Seated on a plane taking me home from the international patristic symposium in Oxford, I find myself intellectually caught somewhere between the theological battles of the Councils and the contemporary church affairs of ‘our Palestine.’ As the Channel stretches blue beneath light clouds and the English shores fade away, I feel inclined to reflect on current issues not through the lens of fleeting sensations but from a broader historical-theological perspective.
In recent weeks, the Ukrainian church environment has been abuzz with discussions about the possibilities of inter-Orthodox dialogue in Ukraine in the context of Bill 8371, which prohibits Ukrainian churches from being affiliated with centers in the Russian Federation. Rumors are circulating on social media about the creation of a Constantinopolitan Patriarchate Exarchate, which might potentially absorb some of the clergy from the UOC (currently under the Moscow Patriarchate). Finally, on the feast of the Dormition, Metropolitan Epiphany officially appealed to Metropolitan Onuphriy to initiate dialogue without preconditions (and immediately angered theologians of the partially-independent Church with an untimely holiday greeting).
"However, analysts point out the unrealistic nature of these good intentions, attributing it to the special atmosphere within the UOC MP. Besides the dozens—well, let’s say hundreds—of clergy who allow themselves the luxury of critical thinking, most of its clergy, for various reasons, cultivate a 'learned helplessness.' The only beacon for them is the figure of the living canonized hierarch, whose 'prophetic utterances' far surpass all the Gospels, dogmas, and Councils combined. And the 'elder' hierarch, as insiders often indicate, 'lacks the will' for a genuine break with Moscow. It is here, dear reader, that I wish to turn to my theological reflections.
Why do Metropolitan Onuphriy and his entourage seem to 'lack the will' to fight for authentic independence? The explanation appears too obvious: the well-documented connections between the episcopate and clergy of the UOC 'non-MP' with the Russian security services. After all, these are people 'in power,' what can you expect? This explanation seems plausible—but not entirely exhaustive. Just consider this: the lack of will for independence—or even for any changes!—is not only displayed by the 'agents in cassocks,' but essentially by the majority of the 'several million' (according to its own estimates) church community. After all, Ukrainians understand well what happens when tens or hundreds of thousands of people begin to desire something intensely... Since we do not observe anything resembling a church Maidan in the UOC MP, we can conclude that it is not only its decorated leaders who 'lack the will.'
So, from the airplane window, more enduring trends emerge than just the influence of security services. My thesis is that the current 'lack of will' is not a situational phenomenon but an intrinsic aspect of Russian Orthodox spirituality (including 'Little Russian')—a type of piety that began to form a long time ago, during the dogmatic debates about the very concept of will.
The concept of will (θέλημα) came to the forefront of Christian attention in the 7th century during the so-called Monothelite debates about the will—or wills—of Christ. The Monothelite debates were a sort of epilogue to one of the most grandiose battles of the patristic era—the Christological controversies between the two most influential schools of Byzantine thought: the Alexandrian and the Antiochian. It is worth taking a brief historical detour into this battle. The main instigator of the dispute, which began in the 5th century but remains relevant to this day, could be considered... Christ (well, all the blame always seems to fall on Him). As the true God, He chose to be born as a human, which puzzled theologians for centuries. Syrian and Cilician Christians, educated by the Antiochian school, saw in this gospel primarily the triumph of human nature, which is fully present and transformed in Christ, with all its unique characteristics and freedom. This vision can be aptly described as Christian humanism.
However, their Egyptian colleagues from the renowned Alexandrian academy expressed deep concern that such a strong emphasis on the human aspect of Christ might undermine the unity of His person. Moreover, human nature itself was seen as somewhat suspicious from the perspective of many spiritual movements in late antiquity. It seems that the descendants of the Pharaohs were somewhat anxious that all these Antiochian discussions about Jesus’ tears, hesitations, and friendly attachments might overshadow His royal divine majesty. It should be noted that the writings of the Alexandrian Fathers undoubtedly present a much more nuanced theological vision — but what concerns us here is the popular reception of their ideas and the imprint they left on Byzantine spirituality. This perception was also significantly influenced by earthly rulers, who were not passive, using the state apparatus both to quell the disputants and to support their favorites.
Following the Council of Ephesus in 431, which was, to put it mildly, highly emotional — and where the two parties never actually met — the Alexandrians won the first round. At that council, the Antiochian Archbishop of Constantinople, Nestorius, was condemned, and the doctrine of the single Person of Christ was proclaimed. After years of tense negotiations, leading theologians from both sides eventually reached a compromise: they agreed that the single Person of Christ unites two complete natures, divine and human. This fleeting consensus was solidified by the dogma of the Council of Chalcedon in 451. The solid Antiochian Dyophysitism (the doctrine of 'two natures') was merged with the solid Alexandrian vision of the single Christ. Or rather, it was as if it were merged, but not entirely so. Controversies continued to rage for another century, especially since the authorities often favored the condemned Monophysite doctrine—supporters of a single 'God-man' nature.
In the context of the successful Arab advance into the eastern provinces of Byzantium (634-638), when all these theological nuances became, to put it mildly, inconvenient, Emperor Heraclius decided to cut the Gordian Knot once and for all, forcing the Dyophysites and Monophysites to unite. The theological compromise was the concept that Christ indeed has two natures (as the Dyophysites assert) — but this was of no significance, as one of the natures, specifically the human one, remains silent and does not manifest itself, lacking its own will. Thus, the nominal duality of natures declared by the Council of Chalcedon was preserved — but in essence, only one active nature, the divine, was acknowledged. In this 'icon,' Christ appeared sufficiently majestic for the Monophysites: nothing human stood out or was apparent.
In keeping with the ancient practice of Roman emperors, Heraclius could expect that his 'divine will' would be simply accepted as a given — like rain, a flood, or an earthquake. This is the crucial advantage of Monothelitism: if you are 'chosen by God' and embody God's will on earth, no one can oppose you. Such a thought should not even cross one's mind. For there is officially no human will, no will of the people.
The Monothelite controversies represent an eastern parallel to the earlier western Pelagian debates of the 5th century. At that time, Augustine of Hippo promoted the teachings of his Carthaginian school, which held that all humans are born sinners and, 'from cradle to grave,' are incapable of doing anything good — indeed, incapable of anything at all — without direct intervention from divine grace. To this, the Briton Pelagius and his followers reasonably objected that such a doctrine not only deprives us of freedom but also responsibility, effectively placing all our failings on God. Pelagius reminded the faithful of traditional patristic anthropology, where humans will freely work in harmony with divine grace (referred to as synergy in the East). Initially, the episcopate of Italy, Palestine, and other regions sided with Pelagius, but after Emperor Honorius's intervention, this protest was swiftly suppressed, and the condemned and exiled 'Pelagians' fled to the East. They had longstanding connections with the Antiochian school: Western apologists for human freedom had long been allies with Syrian apologists for humanity in Christ. The 'Pelagians' and their circle actively defended the exiled John Chrysostom (the anti-Antiochian Archbishop of Constantinople) and his followers. Over time, the Antiochians welcomed the 'Pelagians,' and they defended their teachings, sometimes creating real theological hubs, such as in Cilician Mopsuestia in the 420s. Ultimately, Pelagius's friends, with the support of Antiochian Dyophysites, were condemned by the Alexandrians at Ephesus (without a review of their own teachings).
Meanwhile, in the West, Augustinianism reigned almost unchallenged (a favorite of Russian theologians). However, the situation in Byzantium was more complex. The debates persisted, I repeat, until the 7th century, when a daring monk named Maximus defended the concept of human will in Christ. He had both the courage and erudition to resist the autocrat and the imperial churches, which had resigned themselves to his decree. Miraculously, he triumphed over them all—albeit posthumously—at the Sixth Ecumenical Council in 681, where the doctrine of Christ's two wills was proclaimed. The UOC often references Maximus as a church figure opposing the "godless" authorities. Yet they overlook that the prevailing authority at that time was anything but godless: Heraclius was imposing their favored paradigm of Orthodoxy, which allowed no room for human will. Conversely, rebellious figures like Maximus regularly received excommunications or bans from serving from their dioceses for acts of defiance and disobedience to the ecclesiastical hierarchy. (Well, isn't that so?)
Renounce your will, humble yourself, be silent, and pray; mortify the fleshly wisdom. All is due to our sins. Endure and be humble. Accept every word from the archpastor as divine will. Are you a bishop to ponder high matters? Your task is simple—know your duty and obey. Your own will is likely sinful—go to confession and repent. "You were born entirely in sins, and do you teach us?" (John 9:34). And who are you, anyway? I fear that this sermon on learned helplessness is heard by the average believer in the Russian Orthodox tradition more frequently than any other Christian teaching. While some might manage to divide it in the secular world, in monasteries, seminaries, and spiritual academies, this curse almost always sinks in "like water into his belly and like oil into his bones" (Psalm 108:18).
And the ship sails on. The spoudaios (subdeacon) fears the inspector, the priest trembles before the archpriest, and the archpriest kneels before the bishop. The bishop, of course, can scatter thunderbolts among his subordinates, as the successor of the formidable apostles; but he too faints under the "divine" breath of the primate. Yet, however fearsome the primate may appear, he has ingrained in his very marrow the same lesson as his cell attendant: you have no will of your own, only the will of God.
Once, I had a collection of samizdat works by Soviet hippies, and one of its stories described the condemnation of longhaired schoolboys at Komsomol meetings. I remember the apologetic reply of a camp leader: “The boys are good. They just shouldn’t be allowed to do anything!” This steadfast belief that it’s better not to let people do anything is shared by not only Komsomol members but also by the heretical monotheletes of the 7th century in the Russian Orthodox tradition.
However, I want to emphasize that I am far from accusing Metropolitan Onuphrius of heresy, whether monophysitism or monotheletism; it is simply a certain type of piety shaped by the church environment where these heresies had significant intellectual influence. This piety formed in Byzantium, but the high level of theological education coupled with frequent political changes allowed for the emergence of various alternatives. In contrast, in the theological and political stagnation of the Russian Empire, it blossomed luxuriantly, surviving the fall of the monarchy, the dissolution of the USSR, and likely even the collapse of the RF: this helpless and irresponsible spirituality is very familiar to the Russian layperson.
One might ask: well, what about your OCU (Orthodox Church of Ukraine)? Aren’t you smeared with the same stuff? I regret to note that, in many respects, the new church has emerged from the same mold as the UOC-MP (Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate), with the remnants of the myrrh they were anointed with still clearly visible. However, in terms of self-respect and awareness of freedom, both the laity and the clergy of the OCU are noticeably different from their counterparts in the UOC. Likely, this is precisely why they ended up here (due to “pride,” “self-will,” and “fleshly wisdom,” as branded by the UOC-MP media). Even on social media, it is striking how calmly a cleric or archbishop of the OCU expresses disagreement with the “party’s politics,” criticizes higher authorities, and makes their own suggestions. In this, they not only approach the “Greek” Churches but also firmly adhere to the legacy of freedom-loving Antioch, with its Christian humanism, its emphasis on the value of freedom, and its decentralized and relatively egalitarian network of bishops and theologians (as opposed to the rigidly hierarchical Alexandrian Church of the 5th century). Even if not everyone is aware of this continuity, it is entirely natural, as Antiochian theology has had a strong influence on the Kyiv tradition from the time of the Christianization of Rus’ to the present day.
The same indecisive spirit that prevails in the UOC (which is not-MP-but-still-MP) is a notable deviation both from the Kyiv tradition as a whole and, most importantly, from its inherent Antiochian practical dyophysitism/dyophiletism. So, what can one expect from such a latent monothelete hierarchy? What kind of will for change? What kind of audacity? What can one expect from people who, deep down, are absolutely convinced that any deviation from the will of their superiors is sinful? It is not surprising that the current situation of the UOC is seen as a dead end (and not only by external observers). This machinery has long lost its own engine, and if it is not pulled by a string or given a push by some lord and father, it is completely unable to move.
Is there an escape from this dead end? For the system itself, it seems unlikely. It has become a constricting shell, burdened with fears, resentment, and adherence to hierarchy. However, for those struggling to breathe within this 'sacred enclosure,' there is likely a way out—more than one, in fact. There are various scenarios for how things might unfold, some of which are currently under discussion while others are not. These range from personal shifts in subordination to active efforts to transform the UOC's structure from within.
By the way, I don’t see anything fundamentally wrong with the idea of creating another alternative structure, whether it be an Exarchate or something else. After all, Jesus Himself declared that there are many mansions in Heaven (though not in the cramped locality I currently navigate). Even in another world—or 'state,' as the Syrian mystics called it—where there will be 'neither Greek nor Jew,' the faithful are not forced into a single hall but are allowed to peacefully spread out with their cups of coffee across various auditoriums and workshops. So, why not imagine the earthly Church in a similar way? Having several bishops in one city may indeed be an anomaly for canon law collectors, but it reflects the reality of Orthodox life in the West, where one can always choose a place of prayer that resonates with one’s heart.
However, all these scenarios—whether on a global or personal scale—start with faith in God-granted freedom and trust in one’s own God-granted intellectual abilities. Ultimately, if a critical mass of believers in the UOC begins to question their esteemed leaders, no amount of evasion, like Onuphrius’s attempt to hide from the signatories in the bathroom, will suffice. No such hiding place can be large enough to shield them from scrutiny.
Notes:
1. In particular, around 404 AD, Julian of Eclanum’s father-in-law, Emiliano of Benevento, traveled to Constantinople as part of a delegation of bishops to advocate on behalf of St. John before the emperor. However, the embassy yielded no results except for troubles for its participants.
2. There, Theodore of Mopsuestia, still revered by the Eastern Church as the "Blessed Interpreter," hosted Julian of Eclanum and other Pelagian associates in his home for several years. Together, they wrote some of their leading works.
3. Key aspects of this influence are discussed in my monograph: D. Morozova, «Pokazhi meni lyudynu». Antropologiya Antiokhiyiskoyi shkoly ta yii spadshchyna u Kyivsʹkiy tradytsiyi, ["Show Me the Man: The Anthropology of the Antiochian School and Its Legacy in the Kyiv Tradition,"] Kyiv: Duch i Litera, 2021.
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