cult back in time to the nation’s myth of origin. This move is fully in keeping with the discourse of nationalism, however, which tends to essentialize nations into clusters of enduring characteristics. What the painting suggests, then, is that the Poles have been sheltered by the Blessed Virgin’s benevolence from the beginning of their history as a Christian people. The other historical painting in the chapel, Boleslaw the Brave and Otto III at the Grave of St Wojciech, evokes the political concerns and objectives of the chapel’s primary patrons. Polish elites were deeply divided over how to attain the widely shared goal of independence. After the fall of Napoleon and the repartition of Poland in 1815, many Polish conservatives, including Edward Raczyn´ski, embraced a loyalist course toward the partitioning powers, seeing it as the best means of preserving Polish political and cultural interests. The defeat of the November Uprising in 1831 only reinforced their conviction that Polish arms stood no chance against the ‘Holy Alliance’ of Prussia, Russia, and Austria, and that Poles should concentrate instead on strengthening the nation economically, intellectually, and culturally. In contrast, many Polish liberals championed more direct means to achieving independence. In the 1830s, as the Chapel of the Polish Kings was taking form, some liberals were laying the groundwork for a new armed insurrection. This fractured political climate helps explain the choice of subject matter in the painting. The leitmotif in Polish historical accounts of Bolesl aw consistently has been his military prowess, which transformed Mieszko’s fragile duchy into a sprawling, expansive kingdom. Yet to depict his victories over Russian or German arms would have been a provocative statement poorly suited to serve the political agenda of Poland’s conservative camp. Instead the painting portrays Emperor Otto III’s pilgrimage to St Wojciech’s tomb in the Gniezno cathedral in the year 1000. In the center of the image, Otto and Bolesl aw are shown kneeling at the base of tomb, which is decorated with a statue of the saint standing erect under an architectural canopy. An assortment of soldiers, retainers, and monks surround the two rulers. As we have seen, Otto’s visit to Gniezno usually is interpreted as a diplomatic victory of sorts for Boleslaw, as it validated the existence of Poland as a civilized, Christian state within the political framework of Christendom. In the artistic representation of this event that he commissioned, Raczyn´ski sought to achieve something similar in the nineteenth century. It was his wish that the images of Bolesl aw and Otto clearly symbolize the Polish and German peoples respectively, and he exhorted the artist he

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commissioned to reproduce in their likenesses the distinctive characteristics of Polish and Germanic faces. By having the two rulers depicted kneeling at the same level before the shrine, hands clasped together in reverence, Raczyn´ski sought to convey the idea that the Polish and German people are two different nations of equal dignity, who share a common set of values. ‘The Poles and Germans are two separate tribes’, he noted, ‘distinct from one another, which can work together for mutual security and happiness, but which never can be amalgamated’.40 The painting was intended to function as a bordering mechanism of a peculiar sort, uniting Poles and Germans under a shared Christian piety while enunciating the distinctive national character proper to each. It was a subtle argument designed to appeal to the consciences of the German people, challenging the legitimacy of Prussian rule over a distinct nationality with a well-established claim to political independence.

Aftermath and conclusion The Golden Chapel has come to be esteemed widely as a significant architectural accomplishment and one of Poznan´’s premiere attractions. When work on the chapel was drawing to a close, however, opinion was more divided. Many early visitors registered their enthusiastic approval of the chapel, but others were more critical. Writing in the Polish journal Przyjaciel ludu, one observer disparaged Rauch’s sculpture of Bolesl aw. The work ‘lacks familiarity with the physiognomical character of the Poles and even of the Slavic peoples in general’, the author noted, and fails to convey sufficiently the prowess ‘of the man who struck the gates of Kiev with his sword. Can there be seen in his face a hint of anger, or that which made him great?’ Especially galling was the fact that Boleslaw’s sword sits ‘rusting in its sheath’, an image that, in the author’s view, only a foreign artist could conceive.41 Another critic questioned the appropriateness of the Byzantine style for a monument to Mieszko and Bolesl aw. Writing anonymously in the periodical Teraz´niejszos´c´ i przyszl os´c´ in 1843, the author presented an imaginary conversation between Mieszko, Boleslaw, and the White Eagle (a traditional symbol of Poland) within the confines of the chapel. At one point in the dialogue, the While Eagle exclaims: ‘But why on earth were you kings walled up here in this Russian-inspired, gaudily gilded Orthodox church! Maybe to remind you of Kiev, Boleslaw? Yet it would have been better to place you in full view of the people, who stand in your debt for the light of faith and the first taste of power.’42 The criticisms of greatest consequence, however, were issued not in the press, but on the floor of the provincial assembly. In 1841 and again

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in 1843 a representative named Panteleon Schumann raised pointed objections to the inscription Raczyn´ ski had placed on the statue group by Rauch: ‘Offered by Edward Nale
cz Raczyn´ski to the Chapel’. Schumann argued that it was inappropriate for Raczyn´ski to take credit for a monument that had been financed in part through public funding. Raczyn´ski was devastated by the charges leveled against him. He vigorously defended his actions before the assembly and prepared an elaborate written apologia, but ultimately he was overcome by a sense of public humiliation and personal failure. In January 1845, shortly before he was scheduled to appear again before the assembly, Raczyn´ski took his own life.43 Ostrowska-Ke
blowska argues that there may have been a broader political and artistic basis behind Schumann’s objections to the inscription. National monuments in this period typically consisted of heroic sculptures of acclaimed individuals, either standing or on horseback, conspicuously placed in outdoor public venues. Such monuments were understood to be inherently democratic, as they allowed for large numbers of people to gather together, share ideas, and cultivate solidarity. The Golden Chapel defied this convention. Instead of the solitary figure on a pedestal, it offered an intricate Gesamtkunstwerk that blended sculpture, painting, mosaic, and architecture. And instead of a locus for public gathering, it offered an intimate space for private reflection and prayer. Schumann and others like him may have reacted critically to the chapel because they did not recognize it as a proper national monument. Likewise, they may have recognized all too well that the chapel was poorly suited to galvanize Polish nationalist sentiment and stimulate political action.44 As it happens, a group of patriotic Poles in the Grand Duchy of Poznan´ sought to erect a more traditional national monument in the very years that Raczyn´ski was forced to defend the Golden Chapel. The subject of the projected memorial was Jan Da
browski, a Polish military commander who served on behalf of the Kos´ciuszko uprising (1794) and the shortlived Duchy of Warsaw. The plan called for a statue of Da
browski, either standing alone or on horseback, set on a pedestal in one of the most prominent squares in Poznan´. Prussian officials refused to allow the monument to be built, fearing that it would inflame seditious sentiments within the Polish population.45 Raczyn´ ski had reason to see the failed Da
browski monument as further justification for the choices he made in commemorating Mieszko and Boleslaw. The political subtext of the chapel may have been too subtle in the eyes of its detractors, but a less ambiguous monument stood little chance of being built in Prussia’s repressive climate. The varied reactions to the Golden Chapel reveal some of the deep divisions that ran through the ranks of committed Polish nationalists in the

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first half of the nineteenth century. They debated fiercely among themselves over strategies for achieving independence and the political character of a future Polish state. At the same time, the chapel is a testament to the core principles that united them. Prominent among these principles was the centrality of Catholicism to Polish identity. Even the most secular of Poles recognized the important role the Church played throughout Polish history and the capacity of Catholic symbols to rally Polish sentiment. Another core principle was a profound reverence for the nation’s history. From the works of leading writers and artists to the endeavors of professional scholars and dilettante collectors, the examples are legion of a hunger among nineteenth-century Poles to engage the past in the hope that from the past the nation could make sense of the present and find orientation for the future. It was in large measure the existential quest of a people caught in a deeply vexing circumstance. While claiming all the hallmarks of nationhood at a time when the political independence of nations had become a pressing theme throughout Europe, the territories of the former Polish state continued to be administered by the Prussian, Russian, and Austrian crowns. The nature of the Polish engagement with history deeply colored the development of the Golden Chapel. A guiding force throughout the project was the new esteem for history as science, defined by exacting standards of evaluation and classification of evidence and the quest for authenticity. The designers of the chapel labored for years and at great expense to perpetuate the earlier tradition established by Boleslaw’s tomb, to accurately capture of spirit of the ‘first age of Lech’, and to weave key elements of Polish history into a true portrait of the nation’s character. But contemporary concerns prejudiced the process of recovering and representing the past. The result was a hybrid cultural artifact, inspired by careful historical research but ultimately more reflective of nineteenthcentury values and aspirations. As with many other examples of nationalist historiography, the Golden Chapel pressed the past into the service of the present. Yet in some respects the chapel’s use of Catholic symbols is surprisingly faithful to the spirit of Mieszko and Bolesl aw. According to the reigning scholarly consensus, these early rulers embraced the Church in part because they recognized the political advantages it could bring in the international arena, integrating their realm into the political framework of Christendom and shielding it from domination by its Christian neighbors. Raczyn´ski pursued a similar strategy in the symbolic program of the chapel. By representing key instances in the religious history of the Piast dynasty, he sought to illustrate the venerable heritage of the Polish nation and the common values it long

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has shared with the other nations of Europe. His ultimate purpose was to enhance the moral weight of Polish aspirations for political autonomy and to question the legitimacy of the nation’s subjection to the partitioning powers. Raczyn´ ski was no doubt naive to believe that such a cautious and subtle artistic statement might shift public opinion in a meaningful way. In making this statement, however, at the very least he achieved another goal dear to his heart: to ‘penetrate the spirit of the time in which the monarchs lived’.

Notes 1. Wolicki manuscript, KM 18, k. 2–4, Archiwum Archidiecezjalne w Poznaniu (AAP). 2. R. Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), pp. 33–5. 3. P. J. Geary, The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), p. 11. 4. Ibid., pp. 156–7. 5. Norman Davies, for instance, interprets Mieszko’s baptism as follows: ‘Seeing the inexorable advance of Christendom in general, and of the German Empire in particular, the Polanian prince may well have judged his christening to be the better part of valour. By accepting Christianity from Bohemia, he parried the prospect of forcible conversion. . . . At the same time, he stood to put some distance between himself and the Emperor’s ambition, and in particular to keep the missionary instincts of the German clergy at bay. In short, the Piast dynasty could hope to preserve a measure of independence.’ God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), p. 63. 6. Mieszko articulated this decision in a document known as the Dagome Iudex (991), which describes the boundaries of his realm, dedicates them to St Peter, and places them under the protection of the pope. The document is located in the Vatican Archives. 7. For more on this period, consult A. P. Vlasto, The Entry of the Slavs into Christendom: An Introduction to the Medieval History of the Slavs (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1970). 8. A. Zamoyski, The Polish Way: A Thousand-year History of the Poles and Their Culture (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1987), pp. 12–13. 9. Historian Józef Lukaszewicz offers a detailed refutation of the view, still commonly held by this time, that Bolesl aw’s tomb originated in the eleventh century. Based on his survey of medieval descriptions of Poznan´ ’s cathedral, Lukaszewicz argues that the tomb was most likely built in the fourteenth century. See Krótki opis historyczny kos´ciol ów parochialnych, kos´ciol ów, kaplic, klasztorów, szkol ek parochialnych, szpitali i innych zakl adów . dobroczynnych w dawnej dyecezji Poznan´ skiej, vol. 1 (Poznan´: Ksiegarnia J. K. Zupan´skiego, 1858), pp. 14–20. 10. Other evidence supporting this thesis include the lack of funerary or political symbology on the tomb, as well as the likelihood that the tomb originally included a badachino. See Z. Ostrowska-Ke
blowska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów

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11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17.

18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej (Poznan´: Wydawnictwo Poznan´skiego Towarzystwa Przyjaciól Nauk, 1997), p. 16. Qtd. in J. Nowacki, Kos´ciól katedralny w Poznaniu (Poznan´ : Ksie
garnia S´w. Wojciecha, 1959), p. 587. Denkschrift des Oberpresidenten Herrn Flottwell, ueber die Verwaltung des GrosHerzogthum Posen, von Dezember 1830 zum Beginn des Jahres 1841: Nebst dem demselben seitens mehrerer Einwohner des Gros-Hergzogthum Posen ertheilten Antwortschreiben (Strasbourg: n.p., n.d.), p. 34. To cite one famous example, in 1801 Princess Izabella Czartoryska had a pavilion built on her estate in Pulawy. Known as the Temple of the Sybil, the pavilion housed an impressive collection of artifacts related to Poland’s history and is now regarded as the first museum devoted to Polish history. The motto of the institution – ‘the Past for the Future’ – reflects the links Poles recognized between the history and destiny of the nation. The noted poet Ryszard Berwin´ski (1819–79), for instance, traveled throughout Great Poland in order to record the folklore of the region. In a series of articles written in the 1840s, the journalist Heinrich Wuttke sought to alert the German-speaking world to the growing threat of Polish nationalism. He concluded that a secret alliance had been struck between representatives of the Polish Catholic clergy and leading Polish nationalists, including many secular nationalists. ‘Many noble [Polish] men and women widely known to be irreligious suddenly demonstrated great piety’, Wuttke observed. ‘Our disenchanted world no longer quite believes in the sudden illumination of the Holy Spirit.’ Wuttke, Polen und Deutsche (Schkeuditz: W. v. Blomberg, 1846), p. 21. For an extended treatment of the significance of Catholicism in early Polish nationalism, see R. Alvis, Religion and the Rise of Nationalism: A Profile of an East–Central European City (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2005). In 1743 Bolesl aw’s tomb was opened and the three corpses were found. It was assumed at the time that alongside Bolesl aw were buried his wife and son. Gradually a different explanation emerged: namely, that Bolesl aw was buried with his father, Mieszko I. This conclusion helped explain why the cathedral contained no monument to Mieszko I. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, p. 17. Summarizing Wolicki’s career shortly after his death, Karl von Stein zum Altenstein, Prussia’s minister of religious affairs, wrote in a letter to King Friedrich Wilhelm III that Wolicki had ‘stirred up emotions that are not altogether desirable, especially for achieving the assimilation of the Polish element into the German’. Hauptabteilung I, Report 76 IV, Sektion 4, Abteil 4, no. 3, Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, pp. 44–5. Ibid., pp. 50–1. Qtd. in A. Wojtkowski, Edward Raczyn´ ski i jego dzielo (Poznan´ : Bibljoteka Raczyn´skich, 1929), p. 248. 17 June 1834, KM 21, k. 9, AAP. 6 April 1834, OA 2717 (LR), AAP. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, p. 105.

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25. Obraz Polaków i Polski w XVIII wieku (Poznan´ /Wroclaw, 1837–44). 26. Wspomnien´ Wielkopolski, to jest województw poznan´ skiego, kaliskiego i gniez´ nien´ skiego (Poznan´ : Drukarni Ore
downika, 1842). 27. Gabinet medalów polskich oraz tych, które sie
dziejów Polski tycza
(Berlin: A. Asher, 1841–45). 28. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, pp. 94–5. 29. Qtd. in Wojtkowski, Edward Raczyn´ ski i jego dzielo, p. 250. 30. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, p. 98. 31. E. Raczyn´ski, Sprawozdanie z Fabryki Kaplicy Grobowej Mieczyslawa I i Boleslawa Chrobrego w Poznaniu (Poznan´ , 1841), pp. 5–6. 32. Qtd. in Wojtkowski, Edward Raczyn´ ski i jego dzielo, p. 253. 33. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, p. 92. 34. Ibid., pp. 109–12. 35. Ibid., pp. 129–33. 36. Ibid., pp. 104, 131–4. 37. Qtd. in Wojtkowski, Edward Raczyn´ ski i jego dzielo, p. 265. 38. Raczyn´ski, Sprawozdanie z Fabryki Kaplicy Grobowej Mieczyslawa I i Bolesl awa Chrobrego w Poznaniu, p. 40. 39. According to Nowicki, the saints are: Hedwig, Josaphat Kuncevyc, John Cantius, Stanislaus of Cracow, Romuald, Kinga, Simon of Lipnica, Wojciech, Veronica, Stanislaus Kaz´mierczyk, Jolanta, Stanislaus Kostka, John of Dukla, Czesl aw, Vincent Kadl ubek, Salomea, Casimir, Bronisl awa, Bogumil , and Jacek. Nowicki, p. 359. 40. Raczyn´ski, Sprawozdanie z Fabryki Kaplicy Grobowej Mieczyslawa I i Boleslawa Chrobrego w Poznaniu, p. 49. 41. Otd. in Wojtkowski, Edward Raczyn´ ski i jego dzielo, p. 260. 42. Qtd. in Ostrowska-Ke
blowska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, p. 172. 43. Wojtkowski, Edward Raczyn´ ski i jego dzielo, pp. 260–86. 44. Ostrowska-Ke
bl owska, Dzieje Kaplicy Królów Polskich czyli Zlotej w katedrze poznan´ skiej, pp. 176–9. 45. Manfred Laubert, ‘Eine gescheiterte Denkmalserrichtung in Posen’, Historische Monatsblätter für die Provinz Posen 6 (1905), no. 12, pp. 214–15.

7 Romanian Orthodox Theologians as Pioneers of the Ecumenical Dialogue Between East and West: The Relevance and Topicality of Their Position in Uniting Europe Mihai Sas
aujan


During the first half of the 20th century, the Romanian Orthodox Church had intensely activated in the ecumenical movement. It had been present at almost all its manifestations until 1948, having an important role in settling some of its principles. It organized ecumenical congresses and it published numerous pages, in the Romanian church publications regarding the ecumenical movement. World War II, begun on 1 September 1939, made harder the ecumenical activity of the churches, resumed again only after the end of the war. But the year 1948 brought about a forced change of attitude, imposed during the Orthodox Conference in Moscow (9–18 July 1948), when all the Orthodox churches present there were asked by the Patriarchate in Moscow not to participate as members to the Conference of the ecumenical Council of Churches in Amsterdam, thus trying to break all the church relationships with the Western churches.

General considerations of the ecumenical activity of the Romanian Orthodox Church during the first half of the 20th century The ecumenical patriarchate invites the Orthodox churches at dialogue with the other churches: the position of the Romanian Orthodox Church On 30 June 1902, the ecumenical patriarch Ioachim III sent to all the local Orthodox churches a patriarchal and synodical encyclical letter in which he asked them about their opinion regarding their relationships with ‘the two great scions of Christianity, that is with the Catholic and 146

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the Protestant churches’.1 The other Orthodox churches were asked about their opinion about ‘a preliminary deliberation in order to prepare the field for a friendly reciprocal rapprochement and to settle, in the common understanding of the members of our Orthodox church, the most appropriate basis and means’.2 On 9 May 1903, the Holy Synod of the Romanian Orthodox Church answered this encyclical letter, considering that the Orthodox church must keep its teaching unmingled, so that the unity of Christ’s church would be realized by the coming of the Eastern Christian confessions to Orthodoxy, to which no dogmatic or canonical concession can be made.3 On 12 May 1904, a new encyclical letter of the ecumenical Patriarchate was published. In the matter of the rapprochement between churches, the patriarch Ioachim III suggested that the separated ones should be treated with wisdom and kindness, reminding them that they believe in the Holy Trinity and proudly bear the name of our Lord Jesus Christ and hope to be redeemed through God’s grace. On 18 November 1919, the metropolitan Dorothei of Brusia, the deputy of the ecumenical Patriarchal seat, made an appeal to the other Christian churches to fund a kind of ‘Churches’ League, after the model of the Nations’ League’ (the koinonia of the Christian churches). This appeal appears in the synodal encyclical letter of the Church from Constantinople, sent on January 1920 ‘to Christ’s churches from all over the world’,4 signed by metropolitan Dorothei and by other 11 members of the Patriarchal Synod. The proposed means for showing friendship and solidarity between churches were: the acceptance of an uniform calendar, exchange of brotherly letters at the great feasts, closer relationships between the representatives of different churches from the same place, ties between theological schools, sending young people for scholarships, pan-Christian conferences, the impartial investigation of the church history and of dogmatic differences, reciprocal respect of the traditions of different churches, allowance in reciprocal use of houses of prayers and the graveyards for funerals of the members of other confession who die in foreign countries, solving the problem of mixed marriages.5 On 22 May 1920, the Holy Synod of the Romanian Orthodox Church answered the ecumenical Patriarchate, being ‘in the most perfect agreement with the opinions expressed’.6 On 18 May 1921, the Romanian primate metropolitan answered the ecumenical patriarch about the Patriarchal encyclical letter from January 1920. The Romanian Orthodox Church gave the assent that the beginning of the union between the Christian churches and confessions should be done ‘on the basis of the moral–social teachings from the Gospel’ and in concordance

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with the decisions of the ecumenical synods, having their basis in the symbol from Niceea and Constantinople. There was also shown that it had always been in good relations with all the Eastern churches, having participated at the inter-Christian conferences in 1920, that the suggestions of the ecumenical Patriarchate concerning the union of the Christian churches are useful because they are ‘inspired from the love of the Holy Ghost’. In the end, for a better rapprochement between churches, given the suggestions from the Patriarchal encyclical letter, it also stipulates: the founding of common missions, of common printing works and publishing houses and of a central and international organ, which should ‘maintain alive the directive of the union between Christian churches’.7 The world church conference ‘Faith and Order’ on August 1920: the invitations of the Romanian Orthodox Church and its answer On October 1918, the Lutheran archbishop of Uppsala (Sweden), Nathan Söderblom, together with other two bishops, sent a letter to the primate metropolitan Conon, asking the Romanian Orthodox Church to participate at the same international church conference. The object of the conference was ‘the study and examination, in the spirit of Christian charity, of both the differences of Christians in faith and ritual, and of the things they agree upon. We believe that such a conference will eliminate any misunderstandings, will develop reciprocal esteem, will inspire mutual confidence and will create a favorable atmosphere for Christian unity’.8 The conference was to be organized in 1920. On 30 June 1919, the metropolitan Pimen of Moldavia answered in the name of the Holy Synod of the Romanian Orthodox Church to the president of the world conference ‘Faith and Order’, Charles Anderson from Chicago, that he ‘fully agrees the Christian content of this appeal because it is well done’.9 He also communicated him that the Romanian Orthodox Church will send a delegation. On 9 July 1919, the Romanian side answered bishop Söderblom that ‘the meeting in an international church conference would be very useful for human kind especially now, after the war’, that the delegates of the Romanian church would take part in this conference convoked ‘by the authorized representatives of the American Episcopalian Church’ where, of course, they would meet other delegates of the Swedish church.10 On 7 June 1920, the Holy Synod considered that ‘it is good and necessary to do its best for the well intended provocation of the American Episcopalian Church to be at least a prelude of the unity of Christian churches’.11 They decided to send a delegation to the general meeting and another delegation to the preliminary meeting.

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At the above mentioned conference, organized in Geneve between 9 August and 23 August 1920, Professor Dragomir Demetrescu and Professor Gheorghe Radulescu from Constanta participated. The Congresses of practical Christianity (Life and Work) and of dogmatic Christianity (Faith and Order) After the congress in Geneve in 1920, during the world conference two different directions appeared: practical Christianity (Life and Work) and dogmatic Christianity (Faith and Order).12 The ecumenical congresses ‘Life and Work’ The Romanian Orthodox Church paid a special attention to the ecumenical congress ‘Life and Work’, organized in Stockholm (Sweden) in August 1925. A commission of Romanian theologians was found to examine the programme and the themes of the congress. The commission established that the ‘Life and Work’ movement would not study the matters of doctrine and of ecclesiastical organization, seeking only the application of the Christian idea and spirit to the moral and social problems of the time, aspiring to the union of all Christians on this practical side. The conference offered ‘a unique opportunity to change the Christianity’s mind and consciousness in order to gain a clearer vision of our Christian duties upon the nowadays world and that from the Romanian Orthodox point of view, it can be only a gain that a delegation of the Holy Synod participates to this great act of a world manifestation’. At this congress, the delegates of the Romanian church had significant contributions. They expressed their bitterness that ‘Christian churches are too indifferent with each other’, urging them to live in a more evident appropriation. They also asked to be avoided any text from the religion handbooks that could spread hate between confessions because by doing that ‘the Christian spirit’ is denied.13 At the following Christian practical congress (Life and Work), organized in Oxford in July 1937, the Romanian delegation had a restrictive (informative) mandate: ‘to present to the world Protestantism gathered at Oxford and Edinburgh the doctrine, the ritual and the religious experience of the Orthodoxy as a single basis of returning to the apostolic unity of the Christian church, without giving up nothing’.14 The ecumenical congresses ‘Faith and Order’ The ecumenical congress ‘Faith and Order’ organized in Lausanne, France, in August 1927,15 was to discuss dogmatic matters. In the Romanian Orthodox Church a certain reservation was felt. The commission of the theologians that was to analyse the problematic of the congress reached

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the conclusion that ‘the participation of the Romanian Orthodox Church at the Protestant congress in Lausanne should not have an official character’, that the representatives of our church should be only observers and that it would be good that ‘they were not members of the Holy Synod’, in order to be ‘avoided manifestations of the Protestant participants which could engage us somehow’. Metropolitan Nectarie, Professors Grigorie Cristescu and Nicolae Colan from Sibiu and the consistorial secretary Trandafir Scorobet
took part at the conference (the last three ones were sent by the metropolitan Nicolae Balan of Transylvania). Because there were insufficient founds, the Romanian delegation could not participate at the next congress ‘Faith and Order’, organized in Edinburgh in August 1937. On 6 May 1938, during the Holy Synod, the Patriarchate of the Romanian Orthodox Church showed that ‘it is good for our church to be represented at all the interconfessional congresses’ and that ‘it is desirable that our representatives at these conferences should always have a fix Orthodox point of view and have no other aim than the one of clarification the strict dogmatic possible misunderstandings’.16 At the ecumenical congresses in Oxford and Edinburgh, a suggestion was made: the reunification of the practical Christianity and the dogmatic Christianity into a single World Council of Churches. A preliminary conference was to be held in May 1938 at Utrecht (Holland), convoked by the constitutive committee (14 members). The Romanian Orthodox Church was also invited. The bishop of Oradea was proposed to represent our church. But time was too short and he did not succeed in taking part at this conference. A Romanian priest from the USA was present there and, then, he returned in the country and presented to the Holy Synod a study on these preliminary meetings. On 28 November 1938, the constitutive committee (14 members) invited the Romanian Orthodox Church to become a member of the future ecumenical Council of Churches. ‘The leaders of the Romanian Orthodox Churches did not give an immediate response but they adopted a waiting attitude.’ World War II, begun on 1 September 1939, made harder the ecumenical activity of the churches, resumed again only after the end of the war. Invitations of adhesion to the World Council of Churches addressed to the Romanian Orthodox Church On 5 November 1946, reverend Göte Hodenquist (one of the secretaries of the ecumenical Council of Churches) came to Bucharest and addressed a written invitation to the patriarch, inviting the Romanian

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Orthodox Church to become a member of this council, giving him some explanations about this council which ‘beginning with 1938 is the expression of the ecumenical collaboration of the churches, in the direction of the two previous movements “Faith and Order” and “Life and Work”’. At the same time, he showed that this council ‘wants to help to have common actions on platforms common to the affiliated churches’ because ‘the basis of this communion between churches is the common faith in our Lord Jesus Christ as God and Saviour’.17 On 10 December 1946, the Holy Synod of the Romanian Orthodox Church agreed metropolitan Balan’s point of view. On 4 February 1946, the ecumenical patriarch Maxim wrote to patriarch Nicodim, asking his opinion regarding the attitude of the Romanian church upon the participation of the Orthodox churches to the ecumenical Council of Churches. On 24 April 1947, the permanent Synod answered the ecumenical patriarch that, ever since 1946, the Holy Synod of the Romanian Orthodox Church decided to maintain relations ‘as close as possible with this movement, participating to the conferences and congresses initiated by it’, that it gives its agreement ‘on the utility of cooperation between the Orthodox churches and the ecumenical Council of Churches on practical field in order to remove hate between peoples’ and that, from a dogmatic point of view, the Orthodox churches should ‘remain within the strict Orthodox frame’. It was also expressed the opinion that ‘each time our churches will be invited to the congresses of that universal council, they should first agree with the themes of discussion’ and that ‘it is good for the representatives of the Orthodox churches to have a close correspondence and, when necessary, to meet in preliminary conferences, agreeing upon the Orthodox point of view they will later present’.18 The ecumenical Council of Churches settled its first general meeting in Amsterdam, on 22 August–5 September 1948. The secretary of the ecumenical Council wanted the Orthodox church to take part in this meeting because ‘without Orthodoxy, after the expression of the Anglican bishop, there is no ecumenism’ and invited the Eastern Orthodox churches, including the Romanian Orthodox Church. On 2 July 1947, the general secretary W. A. Visser’t Hooft wrote to patriarch Nicodim, inviting the Romanian Orthodox Church to the ecumenical Council. The patriarch did not give an immediate answer. But after the Orthodox conference in Moscow, in 1948, things have changed. The short presentation of the beginnings of the ecumenical movement and the participation of the Romanian Orthodox Church to it, proves that during the entire inter-war period, the Romanian Orthodox Church

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had promoted the same principles expressed ever since 1903, in the answer it gave to the ecumenical patriarchate: there must be no exception when it comes to the Orthodox teaching and there must be a total understanding between the Orthodox when they discuss with the heterodox.19 The ecumenical Council of Churches came into being at the General Meeting in Amsterdam, in August 1948, in a very critical political context because of World War II. The separation of Europe and the world into economical and military blocks enhanced the crisis and the historical separations already existing, of which the churches were partially responsible.20 A divided church could not heal a divided world. Starting from this principle, the ecumenical Council invited the churches separated from historical reasons to set up a movement of restoration of their seen unity, in order to help together a suffering and separated humanity. The new political context, which throws Romania in the socialist camp, did not permit the Romanian Orthodox Church to participate at the congress of constitution of the ecumenical Council of Churches, being forced to give up its ecumenical orientation and to take into consideration the indications of the Russian Orthodox Church which firmly asked, exactly in the same year and only a month before the constitution of the ecumenical Council of Churches, the blocking of the relations with the Eastern Christian churches.

The position of metropolitan Nicolae Balan (1920–55) of Transylvania regarding the ecumenical movement During the inter-war period, the metropolitan Nicolae Balan of Transylvania, having a very influent position in the Romanian Orthodox Church, had shown an open attitude towards the ecumenical movement. His arguments for the commitment and involvement of the Romanian Orthodox Church in the ecumenical movement, evoked in different essential moments for the evolution of our church, were the following: the ecumenical movement – achievement of Christian love; the significance of the dialogue at personal and communitarian level; the moral credibility of the churches in front of the world; the necessity of a testimony of communion and unity of the Christian churches in front of the world; the Protestants’ drawing near to Orthodoxy; peoples’ drawing near through church and faith; the social dimension of the ecumenical movement; the support of the state interest through the ecumenical movement. We will mention only few concrete situations when his attitude categorically determined the official position of the Romanian Orthodox Church concerning Ecumenism.

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At the congress of the ecumenical movement of practical Christianity (Life and Work), organized in Stockholm, in 1925, Nicolae Balan said in an interview that Christian life was spreading especially through personal contacts and that was of great importance for the churches and the Christian confessions ‘to get to know and to come together to sustain and stimulate the feeling of communion and power of moral responsibility in the world’.21 On the occasion of the organization of the ecumenical movement congress of dogmatic Christianity (Faith and Order) in Lausanne (France), in August 1927, the metropolitan Nicolae Balan persistently asked the Romanian Orthodox Church ‘to be present there to work on the Protestants’ drawing near to Orthodoxy’, because ‘the nowadays Protestant generation is much inclined towards the Orthodox apostolic sacramental and sacerdotal church’ and ‘the field is in favour of coming to an understanding in the Orthodox way’.22 In 1936, on the occasion of the second congress of the ecumenical movement of dogmatic Christianity (Faith and Order), in Edinburgh, metropolitan Nicolae Balan showed that ‘through our presence at different international conferences, we only want to try to get as close as possible to the achievement of Christian love’23. On 10 December 1946, the Holy Synod of the Romanian Orthodox Church took into discussion the invitation of the ecumenical Council of Churches addressed to the Romanian Orthodox Church to become member of this ecumenical forum. Metropolitan Nicolae Balan said again that ‘it is convenient to keep in touch with the ecumenical movement from a Christian perspective and a national one, too. It is also convenient for our church to take part in these conferences and congresses initiated by the ecumenical Council of Churches in Geneva’.24 The Holy Synod agreed with metropolitan Balan’s point of view. On 10 February 1947, the metropolitan Nicolae Balan of Transylvania put forward to the prime-minister Petru Groza a ‘programme of church politics’,25 drawing the government’s attention on some points of major interest for the Romanian Orthodox Church. The Romanian hierarch wanted these points to be taken into consideration also by the leaders of the Romanian state in outlining a state church politics, through which some political advantages should be obtained from supporting the actions of the Church, only on the express condition of a future respect for the autonomy of the Romanian Orthodox Church against any external encroachment, foreign to its interests. The content of this programme, having nine items, is very exciting and significant at the same time, for a better understanding of the

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Transylvanian hierarch’s attitude towards the state leadership, which proved hostile to the church and its leaders. The more active commitment of the Romanian Orthodox Church in the ecumenical movement is also a significant subject for the metropolitan, who was to obtain the government’s support. He mentions the connections with the ecumenical movement before World War II, characterizing them as insufficient, ‘feeble and accidental’. Mentioning the presence of a permanent delegate of the ecumenical Patriarchate in London, and the tendency to draw near the peoples of the world, shown in the United Nations’ Organization, he also proves to the world that the ecumenical movement, having similar tendencies of ‘peoples’ drawing near through Church and faith’, will upsurge even more in the future. Mentioning also the project to set up a new ecumenical forum (ecumenical Council of Churches) in the following year (1948), Nicolae Balan shows that the Romanian Orthodox Church must take active part in the setting up of this ecumenical forum of the Christian churches, ‘with an upsurge and in a more systematic way’. In Nicolae Balan’s vision, the presence of some good and famous representatives of the Romanian Orthodox Church at these ecumenical world forums could have been also useful for the Romanian government, whose interests could have thus been protected at such a level. From the beginning, metropolitan Balan asks for a guarantee for this support, in order to be able to create an adequate church delegation. In the last part of the programme he gave for reflection, metropolitan Nicolae Balan expresses his willingness to facilitate the social relief for the population from the disfavoured areas in Romania, which he could realize with the help of the ecumenical movement, through the ‘World service of the Church’ in America, respectively. This relief was to be given only through churches. He asks again for the government’s support for this action, which was to be coordinated by the church. This way, one could also justify the programme proposed by the prime minister of supporting the achievement of church’s mission, especially in the social care field. The relationship between state and church could look like this: the material help would be obtained for the population through the church, and the state would distribute it. Metropolitan Balan ends this large programme, showing the prime minister that the mentioned points are essential, at that time, to the church. And the state could show its support for the church on the direct political interest. The key-words return in the end: ‘It’s under the government’s prestige to help with solving the great issues of the church, for this help returns to its interest.’ The metropolitan Nicolae Balan’s position expressed in the paper we quoted before is categorical and without compromises. The metropolitan’s

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conviction that the state power should not interfere in church’s internal life is clearly expressed in this document. It is true that ideas such as the making common cause of peoples through church or the one of church’s contribution at the reconstruction of the country appear in his paper. But the manner in which he understands this thing is lucid and very clear towards a possible unconditional subordination of his church in front of the new communist state power. One can identify here an imaginary form of cohabitation, StateChurch, proposed by a providential man to a politician, a well knower of church life in Transylvania, who had been a member of the Metropolitan Synod and of the Church National Congress in Transylvania for many years, and who, afterwards, became the prime-minister of Romania. The orientation is very shaded. Metropolitan Balan tries a modus vivendi specific with the new state power. He must accept it as it is, trying, also, in the new conditions, to obtain support from the government in solving some important church internal problems, indicating, at the same time, the advantages on a political level the Romanian government could obtain from supporting the church. Reading the above mentioned document, one will understand that the very categorical position of the Transylvanian hierarch did not succeed when the communist regime was installed in Romania. The church had to find another strategy of surviving, trying also to promote its doctrinal, moral, spiritual and liturgical values in a very unpropitious political context.

The position of Professor I. G. Coman towards the ecumenical movement at the Orthodox Conference in Moscow (9–18 July 1948) The Orthodox Churches of Antioch, Alexandria, Moscow, Gruzia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria, Poland and Albania took part with full vote at this meeting. The Church of Constantinople and the Church of Greece only assisted at the discussions. The subjects approached were: ‘Vatican and the Orthodox church’, ‘The Anglican hierarchy’, ‘The Church’s calendar’ and ‘The ecumenical movement and the Orthodox church’. In the lines below, we’ll pay a special attention to the Orthodox churches’ attitude towards the ecumenical movement. Professor Ioan G. Coman’s essay The Orthodox Church and the ecumenical movement,26 read in Moscow During the section which debated the problem of the Orthodox churches’ attitude towards ecumenism, the Romanian Orthodox Church

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was represented by the well-known theologian and patrolog, Ioan G. Coman from the faculty of Orthodox Theology of the University of Bucharest. His 80 pages presentation contains an exceptional theological value and a positive tonality. In his study, the author states the Orthodox principles of the ecumenism and suggests a plan to prepare the Orthodoxy to play a more important part in the ecumenical movement. It is the first time when it is said during an interorthodox conference that the central problem of ecumenism is the ecclesiology, that the union between the Orthodox and the old-oriental churches is possible and urgent, that all the Orthodox churches have the right and the duty to convoke an ecumenical synod without delay.27 The critical analyses brought in the study to the new social orientation, even with a political shade during the ecumenical movement after 1937 did not lead, in the author’s opinion, directly to the refusal to join the ecumenical movement in the future. On the contrary, they were seen only as a less happy episode in the evolution of the ecumenical movement, which could be fixed, returning to its initial spirit, through the significant contribution of the Orthodox church. It is mentioned the significant part of the Orthodox church in the ecumenical movement. The participation of the Orthodox delegates at the ecumenical movement was, in Professor I. G. Coman’s opinion, a true traditional Orthodox one. The union asked for the convocation of an ecumenical council, which should irrevocably affirm the elements necessary for the Orthodox and the pan Christian union. In spite of any hardships, the convocation of this council was absolutely necessary. It was the only positive study among the ones read at the Conference in Moscow that year. The resolution of the Conference on the ecumenical movement The debates on this issue had been dominated by the polemical speech The Ecumenical Movement and the Russian Orthodox Church’, presented by Rector Gregory Razumovsky. In the name of his church, he asked the participants to refuse to take part in the ecumenical movement. In the final resolution elaborated on this matter, it is specified that ‘as an answer to the invitations to participate as members at the Conference in Amsterdam, the Orthodox churches that participated in the present meeting must refuse their participation in the ecumenical movement with its present project of work’. This refuse had the following reasons: the concern too emphasized on the political and social life, the creation of an ecumenical church as an international force, the lack of discussions

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of union on a doctrinaire basis, the Protestantism’s intention to oppose Catholicism by searching for an ally in the Orthodox church, thus assuring its international power.28 From the very beginning, the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, Alexei II expressed his attitude towards the ecumenical movement, in the Opening speech of the conference. He showed that 1937, after de conferences in Oxford and Edinburgh, was a turning year for the ecumenical movement from the superior and initial purpose of the church towards earthly purposes, which do not match with church’s aims. The church organized after the plan of the ecumenical movement tends more to earth than heaven. The meeting in 1948 does not have any dogmatic issue for discussions and there is no essay of the Orthodox church . . . i wonder if this participation means that we sacrifice the treasure of our faith in the name of an illusory and lying unity. Then, what place can the Orthodox Slaves have in this movement? In any case, not the one corresponding to their significance. And truly, at the conference in Amsterdam there are only three official languages: French, English and German, the Slavonic ones being excluded. Differences in meaning between Professor Coman’s paper and the papers and articles referring to it issued in Romania A In the ‘Ortodoxia’ review, nos 2–3/1949, a short abstract of the paper in Moscow was published in Romanian, without being mentioned the name of its author, and with the title ‘The Orthodox church and the ecumenical movement’.29 The tonality of the paper is radically different. There are fragments of text which cannot be identified, in the paper published in French, in the original volume of the documents of the Conference in Moscow, and which give the impression of another message (false), in the detriment of the real message of the paper, by which Professor Coman suggests the total refuse to participate in the Congress in Amsterdam: ‘The interference of the sects and of some laic organizations, such as freemasonry, is not meant to facilitate a union of the churches’; ‘All these are serious reasons to justify the refusal of the Orthodox churches to participate in the first Congress of the ecumenical Council in August–September 1948.’30 The text in French says exactly the opposite: participation in the meeting in Amsterdam, in the hope of returning to the initial spirit of the

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ecumenical movement: ‘Il y a des faits incontestables quit obligent partiellement les grandes Eglises orthodoxies à faire certaines reserves quoique leur désir d’union reste intact. Espérons que l’Assemblée d’Amsterdam va rémédier à cette orientation nouvelle du mouvement, entrangère en grande partie à l’esprit vraiment oecumenique.’31 B Ovidiu Marina’s considerations concerning the content of the paper read in Moscow by the Romanian Orthodox Church, published in his book: 30 days in USSR. The Panorthodox Conference in Moscow, written when he returned home, and published in Bucharest in 1949, are not loyal to the original text of Professor Coman: The paper proves the political character of this ecumenical movement, apparently, a regrouping and unification of the Christian forces, in reality, the join of the Orthodox churches to a dogmatic and theological mixtum compositum, from which the political ideas of expansion of the Protestantism come out easily. Then, the secret forces of the freemasonry aren’t strange to this “ecumenical movement”, either. The resemblance of this ecumenical movement with the papal politics is very strong because both of them are animated by the same inimical thoughts towards the Orthodox churches and peoples, although they prepare and use special strokes.’32 The entire paper of father Coman, having a major contribution to the ecumenical movement, is reduced to some negativist phrases, distorted, that cannot even be found in his paper (for example: freemasonry), phrases which try only to motivate the subsequent resolution, taken at the end of the Conference in Moscow. We dare expound the opinion that the existence of some real differences in the text is nothing but the expression of the communist censorship, which, through the faked additions in the text, tried to radically change the message of a paper of 80 pages, of a fundamental value. It is another clear proof of the hard encroachment of the then power in the texts of the authors, venerable Professors of Theology, who assisted probably helplessly to the ‘mangling’ of their work, by order of the cult inspectors. On the other hand, there can be seen the obligation of other authors to write, sometimes, like they were told to. The Conference in Moscow needs a special attention. There are no direct elements able to prove the fact that those resolutions had been taken under the influence of the state political regime in Moscow. They were

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signed by the representatives of the Orthodox churches, under the overwhelming influence of the Russian Orthodox Church. Nevertheless, the general context and the manner in which these decisions had been taken and, afterwards, imposed in the socialist countries (for example, Romania) helps us invoke this point of view. The appeal to ‘world peace’ made to the entire Christianity at the end of the conference should also be emphasized. The rationalist, capitalist, imperialist and aggressive Catholic and Protestant Western became the enemy of the Orthodox Eastern. The lack of the Romanian publication of Professor I. G. Coman’s paper and the transmission only of some distorted information concerning the Conference in Moscow, which should justify the interruption of the ecumenical relations with the Eastern churches make us invoke also the interference of the political power in Moscow in taking the above-mentioned decisions. The Romanian Orthodox Church had a very intense ecumenical activity during the inter-war period and now, after 1948, it was forced to interrupt these activities. Thus, one can see that during the inter-war period, the Romanian Orthodox Church had promoted, through its hierarchs’ and theologians’ voice and attitude, a constant principle: fidelity to the Orthodox teaching, the ecumenical receptivity to the other Christian churches and absolute trust between the Orthodox believers when discussing with the other Christian churches. The contribution of the Romanian Orthodox Church to the development of the ecumenical movement ever since its beginning was appreciated and confirmed, once more, in 1961, when the Romanian Orthodox Church joined this ecumenical forum. On 15 September 1961, in the letter through which the patriarch Iustinian Marina asked the ecumenical Council that the Romanian Orthodox Church should be accepted as a member, he also showed that the Romanian Church, ever since its beginnings ‘in total agreement with the synodic encyclical letter of the Mother–Church from Constantinople, addressed to the Churches of Christ from all over the world in 1920, acted firmly, together with the ecumenical Patriarchate and with other Orthodox churches, to promote almost all the important actions initiated by the ecumenical movement up to 1937’, when, because of the war, it could not have any relations with it.33 On 26 September 1961, the general secretary of the ecumenical Council of Churches, W. A. Visser’t Hooft, answered the patriarch: We are very happy to find in Your Holiness’s letter the expression of the Romanian Orthodox Church’s love for the cause of the unity of

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the Christian churches. We realize that in the past, when the ecumenical movement was still at the beginning, your church had a great contribution to its development and extension and we are also happy to find out that your church has continuously served the work done by the ecumenical Council of Churches since its inauguration in 1948.34

The Romanian Orthodox Church’s implication in the ecumenical movement after 1961 The perspectives enunciated by Professor I. G. Coman in 1948 had a considerable influence upon the ecumenical activity of the Romanian Orthodox Church after the 1960s. The value of the engagement, at an official level, was emphasized also by the fact that all the general secretaries of the ecumenical Council visited Romania, where they had meetings with church leaders: Visser T. Hooft in 1962, Eugen Carson Blake in 1971, Philip Potter in 1975, Emilio Castro in 1985. The ecumenical theology and practice were consistently with the perspective given by the Romanian patriarchs. There was, on the one hand, a pastoral, contextual, pragmatic and historical emphasis, which corresponded to the spirit of patriarch Justinian. To him, the ecumenical movement was especially a process of opening and of practical and actual collaboration between the churches separated by history. According to patriarch Justinian, the ecumenism should lead to an encouragement of the real relations of justice and peace among all peoples. This dynamic, extended ecumenism should animate and provide solidarity among people, cultures and peoples. According to patriarch Justinian, the Ecumenism should have been understood on an ecclesiological and canonical level, and thus, a more exigent and restrictive attitude should have appeared. The ecumenical practice should respect freedom and the ecclesiology of each local church. The ecumenical experiences should have been validated with discrimination, by applying some criteria suitable to the doctrine of the church. According to patriarch Teoctist, keeping a consistency between the bilateral theological dialogue, the multilateral dialogue and the local ecumenical practice was and still is essential. During 1961–90, the Romanian Orthodox Church tried to transfer the great principles of Christian unity, settled in the world dialogue, on local level. One can mention here the inter-confessional theological

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conferences, where theologians of different confessions met to discuss common national, European and ecumenical problems. During the 1980s, there were some tensions between the Romanian Orthodox Church (including the other member churches from Romania) and the ecumenical Council. The Romanian Orthodox Church did not have the liberty to openly criticize the deficiencies of the communist dictatorial system in the country (the violation of the human rights in all its aspects). Also the ecumenical Council of Churches imposed some political limits, keeping the silence over the serious political realities in Romania during that period. There were voices who criticized the ecumenical Council, which during the meeting of the Central Committee at Moscow (16–17 July 1989) did not present the real situation. The general secretary of the ecumenical Council showed that a direct intervention from outside could worsen the situation of the confessions in Romania, the churches from Romania themselves asking this thing.35 The ecumenical enthusiasm of the 1960s did not have a spectacular development in Romania. Nevertheless, especially during the 1980s and 1990s, a new generation of hierarchs and theologians showed hesitation, emphasizing the dissonance between Ecumenism and Orthodoxy. The idea that the results of the ecumenical movement should not pass in the present experience of the believers was very famous. The believers had to be kept away from the ecumenical ideas.36 There was a certain theological current during this period of time, which was centered on the intact preservation of traditional Orthodoxy, wherefrom the lack of an ecumenical perspective and the exaggeration of the confessional aspect of the Orthodoxy compared with other confessions. But there also was the current created and then kept by father Dumitru Staniloae. He brought in the first line of the theological meditation, the mistery of divine and human existence, explored the theological value of the liturgical, spiritual and human experience. Through him, theology rediscovered the patristic tradition, associated the cult and the spirituality, put the church in the center of the national history. In the Staniloae current, two or three generations of theologians had been drawn, some of them being capable to offer to the Romanian theology a new profile, even regarding the ecumenical movement.

The relevance and topicality of the mentioned theologians’ ideas in uniting Europe The principles promoted by the two Romanian Orthodox theologians, Nicolae Balan and I. G. Coman, referring to the ecumenical dialogue

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and its significance for the European world maintain their topical interest nowadays as well. During this period of global renewal, there should be taken into consideration the inter-war ‘ecumenical memory’ and the one of the last four decades. In the nowadays Romania, ecumenism should be given a new breath because there is a reciprocity between the mission and the serving of the local church and the ecumenical unity of all churches, between the identity of a church and the universality of Christ in each church and, at the same time, in all churches. The ecumenical idea must find its real finality, a missionary, pastoral and human one that is to strengthen the ecclesial conscience of those who are inside the church, to offer a legitimate basis to the relations with other Christian churches, to stimulate all the churches from a place in the common effort for the renewal of the human community. The Romanian Orthodox Church is called to take back everything that was genuine in the inter-war ecumenical experience and in the one of the last 40 years, to make a selection of the ecumenical themes which should be explored from now on and to establish a certain order among the opinions expressed especially in the last five years as for the ecumenical movement, the theological bilateral dialogue and the ecumenical multilateral dialogue. For the Romanian Orthodox Church, the European Union, where Romania is a state member since January 2007, should be a challenge for reflection of the self consciousness and, at the same time, an opportunity. Orthodoxy can play an important part in the new European reality if it comes to an internal unity37 and if it has the preoccupation for an honest dialogue with the other churches.38 The differences should not always be understood in polemical terms. The best way of dialogue is the honest inclination upon the peculiarity of the other church, upon the items that separate us (positive diversity) and the correction of the way of reference to the other churches or confessions and to the other religions: the removal of the anti-ecumenical, nationalist and intolerant fundamentalism, of the anti-Western and anti-European spirit (Europe – a danger for Orthodoxy) – in those circles where this spirit is still present. This would be the rediscover of the authentic Orthodox ethos.39 There must also be a new and dynamical liturgical renewal.40 The liturgical–doxological vocation of Orthodoxy bears the risk of a so-called ‘liturgical ghetto’, the risk of ritualism, of liturgical formalism, without essential effects in our social, cultural and political life. The church must rediscover of the fidelity to the tradition of the church, which also implies current answers to the real problems the

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nowadays Christians have to deal with – therefore: a new relationships with modernity. There is the risk of the unilateral joining with the past, of being stuck in obsolete definitions and formulas, the never-ending evoke of the solutions from the past. We must rediscover our authentic perception of the eschatology, as a transfiguration of the world and of the history we live in. Church is in itself an eschatological reality. There is the risk of a negative attitude towards the contemporary world, of some Manichaeic accents, often met and presented, unfortunately, as rigorous Orthodox attitudes. This will lead us to a revival of the missionary dimension of church, to an ecclesiology centered on the fundamental convictions of Orthodoxy and not on ethnical and secular principles, which have been emphasized especially beginning with the second half of the 19th century. *** Through the ecumenical dialogue, Orthodoxy can offer to the European Union: a theology based upon the centrality of the human being: the priority of human being; a theology of prayer and deification,41 that is a profound spirituality: a model of Christian life which centers on the soul and its spiritual wealth; a confessing theology in different and difficult historical and spiritual contexts; a theology of communion, imbued with the ‘holiday spirit’. What really gives a meaning to the life of the Orthodox believer concerned with his salvation are the great spiritual events: the Christian holidays, the fasts, the confession, the Eucharist, the prayer, the Liturgy. The unity of Europe cannot be considered in terms of a levelling homogenity, through the attenuation of the features of local cultures and thus, neither through the attenuation of the spirituality and theology specific to each church or Christian confession. ‘Europe – said the wellknown Romanian Orthodox theologian, father Dumitru Staniloae – is a symphony and not a homophone song, a symphony in which each people is called to bring its personal, distinct note.’42

Notes 1. N. Serb˘ anescu, ‘Biserica Ortodox˘a Român˘a si miscarea ecumenic˘a’ [The   movement],  Romanian Orthodox Church and the ecumenical Ortodoxia [The Orthodoxy], nos 1–2 (1962) 108. 2. Ibid., 109. 3. Ibid., 110. 4. Ibid., 118.

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5. I. G. Coman, ‘Ortodoxia si miscarea ecumenic˘a’ [The Orthodoxy and the ecu  [The Orthodoxy], nos 1–2 (1962) 65–7. menical movement], Ortodoxia 6. Serb˘ anescu, ‘Biserica Ortodox˘a Romˆan˘a s¸ i mi¸scarea ecumenic˘a’, 119.  7. Ibid., 120. 8. Ibid., 114. 9. Ibid., 115. 10. Ibid., 114. 11. Ibid., 118. 12. One should also read the study of N. Chi¸tescu, ‘Mi¸scarea ecumenic˘ a’ [The ecumenical movement], Ortodoxia [The Orthodoxy], nos 1–2 (1962) 18–21. 13. S¸ erb˘ anescu, ‘Biserica Ortodox˘a Român˘a s¸ i mi¸scarea ecumenic˘ a’, 126–7. 14. Ibid., 137. 15. Ibid., 129–33. 16. Ibid., 138. 17. Ibid., 141. 18. Ibid. 19. Regarding the participation of the Romanian Orthodox Church at the international ecumenical congresses during the inter-war period, one should also read A. Moraru, Biserica Ortodoxa˘ Româna˘ între anii 1885–2000. Dialog teologic ¸si ecumenic [The Romanian Orthodox Church between 1885–2000. A theological and ecumenical dialogue], vol. III, tom II (Bucharest: The Biblical and Missionary Institute of the Romanian Orthodox Church, 2006), 325–7. 20. I. Bria, Ortodoxia în Europa. Locul spiritualita ˘t
ii române¸sti [The Orthodoxy in Europe. The place of the Romanian spirituality] (Ia¸si: The Metropolitan seat of Moldavia and Bucovina, 1995), 118. 21. S¸ erb˘anescu, ‘Biserica Ortodox˘a Român˘ a s¸i mi¸scarea ecumenic˘a’, 126–7. 22. Ibid., 129–33. 23. Ibid., 138. 24. Ibid., 141. 25. The Archive of the Metropolitan Library of Ardeal in Sibiu, Fond Nicolae Balan, Act.1130. 26. The text in French is published in the volume: Actes de la Conference des chefs et des representants des Eglises orthodoxes autocephales reunis a Moscou a l’occasion de la celebration solennelle des fetes du 500-eme anniversaire de l’autocephalie de l’Eglise orthodoxe russe, vol II (Moscou, Editions du patriarcat de Moscou, 1952), 5–85. 27. Bria, Ortodoxia în Europa, 122. 28. Actes de la Conference, 199–203. 29. In The Orthodoxy review, nos 2–3 (1949), below the first page, there is the following text: ‘We publish an abstract of the paper presented by the delegation of the Romanian Orthodox Church at the Panorthodox Conference in Moscow.’   30. ‘Biserica Ortodoxa s¸i Mi¸scarea ecumenica’ [The Romanian Orthodox Church and the ecumenical movement], Ortodoxia [The Orthodoxy], nos 2–3 (1949) 207. 31. Actes de la Conferences, 51. 32. O. Marina, 30 de zile în URSS. Consf˘atuirea panortodoxa˘ de la Moscova [30 days in USSR. The panorthodox conference in Moscow] (Bucharest: The Biblical and Missionary Institute of the Romanian Orthodox Church, 1949), 174–5.

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33. I. Bria, Destinul Ortodoxiei [The Destiny of the Orthodoxy] (Bucharest: The Biblical and Missionary Institute of the Romanian Orthodox Church, 1989), 157.    34. S¸ erbanescu, ‘Biserica Ortodoxa Româna ¸si mi¸scarea ecumenica’, 151. 35. Bria, Ortodoxia în Europa, 125–8. 36. Ibid., 132. 37. K. V. Skouteris, ‘Ortodoxia s¸ i Europa. O critic˘ a bazat˘a pe istorie s¸ i realitate’ [The Orthodoxy and Europe. A critics based on history and reality], in Ortodoxia – parte integrant˘a din spiritualitatea europeana˘ [The Orthodoxy – main part of the European spirituality] (Bra¸  sov: County of Bra¸sov, 2004), 61. 38. K. Delikostantis, ‘Dimensiunea europeana a Ortodoxiei – Dimensiunea ortodox˘ a a Europei’ [The European dimension of the Orthodoxy – The Orthodox dimension of Europe], in Ortodoxia,   95.   39. P. Vassiliadis, ‘Marturia ortodoxa în Europa moderna s¸i postmoderna’ [The Orthodox confession in modern and post-modern Europe], in Ortodoxia, 91. 40. C. Coman, ‘Con¸stiin¸ta de sine a ortodoc¸silor s¸i Europa contemporan˘a’ [The self consciousness of the Orthodox and  contemporary Europe], in Ortodoxia, 127. 41. I. C. Te¸su, ‘Integrarea europeana – un risc sau o s¸ansa pentru Biserica s¸i   Teologia ortodoxa româna’ [The European integration – a risk or a chance for the Romanian Orthodox Church and Theology], in Ortodoxia, 157. 42. C. Coman, Ortodoxia sub presiunea istoriei [The Orthodoxy under the pressure  of the History] (Bucharest: Bizantina, 1995), 19–20.

8 Peace Through Reconciliation: Aktion Sühnezeichen and the Lutheran Church in the GDR* David Doellinger

In 1958, Lothar Kreyssig, a member of the governing board of the Evangelical (Lutheran) Church of Germany (EKD), called for the foundation of an organization that would atone for the deeds of Nazi destruction. In an ‘appeal for peace’, Kreyssig declared: We, Germans, began the Second World War, and by this, more than anyone else, we are responsible for mankind’s immeasurable suffering. Germans, in sinful rebellion against God, killed millions of Jews. Those of us alive today who had not wanted this, did not do enough to prevent it . . . We ask the nations who suffered from our violence to permit us, with our hands and resources, to do something good in your land. Let us build a village, a settlement, a church, a hospital or whatever else that you want for the public welfare as a sign of reconciliation.1 Kreyssig wanted Germans of at least 17 years of age and of all confessions to work for one year in Poland, the USSR or Israel as a symbol of peace and reconciliation. Individuals unable to offer their physical labor would make financial contributions to support the organization.2 The Confessing Church, in which Kreyssig had been active since 1934, was a movement of resistance to Nazism that remained within the organizational structure of the Lutheran Church. Those active in the Confessing Church held a wide range of views. Some clergy, such as Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, opposed every policy and activity of the Nazis, while other members restricted their criticisms to Nazi interference in church affairs.3 In 1940, Kreyssig had learned of the Nazis’ systematic extermination of mentally and physically disabled children and adults; he opposed this policy by filing charges against the officials at clinics where the euthanasia had occurred. At the synod meeting where Kreyssig issued his appeal, 166

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the majority of the delegates authorized the foundation of Aktion Sühnezeichen (Action Signs of Reconciliation) to implement this mission.4 Kreyssig had intended Aktion Sühnezeichen to be an organization for both East and West Germans, but the political division of Germany, made more permanent with the construction of the Berlin wall in 1961, necessitated the establishment of two separate organizational structures. In West Germany, the organization adopted the name Aktion Sühnezeichen/ Friedensdienst (Action Signs of Reconciliation/Peace Service) and in 1959 sent its first volunteers to the Netherlands. Soon after, its volunteers helped build a synagogue in France, a water reservoir in Greece for a village destroyed during the war, and houses in Skopje, Yugoslavia in an area destroyed by an earthquake. In 1961, it sent its first volunteers to Israel, where groups worked on a kibbutz and helped build an institute for the blind. After the fall of the wall, the two German organizations of Aktion Sühnezeichen reunited under the name Aktion Sühnezeichen/ Friedensdienst.5 In the German Democratic Republic (GDR), Aktion Sühnezeichen organized its activities within the space and protection offered by the Lutheran Church. The EKD’s Home Mission and Church Relief Agency in East Berlin sponsored Aktion Sühnezeichen. Initially, Kreyssig directed the work of Aktion Sühnezeichen out of a small office in East Berlin with one colleague and two office workers.6 The GDR refused Kreyssig’s request for financial support, arguing that the Nazis were gone and that there was no need for reconciliation. Unable to finance a big program of sending volunteers abroad for lengthy one or two year periods as originally envisioned, Aktion Sühnezeichen organized short two-week summer camps beginning in 1962.7 A study of Aktion Sühnezeichen reveals the early roots of the independent peace movement and the close relationship between peace and religion in the GDR. How did Aktion Sühnezeichen promote peace and reconciliation in the GDR and the Soviet bloc? What does this organization’s work reveal about the Lutheran Church’s engagement with independent peace initiatives?8 The EKD had been formed in 1948 and was a decentralized institution that coordinated the work of the Landeskirche (church province) throughout each of the occupation zones of post-war Germany. Though Germany became formally divided into two states the following year, Lutherans in the two Germanys remained united in this single church entity until the ties with the western Landeskirchen were severed with the creation of the Kirchenbund (Federation of Evangelical Churches in the GDR) in 1969. The eight East German Landeskirchen enjoyed a level of institutional autonomy in the Soviet bloc second only to the Polish Catholic Church.9

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Each elected its own hierarchy, maintained control of its own hospitals and homes for the elderly, and operated several publishing houses. Also, publications intended for distribution within the church were not subject to state oversight.10 As a church-sponsored organization, Aktion Sühnezeichen enjoyed a similar degree of autonomy from state control. It published newsletters, pamphlets, letters and other materials with its own printing equipment and paper supply. Each publication produced in this manner contained the printed message ‘Only for Church Use’. Aktion Sühnezeichen has received scant attention by scholars. This is particularly surprising since many of the GDR’s prominent opposition leaders and peace activists, such as Ludwig Melhorn, belonged to Aktion Sühnezeichen.11 A few recent works from Germany have examined Aktion Sühnezeichen, but only in very general terms.12 Several sources of information exist that permit a more extensive analysis of this group. Each month the leadership circle of Aktion Sühnezeichen edited and published a newsletter, Monatsbrief (Monthly Report) for its members, along with brochures and other documents that promoted its annual programs.13 Additional information from interviews with former leaders and participants of Aktion Sühnezeichen provides invaluable insight into the significance and extent of this group’s activities. When several leading East German peace activists published their own history of the East German peace movement in 1988, they included an article on Aktion Sühnezeichen that further contributes to our understanding of this organization’s history.14

Summer camps Lothar Kreyssig’s appeal had emphasized a commitment to ‘action’ and ‘reconciliation’ – two goals that were pursued through the annual summer camps for young people. At the first two summer camps in July and August 1962, 72 young people cleared away debris from one Catholic and two Lutheran churches in Magdeburg that had been destroyed during the Second World War.15 State restrictions initially kept Aktion Sühnezeichen in the GDR working on religious projects related to social work. Each year participants could select from a variety of camps throughout the GDR, each focused on a different project. Many projects addressed the needs of different church-related communities and institutions, such as a Catholic home for the elderly in a Sorbian community. By the mid-1960s, as Aktion Sühnezeichen’s summer camps became more oriented to the mission of atonement for the evils of Germany’s Nazi past, East Germans began traveling outside the GDR to work in

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Poland and other countries that had experienced Nazi aggression. During the summer of 1966, five Aktion Sühnezeichen groups traveled to Poland and worked at a variety of locations, including the former concentration camps in Auschwitz and Majdanek. That same year, two groups also traveled to Czechoslovakia to work at the Terezin concentration camp and at Lidice, the site of a village that had been completely destroyed by the Nazis during the war in retaliation for the assassination of the Reichprotector Reinhard Heydrich in Prague. Although the directors of each of these sites invited Aktion Sühnezeichen to return in 1967 and 1968, the state authorities refused to grant the required travel documents during these two years.16 Within the GDR, projects eventually became more oriented to the theme of atonement. For example, in 1975 participants at one summer camp spent the first week working at the concentration camp at Sachsenhausen and the second week restoring a Jewish cemetery in Oranienburg. Other groups worked at Holocaust memorials in Buchenwald, Ravensbrück and Mittelbau-Dora.17 In the early 1970s, Aktion Sühnezeichen once again sent young Germans outside of the GDR. At the same time, the organization began to invite young people from Poland, and later from Czechoslovakia and Hungary, to attend its summer camps in the GDR. Polish travel restrictions temporarily ended Aktion Sühnezeichen’s official contact with Poland in the fall of 1980. Contact was reestablished in 1987 when three East German groups went to work in hospitals for children in Warsaw and at the concentration camp in Majdanek.18 In 1988, over 90 youth from Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia attended summer camps in the GDR, and six groups of East Germans went to Poland, some working at a Catholic home for blind children and others at the Auschwitz concentration camp.19 Aktion Sühnezeichen’s summer camps consisted of a program that emphasized work as well as spiritual and intellectual development. Each summer camp focused on a specific theme, depending on the nature or subject of the work project. Brochures explained that participants should bring work clothes and solid shoes since they would be working six hours a day. After the six hours of work, the camp leader led a lecture and discussion related to the particular service project or to other themes such as peace, military service or environmental problems. Despite the presence of this leader, one brochure explained that everyone is a ‘co-organizer of the community’ and should bring musical instruments, songs, literature, dictionaries and the Bible to the camps.20 The expenses for running the summer camps were covered by donations and contributions made

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to Aktion Sühnezeichen’s bank account.21 Financial contributions from each of the East German Landeskirchen covered most of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s expenses.22 The organization also collected 50 marks from each person to cover travel expenses to and from the summer camp. By charging each participant a flat rate, the money saved by those having less far to travel was used to cover the higher travel expenses of those traveling from a greater distance.23 Local pastors and church members at camp locations helped keep the costs low by hosting the participants in private homes or making church community rooms available for cooking and sleeping. Aktion Sühnezeichen organized only two summer camps in its first year, but by 1965 young people could choose between 27 different summer camps. That year, 370 people attended Aktion Sühnezeichen summer camps in the GDR. Afterward, the number of summer camps offered each year varied from a low of 19 in 1969 to a high of forty in 1984. From 1962 to 1989, a total of 12,077 young people attended Aktion Sühnezeichen’s summer camps. In the 1970s and 1980s, approximately 300–500 people attended the summer camps each year, with as many as 710 participants in 1981.24 A 1988 brochure described four summer camps of only one week in length as an effort to give young people who worked full time the opportunity to attend one of the camps.25 Because Aktion Sühnezeichen could only publicize its work within the church, most participants came from church parishes. Pastor Friedrich Magirius, director of Aktion Sühnezeichen from 1974 to 1982, explained that young people were welcome to register non-Christian friends for the summer camps.26 By developing a series of summer camps each year, Aktion Sühnezeichen successfully created a space in East German society where young people could actively engage in peace and other social issues independent of state interference. Such a legal alternative to state and party organizations did not exist elsewhere in Eastern Europe until the Polish government’s recognition of Solidarity in August 1980.

Annual assembly Though the summer camps represented its primary activity, Aktion Sühnezeichen turned participation in a two-week summer camp into lifetime membership in a community dedicated to peace. Through its monthly newsletter, Aktion Sühnezeichen informed this community of its activities and provided information about issues related to peace and human rights, both within East Germany and elsewhere in the Soviet bloc. One of the central activities of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s community was a

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three-day Jahrestreffen (annual assembly) in East Berlin every December between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. The first annual assembly was held in 1964.27 In subsequent years, the annual assembly provided a venue where Action Sühnezeichen sustained its leadership and, more importantly, where former camp participants and supporters could develop a sense of community by: renewing old friendships, sharing experiences with fellow travelers, and learning about the organization’s work over the past year.28 Activities for the annual assembly included lectures, group discussions, exhibitions and other activities designed to advance the community’s awareness of peace. The annual assembly was more than just a gathering of like-minded people; it was one of the main organs of Aktion Sühnezeichen, with participants electing the leaders of the organization. Eligible voters included attendees of the meeting who had participated in a summer camp or had contributed financial support to the organization’s work. Aktion Sühnezeichen’s director served a five-year term and members of a ten-person leadership circle served two-year terms. According to its statutes, the leadership circle was required to include representatives from the Catholic Church, as well as from Aktion Sühnezeichen’s sponsor, the Home Mission and Church Relief Agency.29 A 1968 information sheet indicated that, on average, 200–300 people participated in the annual assembly.30 Reports of the annual meeting published in its monthly newsletter suggest that several hundred people attended in subsequent years.31 Not every summer camp participant or supporter attended this annual event. For those not able to attend, the monthly newsletter provided descriptions of each year’s assembly activities, including the text of the annual report given by the director and the lectures presented at the gathering. These materials indicate the broad scope of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s activities and its close association with the Lutheran Church. For example, at the 1979 annual assembly Joachim Garstecki, Director of Peace Issues of the Kirchenbund, presented the main lecture that examined how Aktion Sühnezeichen’s commitment to atonement was in line with other peace initiatives in the GDR.32 Other activities during that year’s two-day event included a lecture by a Polish theologian from Warsaw titled ‘Reconciliation in the Bible and in life’, discussion groups, and a song hour. Participants could view an exhibition about Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass – night of Nazi violence against Jews, 9–10 November 1938) titled ‘Shalom’ and examine books for sale. Most of the activities took place in the community room of the Elizabeth Church, and the assembly concluded with an ecumenical service at the Peace Church.33

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Regional groups The summer camps and the annual assembly facilitated the formation of regional groups in towns and cities that met and carried out the work of Aktion Sühnezeichen throughout the year. Beginning in 1965, regional groups formed in a number of East German cities; by 1989, they had been active in Leipzig, Berlin, Potsdam, Dresden, Karl-Marx-Stadt, Cottbus, Erfurt, Magdeburg, Jena, Schwerin, Rostock and Halle. According to its statutes, regional groups could introduce motions and questions for discussion at the annual assembly.34 Aktion Sühnezeichen, therefore, recognized the official status of regional groups and helped publicize their meetings and activities in its newsletter, but it did not actively organize these groups or finance their activities. Rather, individuals who wanted to continue the work of Aktion Sühnezeichen at the local level took the initiative to establish regional groups that were usually based in a particular town or city. Not every town or city had a regional group, and their activities and membership varied.35 The total number of regional groups and the total number of people active in these groups before 1989 is unclear, since any individuals who had been active in or simply interested in Aktion Sühnezeichen could meet formally or informally. Aktion Sühnezeichen’s April/May 1979 newsletter reports on the activities of regional groups in Dresden, Magdeburg, and Karl-Marx-Stadt, and reveals the diversity and commitment of these three groups. The report from Dresden, describing its activities in 1978, indicates that this group was quite large and active. That year, its members had volunteered in a church hospital, a home for mentally disabled children, and a home for senior citizens. The group met four to five times a year. The topics discussed at that year’s meetings included: the situation in Chile (led by two Chilean visitors to the city), Kristallnacht and conditions in the Third Reich (in which a member of the Jewish community participated) and ideas regarding how the church and Christians in the GDR could advance peace education. The author of this report, an organizer of the Dresden group, explained that their group provided a means for people not able to participate in the summer camps – due to health or other reasons – to contribute to the work of Aktion Sühnezeichen. Towards this end, it had begun to invite families with children to attend its meetings. The report also explained that the main goals of this regional group were to publicize the work of Aktion Sühnezeichen by making information about its activities available and by setting an example for society through its own work in Dresden. The group’s goals also included assisting in the regional summer camps and continuing

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the thematic goals outlined each year at the annual assembly and at the camps. Although the report provided no information about the size of this group, it describes the need to establish a smaller group of members that would be responsible for organizing the group’s activities. One difficulty this group faced, according to the report, was a high turnover rate of its members, which the author attributed to the fact that the group did not meet more frequently.36 In contrast to the extensive activities of the regional group in Dresden, reports of the activities of the regional groups in Magdeburg and Karl-Marx-Stadt that same year indicate that they were in a much earlier stage of development at that time and not able to pursue the same level of work. While residents of Magdeburg had participated in Aktion Sühnezeichen since its foundation (Magdeburg had hosted the first two summer camps in 1962), a regional group in that city had been founded only in February 1979 by four young people who had recently participated in a summer camp. The organizers held their first meeting in a church community room, inviting others who had recently attended a summer camp. One of their first activities had been to take a group of mentally disabled children to an amusement park. The group in Karl-MarxStadt had been founded two years earlier by members who wanted to maintain contact between the summer camps and the annual assembly, so it met once each fall and spring. The members of this group reported that they had just spent a weekend in a nearby town at a church without a pastor. On Saturday, they performed skits and organized other activities for 30 Sunday school children that explored the theme of ‘hate’. The next day, they led the Sunday service and reported that this weekend not only gave them the opportunity to discuss issues in small groups within the church, but also the chance to speak about Aktion Sühnezeichen and the summer camps.37 Unlike the summer camps and the annual assembly, which were planned and organized by Aktion Sühnezeichen, the regional groups formed organically and provided a way for the organization’s supporters to continue their work at the local level. Most of the regional groups organized activities in the fall and spring – the period between the summer camps and the annual assembly. The emergence of regional groups illustrates how the work of Aktion Sühnezeichen could extend beyond its original parameters and continue to receive the Lutheran Church’s support. Though the regional groups did not exist everywhere in the GDR and each pursued different activities, their existence allowed Aktion Sühnezeichen to contribute to the diverse social needs in various regions of the country.

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Conclusions Lothar Kreyssig believed that peace in the future could only come through reconciliation with the past. He felt that Christians and the Lutheran Church in Germany not only had the responsibility to atone for the actions of Germany’s Nazi past, but also the responsibility to work for peace in the future. His conception of peace was grounded on religious (Christian) beliefs of atonement. In contrast, the East German state argued that peace would be secured through the building of socialism, which needed to be armed. Many scholars place the beginning of an independent peace movement in the GDR in 1978, as a response to the state’s introduction of pre-military instruction for both boys and girls in the ninth and tenth-grades.38 They also cite NATO’s deployment of intermediate-range nuclear missiles in Europe and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, both in December 1979, as added impetus to the peace movement and the church’s willingness to support it. By 1982 a badge introduced by church leaders with the slogan ‘Swords into Ploughshares’ had become a symbol unifying peace activists throughout the GDR and many pastors began sponsoring small peace groups at the local level.39 This survey of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s activities indicates that the church’s engagement with peace as a social and political issue began much earlier. It dates back to Kreyssig’s appeal for peace in 1958, which was influenced by the Confessing Church. The Confessing Church had resisted Nazism from 1934 to 1945 on the grounds that Christians had a responsibility to resist any government that acted against the will of God. Swiss theologian Karl Barth had articulated this doctrine in the Barmen Theological Declaration in 1934 after the Nazi seizure of power. Church historian Frederic Spotts argues that this declaration signaled the Lutheran Church’s commitment to a new relationship with the state in the postwar period: The core of this idea was that the church’s moral responsibility to the nation entailed a political responsibility and – implicit but most important of all – that this political responsibility lies not in passive obedience, but in independent judgment of the acts of the state.40 Many of the clergy active in the Confessing Church brought these principles to the postwar church as they stepped into positions of leadership within the church hierarchy. Evidence from Aktion Sühnezeichen’s publications indicates that Kreyssig and the organization’s leaders viewed themselves as heirs to the Barmen declaration and the Confessing Church. In

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1984, on its fiftieth anniversary, Aktion Sühnezeichen made the Barmen Declaration the central theme of that year’s summer camps. In June 1984, Monatsbrief published an article describing Aktion Sühnezeichen’s connection to the Barmen declaration and the Confessing Church. It concluded by calling for a new impulse toward reconciliation.41 Yet, Aktion Sühnezeichen had mixed success in fulfilling these ideals and following the tradition of resistance to state policy established by the Confessing Church. Through its summer camps, annual assembly, and regional groups, the members of Aktion Sühnezeichen contributed their time and energy in the service of peace. These venues offered opportunities to meet to discuss issues and formulate opinions independent of state control. Aktion Sühnezeichen’s leaders developed a community by organizing and publicizing its activities, and it did this successfully with the support and protection offered by the Lutheran Church in East Germany. Pastor Friedrich Magirius, who had been active with Aktion Sühnezeichen since meeting Kreyssig in 1964, acknowledged that only a small minority of East Germans had participated in Aktion Sühnezeichen’s activities. He argued, however, that those who did participate found an opportunity to think freely. Magirius explained this importance: ‘I have always thought that freedom must not come from travel freedom alone, but also the freedom to think.’42 As an organization sponsored by the EKD/ Kirchenbund, Aktion Sühnezeichen was not completely independent and its activities remained tempered by the church. It created a space in an authoritarian state where individuals could think and develop ideas independent of state control that was located in a middle-ground between the state and the political opposition. In the late 1980s, Aktion Sühnezeichen became increasingly politicallyoriented and its contact with groups outside of the GDR also influenced the East German opposition. In the May 1985 issue of Monatsbrief, Stephan Bickhardt – an East Berlin pastor and a member of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s leadership circle – wrote a short article announcing that Aktion Sühnezeichen would be giving independent peace groups in the GDR the opportunity to describe their activities in the newsletter. The following year, descriptions of several peace groups appeared in various issues.43 The newsletter also began publishing oppositional information from elsewhere in the Soviet bloc. For example, in 1988, Monatsbrief reported that believers in Czechoslovakia had circulated a 31-point petition demanding greater religious freedom and respect for human rights and published the full text of this petition.44 Stephan Bickhardt, who became a founding member of the Democracy Now political opposition movement in 1989, explained that

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his personal engagement with the political opposition was based on the contacts and experiences he developed as a member of Aktion Sühnezeichen. Its summer camps made it possible for Bickhardt to meet with opposition-oriented pastors and theologians in the GDR and to establish contact with individuals in Czechoslovakia and Poland who would influence his work in the GDR. Between 1976 and 1981, Bickhardt maintained contact with members of the Catholic intelligentsia in Wrocl aw, Kraków and Warsaw and began to examine the meaning of political participation, as well as the church’s role as a source of power. Bickhardt recalled that he wanted to explore, ‘what can be learned from Poland and Czechoslovakia from the concept of civil society . . . or from Václav Benda of Charter 77 who had spoken about the ‘parallel polis’ and parallel structures. We [Bickhardt and his colleagues] hoped to create a distinct society . . . connected with the art scene and the church. We organized lectures in our homes, we organized exhibitions in churches, and we founded [Radix Blätter].’ Bickhardt began Radix Blätter in 1985 as a samizdat (self-published) journal. He produced it at his parents’ home with the help of about 20 people. His goal was to engage theologians, church people, artists, writers, civil rights activists, and other opposition members in discussions related to the concept of Central Europe and civil society. Editions contained several essays and were over 100 pages in length. He distributed 2,000 or more copies of each issue.45 Aktion Sühnezeichen created spaces for free thought and fostered networks with oppositional groups, but Bickhardt’s experiences demonstrate that there were limits to what could be done within the space of Aktion Sühnezeichen and the EKD/Kirchenbund. Both Aktion Sühnezeichen and the EKD/Kirchenbund avoided direct criticism of the state, reflecting a political reality of the era. For example, in September 1964, the GDR became the only Soviet bloc country to allow conscientious objectors a legal alternative to armed military service. Young men refusing to carry a weapon could opt to serve in unarmed construction units that remained components of the East German military. The young men who selected this option, known as construction soldiers, became significant proponents of an independent peace movement in the GDR. Despite the legality of this unarmed military service, it was a politically sensitive topic that was officially frowned upon by the state. As a result, there is no reference to this form of service in any of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s publications.46 Bickhardt recognized the limits of what could be achieved within the space of church organizations. To be truly independent and free to criticize the GDR’s policies, Bickhardt published his more politically

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oppositional Radix Blätter secretly in his parents home outside of the protective cover of the church. For Bickhardt, his contacts in Aktion Sühnezeichen contributed to his engagement in political oppositional activities that became separate from, but influenced by, the Lutheran Church. Bickhardt continued his work in the East German political opposition after leaving Aktion Sühnezeichen in 1988. The work of Aktion Sühnezeichen represented a strong and proactive commitment of the EKD/Kirchenbund to the issue of peace. The organization conceptualized and promoted peace in terms very different from the East German state, which argued that a militarized state and society was the key to peace. Instead, Aktion Sühnezeichen appealed to young people with the message that peace could only be achieved through reconciliation with its past. This reconciliation could be achieved through the actions of small groups of East Germans by not only (re)building physical structures, but also by building relationships between those from different faiths (Judaism, Protestantism, Catholicism) and different national backgrounds (Poles, Czechs, Sorbs, Hungarians, and Germans) within the Soviet bloc. Aktion Sühnezeichen’s activities demonstrate that the EKD/Kirchenbund, while enjoying considerable autonomy from the state, had adopted a moderating position within East German society. Aktion Sühnezeichen and the EKD/Kirchenbund might appear to have broken from the heritage of the Confessing Church by avoiding direct criticism of the state’s policies; yet, Aktion Sühnezeichen, like the Confessing Church, was a form of resistance to an authoritarian system. In each organization, religious beliefs empowered citizens to take a more active role in public life. As organizations connected to an institutional church, both faced the similar dilemma of how to balance criticism of a regime’s social and political policies with the goal of preserving the church’s autonomy. Despite the strong opposition of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and other clergy to Nazi policies, many members of the Confessing Church merely sought to preserve the church’s autonomy from Nazi control. Aktion Sühnezeichen did not envision its work as politically oppositional, but it challenged authoritarian state power in the GDR by constructing a space where young people could think and act independent of state control and indirectly supported the development of networks with political opposition groups in the Soviet bloc. Aktion Sühnezeichen helped establish an important foundation for opposition and resistance to East German policies. By the 1980s, its politically-oriented members, such as Stephan Bickhardt, became involved in emerging groups that were more openly critical of state policies.

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Notes * Research for this chapter was made possible with support from an Andrew Mellon Predoctoral Fellowship from the University of Pittsburgh (2001–2002) and a Category III Faculty Development Grant from Western Oregon University (2005). I am grateful to Dr Christian Staffa, Director of Aktion Sühnezeichen/ Friedensdienst (Action Signs of Reconciliation/Peace Service), Berlin, for granting me permission to examine Aktion Sühnezeichen’s archives. I would also like to thank Dr. Christa Stache at the Evangelische Zentralarchive (Evangelical Central Archive) in Berlin; Malcolm Walker at the Keston Institute in Oxford; and the staff of the Archiv Bürgerbewegung (Archive of Civil Movements) in Leipzig for their support and assistance in navigating the extensive holdings of their respective archives. 1. ‘Aufruf von Präses Kreyssig am 30. April 1958 zur Aktion Sühnezeichen’ [President Kreyssig’s appeal for Action Signs of Reconciliation on 30 April 1958] 30 April 1958, 1, Archiv Bürgerbewegung, Leipzig, Germany (hereafter ABL) 3.18.2. Magirius explained that Kreyssig, with the appeal in his bag, had planned to announce the formation of Aktion Sühnezeichen at the 1954 church congress in Leipzig, but decided that the situation was not right at that time. F. Magirius, interview by author, Leipzig, Germany, 25 October 2001. 2. ‘Aufruf von Präses Kreyssig’, 1–2. 3. Shelley Baranowski offers a critical view of the Confessing Church’s role in the resistance to the Nazis. According to her evidence, by 1936 the priority of most of its members was not resistance to the Nazis, but rather preserving the Lutheran Church’s autonomy. See S. Baranowski, The Confessing Church, Conservative Elites and the Nazi State (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1986). 4. For an account of this early history of Aktion Sühnezeichen, see L. Melhorn, ‘Die Zeit ist reif, daß sich die Geister scheiden: Versöhnungsdienste der Aktion Sühnezeichen’ [The time is ripe to make up our minds: Action Signs of Reconciliation’s atonement service], Spuren: zur Geschichte der Friedensbewegung in der DDR [Tracks: history of the peace movement in the GDR] (Berlin, January 1988), p. 15, ABL. Magirius, interview; S. Bickhardt, interview by author, Leipzig, Germany, 11 May 2001. 5. Melhorn, ‘Die Zeit ist reif’, 16; Bickhardt, interview. 6. ‘Satzung der Aktion Sühnezeichen’ [Statutes of Action Signs of Reconciliation], no date, ABL 3.18.4. Magirius also described the small scale of its early administration. Magirius, interview. The Home Mission and Church Relief Agency coordinated the Lutheran Church’s social welfare programs, including nursing homes and hospitals. 7. Magirius, interview. 8. The beginnings of the peace movement should not be confused with the Socialist Unity Party’s efforts to promote a peace movement among church circles in the 1950s. Those state-directed efforts, which several other states in East Europe also adopted at this time, were not connected in any way to the independent groups dedicated to the issue of peace that the church supported and which are the subject of this study. For one account of these state efforts in the GDR, see R.W. Solberg, God and Caesar in East Germany (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1961), p. 178.

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9. For two discussions of the origins and nature of the EKD/Kirchenbund’s institutional autonomy in the GDR, see Solberg, God and Caesar and R. F. Goeckel, The Lutheran Church and the East German State: Political Conflict and Change Under Ulbricht and Honecker (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1990). 10. For more information about this method of uncensored publications in the GDR, see J. Broun, Conscience and Captivity: Religion in Eastern Europe (Washington, DC. Ethics and Public Policy Center, 1988), p. 113 and L. von Flotow, ‘Samizdat in East Berlin’, Cross Currents, no. 9 (1990) 204. 11. Ehring and Dallwitz’s 1982 discussion of Aktion Sühnezeichen only includes a two-page summary of its history and the text of a lecture presented at the annual assembly of its members in 1979. ‘Den Frieden nicht nur haben wollen, sondern schaffen: Aktion Sühnezeichen in der DDR’ [We no longer just want peace, we want to create it: Action Signs of Reconciliation in the GDR], in K. Ehring and M. Dallwitz (eds), Schwerter zu Pflugscharen: Friedensbewegung in der DDR [Swords into ploughshares: peace movements in the GDR] (Reinbeck: Rowohlt, 1982), pp. 146–55. 12. C. Dietrich and U. Schwabe (eds), Freunde und Feinde: Friedensgebete in Leipzig zwischen 1981 und dem 9. Oktober 1989 [Friends and foes: prayer-for-peace services in Leipzig between 1981 and 9 October 1989] (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlaganstalt, 1994), p. 496. 13. The archives of Aktion Sühnezeichen are located in the Evangelisches Zentralarchiv (EZA) in Berlin, Germany. Selected copies of Aktion Sühnezeichen’s newsletters, brochures and other documents can be found at the Keston Institute archive in Oxford, England (KI) and the Archiv Bürgerbewegung (ABL) in Leipzig, Germany. 14. Melhorn, ‘Die Zeit ist reif.’ 15. Günter Särchen, an early leader of Aktion Sühnezeichen, recalled that first year of summer camps in his final speech as a member of the leadership circle in 1975 and identified Christian Schmidt, author of several articles about the history of the summer camps published by Aktion Sühnezeichen, as the person who organized the first year’s camps. See G. Särchen, ‘Mit Sühnezeichen unterwegs’ [On the move with Action Signs of Reconciliation], Monatsbrief (January/February 1976) 12, Keston Institute, Oxford, England [hereafter KI]: GD 12/22.17; C. Schmidt, ‘Seit 25 Jahren – Lagerdienste der Aktion Sühnezeichen’ [After 25 years – camp service of Action Signs of Reconciliation], Monatsbrief (October–November 1987) 7–8, ABL 3.18.7; and L. Melhorn, ‘Aktion Sühnezeichen stellt sich vor’ [Let us present Action Signs of Reconciliation], Monatsbrief (June 1980) 3, KI: GD 12/22.17. 16. C. Schmidt, ‘Mini-Information über Aktion Sühnezeichen’ [Brief information about Action Signs of Reconciliation], 1968, 4, ABL 3.18.3. 17. Each year Aktion Sühnezeichen published a brochure describing the theme and information regarding the date and registration of the next year’s summer camps. See 1975 Aktion Sühnezeichen [1975 Action Signs of Reconciliation], 1975, KI: GD 12/22.17; Lagerplan 1980 Aktion Sühnezeichen [Camp program – 1980 – Action Signs of Reconciliation], 1980, KI: GD 12/22.17; and Sommerlager Aktion Sühnezeichen 1988 [Summer camps of Action Signs of Reconciliation 1988], 1988, ABL 3.18.9. 18. ‘Aus dem Bericht des Leiters (gekürzt): Vorgetragen am 29.12.1987 auf dem Jahrestreffen’ [From the report of the director (abridged): presentation on 29

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19. 20.

21.

22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE December 1987 to the annual assembly], Monatsbrief (January/February 1988) 7, ABL 3.18.8. ‘Lagersommer 1988’ [Summer camps 1988], Monatsbrief (September 1988) 13, ABL 3.18.10. Presumably the dictionaries were intended for camps attended by foreigners or camps held abroad. Similar instructions appeared in different year’s brochures. Sommerlager Aktion Sühnezeichen 1988, 8. Also, Magirius, interview. For one example of how Aktion Sühnezeichen used its publishing resources to appeal for financial support, see ‘Spendenaufruf’ [Appeal for contributions], Monatsbrief (September 1988) 18, ABL 3.18.10. H. D. Peter, interview by author, Berlin, Germany, 20 July 2005. Magirius, interview. Each summer camp brochure also explained this use of the fee. For Aktion Sühnezeichen’s official record of the number of summer camps offered and the number of participants from 1962 to 1998, see ‘Aktion Sühnezeichen – Statistik der Sommerlager’ [Action Signs of Reconciliation – summer camp statistics], Evangelische Zentralarchive, Berlin, Germany [hereafter EZA] 97/1753. Sommerlager Aktion Sühnezeichen 1988, 3, 9. Magirius, interview. Särchen served as director of Aktion Sühnezeichen in 1964 when that first annual assembly was held. Särchen, ‘Mit Sühnezeichen unterwegs’, 12. Schmidt, ‘Mini-Information über Aktion Sühnezeichen’, 3; 1975 Aktion Sühnezeichen, 2; F. Magirius, Aktion Sühnezeichen, pamphlet, 1986, 14, ABL 3.18.6.; ‘Satzung der Aktion Sühnezeichen’, 1. Ibid., 1–2. Schmidt, ‘Mini-Information über Aktion Sühnezeichen’, 3. A 1980 account reported 100 more people attended the 1979 assembly than the previous year. Unfortunately, it does not indicate the total number of either year. Monatsbrief, (January/February 1980) 11, KI: GD 12/22.17. J. Garstecki, ‘Heute die nötigen Schritte tun – Menschen auf dem Weg zueinander’ [Lets take the necessary steps today – people on the way to one another], Monatsbrief, (January/February 1980) 3–11, KI: GD 12/22.17. Ehring’s chapter on Aktion Sühnezeichen is basically an edited version of this lecture. See Ehring and Dallwitz, Schwerter zu Pflugsharen, pp. 148–55. ‘Rückblick Jahrestreffen’ [The annual assembly in review], Monatsbrief (January/February 1980) 11–12, KI: GD 12/22.17. ‘Satzung der Aktion Sühnezeichen’, 1. Magirius refers to this inconsistent character of regional groups. Magirius ‘Aktion Sühnezeichen’, 14. ‘Aus unseren Bezirksgruppen’ [From our regional groups], Monatsbrief (April/May 1979) 6–7, KI: GD 12/22.17. Ibid., 7–8. R. Woods, Opposition in the GDR under Honecker, 1971–1985 (London: Macmillan, 1986), p. 36. See also Broun, Conscience and Captivity, p. 117. Ramet’s analysis of the situation in the GDR focuses on the Lutheran Church’s relationship to the independent peace movement. P. Ramet, Cross and Commissar: The Politics of Religion in Eastern Europe and the USSR (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1987), p. 84.

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39. T. Garton Ash, ‘Swords into Ploughshares: The Unofficial “Peace Movement” and the Churches in East Germany’, Religion in Communist Lands 11, no. 3 (winter 1983) 244–50. Also, R. D. Asmus, ‘Is there a Peace Movement in the GDR?’ Orbis 27 (summer 1983) 301–41. 40. F. Spotts, The Churches and Politics in Germany (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1973), pp. 11–12. 41. M. Standera, ‘Ich bekenne . . . – 50 Jahre nach Barmen’ [I confess . . . – 50 years after Barmen], Monatsbrief (June 1984) 4, EZA 97/878. 42. Magirius, interview. 43. S. Bickhardt, ‘Friedensgruppen stellen sich vor’ [Peace groups present themselves], Monatsbrief (May 1985) 5, EZA 97/878. For issues of Monatsbrief containing information about peace groups, see January 1986, March/April 1986, and May/June 1986, all in EZA 97/879. 44. ‘Initiative der Katholiken zur Lösung der Situation der gläubigen Bürger der CSSR’ [Catholic initiative for a solution to the situation of believers in Czechoslovakia], Monatsbrief (September 1988) 7–10, ABL 3.18.10. 45. Bickhardt, interview. 46. Magirius argued, however, that Aktion Sühnezeichen’s emphasis on peace and reconciliation indirectly encouraged young men to serve as constructions soldiers. Magirius, interview. Hans-Detlef Peter supported this assertion and pointed out that it would have been politically unrealistic to openly publicize or encourage service in the construction units. Peter, interview.

9 Religiosity in European Comparison – Theoretical and Empirical Ideas Gert Pickel

Introduction One of the most interesting topics during the past years has been the transition of the political and social systems in Eastern and East–Central Europe. This process has offered a good opportunity to do (empirical) investigations into cultural differences as a reflection of social structural change in a greater number of countries than ever before in the last decades of comparative science. One typical predictor of a culture is the dominant religion of a society and its religious vitality. Religious orientations, religious values, religious beliefs and the socio-cultural affluence to church are through history deeply routed in societies and have effects on citizens’ behaviour in a lot of spheres of life, like family values, gender issues, voting behaviour and general values.1 However the distribution of religion and religious values are very different, comparing the European societies. In some countries religion does have a high importance, in other countries the peoples integration into church and the distribution of religious values are not very widespread. Especially in the modernity the religious vitality of European countries split up. In Western Europe, a decline of religious orientations and especially religious practices in the average of the populations can be seen in the last decades. Particularly, modernization influences the religious vitality of the postindustrial Western European nations with negative consequences2 and strengthen the existing differences between the European countries. In the postsocialist countries in Eastern Europe, religion has been in a difficult position, since the Eastern European idea of socialism regards religion as an instrument of capitalism and the socialist politicians tried to suppress religion. The socialist systems denied the necessity of 182

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religion for the stability of a society. When the political situation changed in 1989, the formal suppression of religion disappeared. One question is now, whether religion revived when repression faded? Theories of cultural change stress, that values are fixed in the biographical period at the age of 12 to 20. After this socialization period the values are more or less stable over time. According to this, it is possible that, for Eastern Europe, the socialist repression has a long lasting effect on religious orientations. After a short period of religious revival near the point of transition, the vitality of the religious orientations and behaviour in these countries will stagnate at a lower level than in non-socialist countries. If these theories apply, there should be clear differences between Western and Eastern European countries concerning the distribution of religious vitality. Still, also between the Eastern European countries, high differences in the levels of religious values and religious behaviour can be recognized. The question is: What are the potential factors which led to these differences? These questions will be the leading ideas for the following empirical research. Especially, the search for long-term factors, which influence the religious vitality in the new democracies in Central and Eastern Europe, will be in the focus of this article. One aim is to present an overview of the stock of religious orientations – or religious vitality – in the Eastern European postsocialist countries after the period of repression, the other, to find the possible sources for the stocks. The structural view on the indicators of religious vitality offers an opportunity to say something about the development, that is to be expected in Central and Eastern Europe in the future.3 Should the development in Eastern Europe be seen as a upspring or a revival of Christian religiosity there. Or does the new situation create only a basis for a similar development like in Western Europe: a continuous decline of religiosity and integration into church with the consequences of a steady decrease of religion?4 Also interesting is, referring to Western Europe, the question, whether secularization thesis or individualization thesis is right?5 All these questions asked are comparative questions, because a view on the relation between Western and Eastern European is necessary in order to interpret the situation and the developments rightly. In this context, it is at first necessary to investigate the state of religion in Eastern Europe for its own. Further it is interesting to compare Eastern European results and trends in a global European perspective including Western Europe.6 This comparative view allows a judgement of the results of the indicators for church and religion in Eastern Europe. That implies also, that mainly analyses on the macro-level will be presented in the chapter.

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Theoretical structures or groups of countries in Europe Now, what are the potential factors, that lead to the noticed differences? Especially three possible modes of explanation has occurred in the last years: 1. First, the secularization-theory (see Table 9.1). This theory points out a continuous decline of all forms of religion involvement. The secularization thesis stresses the decline of both indicators of religious vitality: the integration into church and the subjective religiosity.7 A contradiction to these thoughts are the ideas of the individualization thesis.

Table 9.1

Basic theories about the development of religion Secularization theory

Theory of individualization

Theory of pluralization and vitalization

Authors

Brian Wilson Steve Bruce

Thomas Luckmann

Rodney Starke Laurence Iannaccone

Basic thesis

Basic differences between modernity and religion

Religious beliefs as an anthropological constant

Constant supply for religiosity and religious beliefs

Relation to general Modernization theory Theory

Theory of Individualization

Market and Rational Choice Theory

Explanation for Western Europe

Continuous decline of all forms of religiosity

Decline of involvement in the churches, but consistent individual religious beliefs

Development of religiosity depends from the level of pluralization of the society

Explanation for Eastern Europe

Continuous decline of all forms of religiosity

Decline of involvement in the churches, but consistent individual religious beliefs

Revitalization of religiosity after the fall of repression and rebuilding of a religious market

Source: Author’s composition based on Olaf Müller (O. Müller, D. Pollack and G. Pickel, ‘Werte und Wertewandel religiöser Orientierungsmuster in komparativer Perspektive: Religiosität und Individualisierung in Ostdeutschland und Osteuropa’, in M. Brocker, H. Behr and M. Hildebrandt (eds), Religion und Politik (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2002), pp. 99–125).

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2. The individualization thesis divides individual, personal religiosity, which is stable over time in their eyes, and integration in the institution church, which declines. The supporters of this theory also see a decline of church activities, but at the same time, personal religious beliefs are stable. Religion, in their meaning, is a anthropological constant of society. Only the social forms of religion can be outdated, not religion itself. The last theory is common in North America. 3. The pluralization-theory intend in a relation between the possibilities of church and the supply of the citizen. Some Sociologists of religion8 claim, that if the modern age is productive for religion, that is not only because it always falls short of its own projections, but also because its central principles are gaining and invade the religious field. The central principle that stimulates religious productivity, they say, is the economic principle of competition. The more pluralistic the religious field becomes and the more market-oriented its organization gets, the more religious vitality is fostered: under competitive conditions, the providers of religious services are forced to face the particular challenge of retaining their members and of attracting new members, of responding to the needs of their clientele and of offering efficient services. If one particular church holds, however, a religious monopoly, its officials become indifferent and lazy; they lose their ability to be socially responsive. Much like in business, competition is good in religion, too. Besides, customers who are dissatisfied with a religious product in a pluralistic religious market can look for another religious product to better suit their needs, while their only alternative in a monopolistic religious structure is to turn away from religion altogether. Orienting on these three theories, now it will be more easy to give interpretations for real developments in Europe. According to these theories some related indicators can be pointed out, which are possible Predictors of religious vitality in Eastern Europe in comparison. (1) First, the effect of modernization must be paid attention to. The rising welfare and the ongoing modernization process in Europe lead the citizens more and more to a distance towards church and public religion. However, the thesis of a similar distance to subjective religiosity is also discussed controversially between the supporters of the individualization theory and the supporters of the secularization theory. But it seems to be plausible, that a high level of modernization might tally with the secularization thesis in terms of negative effects of an increase in prosperity (as a result of modernization) on religious beliefs and integration into church. The hypothesis is: a higher level of modernization indicates a lower level of religious vitality. Another source of differentiation

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should be (2) the controversy of postsocialist and non-postsocialist societies. This social–political cut-line takes the repression of church and religion in the socialist countries through political leaders or the system itself into consideration. The precondition of socialist repression leads to a worse situation of religiosity in Eastern Europe compared to the current situation in Western Europe.9 The third issue (3) that needs to be examined is whether the degree of separation of church and state and religious pluralism are factors that affect the vitality of the religious field. The prerequisite for the creation of a pluralistic religious market – according to the supporters of the economic market model – is the strict separation of church and state.10 Free and fair religious competition, they claim, can only develop under conditions where the state allows the religious market free rein and refrains from favoring any religious group above the others. Only then can new religious groups have access to the market and compete with more traditional groups without incurring excessive start-up costs. And once the religious field has filled with a variety of religious products, the level of religious commitment will rise and religion will develop a vitality that it could not have achieved under monopolistic structures. The last possible factor of impact (4) is the cultural-ethnic cutline or the confessional cleavage between the Catholic denomination and the Protestant or Orthodox denomination within the Christian church. The different bases of the Christian denominations split between the levels of religious beliefs and integration into church as well. While members of the Catholic Church are more influenced by institutional norms and orders, members of the Protestant church are more individualized. The stronger connection of Protestants to the (modern) society leads to a greater influence of secularization on the religious vitality in Protestant countries. The problem about an overview of different indicators referring to such a large number of countries, is to loosen the order of structural explanations and get into the danger of non-systematic ad-hoc explanations. To avoid this danger, I would like to give priority to an explanation structure on the macro-level, in order to describe the religions structure in Europe. There is a theoretical legitimation of such a procedure. The analysed processes appear on the aggregate level, since this is the level for the analysis of culture. Therefore explanation can only be traced back on differences in aggregates. However thinking about the possible explanations, mentioned above, a problem appears. How can anybody see the structural effects in the descriptive work? The only solution is to

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take an existing order-structure for European countries and use it as a pre-order to the later systematic causal analysis, to get an understanding of the overview of the former descriptive part of the paper. Here it seems to be useful to refer to the literature11 and former empirical results.12 Referring to these results, one must consider three main points of homoor heterogeneity within the European countries, based on structural cut-lines, which influence the relations of the citizens to church and to religious beliefs over a long period of time. Table 9.2 shows the possible arrangements. For explanation: The plus signs tend towards positive circumstances for religious vitality. The first (1) is the socio-economic cut-line. This cut-line is connected with the negative effects of individualization as one result of modernization for religious beliefs and integration into church, therefore, in Table 9.2 a minus sign stands for modernization, economical development and higher levels of welfare. The second (2) is the social–political cut-line (the plus sign stands for the difference between socialist or post-socialist and democratic political systems). The third (3) is the cultural–ethnic cut-line (the plus sign represents the Catholic denomination against the Protestant or Orthodox denomination within the Christian church). To get a practical order for the following descriptive macro-analysis but also as a first result, I sort the European countries using these three cut-lines in the population with a specific reference to the socio-cultural cut-line. Regarding the question of religious orientations, I consider the cultural–ethnic cut-line, combined with the social–political line of difference, to be the most helpful for grouping the countries. Such a kind of structure had been presented with small variations by Haller in 1988 and Martin 1978. Now, this structure will be extended on the postsocialist countries.13 This extension gives the opportunity to reduce the empirical analysis on a systematic order. Therefore, it should be easier to understand for the users. Especially the inclusion of the Eastern European countries substantially enlarges the models. For the first composition it seems to be useful, to recur on territorial and religious cut lines (like a mostly protestant, Catholic or orthodox population).14 1. This composition shows the Southern European countries. Nearby all citizens in Italy, Spain and Portugal are members of the Catholic Church. The economical level in these countries is lower, compared to the other Western European countries (not to the Eastern European countries).15 Together with a non-(post)socialist history of the political system there, these cut-lines are important for the structure of religious vitality in these countries.

188 Table 9.2

Map of macro-structural cut-lines

Cut-lines on the macro-level

Socioeconomical

Social– political

Cultural– ethnic

⭈

⫹

⫹

Italy, Spain, Portugal

(⫺)

⫹

⫹

Ireland, Belgium; France; Austria

⫺

⫹

⭈

Western Germany; Netherlands; Switzerland; Great Britain; Northern Ireland

⫺

⫹

⫺

Denmark; Sweden; Norway Finland; Iceland

Eastern Europe Mixed Countries

⭈

⫺

⫺

East Germany Estonia; (Latvia)

Eastern Europe

⭈

⫺

⫹

Poland; Lithuania; Slovenia; Slovakia; Czech Republic; Hungary

⫹

⫺

⭈

Bulgaria; Romania, Serbia–Montenegro

⫹

⫺

⭈

Russia; Bylorussia; Georgia, Ukraine, Armenia

⫹

⫺

⫹

Bosnia–Herzegovina; Albania; Azerbeidschan

Southern Europe Catholic Countries Western Europe

Countries

Catholic Countries Western Europe Mixed Countries

Western Europe Protestant Countries

Catholic Countries Eastern Europe Orthodox Countries Postsovjet heritage Orthodox Countries Eastern Europe Muslim Countries

Source: Author’s composition according to reflections by M. Haller (M. Haller, ‘Grenzen und Variationen gesellschaftlicher Entwicklung in Europa – eine Herausforderung und Aufgabe für die vergleichende Soziologie’, Österreichische Zeitschrift für Soziologie 13/4 (1988) 5–19) and D. Martin (D. Martin, A General Theory of Secularization (New York: Blackwell Publishers, 1978)) with supplemented content. Steps represent different degrees of integration. ⫹ ⫽ high position on this cleavage, ⭈ ⫽ middle position, ⫺ ⫽ low position; for the socio-economic cleavage: ⫹ ⫽ low economical standard (regional relation); for the social-political cleavage: ⫹ ⫽ a non post-socialist system; for the cultural–ethnic cleavage: ⫹ ⫽ a large Catholic population.

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2. The Western European countries Belgium, Austria and Ireland resemble each other in a lot of aspects. Their population also has a Catholic heritage and is for the most part Catholic. Nevertheless, the economical level is, in comparison to the Southern European countries, a little better. France has to be added to this cluster too, because of his Catholic history. Still, there is a specific situation resulting from the secularization process in the 18th century. 3. Denominationally mixed nations in Western Europe like the highly industrialized Great Britain, West Germany and the Netherlands form the second group. Switzerland also is a typical representative. The population belongs either to the Catholic or to the Protestant denomination. Like Ireland in the second cluster, Northern Ireland is an exception to this cluster, because of its very strong affiliation to the church. 4. In Northern Europe, the nations combine a high socio-economic welfare with a mainly Protestant population. All Scandinavian countries, perhaps with the exclusion of Finland and Iceland, are on a high level of socio-economic modernization. With the exclusion of the socialpolitical cleavage, in these countries there are the worst preconditions for religious beliefs and the integration into church. 5. The first of the Eastern European groups contains the countries with a largely Catholic population. Most of these countries are in a mediocre economical situation and, compared to their Eastern European neighbourhood, in a relatively good position. The Czech Republic is certainly the country with the best economic conditions followed by Hungaria, Slovenia and Poland. Slovakia and Lithuania bring up the rear for this indicator. 6. The South-Eastern European countries with a mainly Orthodox population as for example Bulgaria, Romania or Albania, differ in their structure. Yet, on the whole, they resemble each other in their bad economical situation, their very strong similarity to former socialist living conditions or living habits and the bonding strength of the Orthodox Church. 7. The post-soviet nations, like Russia, Ukraine, Georgia, Armenia and Byelorussia and others are in a nearly similar situation like the most of the South-Eastern European countries. The only difference is, the socio-political heritage of the former soviet regime. 8. According to the introduction thesis, the worst conditions for deep religious affiliations are to be found in the North-Eastern European countries (Estonia, Latvia) and in East Germany. The nations of this group are on a comparatively high socio-economic level (compared to the other Eastern European countries), they have a very small Catholic

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population, a socialist history and traditionally good relations with Western Europe. 9. The last group are the few Muslim countries in Eastern Europe, like Azerbaijan, Albania and Bosnia–Herzegovina. They are in the probably best position for widespread religious orientations and beliefs, because of the traditional strong relation to religion in the Islam and a low fare of welfare. The general thesis of the attempts of explanation is, that the combined effect of macrolines determines religious beliefs and ecclesial affiliation and builds up the structure of religious vitality in Europe. To give an example: The hypothesis is, that if a low level of modernization, large Catholic population and a non(post)socialist system come together, the affiliation to church should be the highest, as well as the proximity to religious beliefs. If the situation is described by the combination of negative structures in the country, the religious indicators are likely to be very low. Between these two poles, a large spread of combinations is conceivable. You have also to consider, that inside of the countries also a lot of differences are possible and some individuals digress from the main structures of orientations in their country.

Data, indicators and measurement for religious vitality In this chapter, I will use a comparative design, that includes all European countries, where survey data are requestable. That also means, that an inclusion of non-European countries does not seem to be very useful, since they are not in similar historical circumstances as the European countries. Their integration would be a violation of the general rules of comparative research, as pointed out in the most-similar-system-designs.16 As data basis for the empirical analysis, it is necessary to use a large number of empirical studies. Only by the use of a wide selection of empirical data, it is possible to give more than only singular results, that means results about a limited number of countries or a limited number of questions concerning religion in the countries and to achieve the aim to get an overview of the situation in Central and Eastern Europe. The data-sets used are the following: 1. The World Values Survey 1981, 1990/91, 1995–98 and 1999/2000,17 which includes a large number of questions dealing with religion, religious values and general values of the societies of Western and Eastern Europe countries.18

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2. The European Values Survey 1999, which also includes a collection of questions dealing with religion.19 3. The International Social Survey Programme – with surveys from 1986 to 2000. These are combined data, which include a great number of interviews as well as different points of time of inquiries. For 1991 and 1998 the main topic of the surveys were religion. Therefore, it is possible to compare time points for different indicators concerning with religious orientations. 4. Also, I will refer to a data set, conducted in Frankfurt (Oder) by a German study group. This is the survey Political Culture in Central and Eastern Europe. It was conducted in Autumn 2000 in ten Eastern European Countries and East Germany and include questions referring to orientations towards religion, democracy, social inequality and economy.20 What are the indicators, which should be analysed? It is not simply the attendance at church, which represents the levels of religiosity in a country.21 This indicator only shows the relation between ecclesial integration and religious affiliation. Especially, one further dimension should be recognized for the investigation of religious orientations, to get information about the difference between the theoretical assumptions of the secularization and the individualization theory. These are the individual religious beliefs of the people (or subjective religiosity). I will measure the vitality of religion first by looking at the percentage of church members, the trust in church and the middle frequency of church attendance in a country as an indicator of church affiliation, and second by looking at the dissemination of belief in God and the self-description of the people as religious as indicators of Christian religiosity.22 This differentiation is partly based upon ideas of Charles Glock (1954), which have pointed out at least five dimensions of religiosity. This scheme includes religious belief, religious knowledge, religious experience and religious practice.23 In the theoretical debate about individualization of religion, which mainly refers to the idea of an invisible religion by Thomas Luckmann (1967), a concentration on the dimensions presented in the Chart will be the most effective way to prepare the empirical analysis. The main statement of this idea is the difference between subjective, personal religiosity and institutionalized religiosity. Even if the integration into church declines, this is not necessarily a problem for the subjective dimension of religiosity, because this dimension is independent from the institutional one.24 This differentiation is supposed to be more successful at describing the situation and development of religiosity in

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Eastern Europe. Therefore, wanting to illustrate the situation of religiosity in Europe implies having to divide religiosity into different parts. For a macro-analysis, the aggregated results of the surveys have to be combined with structural data like socio-economic indicators or cultural heritage (in order) to show the correlations of social structure and cultural change. The first independent variable will be an index for modernization. A number of empirical studies have shown that education, urbanization, increased prosperity and so on, have an effect on church attendance and belief in God.25 The indicators for economic development will be a country’s gross domestic product per capita as well as the rank of the country in the Human Development Index, which includes not only GDP but also other variables such as life expectancy and degree of adult literacy (Human Development Reports). The second factor for difference between countries is the cultural factor. Whether a country or a region has a Catholic, protestant or orthodox heritage will make a difference for the religious vitality. There are some studies, that stress the positive individual correlation between the membership of one citizen of the Catholic confession and higher attendance to church. Still, a transfer on the aggregate can produce an individualistic fallacy.26 The hypothesis is, that countries with a Catholic history will have a higher integration of the citizen into church, than countries with a protestant history. The indicators are the Catholic or the protestant heritage of a country as dummy variable. The third reason for differences between the countries will be the social– political cut-line. This difference stands for the differences between socialist and non-socialist political systems before 1989. The background is the political repression, that the churches and the religion have to suffer in the socialist countries. The hypothesis is, that postsocialist countries have, resulting from this repression in the socialist times, a general lack of religious vitality in comparison to Western European countries even at the beginning of the new millennium. As indicator, I use a dummy variable socialist past (1)/non-socialist past (0). The measurement of the separation of church and state is a little more problematic. I refer to an index, Detlef Pollack and I have constructed some years ago.27 This index is similar to a model proposed by Chaves and Cann (1992), with the difference that in our case it will not exclude central areas of state regulation of the religious field such as school and university education, the military, and the police. These are areas where religious groups often clearly experience unequal treatment and if it is indeed the privileged status of one or several denominations that prevents competition between them, then it is exactly this institutional preferential treatment

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193

that must be methodically examined. The extent of legal separation of church and state will be measured on the basis of the following five criteria, listed here with their respective valencies: (a) the existence of a state church (2 points) (b) the existence of theological faculties at state colleges or universities (1 point) (c) religious education (subsidized by the state) in state schools (2 points) (d) the existence of military and/or prison pastoral care (1 point) (e) tax preferences for the churches, financial support (2 points) If we look at the degree of legal separation of church and state (Table 9.3) – once again in an east/west comparison – we see at first glance that a high degree of secularization can be combined with either a sharp division of church and state, as in France, or a high level of state regulation, as in Norway. In Eastern Europe, too, low levels of religiosity and church affiliation such as in Russia or the Czech Republic can be found in countries with both high and low degrees of state regulation. The only problem is, that it is very difficult to get all necessary information to classify the countries on the shown index. The selection of the countries are limited to the 16 countries shown in Table 9.3, because I had only a limited information about the statechurch relations (at the time) when I wrote the article, I will use this indicator only for an exemplary analysis of this predictor of religious vitality.28

The situation of Religiosity in Western and Eastern Europe 2000 In order to describe the dependent variable of religious vitalization I now present the indicators for individual religious beliefs and integration into church for European countries. The first indicator is a reference to the position of church, the evaluation of trust in church in the European comparison. Remembering the discussion about the retreat of religion into the privacy by leaving aside institutional habits (individualization thesis); it seems to be meaningful to evaluate the view of the people on the church as an institution. It will be represented trough a difference indicator, in which the negative statements (no or less trust) will be subtracted from the positive statements (high and somewhat trust), the middle position is set to 0.

194

Table 9.3

Criteria for the degree of legal separation of Church and State Existence of a State Church (2)

Existence of theological faculties at state colleges or universities (1)

Religious education (subsidized by the state) in state schools (2)

The existence of military and/ or prison pastoral care (1)

Tax preferences for the churches, financial support (2)

Total

Italy Portugal Spain Ireland Austria France Great Britain Netherlands Germany Norway Sweden Denmark

0 0 0 1 1 0 2 0 1 2 2 2

1 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 1 1 1

2 2 2 2 2 0 2 1 2 2 2 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

2 1 2 1 0 1 0 1 2 2 2 2

6 5 6 5 5 2 6 4 7 8 8 7

Poland Hungary Czech Rep. Russia

1 0 0 0

0 0 1 0

2 2 2 1

1 1 1 0

0 2 2 0

4 5 6 1

Source: Author’s composition based on D. Pollack and G. Pickel (2000), ‘The Vitality of Religion–Church Integration and Politics in Eastern and Western Europe in Comparison’, Discussion Papers des Frankfurter Institutes für Transformationsstudien.13/00 (FrankKurf/Order).

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In general the trust in church is higher in the Catholic countries of Southern Europe in relation to the (more protestant) countries in Western Europe or Northern Europe and there exists an equalized evaluation of the church in Western Europe between people with trust in church and people, who distrust the organization church. More interesting for the chosen topic, are the results in Eastern Europe. If we take a view for Central and Eastern Europe, we can see two results: First, there is a wide differentiation of the trust in church all over Eastern Europe. At one hand in Romania, Albania, Poland or Latvia most of the citizens have confidence in the church and religious institutions. On the other hand in the Czech Republic, Bulgaria, Slovenia and especially East Germany the trust is rather low. Concerning Romania, the existence of a national Orthodox Church is an important factor for high trust. In the process of nation building, a national church can be very helpful to build up an own national identity. The interpretation of the trust results, partly, is very complicated, because situational political effects occur (like the very high trust in Estonia in relation to the integration into church, presented in Table 9.4). Second, in the cases, we can compare over time (Hungary, Slovenia, East Germany, Russia), there is a decline in trust in church, beginning in 1991. Only in Poland and Estonia, the trust in church increased between 1991 and 1998. One reason could be the relatively high trust in church during 1989/1990, caused by the political influence of the church during the period of transition in the Eastern European countries. This political activity was judged positively and resulted in the citizens’ trust in the church. Still, in the following time period, the situation changed and a too close connection between church and state lead to a decline of trust.29 Also, the data of the WVS and EVS point out that there is a decline in the trust in church and religion in the most of the Eastern European countries. Only in singular countries a positive development can be observed. One other related indicator, which is placed between the citizen’s personal orientation and the institution church, is the integration into church, measured by the attendance of the population at church. The indicator is a self construction introduced 1995 and based on the numerization of the measured statements. Then the mean of the answers per country will be calculated, which gives a statement about the middle visit of church (average number of church visits) in a country per year.30 This indicator reflects, together with the percentage of membership, the involvement of people in the religious organizations and the religious practice of citizens. We can see in Table 9.5, that inhabitants of Southern European countries (Italy, Spain, and Portugal) attend church about 20 times a year in average.

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Table 9.4

Trust in Church in comparative European perspective

Italy Portugal Spain Ireland France Austria Netherlands Switzerland Germany (West) Great Britain Northern Ireland Sweden Denmark Norway Finland

1991

1998

⫹27

⫹5 ⫹21 ⫺3 ⫺1 ⫺38

Poland Slovakia Croatia Slovenia Hungary

⫺8 ⫺22 ⫹23

⫺14 ⫺14 ⫹8 ⫺14 ⫺22 ⫹8

Germany (East) Czech Republic Latvia Estonia* Albania* Romania*

⫹1

⫺23 ⫹1 ⫺3

Serbia Bulgaria Georgia Byelorussia

⫺2 ⫺14 ⫺21

Russia

1991

1998

⫹6

⫹23 ⫹8

⫺3 ⫹25

⫺21 ⫹1

⫺31

⫺45 ⫺31 ⫹9 ⫹22* ⫹43* ⫹73*

⫹6

⫺24

⫹67

⫹4

Source: Author’s Own calculations on basis of ISSP 1991 and 1998; World Value Survey 1990, 1998; * PCE-Study 2000; M. Tomka and P. M. Zulehner: Religion im gesellschaftlichen Kontext Ost(Mittel)Europas (Ostfilden: Schwabenverlag, 2000); M. Tomka, W. Zdaniewicz, N. Krunoslav and L. Prudky, Religion und Kirchen in Ost(Mittel)Europa: Polen, Kroatien, Tschechien (Ostfilden: Schwabenverlag, 2001); attendance at church ⫽ number of visits to mass throughout the year; mean of the particular populations; trust in church ⫽ share of people with trust minus share of people without trust in church on a 5-point-scale.

In all of these nations, a comparatively positive preference for church and religion can be noticed. Especially Irish people show a very great preference for church attendance (40 times a year). People in Catholic countries go to church more often as people in all other confessionally determined groups of countries. The other Catholic Western European countries have high rates of attendance at church too, with the exception of France, which takes a special place because of its single historical development. The cluster of the denominational mixed countries in Western Europe that is to be found on a middle level of attendance at church is similar to the average of all Western European nations. Here it is Northern Ireland, that takes a special place. The political conflict in these two countries (Ireland and Northern Ireland), which divides people along denominational lines causes a close ecclesial affiliation as well as religious affiliation. In NorthernEurope, people go to church only five times a year on average. Protestant citizens attend ecclesial services much less often than Catholic people.

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This behaviour and the high level of modernization lead to a very low ecclesial affiliation all over the Scandinavian countries. Concerning the groups of countries in Eastern Europe, in some parts the results are very similar to the Western European countries. The nations with a largely Catholic population are the nations with the highest frequency of attendance at church. You only have to look at the rates in Poland, Slovakia and Croatia. Nations with a strong historical connection to the church, like Poland and Lithuania, show a remarkably high attendance at church. The result correlates with the rate of membership in the single countries (not presented here) and says something about religious vitality on the level of integration of citizens in church. The Central Eastern European nations (Latvia, Czech Republic), like the Central Western European nations take a middle position concerning membership in religious groups and attendance at church. In the North Eastern region the situation seems to be very clear. The Baltic nations Estonia and Latvia with the highest level of socio-economic welfare and the smallest Catholic population in an Eastern European context are the countries with the greatest distance to church and the lowest level of attendance at church. In all of the three cleavages they have the least affiliation to religion and church. A good economical situation, compared to the other Eastern European nations, a small Catholic population and the experience of a socialist political system with the preference to restrain religious influence, led to a position on the bottom of religious and ecclesial affiliation (here measured by attendance at church). In the post-soviet region and the other Orthodox Countries one finds a different situation. Countries like Byelorussia, Russia or Bulgaria are not as involved in this kind of religious practice, as (in the opposite) Romania. But the situation in Romania is something like a special situation also for South Eastern Europe. The orthodox denomination has a bounding strength, which is situated between the Protestant Countries and the Catholic Countries. The positive development in Russia and Byelorussia, that can also be seen in the not presented Ukraine and Georgia is a surprise. A high number of citizens there joined the Orthodox Church after the end of the repression. However, the fact that the attendance at church does not increase in a similar way is somewhat paradox. In Russia the attendance at church stayed on a very low average between 1991 and 1998, in Byelorussia or Georgia there is a substantial increase, but only to comparably low figures with respect to other European countries. This position may be the result of a substantial increase, but from a very low level to a middle-low level, which harmonizes with the structural situation of the post-soviet countries.

198 Table 9.5

Attendance at church in European comparison 1990

1991

1998

Italy Portugal Spain Ireland France Belgium Austria

23 23 18 45 7 16 18

24 20 18 41 7

21 22 19 38 8

18

16

The Netherlands Switzerland West Germany Great Britain Northern Ireland Sweden Denmark Norway Finland

13 16 12.5 9 30 4 3 4.5 4

11 11 12.5 11 30 5 5 5

10 10 10 10 27 5.5 5 5

Poland Lithuania Slovakia Slovenia Hungary Croatia

38

37 13.5** 22 14 8

33*

East Germany Czech Republic Latvia Estonia

20 15 14

16

11 9

4 12 20* 11* 8* 15

4

3 9 6 4**

3* 5* 7 3.5*

Romania Bulgaria Macedonia Serbia-Montenegro

13 4

17 6 10.5**

14* 6*

Russia Byelorussia Ukraine Georgia Moldavia Armenia

2 3

4 4** 8.5** 10** 10** 8.5**

4*

9**

8*

Albania Azerbaijan Bosnia-Herzegovina

1995–98

3

1999/2000 24 22 16 33 5 11 15 9 9 11 9 28 3 4 4 34 12 – 12 7 20

5 3.5

3,5 5 6 3.5

6 8 5.5

17 7 14 8

3 5 7 11 16 8

3 5 7 8 11 13

6 19

18

Source: Author’s Own calculation; ISSP 1991 und ISSP 1998; World Values Surveys 1990, 1995–98, 1999/2000; * PCE 2000; ** Central and Eastern Eurobarometer (1992); middle attendance at church per year.

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Another dimension of religiosity I would like to describe is the dimension of belief. This dimension illustrates the personal part of religious feelings. Two indicators will be used. These are, first, the self-description as being religious or not and second, the percentage of people who believe in god (divided in two indicators, belief in god and belief in a personal god) in a country. Let us again begin with the reference area Western Europe. Is not very surprising that the Irish people have the closest relation to religious beliefs and Christian orientation. The same is valid for the population of Northern Ireland, where the majority of its citizens demonstrates a strong belief in God and a high subjective religiosity. This result really matches with the former results in the paper, dealing with integration into church. Also mostly positive are the answers in Spain, Portugal and Italy. In these countries, most of the people feel close to God and religion. Only France deviates in a more negative direction. The personal beliefs of people in the Switzerland, Western Germany and Great Britain (Mixed countries) are nearly as negative as in Sweden and Denmark (Protestant countries), though the belief in God, especially the much lower belief in a personal God, makes a difference between both groups (Western European Mixed Confessionals and Northern European countries). Some results show that in Sweden and Denmark the religious beliefs are even more negative than in Norway. For Western Europe, the majority of the countries have majorities of religious citizens, which belief in god. The subjective religiosity is in a lot of countries more negative than positive. Only in the Southern European Catholic countries and in the countries Ireland and Northern Ireland, which are affected by a political conflict with religious sense, the belief in a personal God reaches to half a share of the population. The situation in the former socialist countries is more complicated. The results in Table 9.6 illustrate a great distance of East Germany and the Baltic states, countries with mostly Protestant citizens, to the subjective component of religiousness. These are the nations with the strongest opposition to religion (like before to the indicators illustrating integration into church). But also here, the structure is similar to Western Europe. The situation in the countries with a Protestant heritage is much worse, than in the Catholic region or even (but not so strong) in the Orthodox countries. The personal religious feelings seem to be in a strong connection to the historical development. Nevertheless, a lot of deviations have to be paid attention to. While East Germany is concerning all indicators on the last place, the subjective feelings to God and the religious practice differ. However, the most interesting results are the tremendously high

200 Table 9.6

Religious Beliefs in Europe Subjective Religiosity 1991

1998

Italy Portugal Spain Ireland France Belgium Austria

⫹0,42

⫹0,42 ⫹0,83 ⫹0,22 ⫹0,67 ⫺0,49

⫹0,33

The Netherlands Switzerland West Germany Great Britain Northern Ireland

⫹0,10

Sweden Denmark Norway Finland Poland Lithuania Slovakia Slovenia Hungary Croatia East Germany Czech Republic Latvia Estonia Romania Bulgaria Macedonia

Albania* Bosnia–Herzegovina

1990 95–95 2000

Belief in God %

1990 (91)

95–98 2000 (98)

⫹0,42

85 75 67 72 51 69 81

– – 69 – – – –

86 88 61 74 47 67 79

90 (86) 89 86 98 (95) 62 72 87 (78)

(88) (92) 91 (82) (94) (52) – (81)

93 96 85 95 62 71 87

⫹0,65

⫹0,15 ⫺0,28 ⫺0,25 ⫺0,03 ⫹0,25

61 73 65 57 72

– 59 65 – –

62 57 62 42 62

65 (55) – 78 (67) 79 (69) 97 (95)

(59) (73) (62) (68) (89)

60 83 77 72 93

⫹0,10

⫺0,47 ⫺0,17 ⫹0,13

31 72 47 59

33 – 47 57

39 76 47 69

45 64 65 (60) 76

56 (46) (57) 69 (58) (81)

53 69 69 83

⫹0,91

⫹0,91*

95 55 66 73 57 – 38 35 54 21 74 36 –

94 83 – 69 – 72 28 – 64 36 – 52 66

94 84 – 70 59 85 29 43 77 42 85 52 84

(95) – – 63 (61) 65 (64) – 36 (25) – 58 – 94 40 –

–

97 87 77* 65 68 93 30 39 80 51 97 66 90

⫹0,75

⫺0,04

– ⫺0,13 – ⫺1,59

⫹0,43 ⫹0,15* ⫺0,54*

86 – 64 – 80 29

–

⫺1,55* ⫺1,10* ⫹0,01 ⫺0,54* ⫹0,92* ⫺0,06*

–

60

74

–

69

83

⫺1,57

⫺0,40*

56 41 – – –

64 70 64 86 82

66 27 75 89 91

44 (47) 43 – – –

69 88 76 93 90

70 83 80 93 96

⫹0,50*

– –

– 76

68 –

– –

85

Serbia-Montenegro Russia Byelorussia Ukraine Georgia Moldavia

Self classification as religious person

– 73 (72) 52 – 67 89

–

Source: Author’s calculations; World Values Survey 1990, 1995–98, 1999/2000; results of subjective religiosity are from ISSP 1991 und 1998; * ⫽ PCE-Studie 2000; subjective religiosity ⫽ mean of ⫹3 extremely religious bis ⫺3 extremely unreligious.

92 88

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201

beliefs in a personal God and self assessment of religiosity in Poland, Albania and Romania. To answer the question of the development of religion in Eastern Europe, a look at the change in the religious beliefs is helpful. In the former UdSSR countries, there is a remarkable increase of this form of religious vitality. The development in the other Eastern European countries between 1990/1991 and 2000 seems to be more neutral. If we speak of a revival of religious orientations, we mainly have take a look at the postsoviet area and at the countries with dominant Orthodox Churches. But in some other Eastern European countries an increase can be seen, too (Slovakia and partly in the Czech Republic). Only in East Germany, Slovenia and Poland (with their high basic level) the situation has not taken such an increase. One interesting result is, that there are no large differences between Catholic countries in Western and Eastern Europe, referring to the personal religious beliefs and the belief in God, whereas the differences between the Protestant countries in Western and Eastern Europe are substantial. It seems that differences between Western and Eastern Europe can be led back to a great extend on differences in responsively of Churches to the socialist repression and this responsively differs between the countries with Catholic and Protestant heritage. The Protestant citizens were much more influenced by the socialist anti-religious repression, than the Catholic citizens: Result is an extremely low religious vitality in the Protestant countries of Central and Eastern Europe (East Germany, Estonia). Figure 9.6 shows another phenomenon – a huge number of people, which have doubts about the idea of a personal God, what is one base of Christian belief. This development seems to be an indicator for a slight decrease of a clear religious belief towards an uncertain religious feeling. Researches, who are affiliated to the theory of individualization, would rather interpret this result as an indicator representing the trend away from traditional religiosity towards personal religiosity. Yet, in difference to these theoretical thoughts, the results show a likely similar differentiation inside the Eastern European countries, as we have seen by the indicators of integration into church, an illustration of traditional religious behaviour. As a short conclusion, all the empirical results presented here show similar descriptions of the selected groups of countries: They are very homogeneous inside the groups and the groups among each other are very heterogeneous. The three cut-lines seem to determine the religious and ecclesial affiliation in a cumulative way. This also includes attendance at church, the trust in church as an institution and the personal beliefs. Specific differences exist between the personal beliefs and the institutional

202

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE

component. Especially in Eastern Europe, there are recognizable differences between the trust in church and the personal beliefs. The personal beliefs and the attendance at church are much closer connected (Pearson’s r ⫽ 0.45). Some countries – like Poland, Ireland and Northern Ireland – are exceptions in their groups. Their special social problems are mostly related to a close relation between political problems and religious beliefs. This relationship is, in combination with historical incidents responsible for the specific situation in each of these nations. Lithuania and Romania were also influenced by such developments, but not as distinct as the nations mentioned first. If we cast a glance at the dynamic component of religious beliefs in Europe, we can say, that in Western Europe, a general decline of attendance at church can be observed between 1991 and 2000, except for Italy. The countries with a high level of attendance at church are threatened by this development as well as the countries with a low level of attendance at church. Rising ecclesial disaffiliation is a simple fact in industrialized Europe with the above mentioned exception of Italy. The developments of personal religious beliefs in the Western European countries do not differ essentially from the presented tendency of declining integration into church. For Western Europe, you can rather speak of a secularization than as of an individualization of religion. In Eastern Europe, there is a quite different situation. In Hungary, the transition has lifted the level of attendance at church from 1989 to 1990, and since then it has been as stable as in East Germany, just on a lower level. In Poland, there has been a decline of attendance at church since 1988. If we conclude the results: the integration into church since 1990 in general was stable or declined a little (Slovenia, Slovakia, Poland, Latvia, and Romania). Contrary to these developments, the belief in religion shows much more heterogeneity. In a lot of countries (Slovenia, Russia, Ukraine, Belarus) the subjective religiosity increases, in some other (East Germany. Poland) there is no substantial development in one or another direction. Perhaps, one can speak about a limited revival of subjective religiosity. Still, this is not a revival of religion in a whole, because the trust in church and the religious behaviour didn’t follow the same direction. The revival of religion in Eastern Europe seems to be a revival of subjective religion, not related to the social organizations of church.

Sources of Eastern European religiosity The distributions of integration into church and religious beliefs over the countries indicate some effects of the macro-level cut-lines on the

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203

indicators of religious vitality, as presented in Table 9.2. But in comparative analysis, it is better to test effects in a systematic way, than to only have confidence in superficial views on distributions. To confirm the ideas resulting from the descriptive views, it is necessary to carry out an aggregate analysis.31 The aim of the aggregate analysis is to identify correlations between signs of the units, mostly countries. To clarify: Not signs of the individual, but signs of the society are the focus point of the analysis. Starting point for the aggregate analysis32 is the reference to the macro cut-lines and the theoretical approaches presented in Table 9.1. To test the hypotheses it is useful to carry out a regression analysis, including the possible sources of religious vitality. In this analysis, it is possible to identify systematic effects and outliers (countries, which differ from general effects).33 First is, that the socialist history has an effect on the belonging to a religion and the attendance at church. If you are citizen of a postsocialist country, the possibility, that you are member in a confession is lower, than if you are a citizen in a country with no socialist history. Additionally, you will not so often attend the religious services of your church. Nevertheless both effects are small. Socialist repression has lead to a decrease in all religious practices and therefore to a difference between Western and Eastern.34 Beside the effect of former socialism, there are a lot of other effects you can see in Table 9.7 all over Europe. For example, a higher level of modernization drops the trust in church, the church attendance and undermines the belief in god in European comparison. Both possible indicators (HDI-rank and GDP) have almost the same influence.35 Especially belief in god shows a clear linear decrease with a rising level of modernity in one country. The confessional heritage now influences the attendance at church and the trust in church, if you take the Catholic side, or the religious beliefs, if you take the Protestant side. People in Catholic countries attend church more often, than in protestant countries. This result reflects the stronger connection of members of the Catholic Church to their institution, measured by religious practice, a result, we can find in individual data analysis. In relation to countries with other confessions (Catholic, Orthodox, and Muslim), also the belief in god and the subjective religiosity are lower in countries with a Protestant heritage. It seems that people in these countries are more responsible for effects of religious de-vitalization. This result supports the argumentation of the secularization thesis, because integration into church and personal beliefs seems to be stronger connected, than expected by the advocates of the individualization thesis. The confessional heritage is also the predictor for the concentration effect.

204

Table 9.7

Macro-sources of religiosity in Europe: pooled regression analysis Position to church

Integration into church/ religious behaviour

Subjective religious orientations

Trust in church

Member of denomination

Attendance at church

Subjective religiosity

Belief in personal God

⫺22.1 (⫺3.12) ⫺0.82 (5.08)

⫺39.5 (⫺3.48) ⫺0.68 (2.22)

⫺14.7 (⫺3.05) ⫺0.26 (2.36)

⫺27.6 (⫺3.26) ⫺0.60 (3.07)

⫺45.2 (⫺6.08) ⫺0.97 (5.66)

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

⫹12.4 (3.40) n.s.

n.s.

Belonging to Protestant culture

⫹25.4 (4.74) n.s.

⫺0.45

⫺0.41

Church–State relationship

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

Religious concentration (controlled)

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

n.s.

R square

0.61

0.33

0.48

0.40

0.63

Post-Socialist past Degree of modernization (HDI-ranking) Belonging to Catholic culture

Source: Author’s Own calculations on the basis of accumulated aggregated data ‘Eurodat’; shown are values with a significance level of p ⬍ .05.; n.s. ⫽ no significant linear correlation, n ⫽ 45; OLS-regression; b-coefficients; in braces t-values. Data base: ISSP 1991–1998; World Value Survey 1990; and 1998; PCE-Study 2000; Pearson’s r correlations; HDI ⫽ Human Development Index of the United Nations; shown are values with a significance level of p ⬍ .10.; n.s. ⫽ no significant linear correlation; n ⫽ 33–45 (Trust in church 25–26). City-countryside-cleavage ⫽ Rate of people employed in the agrarian sector); religious concentration ⫽ per cent of major denomination in the country.

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205

If the correlation between religious concentration, measured by the percentage of the major denomination, and the indicators of religious vitality are calculated without any control factor, some correlation can be found. Only trust in church has no significant relation. However, if we control the concentration for the people, not being member in a denomination or religion, then the effect disappears. That means, not the concentration, but the percentage of religious integration itself will produce the effect. But this is a non-explanation. The result is, that religious concentration for itself does not seem to be relevant for the religious vitality. Also the second indicator for institutional religiosity, the church-staterelationship has no effect on the different indicators of religious vitality. As Table 9.7 show, the correlations are, however, not significant. That means in Europe, as far as I can say it with the limited data I have, the state–church–relationship has no effects on the vitality of religion. Interlocking church and state functions need not be damaging to the church, insofar as the church can use such interlocking to further its integration into society and to broaden its contact to society. In conclusion – modernization and cultural heritage are the main indicators, which determine religious vitality. But if we take a look on the situation in Western and Eastern Europe, there are a lot of differences in religious practice and feelings, and it could be possible, that there are effects within these country-groups, which are deviating from the general effects. Also it is a little surprising, that the long term effects of the socialist area are so small. With reference to these thoughts, I have divided the analysis in two parts – one for the countries with a socialist past, one for countries with a non-socialist past (Table 9.8). In Western Europe, the effects are nearly the same in comparison to the analysis, which take all European countries into consideration – with deviations. Beside the modernization effect, the other indicators get more impact on religious vitality. The Western European nations divide in their religious vitality by there different positions on the socio-economical development. Second, the cultural effects are stronger than in the global analysis. That means, a highly modernized Protestant Western European country, has the worst position for a good religious vitality. Together modernization and cultural heritage are the main factors of differences in the religious vitality of Western European countries – on the side of integration in church as in the subjective religious orientations. In Eastern Europe, nearly the same happens: we can find modernization effects not only on religious trust and subjective religiosity, but also on the membership to a denomination – not on attendance at church. Four religious indicators, except only attendance at church, are affected

206

Table 9.8

Regression on the macro-level – divided analysis Position to Church

Integration into Church/ religious behaviour

Subjective religious orientations

Trust in church

Member of denomination

Attendance at church

Subjective religiosity

Belief in God

Subgroup: Non-Socialist History (Western Europe) Degree of modernization ranking position on HDI ⫺0.55 GDP ⫺0.37 City–countryside cleavage ⫹0.43 Belonging to Catholic culture ⫹0.66 Belonging to Protestant culture ⫺0.63 Religious concentration n.s.

⫺0.50 ⫺0.32 ⫹0.41 n.s. n.s. n.s.

⫺0.54 ⫺0.49 ⫹0.38 ⫹0.53 ⫺0.56 n.s.

⫺0.49 n.s. n.s. ⫹0.42 ⫺0.47 n.s.

⫺0.76 ⫺0.65 ⫹0.51 ⫹0.72 ⫺0.63 n.s.

Subgroup: Socialist History (Central and Eastern Europe) Degree of modernization ranking position on HDI ⫺0.52 GDP ⫺0.53 City–countryside cleavage ⫹0.69 Belonging to Catholic culture n.s. Belonging to Protestant culture n.s. Religious concentration n.s.

⫺0.34 ⫺0.55 ⫹0.47 n.s. ⫺0.74 n.s.

n.s. n.s. n.s. ⫹0.46 ⫺0.34 n.s.

⫺0.43 ⫺0.32 ⫹0.44 n.s. ⫺0.70 n.s.

⫺0.51 ⫺0.64 ⫹0.55 n.s. ⫺0.62 n.s.

Source: Author’s Own calculations on the basis of accumulated aggregated data ‘Eurodat’. Data base: ISSP 1991–1998; World Value Survey 1990; and 1998; PCE-Study 2000; Pearson’s r correlations; HDI ⫽ Human Development Index of the United Nations; shown are values with a significance level of p ⬍ 0.10.; n.s. ⫽ no significant linear correlation; City-countryside-cleavage ⫽ Rate of people employed in the agrarian sector); religious concentration ⫽ % of major denomination in the country.

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207

by modernization and the belonging to a Protestant or a Catholic heritage: The Protestant Church has not such a strong foundation of their members to survive the socialist repression, like the Catholic Church or other Churches. That means: the Protestantism in Eastern Europe has not as much power to resist as any other Church. The non-significant results for Catholic Countries show, that sometimes the Orthodox denomination is the counterpart of Protestantism. One strong predictor for or against religious vitality is the City–countryside-cleavage. The more people are working in the agrarian sector the less they are in opposition to church and religion. The (controlled) religious concentration does not have a significant effect, like in the global analysis of all European countries. The problem with different independent hypotheses is, that it is not really clear, what the most powerful factor for the explanation of religious vitality is. All three cut-lines correlate in such a way, that a decision is not possible without a multivariate analysis, because the other explanation factors are always hidden in the bivariate correlations between one explanation factor and the religious vitality indicators. Therefore, to detect the dominant reason for higher or lower religious vitality in one country, multivariate linear analyses have to be carried out. The OLS-regression analysis, which is testing the different indicators in relation to each other indicators, draws a picture, which is difficult to interpret. The first surprise is that the split between countries with a socialist experience and countries with no socialist experience now becomes much more relevant, than in the simple correlation analysis. Besides the already familiar effect on the membership, now also attendance at church, subjective religiosity and belief in a personal god are heavily affected by the belonging to the post socialist countries. The second deviation to the bivariate calculations is the effect of socio-economic modernization on religious behaviour, which now appears also on the global level of an analysis with all European countries. The state-church relationship and the religious concentration does not have an effect at all and underlies the bivariate results. One interesting point is the relatively low effect of the confessional heritage. It seems to be, that some effects only appear, if the independent variables are intercorrelated. In the bivariate correlations (intercorrelated) countereffects reduce the impact of confessional heritage and strengthen the effects of socialism. As a consequence – you can calculate no substantial differences between Western and Eastern Europe in the bivariate correlation analysis. The question is, can we get more information about this phenomenon?

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Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE

If we control the correlations using a partial correlation analysis, we can see the crucial factors for the variation of the impact of socialism. It is the level of socio-economic modernization. If we control the effect of a socialist past by GDP or the HDI-Ranking, the effect is always the same: the negative correlations increase substantially in all investigated indicators of religious vitality. If we integrate the cultural heritage, and control these indicators as well, the correlations disappear or become stable. By the way, correlations between modernization and religious vitality are affected by socialism, too. What is the meaning of this empirical result? First, that, if both areas were equivalent in the level of socio-economic modernization, the Central and Eastern European countries would be on an extremely lower level of religious vitality. That means, their religious vitality would be higher without socialist experience. The time of socialism has indeed a clear negative effect on religious vitality in the Central and Eastern European countries, which are lasting until today. Second, their lack of modernization in comparison to the Western European countries works contrary to this development, because a low state of modernity is related to a higher religious vitality. Therefore, these countries have no worse level of religious vitality, because of their lower level of socio-economic modernization. Without this effect, the differences between Eastern and Western Europe would be much higher, than they are today. Also the other independent variable, the cultural heritage has an effect. The cultural heritage (Protestant or Catholic) correlates with socio-economic modernization, and has a reciprocal effect on eliminating each other single effect. That also means that Protestant postsocialist countries are much more affected by socialist repression, than the Catholic ones.

Conclusion The results of my analyses are much more complex, than I would have expected at the beginning. Referring to the effects of the long-term factors, it does not seem very probable, that Eastern Europe will become the place of the religious comeback in the modernity again. As the effect of the socialist repression disappears, as more the countereffect of an upcoming modernization will have negative effects on the religious vitality in Eastern Europe. Perhaps in the first years, a lot of Eastern European countries will adapt their normal vitality related to their confessional heritage and their position in the modernization process. But then, they will switch over to the same development like in Western Europe and this means a distance to Christian religiosity and its beliefs.

Table 9.9

The effect of socialism – partial correlations Position to church

Integration into church/ religious behaviour

Subjective religious orientations

Trust in church

Member of denomination

Attendance at church

Subjective religiosity

n.s. (23)

⫺0.33 (44)

⫺0.26 (44)

n.s. (45)

n.s. (30)

n.s. (44)

⫺0.25 (21)

⫺0.56 (32)

⫺0.32 (32)

⫺0.45 (31)

⫺0.63 (21)

⫺0.70 (31)

Controlled by culture heritage

⫺0.37 (23)

n.s. (41)

n.s. (42)

n.s. (40)

n.s. (29)

n.s. (40)

Controlled by modernization ⫹ Cultural heritage

⫺0.49 (21)

⫺0.58 (31)

⫺0.52 (31)

⫺0.57 (30)

⫺0.62 (24)

⫺0.78 (30)

Post-Socialist past Effect post-socialist past Controlled by degree of modernization

Belief in personal God

Belief in God

Source: Author’s calculations on the basis of accumulated aggregated data ‘Eurodat’. p ⬍ 0.10.; n.s. ⫽ no significant linear correlation; Partial correlations); in braces number of observations.

209

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Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE

The most interesting point is, that now we have very similar variations of the religious vitality over countries in Western and Eastern Europe. The current situation of religious vitality depends in Western and Eastern Europe on different processes, but it is interesting, that it has been reaching a really similar level in global Europe in the last years. If we assume, that the level of modernization in Central and Eastern Europe is much lower, than in Western Europe, a lift of religious vitality in Eastern Europe seems to be possible in future. Additional to that, some heritage from the socialist era will resist, because of their impact on socialization. And socialization seems to be the most relevant individual effect on religious vitality of single people. On one hand socialization stands in relation to the analysed macrostructures, on the other hand it structures religious vitality itself. But also you can see that the effects on the indicators of integration in church are stronger than on the indicators of belief: It seems, that first the integration in the Christian churches disappear and then, some years or generations later, the belief in god and the subjective religiosity follow. Sometimes it disappears generally, sometimes other forms of spirituality will replace it – but mostly for a limited time. The revival effects in religious values, which we can see sometimes in the last years, are something like a backlog effect, which will stop at a certain point. Lets resume: Most of the differences between the countries are effects of macro-processes and social circumstances. The modernization is the strongest factor to explain the state of religious vitality. In general, it seems to be possible, to order the European countries into different groups, which have a homogenous structure within the groups and which have a heterogeneous structure between the groups. These groups are determined by the shown cut-lines of modernization (social–economic cut-line), postsocialism (the near history of the social-political cut-line) and the historical cultural–ethnic cut-line. Therefore, a better understanding of the different starting points and developments is possible. Perhaps, the level of religious vitality can be understood as result of a modernization through socialism. This modernization will be another way to the same place, where the Western European countries stay after a socio-economic modernization. Now they are on this position and in the ongoing process of a fast modernization, they hold the level of religious vitality until they reach the Western European countries. Still, some results from the multivariate analysis, point to a substantial effect of socialism in Eastern Europe, that we can see in the countries today. It is possible, that in the next years the (negative) effects of modernization gain and the religious vitality decreases, because of other factors than

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before. The different directions of development in some parts depend on the cultural heritage of one country. In the Protestant countries the socialism seems to be something like a premodernization. In Catholic countries the situation is more stable and in orthodox countries there is a development towards a religious vitality without the consideration of the former socialist period in some years. To refer to comparative thoughts: We have not only single cases, but also not only a global development and situation in Eastern Europe. This differs not from Western Europe, but the bases for the development are sometimes similar, more often dissimilar. What we have to recognize is, that there are some effects, which work against one another. Therefore the prediction of the future development of religious vitality in Central and Eastern Europe are much more complicated, than expected from several scientists before.

Notes 1. R. Inglehart and P. Norris, Rising Tide: Gender Equality and Cultural Change Around the World (Cambridge: University Press, 2003), pp. 49–71. 2. Ibid., pp. 55–7; R. Inglehart, Modernization and Postmodernization: Cultural, Economic and Political Change in 43 Societies (Princeton: University Press, 1997), pp. 84–8. 3. Differences between age-cohorts, representing higher degrees of religious vitality in younger age-cohorts (M. Tomka and P. M. Zulehner: Religion im gesellschaftlichen Kontext Ost(Mittel)Europas (Ostfilden: Schwabenverlag, 2000); M. Tomka, ‘The Changing Social Role of Religion in Eastern and Central Europe: Religion’s Revival and its Contradictions’, Social Compass 42 (1995) 17–26) are pointing to a development in this direction. 4. The beginning decline in the socialist area can continue, because of the nonChristian socialization of the people, which have left the church in socialism. Some empirical results give substance to this thesis. 5. The decrease of attendance in church in Western Europe is undisputed in both approaches. 6. Cf. H. Denz: ‘Postmodernisierung von Religion in Deutschland’, in D. Pollack and G. Pickel (eds), Religion und kirchlicher Wandel in Ostdeutschland (Opladen: Leske ⫹ Budrich, 2000), pp. 70–86; S. Harding and D. Phillips, Contrasting Values in Western Europe. Unity, Diversity and Change (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 1986); Tomka/Zulehner: Religion im gesellschaftlichen Kontext Ost(Mittel)Europas; D. Pollack and G. Pickel (2000), ‘The Vitality of Religion– Church Integration and Politics in Eastern and Western Europe in Comparison’, Discussion Papers des Frankfurter Institutes für Transformationsstudien. 13/00 (Frankurf/Order). 7. In this chapter, I don’t want to discuss the different positions of the secularization thesis and the individualization thesis of religion and the fitting of the results for one of these theses. The main interest of my analysis is focused on a

212

8.

9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16.

17.

18. 19.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE macro-sociological perspective and only at the second sight on the discussion of secularization and individualization of religion. such as R. Finke and R. Stark, ‘Religious Economies and Sacred Canopies: Religious Mobilization in American Cities’, American Soziological Review 53 (1988) 41–9, eadem, The Churching of America 1576–1990: Winners and Losers in Our Religious Economy (New Brunswick: Rutgers, 1992), L. R. Iannaccone, ‘The Consequences of Religious Market Structure: Adam Smith and the Economics of Religion’, Rationality and Society 3 (1991) 156–77, idem, R. Finke and R. Stark, ‘Deregulation Religion: The Economics of Church and State’, Economic Inquiry 35 (1997) 350–64, or S. Warner, ‘Work in Progress toward a New Paradigm for the Sociological Study of Religion in the United States’, American Journal of Sociology 9/5 (1993) 1044–93. Cf. M. Tomka, ‘The Changing Social Role of Religion in Eastern and Central Europe’; D. Pollack, ‘Religiöser Wandel in Mittel- und Osteuropa’, in idem, I. Borowik and W. Jagodzinski (eds), Religiöser Wandel in den postkommunistischen Ländern Ost- und Mitteleuropas (Würzburg: Ergon, 1998) 11–52. M. Chaves and D. E. Cann, ‘Regulation, Pluralism and Religious Market Structure: Explaining Religion’s Vitality’, Rationality and Society 4 (1992) 272–90. like D. Martin, A General Theory of Secularization (New York: Blackwell Publishers, 1978). M. Haller, ‘Grenzen und Variationen gesellschaftlicher Entwicklung in Europa – eine Herausforderung und Aufgabe für die vergleichende Soziologie’, Österreichische Zeitschrift für Soziologie 13/4 (1988) 5–19; G. Pickel, ‘Religiosität und Kirchlichkeit in Ost- und Westeuropa’, in Pollack/et al. (eds), Religiöser Wandel, pp. 55–85; G. Pickel, ‘Moralische Vorstellungen und ihre religiöse Fundierung im europäischen Vergleich’, in G. Pickel and M. Krüggeler, (eds), Religion und Moral (Opladen: Leske ⫹ Budrich, 2001), pp. 105–34; O. Müller, D. Pollack and G. Pickel, ‘Werte und Wertewandel religiöser Orientierungsmuster in komparativer Perspektive: Religiosität und Individualisierung in Ostdeutschland und Osteuropa’, in M. Brocker, H. Behr and M. Hildebrandt, (eds), Religion und Politik (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2002), pp. 99–125; Tomka/Zulehner: Religion im gesellschaftlichen Kontext Ost(Mittel)Europas. Cf. G. Pickel, ‘Religiosität und Kirchlichkeit in Ost- und Westeuropa’, in Pollack et al., Religiöser Wandel. That means, a country like Hungary is added to the more Catholic countries in Eastern Europe, though Hungary has a strong protestant history. Measured by the GDP per capita or the ranking position in the Human Development Index (data from Human Development Report). Cf. A. Przeworski and H. Teune, The Logic of Comparative Social Inquiry (Mallabar: John Wiley, 1970); G. King, R. O. Keohane and S. Verba, Designing Social Inquiry: Scientific Inference in Qualitative Research (Princeton: University Press, 1994). R. Inglehart, Modernization and Postmodernization; P. M. Zulehner and H. Denz, Wie Europa lebt und glaubt. Europäische Wertstudie (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1993). Only Hungary is included in the ISSP before 1990. The data sets used are available at the German Zentralarchiv für empirische Sozialforschung in Cologne. Zulehner/Denz, Wie Europa lebt und glaubt; P. M. Zulehner, ‘Wiederkehr der Religion?’, in H. Denz (ed), Die europäische Seele. Leben und Glauben in Europa

Religiosity in European Comparison

20.

21.

22.

23.

24. 25.

26.

27.

28. 29.

30.

31.

32.

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(Wien: Schwabenverlag, 2002), pp. 23–42; H. Denz: ‘Postmodernisierung von Religion in Deutschland’. The survey is part of the project Political Culture in Central and Eastern Europe (PCE 2000). Head of the project: Detlef Pollack; technical coordinator: Gert Pickel; Staff: Olaf Müller, Jörg Jacobs, European University Frankfurt (Oder). See W. Jagodzinski and K. Dobbelaere, ‘Der Wandel kirchlicher Religiosität in Westeuropa’, in J. Bergmann, A. Hahn and T. Luckmann (eds), Religion und Kultur (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1993), pp. 69–91; K. Dobbelaere, Secularization: An Analysis on Three Levels (Brussels: College of Europe, 2002). Variables to measure non-church and non-Christian religiosity could also be constructed, but the limited scope of this chapter prevents me from looking into these aspects at this time. Consequently, I will not be able to measure the dissemination of more individualistic, syncretistic, and diffuse forms of religion, in which non-church and non-Christian religious practices and orientations are necessarily included and I can not make any statements about the validity of the individualization theory. See C. Y. Glock, Toward a Typology of Religious Orientation (New York: University Press, 1954); C. Y. Glock and R. Stark, Religion and Society in Tension (Chicago: University Press, 1965); S. Huber, Zentralität und Inhalt: Ein neues multidimensionales Messmodell der Religiosität (Opladen: Leske ⫹ Budrich, 2003). Cf. G. Davie, Religion in Britain since 1945: Believing Without Belonging (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1994). D. Martin, Theory of Secularization; S. Bruce (ed), Religion and Modernization: Sociologists and Historians Debate the Secularization Thesis (Oxford: University Press, 1992); idem, Religion in the Modern World: From Cathedrals to Cults (Oxford: University Press, 1996), idem, Choice and Religion: A Critique of Rational Choice Theory (Oxford: University Press, 1999), idem, God is Dead. Secularization in the West (Oxford: University Press, 2002). see Przeworski/Teune, The Logic of Comparative Social Inquiry; S. Pickel, Methoden der vergleichenden Politikwissenschaft – Neue Entwicklungen und Diskussionen (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag, 2003). D. Pollack and G. Pickel, The Vitality of Religion-Church Integration and Politics in Eastern and Western Europe in Comparison: Arbeitsberichte des Frankfurter Institutes für Transformationsstudien 13/00 (Frankfurt/Oder, 2000). Further research in this topic is now conducted in a project of the Volkswagenstiftung with the title Religion im erweiterten Europa. In all European countries, including the Central and Eastern European countries, there is an agreement (75 per cent and 85 per cent of the population) in the rejection of any influence of religious leaders on politics (see Müller/Pollack/Pickel, ‘Werte und Wertewandel’; Pickel, ‘Moralische Vorstellungen’) The indicator is preferable to the selection of only parts of the question (for example the attendance at church one time per month and more), because it is sensible for changes in the groups of the less or middle in religion involved citizen. See T. Landman, Issues and Methods in Comparative Politics. An Introduction (London: Routledge, 2000); G. Pickel, ‘Religiosität und Kirchlichkeit in Ostund Westeuropa’, in Pollack/Borowik/Jagodzinski, Religiöser Wandel, pp. 55–85. For the aggregate analysis, 45 countries are integrated in a dataset (EUROREL 21 Eastern European countries, 20 Western European countries).

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33. The main problem of aggregate analysis are the small n’s (Cf. S. Lieberson, ‘Small N’s and big conclusions: an examination of the reasoning in comparative studies based on a small number of cases’, in C. C. Ragin and H. S. Becker (eds), What is a Case. Exploring the Foundations of Social Inquiry (Oxford: University Press, 1992), pp. 105–18), which makes it sensible for single outliers (countries). In the presented analysis in general a number of 45 units are used, which can be classified as middle-range analysis. 34. One cannot fail to notice the positive correlation between religious socialization and religiosity and church affiliation. Respondents who had a religious upbringing have, as adults, a stronger tendency towards religiosity than those who were not bound to church and faith. But this effect stands in relation to the analysed macro-factors. 35. In addition to that, the Cleavage between countryside and urban areas, underlines the modernization effect. The countries with more people employed in the agrarian sector, have a higher rate of positive orientation to religion, than countries with less.

10 Catholic Tradition and New Religious Movements: What Is New in the Present Religious Landscape in Croatia? Zrinka Štimac

The purpose of this chapter is an assessment of developments in the Croatian religious landscape during the last 15 years. Relationship between the Roman Catholic Church in Croatia and phenomena related to the Popular Religion and the New Religious Movements are considered. Popular Religion, New Religious Movements and ‘New Age’ have been variously defined. The following definitions will be helpful in describing the situation in Croatia. Hubert Knoblauch, a German sociologist, defines ‘Popular Religion’ as ‘the Layman’s Practice of Religion’ within the Christian churches.1 Christoph Bochinger, among other German historians of religion, considers New Religious Movements to be a diffused religious ‘scene’ comprising different social, ecological, spiritual and inner church movements as well as individual religious patterns.2 The Dutch scientist Wouter J. Hanegraaff suggests that ‘New Age’ has developed ‘into a type of broad folk religion appealing to many people at all levels of society’.3 It will be shown how Popular Religion, with exception of Apparitions and Pilgrimages helps establishing the New Religious Movements and how these two phenomena intertwine.

General information about the religious situation in the Republic of Croatia The present Republic of Croatia was established on the 25 June 1991. Since then the Catholic Church has become an important political power dominating public life thus influencing many political decisions in the State. It has become also an important exponent of moral values for society by undertaking the religious education in schools. 215

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Different statistical surveys concerning the number of believers in Croatia are available. That of 1999, the most extensive, reports 88,6 per cent of Croats to be Catholics, 1,5 per cent Serb–Orthodox, 8,5 per cent non-religious, 1 per cent Muslims and 1 per cent other. This shows a marked increase in the number of Catholics (over 20 per cent) and a reduction in the number of the Serb–Orthodox (approximately 8 per cent) and of the non-religious (approximately 18 per cent) compared with the 1989 survey.4 Furthermore a higher degree of religious practice was registered in rural- as opposed to urban-environment.5 From a Socio-political aspect, Croatian society may be considered to be in a state of transition, whereby two processes overlap. The first is secularization, with its sub-phenomena such as privatization and individualization thus inevitably altering the religious landscape. This secularization seems to enable the establishment of New Religious Communities of diverse religious content. The second process is that of de-secularization, i.e. the de-privatization of religion. De-privatization in Croatia is apparent due to the fact that the Catholic Church participates in political life and propagates the traditional ecclesiastical values. It has become the most important guardian of the national identity. Its current burst of activity – political and social – can be explained as fulfilling the wish to redress what it considers to be an ‘historical injustice’ as the former Socialist System prevented attempts by the Catholic Church to play an active role in society. Popular Religion in Croatia Popular Religion may be defined as a religious phenomenon consisting of various non-institutionalized religious forms of expression, subjective forms of faith, individual and collective rituals and symbols such as benedictions, processions and rural customs. This is particularly pronounced among Catholics. The original analysis of Popular Religion was, notwithstanding methodical problems, attempted by François-André Isambert. His conclusion was that the most important forms of Popular Religion are those of traditional culture and faith. They comprise oral culture (diminishing at the present time), ‘magic’ practices such as astrology and fortune-telling as well as religious mass phenomena such as pilgrimages and apparitions.6 Does this form of Catholicism prevail in Croatia and what is significant for the Popular Religion in this country? Jakov Jukic´, a well-known contemporary Croatian theologian, has observed that the churches are becoming emptier and pilgrimages concurrently more popular. He claims furthermore that Popular Religion in Croatia is a form of practising

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religion across all social strata, contrary to the general statement that this is an exclusively rural form of the religious practice. His view is that the growth of Popular Religion among Catholics in Croatia since 1991 is to be understood as being a protest against secularization and, at the same time, a criticism of the Catholic Church itself.7 Several decades earlier – in the former Yugoslavia – Marko Kerševan, a sociologist from Slovenia, observed that Christian topics were subject to ‘pagan’ interpretation and ‘pagan’ topics to christianised interpretations.8 He considered that the blending of national and religious celebrations were also to be understood as Popular Religion. As an example he cites All Saints’ Day (1 November) as being simultaneously a Remembrance Day for the Fallen of World War II and a Christian Holiday as in former times. By such means the former Yugoslav socialist system seemed, implicitly, to be supporting Christian Popular Religion. Moreover the onset of the privatization and individualization of religion was already to be found in socialist Yugoslavia and is not a brand new product of the present secularization. Since religious practice in public was politically unacceptable, religion was extruded into the private sphere. Indirectly, this supported all popular forms of religious practice such as those mentioned above. Another reason for the broad acceptance of Popular Religion in Croatia (and in the other former Yugoslavian countries) was and still is its relevance to the idea of a Nation and Identity. The connection is, generally speaking, a result of well known historical processes, during which a combination of religious and national symbols helps to establish national identity both in a positive and in a negative sense. Small religious communities and new ecclesiastic movements The revival of Christian conceptions in Croatia occurs both within the Christian churches as well as outside. The first reports concerning ecclesiastical movements in Croatia were supplied in socialist Yugoslavia by the State Security (Sluz ˘ba drz ˘avne sigurnosti). At that time the legal religious situation was defined by the Law on Religious Communities of 1976. The State Security, with its centre in Zagreb, collected information on Christian Churches and communities including ‘small religious communities’ (‘small’ in terms of members).9 The daily press Ve
ernji list, 12 of January 1997, reported about twenty registered and twenty non-registered ‘small religious communities’ existing in Croatia at that time.10 In Croatia several scientific researches report on the resurgence of Christian Churches and groups close to Christianity. ‘A Presentation of the Small Religious Communities in Zagreb’ by Marinovic´-Jerolimov was

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published in 1991. She investigated ‘small religious communities’ of different provenance such as Protestant, Jewish and those of Christian provenance – such as Jehovah’s Witnesses – independent of Institutionalized Churches.11 In another paper – ‘The Analysis of Publications of Small Religious Communities’ – Marinovic´ Bobinac analysed publications of Jehovah’s Witnesses, the Christian Pentecostal Church, the Baptist Church and the Christian Adventist Church. All these communities were found to be experiencing more toleration under the new legal system in Croatia compared with that experienced under the former Yugoslavian legal system in that they may freely publish and engage in charitable work.12 The geographers Reinhard Henkel and Laura Šakaja carried out the latest research on the Baptist Church (approximately 3500 members including children) in the Croatian region of Banovina with the towns Petrinja, Glina and some 191 villages. This is a region of markedly mixed population in terms of nationality and religion. The ethnic pattern changed completely following the most recent war. In 1991 approximately 58 per cent Serbs and 34 per cent Croats were registered. Today there are 23 per cent Serbs and 71 per cent Croats.13 Most of the ethnic Serbs – some of whom were Communists prior to the latest war, and those from mixed marriages – joined the Baptist Church. Henkel und Šakaja found three reasons for this phenomenon: firstly, this Church was grounded in the historical tradition of the Baptist Church and on memories and myths of this church activated in the war and post war periods; secondly, the Baptist Church became a middle-of-the-road ‘trans-national’ option in an ethnically mixed and divided area for those seeking a niche of religious ‘neutrality’; and thirdly, the humanitarian work of the church emphasized her viability and character, making it clear that she was not just an ‘obscure sect’.14 The slow development of increased religious tolerance can be explained as a result of the Croatian Act on the Legal Position of Religious Communities of July 2002, the first such legislation since that of socialist Yugoslavia in 1976. According to this new legislation, all religious communities were required to register in order to be acknowledged by the State. Only those registered and numbering more than 500 members were to be considered a religious community. Forty different religious communities were registered in Croatia prior to 2003.15 The theologian Stjepan Tadic´ lists New Ecclesiastical Movements within the Catholic Church in Croatia such as the Focolars, the New Catechumens, the Charismatic Movement, the community ‘Conjugal Meetings’, Taizé and diverse prayer groups such as ‘Molitva i rije
’ (‘Prayer

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and Word’). Although the author considers these to be marginal, he argues their importance, as having a twofold function in the society. Firstly, as a lay answer to the ecclesiastical challenges of the present time, and secondly as a lay-reaction against the progressive secularization.16 These movements, originally imported from various neighbouring countries, are found predominantly in the private sphere.17 The private sphere ensures not only the defence of religious practices but also shows by inference that privatisation and individualization have reached the Catholic Church in Croatia themselves.

New Religious Movements, ‘New Age’ and familiar phenomena Nowadays information concerning New Religious Movements in Croatia can be gathered from the publications of the Catholic Church Press, the national daily and weekly press and from the so called ‘alternative’ press or other secular sources. The press of the Catholic Church reports regularly, extensively and critically on the ‘New Age’ – the term ‘New Religious Movements’ has not been employed by this source as yet – in its Magazines Bogoslovska Smotra, Glas Koncila and notably in the Youth Magazines Veritas and Pogled. It is interesting to note what and whom the Church Press considers to constitute ‘New Age’: diverse World Religions and Religious Leaders, the Waldorf Paedagogic System, Theosophy, Alternative Medicine, Sun Myang Moon, Paulo Coelho, Rosicrucianism, Transcendental Meditation (TM), Ananda Marga, Satanism, Esoteric-Fairs and many others.18 The practice of Yoga seems to be considered a highly disturbing ‘New Age’ phenomenon by the Catholic Church. In the years 2003–2004 the Croatian Ministry of Education recommended the introduction of Yoga into schools as an addition to the school curriculum.19 The hierarchy of the Catholic Church considered this to be infiltration of the schools with Hinduism, and their severe criticism finally prevented the planned introduction of Yoga into the classroom. The topic of ‘New Age’ has been considered by Croatian theologians in various publications and symposia over the last few years. Here a brief overview. Stanko Jambrek, among other theologians, argues that the population longs for religious and moral values which are not available in the church.20 A further theologian Ton
i Trstenjak suggests that atheism in former Yugoslavia severed the strong connections existing between Croat National Culture and Catholicism. This enabled the influx and assimilation of magical elements into Catholicism.21 Mijo

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Nikic´ is of the opinion that ‘we must not be naive and peaceable concerning the phenomena of the different sects.’22 Alen Matušek, writing in the Catholic youth magazine Pogled, goes a step further in suggesting that the Catholic Church should not only take part in the debate about “New Age” and Alternative Medicine, but should also investigate ‘Alternative Medical Therapies’ such as Reiki, Bio-Energetic Medicine and Bach Flower Remedies. Moreover, he suggests the closure of the ‘Alternative Medical Therapies’ umbrella organization HUPED.23 Although the Catholic Church contradicts the newcomers, it seems that public opinion and the politics of the state are prepared to accept them. Why is this so? Glas Koncila, a well-known Catholic magazine, offers one possible answer to this question in an article written by Ivan Štengl, Professor of Law at the University of Zagreb. He suggests that the reason can be found in the modern concept of the State as a religiously pluralistic entity. Thus the public opinion and politics do not recognize the religious newcomers as being a menace to the political freedom of choice considered to be an option in a pluralistic society.24 Besides information about ‘New Age’ supplied by the Catholic Church, there are also secular sources for religious issues in Croatia, such as national publishing houses, magazines and the so-called Esoteric Fairs. In the virtual bibliographic information system of Croatia (KIS, knjini informacijski sustav Hrvatske), which gives information about activities of the Croatian publishing houses, one can easily establish which books have been published recently in the area of religions, esoteric and wellbeing/health/self-help (the subdivision is defined by the information system). Here is the information for the years 2003 and 2004. In the year 2003 the following number of relevant books were available: altogether 1416 titles on different religions, 37 on Hinduism, 10 on Buddhism, 10 on Islam, 7 on the Eastern Churches, 3 on Judaism, 3 on Ecumenism, 1 on Dialogue and all others on Catholicism. In 2004 there were 1495 available titles on religion of which 49 were about Hinduism, 15 about Buddhism, 15 about Islam, 7 about Eastern Churches, 4 about Judaism, 4 on Ecumenism, 14 on Dialogue and 28 on the History of Religion. 9 concerned the Charismatic Movement, 2 applied to Gnosis and 8 to Satanism. Under Esoteric literature there were 311 available titles in 2003 and 324 in 2004. In Well-being and Alternative Healing there were 489 available titles in 2003 and 515 books in 2004. Scientific literature on religions, on different alternative healing methods or on spiritual topics is available in all national book stores. There are obviously fewer books on diverse religions or Esoteric than books on Catholicism available, yet their number is steadily increasing.

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The most important publishers of books on esoteric and spiritual topics are Andrijic´i, Astroida, Biovega, Duševic´&Kršovnik, Ljevak, Nova arka, Steppress and Verbum. They print not only books but also ‘esoteric’ magazines such as Anima Mundi, alter, Aster, Ezoterikus, Lisa-Horoskop, Svjetlost, stella, Dossier-UFO and Zvijezde. These magazines imply that the term ‘New Age’ may comprise broad yet disparate Religious Groupings and ‘alternative’ ways of living, thus implying parallels between Subcultures and New Religious Movements. All the magazines examined had subjects in common, e.g. – articles on world religions, transcendental phenomena, healing practices, ecology and self-help. Substantial differences in quality are evident among the magazines. While Svjetlost can be described as relatively informative and science-friendly, Stella and alter are filled with non-verifiable reports concerning World Conspiracy Theories and unorthodox interpretations of religions and science. Their criticism of institutionalized religion puts them in diametrical opposition to the Catholic Church. The national daily or weekly papers such as Vecernji list and Arena also report regularly on issues bordering Catholic Popular Religion and phenomena close to the New Religious Movements. Ve
ernji list brought out a DVD ‘Well-being Collection’ with Yoga exercises in 2005, and Arena regularly reports on ‘healers’ such as Zeljko Vragovic´ and his ‘miracles’ which take place in the ancient Catholic church in Istria. ‘Esoteric Fairs’, of which there are two in Croatia, offer information about ‘Esoteric Practices’ and Alternative Medicine. The travel agency ‘Mystik Tours’ has been organising ‘Esoteric Fairs’ Ezoterica Croatika for the last 13 years. These take place several times a year in all larger Croatian towns. Notwithstanding the fact that name and content reveal them as being ‘Esoteric Fairs’ their organiser, Romana Franjic´, claims they are solely concerned with the promotion of ‘Medical Health with no connection to sorcery or similar practices’.25 Nevertheless, that the fair is more than health-promotion is revealed by the fact that information about selfconsciousness, meditation practices, future-reading, aura photography, Astrology, Yoga, and also many different religious communities and religious groups is available there. Lectures on corresponding themes have been offered on these occasions and diverse Religious Communities have been enabled to declare their aims and objectives at these Esoteric Fairs. (This applies also to Dani ezoterije, a Fair organised by Vesna Iljic´ in Rijeka.) It is interesting to note that the fairs must be registered as Trade Handicraft Fairs in order to obtain a State-Licence. World Wide Web is a further source of information concerning New Religious Movements in Croatia. The www-Directory compiled by the

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Faculty of Electronics and Electrical Engineering of the University of Zagreb lists the e-mail addresses of groups concerned with Spiritual Healing, Teachings and Techniques and of Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Moslem, Jewish and Baha’i religious communities.26

Croatian youth in past and present: an overview Although many different social and religious changes in the former Yugoslavia need to be taken into account to understand the present situation in the Republic of Croatia, it is impossible to mention them all in this chapter. One exception, however, must be made in the case of the years 1984 to 1990 in Croatia. The general situation was influenced by the political problems, an economic decline and the loss of prospects for younger people. At the same time Catholicism was strengthened following two decades of decline.27 In the midst of this situation the movement called ‘The Dark’ appeared and caused a ‘moral panic’ all over Yugoslavia. Why is this movement important in the context of New Religious Movements today? ‘The Dark’ were scattered groups of young people of different social standing – a few hundred, roughly between the ages of 14 and 25 – wearing an unrelieved black, who gathered around clubs with canned music predominantly in the largest towns such as Ljubljana and Zagreb, which were thought to be their centres. They can be considered as an equivalent to the ‘Gothics’ in the West European countries. In all important newspapers and magazines of the country the ‘moral panic’ was caused by reports about their sect ‘Black Rose’, which was believed to practice satanic masses and ritual suicides. These young people obviously played with religious elements in public life, which was unusual at that point in time. Moreover, with their appearance, music and behaviour ‘The Dark’ implied a social and moral critique of the society that was without perspective, individuality and plurality of thought. In the last phase of their existence they were accused by the politicians of collaborating with Neo-Nazis.28 This sort of accusation was always very effective in former Yugoslavia, so that the ‘sect’ disappeared after a few years. Nevertheless, it can be considered a pointer to the fact that in Croatia, as well in other parts of former Yugoslavia, the ‘alternative’ movement with religious elements had already existed there in the 1980s. Although this movement cannot be understood as a direct forerunner of the present New Religious Movements, it was a part of the broad social movement towards more individuality and plurality. This corresponds to Christoph Bochinger’s research on ‘New Age’ in Germany. He claims that the continuity of criticism of the social situation

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is to be found in the fact that new social movements appeared first, and the New Religious Movements emerged later.29 The results of the latest researches concerning the religious conduct of young people in Croatia are equivocal. Some sociological investigations reveal that, where religion is concerned, young people in Croatia are extremely conservative. Little difference is apparent between the religious conduct of the young and that of the generation of their parents.30 Croatian young people are consequently more authoritarian, more intolerant and more traditional in their outlook than are young people of the same age in Western European countries. However, they do not accept the church moral teachings and especially not those on sexual morality.31 The process of re-sacralization among the young people in the 1990s until today has been interpreted by the sociologists as a consequence of the secularization of the 20th century. Other investigations show that 71 per cent of Catholic young people believe in non-ecclesiastical religious ideas, 61 per cent believe in Fate – ‘there is a higher strength outside of this world’. A pronounced receptivity towards the idea of a transcendental world is, as is the case in Western Europe, prevalent among young people.32 Their connection to the Church in Croatia is tenuous. Investigations in Zagreb of their customary practices revealed that while approximately 32 per cent regularly visited Sunday Services, 60 per cent to 85 per cent of these do not participate in the life of the congregation.33 The prevailing conception of the Church is negative, the majority of young people do not believe that the Church can help in resolving personal or family problems.34 These conflicting data above show that de-secularization on the one hand and privatization of religion on the other, exist as two complementary processes. Accordingly, the de-secularization can be understood as a frame of religious identification in public life, whereas the privatization of religion is a result of an individual religious life and that religious life cannot solely be defined by the Church.

Conclusion After reading the reports in the Church media on New Religious Movements it would seem that two extremes are attempting to attain a balance in the religious landscape of Croatia, the Catholic Church on the one hand and New Religious Movements on the other. Nevertheless statistics show approximately 88.6 per cent Catholics and 8.2 per cent Non-Religious in Croatia. This fact suggests that many followers of New Religious Phenomena may themselves be Catholics. There are several

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indicators in this direction. Research carried out by the Institute for Economy in Zagreb concerning the most important socio-cultural values both in rural and urban environments showed that issues such as family, honesty, friendship or work all rank higher than religion.35 The research of Miklós Tomka and team shows that the majority of the Catholics in Croatia consider themselves ‘partly religious’.36 In other words this means that although the majority of Croats declare themselves to be Catholic, only 45 per cent accept all the teachings of the Church and 79 per cent even declare themselves to be individualistic in terms of the practice of their Religion.37 Another recent investigation shows that the term ‘Catholicism’ may not be understood strictly in the sense of the Catholic congregation. This means that many Croats definitely accept practices, rituals and various ‘New Age’ postulates.38 What enabled such a development? Popular Religion highly accepted in the past and present can be seen as preserving and conveying religious ideas through different periods and as a link between the former religious situation and the present one. Marko Kerševan showed this when commenting on the pagan content incorporated into the Christian religion and Christian elements within the socialist ideology. This would indicate the integrity of Popular Religion and its ability to develop and to adapt to contemporary changes. All these investigations and results in Croatia agree with the research results of some West European scholars. The German sociologist Detlef Pollack showed that religious syncretism begins within the churches themselves and is most pronounced among church members with a medium amount of church affiliation.39 Pollack postulates that these believers actualise Popular Religion. Also Knoblauch postulates that the most important points of intersection between Popular Religion and New Religious Movements are the crucial practices of self-help, magic and fortune-telling, arguing that a Christianity receptive to Popular Religion is indirectly acquiescent to tenets of the New Religious Movements.40 If church members themselves partly support or even create New Religious Practices in Croatia, then further questions arise: firstly, what is the common factor between Popular Religion and the phenomena inherent in the New Religious Movements in Croatia; and secondly, what does the whole situation indicate? Many Croatian theologians have registered formal similarities between New Religious Movements and Popular Religion which can be seen as their common factors. In the most general sense both Popular Religion and New Religious Movements symbolise a ‘revolt’ against secularization.

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They both lack an internal hierarchy and organization. Furthermore both emphasize individual religious experience to the neglect of ‘institutional binding’. They insist on affective elements and internal experience based on perception41 and endeavour to create a direct, simple and close connection to the transcendental world. This could indicate that within Popular Religion perception and emotion outweigh dogmas and abstract theology with the intention of forming a divinity or divinities after their own (anthropomorphic) imaginations.42 These formal similarities seem to be sufficient to enable people to pass easily from the one phenomenon to the other, and even to deal with them simultaneously. They even seem to stimulate one another to a certain extent. The present religious situation concerning Popular Religion and New Religious Movements in Croatia would seem to indicate the following. First, the present change in the religious landscape of Croatia towards more individuality and plurality was not introduced with the process of political transition and with New Religious Movements imported from abroad. This change had already been present in socialist times, due to both ‘socialist’ secularization and to different phenomena such as Popular Religion, ‘small religious communities’ and diverse subcultures. Secondly, that the importance of religious practice in Croatia is comparatively high compared with other post-communist countries such as the Czech Republic or Slovenia.43 According to the research of Tomka and Zulehner, people in Croatia even expect the practice of religion to increase in the future.44 The high importance conceded to the practice of religion in general could be a reason for the acceptance of New Religious Movements into Croatian society. The hypothesis that Popular Religion and the phenomena inherent in the New Religious Movements in Croatia intermingle might explain why the Catholic Church is as critical towards the religious ‘newcomers’ and spend a lot of time analysing them. Thirdly, the intense de-secularization in the country shows, in my opinion, not only the attempt of the Catholic Church to play an important role in society but also the shift of functions within the religious landscape: the Catholic Church is the ‘Public Church’ with a socially and politically relevant role, whereas the Popular Religion and the New Religious Movement tend towards privacy. Fourthly, a number of politicians in Croatia support the religious diversity as an essence of modern society. Sometimes it seems to be a political calculation rather than a broad political tendency due to the increase in international pressure over the last few years (EU-negotiations). Although the climate of opinion seems to be receptive of the phenomena associated with the New

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Religious Movements (especially where Catholicism is familiar) it is apparent that in religious plurality there are many problems requiring a solution, particularly where Moslem or Serb–Orthodox minorities are concerned. Time will show to what extent religious plurality is really going to be achieved in the future.

Notes 1. H. Knoblauch, Religionssoziologie [The Sociology of Religion] (Berlin et al.: de Gruyter, 1999), pp. 187f. 2. Chr. Bochinger, ‘New Age’ und moderne Religion: Religionswissenschaftliche Perspektiven (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995), p. 99. 3. W. J. Hanegraaff, ‘New Age Religion and Secularisation’, Numen XLVII (2000), No. 3, 289. 4. F. Radin, V. Ilišin, H. Radin Štimac and D. Marinovic´ Jerolimov (eds), Youth and Transition in Croatia (Zagreb: Institute for Social Research, 2002), p. 85. 5. Ibid., p. 105. 6. M. N. Ebertz and F. Schultheis (eds), Volksfrömmigkeit in Europa [Popular Religion in Europe] (München: Chr. Kaiser, 1986), p. 19. 7. J. Jukic´, Buduc´nost religije [The Future of Religion] (Split: Matica Hrvatska, 1991), p. 41. 8. M. Kerševan, ‘Das slowenische Weihnachtsfest. Zur Volksfrömmigkeit in Jugoslawien’ [The Slovenian Christmas. On Popular Religion in Yugoslavia], in Ebertz/Schultheis, Volksfrömmigkeit in Europa, p. 181. 9. J. Kolaric´, ‘Navjestitelji novog svijeta’ [The Announcers of the New World], in M. Nikic´ (ed.), Novi religiozni pokreti (Zagreb: Filozofsko-teološki institut Drube Isusove, 1997), p. 271. The document ‘Obavještajno indikativne aktivnosti pojedinaca iz tkz. malih vjerskih zajednica’ has the number 23/25, 22. February 1990. 10. Nikic´, Novi religiozni pokreti, p. 37. 11. D. Marinovic´ Jerolimov, Prikaz malih vjerskih zajednica u Zagrebu [The Description of the Small Religious Communities in Zagreb] (Zagreb: IDIS, 1991), p. 134f. Following churches and communities were researched: the Protestant Church, the Baptist Church, Christian Reformation Church, Christ Church Betanie; the Old-Catholic movements such as Croatian Catholic Church and Free Catholic Church; the Evangelic Church, Full Gospel Church, Christ Spirit Church; and other communities such as Jehova’s Witnesses, The Adventist Church and finally Jewish Religious Community. 12. A. Marinovic´-Bobinac, Analiza sadraja tiska malih vjerskih zajednica [The Analysis of the Small Religious Communities’ Press] (Zagreb: IDIS, 1991), pp. 111ff. 13. R. Henkel and L. Šakaja, A niche in post-conflict space: the Baptist Church as a ‘middle option’ in Banovina, Croatia. International conference: ‘Dayton 10 Years After. Conflict Resolution and Cooperation Perspectives’ organized by the Commission Political Geography of the International Geographical Union in Sarajevo 30 November 2005, p. 7. 14. Ibid., p. 1. 15. US Embassy. Religious Freedom Report 2005, p. 2. www.usembassy.hr/ reports/religious_rights/2005.htm

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16. St. Tadic´, Suvremeni eklezijalni pokreti u katoli
koj crkvi u Hrvata [Modern Ecclesiastic Movements Within the Catholic Church of Croats] (Dissertation, Zagreb, 1992), pp. 229–331. 17. Idem, ‘Društveno-povijesni i socioreligijski
imbenici’, 44. 18. J. Blaevic´, ‘Kronologija New Agea (5)’ [The Chronology of New Age], Veritas 3 (2005). 19. A. Matušek, ‘Joga naša svagdanja’ [Our Daily Yoga], Pogled 8 (2003). 20. St. Jambrek: New Age i kršc´anstvo [New Age and Christianity] (Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1997), p. 55. 21. T. Trstenjak, ‘Metodi propagande i uzrozi uspjeha novih religioznih pokreta’ [The Methods of Propaganda and the Reasons of Success of the New Religious Movements], in Nikic´, Novi religiozni pokreti, p. 59. 22. Nikic´, Novi religiozni pokreti, p. 38. 23. A. Matušek, ‘HUPED misli ozbiljno’ [HUPED has Taken it Seriously], Pogled 4 (2003). According to him there are approx. 12,000 general practitioners in Croatia. 24. I. Štengl, ‘Religioznost zahvac´a mentalitet trišne ekonomije’ [Religiousness Cought by the Free Market Mentality], Glas Koncila, 17 July 2005. 25. The conversation with Romana Franjic´ was hold on the 4 December 2004 in Zagreb. 26. www.hr/wwwhr/info/index.hr.html (4 January 2006) 27. Zrinš
ak, ‘Ima neka tajna veza’, 25. 28. www.leksikon-yu-mitologije.net/read.php?id⫽355 (15 December 2005) 29. Bochinger, ‘New Age’ und moderne Religion, p. 186 ff. 30. Zrinš
ak, ‘Ima neka tajna veza’, 32f. (See also Radin et al., Youth and Transition in Croatia, p. 121) 31. Ibid., 33. 32. Radin et al., Youth and Transition in Croatia, p. 99. 33. V. Mandaric´, ‘Crkva u o
ima mladih’ [Church through the Eyes of the Youth], Bogoslovska smotra 71 (2001), no. 4, 586. 34. Ibid., 588. 35. D. Marinovic´ Jerolimov, ‘Nereligioznost u Hrvatskoj 1968–1990’ [NonReligiousness in Croatia], in Prilozi izu
avanju nereligioznosti i ateizma, No. 2 (Zagreb: IDIS, 1993). 36. M. Tomka and P. Zulehner, Religion in den Reformländern Ost(Mittel)Europas [Religion in the Reformed Countries of the Eastern and Middle Europe] (Wien: Schwabenverlag, 1999), p. 161. 37. Grünfelder, Ehe und Familie in Kroatien, p. 4.  38. G. Crpic ´ and J. Jukic´, ‘Alternativna religioznost: Vjera i moral u Hrvatskoj’ [Alternative Religiousness: Belief and Moral in Croatia], Bogoslovska smotra 68 (1998), No. 4, 663–72; 513–63. Peter Torok showed that Croatia has the mediate rank concerning general knowledge of different ‘old’ and ‘new’ religions among the former communist countries. P. Torok, The Spiritual Supermarket: Religious Pluralism in the 21st Century. CESNUR International Conference: The Spiritual Supermarket. London Economic School, 19 and 22 April 2001, London. p. 2. 39. D. Pollack, Zwischen Indifferenz und Individualisierung: Religion in Mittel- und Westeuropa [Between Indifference and Individualization. Religion in Middle

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40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE and Western Europe], www.kuwi.euv-frankfurt-o.de/⬃vgkulsoz/Lehrstuhl/ Pollack/religio1.htm Knoblauch, Religionssoziologie, p. 186f. Ebertz/Schultheis, Volksfrömmigkeit in Europa, p. 17. Jukic´, Buduc´nost religije, p. 41. Tomka/Zulehner, Religion in den Reformländern Ost(Mittel)Europas, p. 63. Ibid., p. 55.

11 The Concept of Canonical Territory in the Russian Orthodox Church Johannes Oeldemann

If, on this panel, we deal with different ‘Conceptions of “space” in Russia’, we will only be able to completely grasp this set of issues if, besides the cultural dimension and the philosophical context, we will also give attention to the ecclesial understanding of ‘space’. Already the fact that popular-scientific books often speak of ‘Holy Russia’ shows that Christian faith had a shaping effect on the identity of the Russian people. From the 10th century onwards, Byzantine Christendom gained such shaping power for the Russian culture and history that both in the self-awareness and in the outside perception it was self-explanatory to talk about Russia to be an ‘Orthodox country’. This lasted even during the 20th century, when communist dictators tried to crush ecclesial life in the Soviet Union. After the break up of the Soviet Union, the Russian Orthodox Church once more gained an important role in society, although it seems to be no longer such a shaping power for the majority of the population as being often assumed in the self-presentations of the Patriarchate. Even if up to now Russia without doubt is an Orthodox country by a majority, its ecclesial scene today is more complex and stratified than ever before. This is caused by the fact that after the breakdown of the Soviet Union not only the Russian Orthodox Church was able to reorganize its ecclesial structures, but also Catholics, Lutherans and Old Believers (Old Ritualists) who, even before the October Revolution, had already been able to lead a certain own life in Russia, as well as numerous Protestant free churches, Christian sects and other religious groups which in the Nineties tried to move into the booming ‘religious market’ in Russia. On the part of the Russian Orthodox Church, which felt its traditional role in the Russian society to be jeopardized by the numerous competing religious groups, this led to corresponding defence reactions. 229

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In this context, since the Nineties the term ‘canonical territory’ is used more frequently by the representatives of the Moscow Patriarchate.1 Thus, for example, the establishment of four Roman Catholic dioceses in the territory of the Russian Federation in February 2002 was condemned to be an interference of the Vatican in the ‘canonical territory’ of the Moscow Patriarchate.2 This points to the fact that the concept of the canonical territory above all serves to fend off competing ecclesial structures. The term ‘canonical’ refers to the canons of the Church councils, that is to the rules of Canon Law. Although the term ‘canonical territory’ only since recently has been used to assign a particular area to a particular church, the contents of that term is, according to the facts, deeply rooted in Church tradition.3 That is why in a first step I will give attention to the background of that term in Church history and Canon Law before, in a second step, I will try to explain the meaning of the term and, finally, will come to an assessment of the concept of canonical territory.

Historical and canonical background Even during the first centuries the still young Christian Church was structured into territories. Already the Bible shows this basic principle when the Apostle Paul addresses his letters to the church of Rome, Corinth, Galatia, and so on. Paul opposed himself specifically to an ecclesial structure which is orientated towards particular persons, as shown in his exhortation for unity in the church of Corinth where there were disputes between the followers of Paul and the followers of Apollos. After the Constantine change, the Imperial Church Organization reinforced the territorial principle: The secular administrative structures (dioceses) served as a model for the organization of the church. Already soon afterwards, the emergence of heretical trends and schismatic groups made it necessary to enact the territorial principle in Canon Law. Thus, already canon 8 of the First Council of Nicaea (325) states that in one city there must not be two bishops.4 The principle that in one city there should only be one bishop was confirmed by numerous councils of the first millennium.5 At this point, it is not possible for me to quote all relevant canons of the ancient church, but at least I would like to indicate on canon 2 of the First Council of Constantinople (381) in which, as a consequence of the territorial principle being already formulated in Nicaea, it is fixed that no bishop may interfere in the concerns of another local church. If, therefore, the Moscow Patriarchate uses the term ‘canonical territory’ today in order to fend off competing ecclesial structures, it will definitely be able to refer to an old tradition of the church. However, it is

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not clear whether the canons of the ancient church can be transferred to the present situation without any problem. I will briefly comment on it at the end of my statement. Let me say a few words about the background in Canon Law: Apart from the principle being formulated in the canons of the ancient church that in one city there should only be one bishop, there are in fact no regulations in Canon Law regarding the territorial principle which are more precise. In connection with the millennium celebrations in memory of the baptism of the Kievan Rus, the Russian Orthodox Church was able to pass a new statute (Ustav) in June 1988, the first article of which states that all Orthodox believers in the territory of the Soviet Union are members of it. In the revised version of this statute passed by the Bishop’s Council of the Russian Orthodox Church in August 2000, the term ‘canonical territory’ appears for the first time in an official document of the Moscow Patriarchate. Chapter 1, §3 of the statute reads as follows: ‘The jurisdiction of the Russian Orthodox Church shall include persons of Orthodox confession living on the canonical territory of the Russian Orthodox Church.’6 In order to give a precise definition of this canonical territory, the following states are mentioned in the same paragraph: Russia, Byelorussia, Ukraine, Moldavia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kirghizia, Tajikistan, Turkmenia, Uzbekistan, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia. Regarding the former Soviet Republics, only Georgia and Armenia having independent churches for historical reasons, are missing in this list. The statute, therefore, illustrates that the Moscow Patriarchate considers the whole area of the former Soviet Union to be its canonical territory. The strict territorial principle, however, is broken by the final half-sentence of this article, according to which those Orthodox believers are members of the Russian Orthodox Church as well, ‘living in other countries and voluntarily joining this jurisdiction’. This half-sentence obviously aims at Orthodox believers of Russian origin in the diaspora who belong to the Moscow Patriarchate. The strict territorial principle is watered down in this way. The Catholic Canon Law does not know any comparable rules. Only in the Code of Canons of the Catholic Oriental Churches there can be found an own chapter about the territory of the Patriarchate churches (CCEO, can. 146–50), but without any parallel to the Latin Canon Law. However, a number of ecclesiological statements of the Second Vatican Council as well as several regulations of the Latin Codex (CIC) are closely connected with the set of questions being raised by canon 8 of the Council of Nicaea.7 Against this background, how can the meaning of the term ‘canonical territory’ be defined?

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The meaning of the term ‘canonical territory’ Although it is evident that the term ‘canonical territory’ primarily aims at the definition of a particular area being the area of responsibility of a particular church, a pure geographical definition would be insufficient. One will only be able to grasp the whole meaning of the term when realizing its theological meaning besides the geographical dimension and including the cultural and ethnic aspects.8 Thus, the term canonical territory can be reflected on from different points of view. In a geographical view, the canonical territory of the Moscow Patriarchate had been subject to a continual change: Having its centre in the region around Kiev at first, it gradually moved to the north after the Mongolian attack until its new centre was found in Moscow. After the Russian Church had declared itself independent from its Mother Church in Constantinople and had received the patriarchal status in 1589 as well, it was more and more able to extend its sphere of influence. Different factors encouraged this development: on the one hand there was the extension of the Russian Empire to the east due to which vast areas to the east of the Urals and even Alaska were included into the jurisdictional area; on the other hand this development was encouraged due to the difficult situation of the Patriarch of Constantinople in the Ottoman Empire, restricting his influence to a large extent. The above mentioned article from the statute of the Moscow Patriarchate makes clear that today the Russian Orthodox Church considers even those areas to be part of its canonical territory which had only been annexed to the Soviet Union under Stalin at the end of the Second World War. The tensions between the Orthodox and the Greek Catholic Churches in the Ukraine are based on this problem for a considerable part. The theological dimension of this term should be differentiated from the geographical dimension. The canons of the ancient church intended to maintain the unity of the local church by the regulation that in one city there should only be one bishop. The local bishop does not stand alone but shares fellowship in the communion of the bishops and thereby is going to be a guarantor of the communion between his local church and the other local churches. Nevertheless, a precondition of this principle is the existing communion between the local churches. So the use of the principle ‘one city – one bishop’ requires the existing communion of churches. Therefore, I would agree with Cardinal Kasper saying: ‘A fundamental solution of the question of canoncial territory can finally be found only within a common ecclesiology of communion on a universal level.’9 This already points to the fact that the regulations of the

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canons of the ancient church are not applicable to the present situation without a question. This is confirmed by a comparison of the canons of the ancient church with the modern statutes of different Orthodox Patriarchates as it was made by John Rinne.10 His analysis closes with the statement that there is ‘a certain tendency to put more emphasis on the administrative aspect and the national understanding of the local Church than on the ancient ecclesiological concept of the local Church.’11 Finally, the term canonical territory has also a cultural–national dimension shown in the fact that the Moscow Patriarchate claims the jurisdiction over those Orthodox believers who live outside its canonical territory but are shaped by the Russian language and culture and, according to this, feel to be associated with Russian Orthodoxy. One will quickly be inclined to attribute this weakening of a strict use of the concept of canonical territory to the ethnic principle (one nation – one church) which has been predominant in the Orthodox Church since the 19th century, although ‘phyletism’ was condemned by an Orthodox synod in 1872. The position of the Moscow Patriarchate in this regard is ambivalent: On the one hand all ethnic Russians are considered to be – at least potential – members of the Russian Orthodox Church, on the other hand the Moscow Patriarchate explicitly describes itself in its statute to be a ‘multinational’ Church (Chapter 1, §1), to which, apart from Russians, Ukrainians, White Russians and Estonians also Komi and Mordwinians belong who became Christians by Russian Orthodox missionaries. The cultural–national dimension of the term ‘canonical territory’, therefore, should not be automatically identified with the ethnic principle.

Some remarks on the assessment of the concept of canonical territory Now I will turn to the final assessment of the concept of canonical territory for which the different dimensions of this term should be considered. From a geographical perspective, the use of this term is extremely problematic: A glance into church history is sufficient to realize how often the boundaries of jurisdictional areas of churches have moved. Insofar it is doubtful and questionable if the Russian Orthodox Church uses particular state-owned structures in order to define its canonical territory. The quarrels with the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople about the jurisdiction of the Orthodox believers in Estonia as well as with the Romanian Orthodox Church regarding the ecclesial structures in the Republic of Moldova already show that the territorial claim of the Moscow Patriarchate made hereby does not remain to be without a question.12

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From a theological perspective, the principle of canonical territory being vehemently supported by the Moscow Patriarchate can be assessed to be positive at first glance: The Moscow Patriarchate tries to hold on to the principle of unity of the local church by means of the concept of canonical territory. Because of the fact that the Russian Church does not only apply this principle towards the other Orthodox Patriarchates, but also with regard to the Catholic Church it indicates that from its point of view a certain communion with the Catholic Church has been preserved. Metropolitan Filaret of Minsk, Chairman of the Theological Commission of the Moscow Patriarchate, therefore, emphasized that the use of this concept implies the recognition of the Catholic Church as a sister church.13 Nevertheless, also from a theological point of view questions about this concept are to be raised: The territorial principle presupposes an understanding of a unity of the churches according to which a plurality within the church is inconceivable. A strict use of the principle of canonical territory means that only those believers can be regarded as being part of the church who are in communion with the local bishop and through him in communion with the other episcopal local churches. All other Christians, according to this, can only be classified into the categories of heresy and schism, thus they stand outside the church. Insofar the principle of canonical territory is not applicable to the present multidenominational situation without a question. The fact of a denominational separation of the churches is an ecclesiological anomaly, against the background of which there cannot be any acceptable solution to the problem in the end. Besides the denominational separation of the churches also the modern migrational movements put into question the applicability of the concept of canonical territory. Not only the pastoral care for Roman Catholics on the territory of the Russian Federation who, due to Stalin’s displacements, have been spread from the former closed areas of settlement across the whole Soviet Union, but also the situation of the Orthodox diaspora in Western Europe and America are eloquent examples of this. As a theologian working in an ecumenical institute, I would finally like to mention another argument from an ecumenical point of view that speaks against a strict hold on the principle of canonical territory. From different statements of representatives of the Moscow Patriarchate we see that in their opinion it would be the best if the churches agreed on particular spheres of influence: According to this, the Orthodox should be responsible for the evangelisation in Russia, the Catholics for the evangelisation in Western Europe. Such a sharing of the territories of pastoral responsibility and missionary activities would certainly be useful from the

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point of view of the division of labour but, nevertheless, it would just strengthen the alienation between the Churches of East and West lasting over centuries. An analysis of the history of the ecumenical movement of the 20th century shows that the efforts towards Christian unity above all gained a special dynamism where Christians of different traditions and denominations have met. From an ecumenical view it might, therefore, be counterproductive to assign particular territories to a particular denomination. This model has proved itself in Europe for pacification after the Thirty Years’ War, but it is not applicable to the present situation. Therefore in my opinion the concept of canonical territory cannot be transferred into the 21st century, during which, by means of modern communicational possibilities and worldwide migrational movements the world more and more develops into a ‘global village’. The risk is too big that it might be abused for nationalistic purposes or lead to ecclesiological exclusivism. Although my assessment of the term ‘canonical territory’ on the whole is a negative one, it is my conviction that Russia is and remains a cultural space which has been and will also be shaped in future by Orthodox Christendom.

Notes 1. Cf. H.-D. Döpmann, ‘Kirchliche Identität und kanonisches Territorium’ [Church Identity and Canonical Territory], in Th. Bremer (ed.), Religion und Nation. Die Situation der Kirchen in der Ukraine (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003), pp. 53–66. 2. Cf. J. Oeldemann, Orthodoxe Kirchen im ökumenischen Dialog Positionen, Probleme, Perspektiven [Orthodox Churches in ecumenical dialogue. Positions, problems, perspectives] (Paderborn: Bonifatius, 2004), pp. 105–12. 3. Cf. E. Chr. Suttner, ‘Ekklesiologische, kanonistische und historische Überlegungen zur Frage nach dem kanonischen Territorium der Schwesterkirchen’ [Ecclesiological, canonical and historical reflections on the question concerning the canonical territory of Sister Churches], in W. N. Rappert (ed.), Kirche in einer zueinander rückenden Welt [= Das östliche Christentum N. F., Bd. 53] (Würzburg: Augustinus, 2003), pp. 214–38. 4. Cf. J. Meyendorff, ‘One Bishop in One City’ (Canon 8, First Ecumenical Council), St. Vladimir’s Seminary Quarterly 5 (1961) 54–62. 5. Cf. J. Speigl, ‘Die kanonischen Bestimmungen der altkirchlichen Konzilien über die territoriale Bindung des geistlichen Amtes’ [Canonical Regulations of the Councils of the ancient church concerning the territorial ties of the ordained ministry], Ostkirchliche Studien 53 (2004) 107–21. 6. Ustav Russkoj Pravoslavnoj Cerkvi, in Jubilejnyj Archiereijskij Sobor Russkoj Pravoslavnoj Cerkvi. Chram Christa Spasitelja 13–16 avgusta 2000 goda (Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Moskovskoj Patriarchii, 2001), p. 411. English Translation available on the website www.mospat.ru (‘Documents’). 7. Cf. H. Legrand, ‘Un seul évêque par ville. Pourquoi et comment redevenir fidèle au 8. canon de Nicée? Un enjeu pour la catholicité de l’Eglise’, Irénikon 77

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8.

9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

Religion & Conceptual Boundary in CEE (2004) 5–43; German translation: ‘Ein einziger Bischof für eine Stadt. Warum und wie zurückkommen zu can. 8 von Nizäa? Ein Plädoyer für die Katholizität der Kirche’, Ostkirchliche Studien 53 (2004) 122–51. Cf. G. Kretschmar, ‘Die Angleichung der kirchlichen Territorien an die natürlichen und politischen Lebensräume der Menschen in Stadt, Volk, Nation und Staat’ [The adaptation of canonical territories to the natural and political contexts of city, people, nation and state], Ostkirchliche Studien 53 (2004) 152–58. W. Kasper, ‘Katholische Bistümer in Russland. Bemerkungen zur Diskussion um das Verständnis des kanonischen Territoriums’ [Catholic dioceses in Russia. Remarks to the discussion on the understanding of canonical territory], Stimmen der Zeit 221 (2003) 523–530. Cf. J. Rinne, ‘One bishop – one city’, in The Bishop and his Eparchy. Kanon VII [=Yearbook of the Society for the Law of the Oriental Churches] (Vienna: Verband der wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaften Österreichs, 1985), pp. 91–109. Ibid., 109. Cf. M. Sasaujan, ‘Die lokalen orthodoxen Kirchen und die Problematik des “kanonischen Territoriums” [The local Orthodox Churches and the problem of “canonical territory”], Ostkirchliche Studien 53 (2004) 159–83. Cf. Metr. Filaret von Minsk und Sluzk, ‘Eine orthodoxe Stimme zum Konzept des “kanonischen Territoriums”’ [An Orthodox voice on the concept of “canonical territory”], Ost-West: Europäische Perspektiven 3 (2002) 294–300.

Index Adalbert (see Wojciech) Adalhard 27 Adelman, J. 57n4 Aethicus 25, 29 Afanasii, bishop of Kholmogory 85 Aivazov, I. G. 116n31, 117n33, 117n34, 118n46 Alekseeva, T. V. 119n57, 120n66 Aleksei Mikhailovich, tsar 82, 87 Alexander I, tsar 100 Alexander the Great 24, 27, 33 Alexei II, patriarch 157 Altenstein, K. v. Stein zum 144n18 Alvis, R. E. 13, 144n16 Anderson, Ch. 148 Anderson, M. 57n6 Angyal, E. 64n70 Antonovych, V. B. 92n24 Apollos 230 Arnason, J. 59n21 Aron, S. 57n4 August, Z. 136 Augustus 19 Aus, R. D. 17 Avvakum 82, 87 Baida-Vishneveckyi, D. 47 Balan, N. 13, 150–5, 161–2 Bandtkie, J. S. 127 Baranowski, S. 178n3 Bartenev, P. 119n56 Barth, K. 174 Bassin, M. 57n9 Bathalden 118n41 Baumann, J. F. 130 Behrisch 97n97 Benda, V. 176 Benedict XVI. 9 Berdnikova, A. G. 106 Berezhnaya, L. 11, 60n29, 63n63 Berwin´ski, R. 144n14 Bickhardt, St. 175–7, 178n4 Blake, E. C. 160

Bochinger, Chr. 215, 222 Bodo, deacon 30 Boleslaw the Brave 13, 121–25, 128–42, 143n9, 144n17 Bonhoeffer, D. 166, 177 Borisova, M. P. 12, 98, 99, 102, 103, 105–7, 111, 116n31, 118n46 Borkowska, M. 63n63 Borkowska, U. 64n69 Borovikovskii, V. L. 100, 108–10, 115n21, 119ns56, 57, 120n66 Borromeo, C. 84 Bracewell, W. 65n85 Brix, E. 58n11 Broun, J. 179n10 Bruneau, M.-Fl. 115n25 Brüning, A. 12, 62n54, 90n11, 91n22, 94n51 Brzozowski, E. 133 Burke, P. 58n11 Busek, E. 58n11 Campenhausen, H. von 34n9 Cann, D. E. 192 Casanova, J. 226n8 Castro, E. 160 Catherine the Great 99, 107 Chacanus 30 Charlemagne 21, 30, 135 Charles the Bald 20, 26 Chaves, M. 192 Chekin, L. S. 11 Chit¸escu, N. 164n12 Christian of Stavelot 16, 26, 27, 29, 32 Christianus Grammaticus (see Christian of Stavelot) Clark, G. N. 57n3 Clay, J. E. 99, 103, 112n2, 118n51 Coelho, P. 219 Colan, N. 150 Coman, I. G. 13, 155–61 Conon, metropolitan 148 237

238 Index Constantine the Great 19, 230 Constantine the Philosopher (see St Cyril) Coolidge, A. C. 16 Cosmas Indicopleustes 32 Cristescu, G. 150 Crummey, R. O. 83, 86, 95n76 Ctesias 33 Czartoryska, I. 145n13 Da
browski, J. H. 141 Dalché, G. 37n37 Dallwitz, M. 179n11, 180n32 Davies, N. 142n5 Degiel, R. 92n45 Demetrescu, D. 149 Deventer, J. 90n10 Diogene, A. 32 Dmitriev, M. 73 Doellinger, D. 14 Donnan, H. 57n8 Dorothei, metropolitan of Brusia 147 Dovbyshchenko, M. V. 94n48 Dubovitskii, A. P. 100 Dubrovin, N. F. 114n13 Dümmler, E. 35n12, 36n32 Dunin, M. 128 Dzial´ yn´ski, T. 131 Egorova, A. 107 Ehring, K. 179n11, 180n32 Emeliantseva, E. 12 Engalychev, S. 101 Engelstein, L. 99, 112n2,5, 113ns5,7, 117n35, 119n68 Etkind, A. 112n2, 119n57 Eusebios of Caesarea 20 Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 104 Ezekiel 23, 33, 39n66 Faggionato, R. 113n11 Fässler, P. 60n31 Febvre, L. 57n3 Fedorov, N. I. 101, 109, 115n21 Filaret, metropolitan of Minsk 234 Filippovich, D. 117n33, 119n53 Flaskamp, F. 35n12 Floria, B. N. 94n48 Florovskii, G. 94n51, 96n85

Flotow, L. von 179n10 Flottwell, E. 126, 134 Forster, M. R. 91n19 Fotii, archimandrite 115n26 Franjic´, R. 221, 227n33 Freeze, G. L. 96n80, 118n44, 120n68 Frick, D. A. 61n34, 92n27 Friedrich Wilhelm III 130, 144n18 Garstecki, J. 171 Gatrell, P. 58n10 Geary, P. 122, 123 Giray, M. 44 Glock, Ch. Y. 191 Goeckel, R. F. 179n9 Golovin, Y. A. 100 Golubev, S. 94n59 Gorzen´ski, T. 128, 129 Gossner, J. E. 115n26 Grala, H. 65n79 Grass, K. K. 112n2 Green, R. H. 118n41 Greyerz, K. von 113n6 Groza, P. 153 Gudziak, B. 58n12, 94n50 Gurievitch, A. 104 Guyon, J.-M. (Bouvier de La Motte) 101, 115n26 Hall, D. D. 104 Haller, M. 187, 188 Hanegraaff, W. J. 215 Haumann, H. 113n11, 115n22 Held, T. 60n31 Henkel, R. 218 Hesse, G. 132, 133 Hesychius 17, 34n5 Heydrich, R. 169 Hodenquist, G. 150 Hofstadter, R. 57n2 Holzem, A. 91n19 Hrabanus Maurus 28 Hryshevs’kyi, M. 60n33 Huntington, S. 3 Iakovenko, N. 51, 63n63, 95n61 Iannaccome, L. 184 Il’in, A. Y. 120n66 Il’in, Y. A. 110, 120n66

Index 239 Iljic´, V. 221 Ioachim III, Ecumenical patriarch 146, 147 Isaiah 27 Isambert, F. A. 216 Iustinian 20 Iustinian (Marina), Romanian patriarch 159, 160 Jacobs, J. 213n20 Jambrek, St. 219 Janeczek, A. 43 Jukic´, J. 216 Justi, G. 132 Justin 22 Kalugina, M. 106 Kaminski, A. S. 58n13 Kapral, M. 60n31 Karsavin, L. P. 103 Kasper, W. 232 Kaufmann, Th. 69, 84 Kazimierz the Great 136 Kazimierz, J. 138 Keenan, E. L. 96n81 Ke
pin´ski, A. 65n79 Kerševan, M. 217, 224 Kharlampovich, K. V. 95n68 Khmel’nyts’kyi, B. 45, 48, 51, 74, 76 Kisiel, A. 51 Kivelson, V. A. 118n41 Klich-Kluczewska, B. 59n21 Knoblauch, H. 215, 224 Knoll, P. W. 64n69 Kolbuszewski, J. 59n15 Kondakov, Yu. E. 115n26 Kopystens’kyi, Z. 45, 79 Kos´ciuszko, T. 141 Koselleck, R. 121 Kossiv, S. 45 Kostomarov, M. 60n26 Krasicki , I. 127 Kreyssig, L. 166–8, 174, 175, 178n1 Krusenstjern, B. von 112n4 Kukol’nik, P. 114n13 Kumke, C. 93n39 Kuncevych, J. 78

Kurtyka, J. 65n81 Kuznetsova, A. F. 107 L’vov, A. 117n38 Lamanskii, V. I. 32 Lanci, F. M. 132, 136 Lastovs’kyi, V. 92n26 Lattimore, O. 62n56 Lavrov, A. S. 93n40, 97n95, 100, 118n41, 118n48 Lelewel, J. 127 Lesniak, R. 60n31 Levine, E. 117n40 Lieberson, S. 214n33 Lieven, D. 58n10 Liprandi, I. P. 114n13 Lipset, S. M. 57n2 Litwin, H. 45 Lothair I 20, 26 Lotz-Heumann, U. 90n11, 91n19 Louis the German 26, 30 Louis the Pious 26, 30, 31 Lubomirski, J. 136 Luckmann, Th. 184, 191 Luhmann, N. 90n14 Lukaszewicz, J. 133, 143n9 Luker’ia 101, 115n21 Madey, J. 91n23 Madzik, M. 60n24 Magirius, F. 170, 175, 178ns1,4,6, 180ns20,23,35, 181n46 Malov, A. I. 109 Marina, O. 158 Marinovic´-Bobinac, A. 218 Marinovic´-Jerolimov, D. 217, 223 Marker, G. 113n11, 116n32, 119n57 Martin, D. 187, 188 Masaryk, Th. G. 96n85 Matthew 28 Matušek, A. 219 Maxim, Ecumenical patriarch 151 Meehan, B. 116n32 Melhorn, L. 168, 178n4, 179n15 Michael III, Byzantine emperor 31, 32 Michels, G. B. 86, 93n47, 96n91, 97n95, 113n9, 118n48

240 Index Mickiewicz, A. 127 Mieszko I 13, 121–25, 128–42, 143ns5,6, 144n17 Miller, A. 58ns10,11, 62n55 Miller, K. 36n30 Mohyla, P. 50, 72, 80, 94n59, 95n61 Moraru, A. 164n19 Müller, H. 132 Müller, O. 184, 213ns20,29 Myang Moon, S. 219 Nakonechnyj, E. 58n13 Nalyvaiko, S. 48 Napoleon 126, 128, 139 Nectarie, metropolitan 150 Nemyrych, Iu. 45 Neronov 87 Nicholas I, pope 17, 21, 37n34 Nicholas I, tsar 102, 110 Nicodim, patriarch 151 Nicolae, metropolitan (see Balan) Nikic´, M. 220 Nikon, Russian patriarch 82, 83, 86, 87 Nowicki, J. 145n39 Noyes, John K. 22 Oeldemann, J. 14 Oestreich, G. 91n17 Opalin´ski, L. 136 Orsi, R. 104 Ostrowska-Keblowska, Z. 135, 141, 143n10, 144n17 Oswalt, J. 92n29 Otto III 124, 139 Paert, I. 116n32 Palmer, J. T. 28 Panchenko, A. A. 103, 112n2, 114n13, 116ns28, 29, 117n35, 119n53 Parsons, T. 90n14 Paschasius Radbertus 28 Patrylo, I. 92n26 Pawluczuk, W. 63n57 Pelesz, J. 91n23 Peter the Great 83 Peter, H. D. 181n46 Petrova, D. 107

Photius, patriarch of Constantinople 16, 17, 20, 21, 31–3, 36n28 Pickel, G. 14, 213ns20, 29 Pimen, metropolitan of Moldavia 148 Plaggenborg, St. 82, 83, 90n10 Pletenec’kyi, E. 79 Plokhy, S. 64n66, 74–7, 80, 93n47, 95n61 Pogonowski, I. 55 Pol, W., poet 59n15 Pollack, D. 29, 192, 213ns20, 224 Popov, V. M. 100, 115n26 Pörtner, R. 90n10 Potter, Ph. 160 Prinz, M. 91n19 Procopius of Cesarea 33 Prokopovich, F. 84 Prudentius 30 Przyl´uski, L. 128, 131, 132, 134 Pseudo-Methodius of Patara 29 Pypin, A. N. 113n11, 115n26 Raczyn´ski, E. N. 131–7, 139–43 Radulescu, Gh. 149 Radziwil´´l, A. 131 Ramet, P. 180n38 Ratramnus of Corbie 28, 29 Rauch, Chr. D. 129, 132, 133, 136, 138, 140, 141 Razumovsky, Gr. 156 Regino of Prüm 22 Reinhard, W. 67–71, 78, 83, 89, 89n5, 90n14, 91n19, 92n31 Reutskii, N. V. 116ns29, 117n33, 119n53 Rieber, A. J. 12, 43–5, 47–9, 58n10, 62n51, 64n72 Rimbert 16, 27–29, 33 Rinne, J. 233 Robson, R. R. 118n48 Roth, J. 60n31 Rudnyts’kyi, St. 42 Ruts’kyi, J. V. 50, 78, 94n53 Šakaja, L. 218 Salandri, L. 133 Särchen, G. 179n15, 180n27 Sasaujan, M. 13 Sawitski, D. 60n31

Index 241 Scheliha, W. von 96n78 Schilling, H. 49, 66, 67, 77, 89ns1–3,5 Schinkel, K. F. 129, 130, 132, 134 Schmidt, Chr. 179n15 Schmidt, H. R. 91n19 Schorn-Schütte, L. 91n14 Schulze, W. 90n12 Schumann, P. 141 Scorobet, T. 150 Sedulius Scottus 20 Selivanov, K. 101 Senyk, S. 94n53 Serczyk, W. A. 93n42 Serkov, A. I. 113n11 Ševcenko, I. (see Shevchenko) Seweryn, O. 59n21 Shcherbak, V. 92n43 Sheluhin, S. 58n14 Shevchenko, I. 21, 94n59 Shevzov, V. 118n44 Shumlians’kyi, I. 78 Skochylias, I. 94n54 Sl´owacki, J. 127 Smilianskaia, E. B. 97n96 Smith, D. 113n11, 119n57 Smolitsch, I. 96n87 Smotryckyi M. 45, 61n34 Snurochnika, U. V. 102 Söderblom, N. 148 Solberg, R. W. 178n8, 179n9 Sommerbrodt, E. 36n30 Spotts, F. 174 St Ansgar 27, 28 St Augustine 17, 18, 28, 34n5 St Bertin 30 St Boniface 19, 35n12 St Christopher 29 St Columban 18, 19 St Cyril 21, 32 St Methodius 21, 32 St Patrick 18, 19 St Paul 17, 28, 230 St Peter 36n34, 143n6 St Remaclus 26 Stalin, J. 232, 234 Stang, H. 33, 39n66 Staniloae, D. 161, 163 Starke, R. 184

Štengl, I. 220 Stier, G. 132 Stimac, Z. 14 Stolberg, E. M. 58n9 Suchodolski, J. 132, 138, 139 Suslov, I. T. 116n28, 117n33 Sysyn, F. E. 46, 92n27, 93n47, 94n58 Szegda, M. 94n53 Tadic´, St. 218 Tarasius 32 Tatarinov, colonel 101 Tatarinova, E. F. 12, 98–106, 108–11, 114n13, 115n21 Tazbir, J. 52, 53 Teoctist, Romanian patriarch 160 Theophilus, Byzantine emperor 30 Theuthberga 26 Titov, F. I. 92n24 Tomashivs’kyi, St. 42 Tomka, M. 211n3, 224, 225 Topolska, M. B. 63n57 Torok, P. 227n38 Torzhinov, G. 102 Trstenjak, T. 219 Turner 40, 41, 57n9 Urbanovich-Piletskii, M. S. 98, 100, 108, 109 Uvarov, S. 102 Vasa, S. 74 Vasil’eva, A. 101, 107, 108, 117n33, 119n53 Vasiliev, A. 38n54 Vergil 20 Vilar, P. 40 Visser’t Hooft, W. A. 151, 159, 160 Vlasto, A. P. 143n7 Vragovic´, Z. 212 Wallerstein, I. 62n55 Wawrzeniuk, P. 94n56, 95n64 Weber, M. 49, 67 Weintraub, W. 64n69 Wilson, B. 184 Wilson, T. M. 57n8 Witusik, A. A. 60n24

242 Index Wojciech 124, 125, 133, 139 Wolff, L. 57n6 Wolicki, T. 121, 129–31, 144n18 Wood, I. 29 Worobec, C. D. 118n41 Wünsch, Th. 43 Wuttke, H. 144n15 Wyrozolimski, J. 60n31

Yakovenko, N. (see Iakovenko, N.) Zamoyski, A. 122 Zeeden, E. W. 59n20, 89n4 Zenowicz, St. 63n63 Zettel, H. 37n35 Znamenskii, P. V. 96n89 Zulehner, P. M. 225, 211n3