The Church of Russia’s General Staff: A Spectacle of Self-Exposure

The Moscow Patriarchate has grown so accustomed to its role as the spiritual department of the Russian army that it seems to have completely forgotten how to distinguish Church canons from orders issued by the General Staff. Where theological argument and knowledge of Holy Tradition were once required, today it is enough to declare a territory one's own, those who disagree schismatics, and their sacraments invalid. Yet military logic, however convenient for governing occupied territories, sits poorly with Orthodox ecclesiology. And when the Holy Synod attempts to give that logic the form of a canonical decree, the result is not so much a set of guidelines for the clergy as a spectacle of public self-exposure.

The Synod versus the Book of Canons

On October 22, 2026, the Holy Synod of the Russian Orthodox Church approved the “Guidelines for the Reception into the Russian Orthodox Church of Persons from Ukrainian Schismatic Structures Who Wish to Join It” (Journal No. 83). The document is remarkable not so much for its contents as for the astonishing confidence with which its authors display their ignorance of the very Holy Tradition of which they proclaim themselves the guardians.

One might think that anyone undertaking to instruct others in canonical literacy ought first to familiarize himself with the subject. All the more so when we are dealing not with the private opinion of a parish priest but with an official resolution of the Holy Synod. Yet the Moscow Patriarchate seems to have decided that a patriarchal blessing is sufficient not only to issue a document but also to exempt its authors from the need to know the canons.

Most remarkable of all, the authors themselves have given us an excellent opportunity to test their competence. They have not merely set out their attitude toward the Orthodox Church of Ukraine; they have also furnished it with specific prescriptions that allow us to compare Moscow's canonical wisdom with the actual content of Church Tradition.

Well then, let us take advantage of this opportunity. Let us open the Book of Canons and see how confidently it is interpreted by those who, apparently, were counting on nobody doing so.

Baptism That Failed Moscow's Registration Requirements

Let us begin with the most impressive part. Section 5.2 of the document prescribes rebaptism for everyone baptized in the Orthodox Church of Ukraine (OCU), the Ukrainian Orthodox Church–Kyiv Patriarchate (UOC-KP), or the Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church (UAOC). No distinction is made regarding the circumstances, the time, the person who performed the Baptism, or whether the Orthodox rite was observed. There is only one justification: these structures allegedly lack apostolic succession.

Already at this point, one begins to suspect that the authors were somewhat hasty in issuing their instructions, having failed to understand the subject. For apostolic succession in the priesthood and the validity of Baptism are not the same thing. Anyone with even a superficial acquaintance with Orthodox sacramental theology knows this.

For example, the Russian Orthodox Church itself permits Baptism performed by a layperson in danger of death. Provided the necessary conditions have been fulfilled, such a Baptism is not repeated if the person survives. It follows that the absence of holy orders in the person administering Baptism does not, in itself, render the sacrament invalid. Why, then, should Moscow's refusal to recognize the priestly status of an OCU cleric automatically invalidate the sacrament he has performed? The question would seem elementary. But judging by the document, it never occurred to its authors.

Let us open the Book of Canons. Canon 7 of the Second Ecumenical Council prescribes the reception of Arians, Macedonians, and certain other groups through Chrismation, without repeating Baptism. Canon 95 of the Council in Trullo confirms this differentiated approach. Notice that we are speaking here of followers of doctrines that genuinely diverged from the Orthodox confession of faith, not of Orthodox Christians belonging to a jurisdiction that Moscow refuses to recognize.

Of course, the Orthodox tradition has employed different methods of receiving non-Orthodox Christians, and the recognition of a previously administered Baptism has not always implied an identical understanding of its sacramental status. Yet even with these qualifications, one thing remains clear: Church canons contain no universal formula stating, “There is no apostolic succession that we recognize; therefore, rebaptism is necessary.” The authors would still have to demonstrate the validity of such a formula. Instead, they simply proclaimed it a canonical norm.

Section 5.3 is particularly curious. If a person was previously Catholic or Protestant and subsequently joined the OCU, the instructions prescribe receiving that person according to the rules applicable to his or her former confession. In other words, a Baptism performed outside Orthodox unity may, under certain conditions, be taken into account. But a Baptism performed according to the Orthodox rite by an Orthodox cleric professing the Orthodox faith may not.

The resulting picture is astonishing: a Catholic has a better chance of retaining his Baptism upon entering the ROC than an Orthodox Ukrainian does. The Moscow Patriarchate seems to have invented a new criterion for the validity of sacraments: the degree of administrative reliability demonstrated by the person who performs them.

But the most interesting part is yet to come. Apostolic Canon 47 states:

“If a bishop or presbyter baptizes again one who has truly received Baptism, or fails to baptize one who has been defiled by the ungodly, let him be deposed.”

In other words, rebaptizing someone who has truly been baptized is not an innocent pastoral precaution but an act for which the canon prescribes deposition from holy orders. Of course, applying this canon to a particular case requires establishing the validity of the original Baptism. Yet this is precisely what the Moscow guidelines fail to do. They replace examination with an unconditional administrative prescription. As a result, the Synod of the ROC requires priests to perform acts that, if the original Baptism is valid, fall directly under the prohibition of the Apostolic Canon. And it does so without providing, in the document itself, a convincing canonical justification for declaring that Baptism invalid.

One must appreciate the elegance of the arrangement: ecclesiastical authority declares someone else's Baptism invalid, then demands that it be repeated, and answers every objection by referring to its own declaration. The canonical argument closes into a perfect circle, from which the need to prove anything has been thoughtfully excluded. But this circle has one inconvenient feature: it does not abolish Apostolic Canon 47.

The authors should therefore have begun not by determining whom else to rebaptize, but by asking whether they were exposing their own clergy to the risk of committing a canonically prohibited act. For if the original Baptism is valid, the question of responsibility for repeating it arises not for the Ukrainian “schismatics” but for the very authors of the synodal instructions. And then we arrive at a truly remarkable situation: a document intended to instruct the clergy in observing the canons may turn out to be a manual for violating them.

Apostolic Succession with a Moscow Residence Permit

We have dealt with Baptism. Now let us see what Moscow's canonists have prepared for the clergy.

Section 4.2.2 prescribes that those ordained in Ukrainian “schismatic structures” be received exclusively as laypeople. Consequently, there are no priests or bishops there at all. There are merely people who, through some misunderstanding, wear vestments, celebrate divine services, and consider themselves clergy. And all because Moscow does not recognize their ordinations.

One might think that before making such a categorical declaration, the authors should at least have examined the origins of the relevant episcopal lines. But historical circumstances, it seems, merely complicate their work.

Consider Filaret Denysenko. He received episcopal consecration in 1962 within the Russian Orthodox Church. He subsequently became Metropolitan of Kyiv, Locum Tenens of the Patriarchal Throne, and one of the candidates for the Moscow Patriarchate in 1990. For decades, Moscow had not the slightest doubt about his episcopal dignity. Then came an ecclesiastical conflict, followed by deposition and excommunication, decisions subsequently challenged and reversed by the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople. The legitimacy of these decisions is a matter of serious canonical dispute. But there is one detail that no synodal resolution can erase: the historical fact that Filaret received his episcopal consecration within the ROC itself.

One may debate whether a deposed bishop retains the right to perform episcopal consecrations, what consequences follow from his suspension, and whether Constantinople had the authority to restore him to his episcopal dignity. But these are questions of canonical status and authority. They are not equivalent to claiming that the corresponding line of episcopal succession never existed.

Understanding this distinction does not require a doctorate in canon law. It is enough to distinguish historical fact, sacramental validity, and canonical legitimacy. Three concepts that the Moscow guidelines collapse into one with astonishing ease.

But the matter does not end with Filaret. Among the participants in the Unification Council of December 15, 2018, were two bishops then serving in the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate: Metropolitan Symeon (Shostatsky) of Vinnytsia and Metropolitan Alexander (Drabynko) of Pereiaslav-Khmelnytskyi. Both received their episcopal consecrations in the very ecclesiastical structure whose apostolic succession Moscow, one assumes, still recognizes. And here Moscow's canonical reasoning finally reaches an impasse. Neither of these bishops needed restoration to episcopal dignity or reordination. They participated in the establishment of the OCU as bishops whose consecrations had previously been recognized by the Moscow Patriarchate. Their suspension from ministry came only after the Unification Council.

What, then, happened to their apostolic succession? Did it disappear the moment they entered Saint Sophia Cathedral? Evaporate when they voted for the Primate? Or cease to exist after the relevant resolution of the UOC Synod was signed?

One may challenge the canonical legitimacy of their transfer or consider the subsequent suspensions justified. But to claim that they had never possessed valid episcopal dignity would require calling into question the Moscow Patriarchate's own episcopal consecrations. And if their episcopal dignity was valid, the authors of the guidelines must explain precisely what canonical mechanism transformed historically indisputable apostolic succession into something nonexistent merely because their jurisdictional affiliation changed.

Apparently, Moscow's sacramental theology assumes that the grace of episcopal consecration possesses the remarkable ability to leave a bishop of its own accord whenever he crosses an administrative boundary. All that remains is to determine whether a procedure exists for registering its return.

Of course, the history of Ukrainian ecclesiastical structures is not uniform. The self-consecrations of the UAOC in 1921 do indeed raise particular questions concerning succession. But the history of the UAOC is not exhausted by the events of 1921, and the hierarchy of the Kyiv Patriarchate has a different origin. To lump all these lines together and declare them equally devoid of succession is not canonical analysis but a refusal to engage in it.

Let us now turn to the First Ecumenical Council. Its Canon 8, concerning the reception of Novatians, provides for the possibility of retaining their clergy within the clerical ranks under certain conditions. Apparently, the Council did not consider it necessary automatically to turn every cleric of a separated community into a layperson. This canon, of course, does not imply unconditional recognition of every ordination performed outside ecclesiastical communion. But it demonstrates quite convincingly that the ancient Church knew how to distinguish between cases and find ways of restoring unity without necessarily denying previously performed ordinations.

For Moscow's authors, everything is much simpler. If the Moscow Patriarchate does not recognize an ordination, then it does not exist. But what if ecclesiastical relations change tomorrow and communion is restored? Will yesterday's layman suddenly become a priest again? If so, what exactly will have changed: his ordination or the decision of the ecclesiastical authorities?

Here we encounter the document's genuine theological problem. Canonical authority does indeed determine the right to exercise sacred ministry, investigate violations, and make decisions concerning the restoration of ecclesiastical communion. But it is not the source of the sacrament of Holy Orders itself. A bishop does not receive apostolic succession from an administrative office, and ecclesiastical jurisdiction is not a license to possess grace.

Moreover, the OCU is already in Eucharistic communion with the Patriarchates of Constantinople and Alexandria, as well as the Churches of Greece and Cyprus. Consequently, the question of its hierarchy cannot be settled by a simple declaration from one Local Church that no such hierarchy exists. What we have before us is an inter-Orthodox canonical dispute in which Moscow is a party, not the supreme judicial authority.

But the Moscow guidelines proceed according to a different logic. First, administrative nonrecognition is transformed into a denial of holy orders; then the denial of holy orders is used to justify the invalidity of the sacraments. The supposed invalidity of the sacraments, in turn, is meant to confirm the correctness of the original administrative nonrecognition. The system is flawless—provided nobody asks questions.

One can only regret that the Fathers of the Ecumenical Councils failed to formulate such a convenient principle: apostolic succession exists for precisely as long as the Moscow Patriarchate recognizes it.

After all, as far as we know, the apostles did not establish a licensing department within the future patriarchal administration.

Canonical Territory Ends Where Moscow's Interests Begin

Let us now turn to geography. Apparently, it too has a direct bearing on the salvation of the soul. In Section 3 of the guidelines, priests are instructed to explain to Ukrainians: “Being on the canonical territory of the Russian Orthodox Church, you can enjoy the fullness of ecclesiastical communion only in unity with it.” A splendid formula, especially if one refrains from asking who exactly determined that Ukraine belongs to the Moscow Patriarchate and why this assertion should be regarded as beyond dispute.

Let us recall that in 2018 the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople revised its canonical assessment of the act of 1686, restored its jurisdictional authority over the Metropolis of Kyiv, and subsequently granted autocephaly to the Orthodox Church of Ukraine. Moscow disagreed. Consequently, we are dealing with an inter-Orthodox canonical dispute. But the authors of the guidelines preferred a simpler approach: they declared the position of one of the parties to be the final resolution of the matter.

Indeed, why trouble oneself with examining historical documents and canonical precedents when one can simply inform the faithful that they are on your territory?

Nevertheless, let us assume for a moment that Moscow's interpretation of canonical boundaries is entirely correct. Even then, territorial affiliation does not mean that the fullness of ecclesiastical communion is identical with submission to the Patriarch of Moscow. The Orthodox Church does not profess a single worldwide administrative jurisdiction. Its unity is realized through the Orthodox faith, the sacraments, and communion among the Local Churches. Canonical territory exists to maintain order in ecclesiastical life. It is not the private property of a patriarch, still less an area within which grace alone is permitted to operate.

But things become truly interesting when we propose applying the territorial principle to the Russian Orthodox Church itself. Canon 2 of the Second Ecumenical Council prohibits bishops from extending their authority beyond established ecclesiastical provinces. Canon 8 of the Third Ecumenical Council protects the independence of the Church of Cyprus against outside jurisdictional claims. The principles would seem clear enough: ecclesiastical boundaries do not exist so that every influential patriarch may move them at his own discretion.

And what does Moscow do?

On December 29, 2021, the Holy Synod of the ROC establishes the Patriarchal Exarchate of Africa, comprising two dioceses within the territory of the Patriarchate of Alexandria. At the same time, 102 clerics of the Alexandrian Church are received under Moscow's jurisdiction. Yes, that very Alexandrian Church whose canonical territory existed long before the Moscow Patriarchate appeared.

The reason for this decision was Patriarch Theodore of Alexandria's recognition of the OCU's autocephaly. Moscow regarded this as entering into schism and declared it necessary to provide canonical protection to African clergy who disagreed with their Primate.

And here Moscow's canonical geography acquires truly remarkable properties. When Constantinople acts in Ukraine, this constitutes a violation of another Church's canonical territory. When Moscow establishes its own dioceses in Africa, this is no longer a territorial violation but an act of concern for Orthodox believers.

In Ukraine, an ecclesiastical community cannot independently determine its jurisdictional affiliation because it is located on the “canonical territory of the Russian Orthodox Church.” In Africa, however, the disagreement of clergy with a decision of the Patriarch of Alexandria proves sufficient grounds for their transfer to Moscow's authority.

To be fair, the Moscow Synod thoughtfully declared that establishing the exarchate did not constitute a claim to Alexandria's canonical territory. Moscow merely establishes dioceses, appoints bishops, and receives parishes previously belonging to the Patriarchate of Alexandria. But there are, of course, no territorial claims whatsoever. One is left to suppose that a violation of canonical territory is determined not by the establishment of a parallel jurisdiction but by who establishes it.

The Patriarchate of Alexandria, unlike Moscow, failed to appreciate this subtle distinction and explicitly described the establishment of the exarchate as an invasion of its canonical boundaries.

Of course, Moscow's canonists will have an explanation. They will say that the Patriarch of Alexandria entered into communion with schismatics, thereby creating exceptional circumstances. But then they must produce a canon authorizing one Local Church to establish a parallel hierarchy on the territory of another as punishment for its decision concerning ecclesiastical communion.

If such a canon exists, one would very much like to read it at last. If it does not, why should the exceptional circumstances invoked by Moscow possess greater canonical force than those invoked by Constantinople? For this is precisely how consistency in canonical reasoning is tested: a rule must remain a rule regardless of whom it happens to benefit today.

It is particularly revealing that the question of canonical territory acquires remarkable flexibility for the Moscow Patriarchate not only in Africa but also in Ukraine itself. Against the background of Russia's military occupation, Moscow made decisions to place Ukrainian dioceses previously belonging to the Ukrainian Orthodox Church directly under its own authority.

Here it is worth recalling another simple point: canonical boundaries do not automatically move with the front line. An episcopal see does not become the property of another patriarchate merely because the military administration of a city has changed. Canon 17 of the Fourth Ecumenical Council does indeed provide for taking changes in civil administration into account when determining ecclesiastical order, but it cannot be used to derive a right to appropriate dioceses on the basis of military occupation—especially when what is at issue is not a peaceful change in the structure of the state but the armed seizure of territory. And so a question arises that the authors of the Moscow guidelines ought to ask themselves: if canonical territory is so sacred and inviolable, why do its boundaries prove immutable only where that suits Moscow?

It seems that the Moscow Patriarchate has developed its own version of ecclesiastical geography. In it, canonical territory resembles a rubber band: whenever necessary, it stretches all the way to Africa, and whenever necessary, it contracts to boundaries determined by the Russian army.

And all this, of course, in the name of the “strict observance of the sacred canons.”

Church Slavonic as a Condition of Salvation

After such an unusual interpretation of canonical geography, Moscow's legislators move on to matters of worship. And here another revelation awaits us. Section 4.1.2 prescribes that communities joining the ROC may not demand a special liturgical order and that “divine services must be celebrated in Church Slavonic, the language common to the entire canonical territory of the Russian Orthodox Church.” Apparently, Orthodox worship has not only a canonical territory but also a mandatory language—so mandatory, in fact, that even a community professing the Orthodox faith and wishing to join the Moscow Patriarchate cannot expect to retain Ukrainian as its liturgical language.

One would naturally like to know which Ecumenical Council decreed that Church Slavonic is a necessary condition of Orthodox worship. Or at least which Church Father formulated the corresponding dogma. I fear the search will prove fruitless.

In the Acts of the Apostles, however, we find quite the opposite picture. On the day of Pentecost, the Holy Spirit descended upon the apostles, and they began speaking in different languages, so that everyone heard the proclamation in his own tongue (Acts 2:6–11). Judging by Moscow's guidelines, this was a rather risky liturgical innovation. The apostles should probably have waited for the approval of a single liturgical language. The Apostle Paul, too, was apparently unfamiliar with modern Moscow requirements. Otherwise, he would hardly have written to the Corinthians that he would rather speak five intelligible words in church than ten thousand in an unintelligible language (1 Cor. 14:19).

But what lends this prescription its particular charm is the history of the Church Slavonic language itself. Saints Cyril and Methodius defended the right of the Slavic peoples to hear Holy Scripture and celebrate divine services in a language they could understand. Their mission became one of the most outstanding examples of Christianity overcoming linguistic exclusivism. And now, more than a millennium later, the Moscow Patriarchate has decided to honor the memory of the enlighteners of the Slavs by prohibiting the use of Ukrainian in the worship of communities joining its jurisdiction.

It would be difficult to devise a more elegant way of demonstrating ignorance of one's own ecclesiastical heritage.

Yet the matter does not end with Cyril and Methodius. The authors of the guidelines seem not to be particularly familiar with the contemporary practice of their own Church either. In the Japanese Orthodox Church, which enjoys autonomy within the Moscow Patriarchate, services are celebrated in Japanese; Romanian is used in the ecclesiastical life of Orthodox Christians in Moldova; and parishes of the Russian ecclesiastical tradition abroad also celebrate services in English and other local languages. Consequently, the assertion that Church Slavonic is the obligatory language common to the entire canonical territory of the ROC does not withstand comparison with the ROC's own practice.

Why, then, are Ukrainians subjected to a requirement that is not imposed on the Japanese? Does the Ukrainian language possess some peculiar properties that obstruct the operation of grace? Or does a Ukrainian anaphora become less Orthodox than a Japanese one? Perhaps the authors are aware of new discoveries in sacramental linguistics that have not yet gained currency in theological scholarship.

Of course, a diocesan bishop has the right to establish the liturgical order within his diocese. No one disputes the disciplinary authority of ecclesiastical leadership. But that is precisely why ecclesiastical discipline must be distinguished from the dogmatic conditions of unity.

One may prefer Church Slavonic, preserve it as an important part of the liturgical heritage, or even require its use in particular communities. But one cannot present such an administrative decision as a requirement of Orthodox doctrine. All the more so because the language of worship is not a criterion for the validity of the sacraments. The Eucharist does not become more efficacious because the priest pronounces the words of institution in Church Slavonic rather than Ukrainian, Greek, or Arabic. The requirement to abandon Ukrainian therefore reveals a primarily cultural and administrative character, not a theological one.

And here we encounter the familiar substitution once again. Uniformity of liturgical practice is offered in place of unity of faith. Standardization replaces catholicity. Mandatory submission to a cultural norm established by Moscow's ecclesiastical authorities replaces respect for a people's ecclesiastical tradition. Such a requirement might be understandable if it concerned specific liturgical abuses or violations of the Orthodox rite. But the document prescribes the language itself, without explaining how changing it relates to the restoration of ecclesiastical unity. It turns out that joining the Russian Orthodox Church requires more than professing the Orthodox faith, recognizing the Ecumenical Councils, and accepting its hierarchy: one must also surrender the right to pray in Ukrainian.

All that remains is to wait for the Moscow Patriarchate to add a new article to the Creed: “I believe in one Church Slavonic language.” After the synodal guidelines of October 22, 2026, however, this no longer seems entirely inconceivable.

Confession with a Social Media Background Check

But Moscow's concern for the “purity of Orthodoxy” does not end there. Having dealt with Baptism, apostolic succession, canonical boundaries, and the language of worship, the authors of the guidelines finally reach the most intimate matter of all: the posting history of a prospective parishioner.

According to Section 4.3.1, when receiving a layperson, the priest must investigate that person's previous activities, including “the dissemination of anti-canonical materials, public statements, participation in actions against the Church, etc.” Section 4.1.1 additionally directs attention to those who disseminated “slanderous or insulting information about the canonical Orthodox Church,” participated in the seizure of churches, or actively supported such actions on social media and in the media.

Let us make one thing clear from the outset: violence, unlawful appropriation of property, and deliberate slander may indeed be matters for ecclesiastical investigation. But what do the undefined categories of “anti-canonical materials” and “public statements” have to do with such acts? What exactly should count as anti-canonical material? A historical study of the circumstances surrounding the transfer of the Metropolis of Kyiv in 1686? A publication defending the appellate authority of the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople? Criticism of the establishment of Moscow's exarchate in Africa? Or perhaps Canon 8 of the Third Ecumenical Council itself, should its contents prove inconvenient for contemporary Moscow ecclesiastical policy?

The guidelines thoughtfully provide no definition. Apparently, it is assumed that the priest will independently distinguish canonical error from canonical truth. Admittedly, after becoming acquainted with the theological level of the synodal document itself, one's confidence in the success of such an undertaking diminishes somewhat.

But the authors go even further. Section 4.1.4 provides for an individual written renunciation of previous errors by those who formerly spoke out against the “canonical Church.” In certain circumstances, an oral renunciation is permitted if making it public could cause harm to the person concerned.

Splendid! It may now prove insufficient, for the restoration of ecclesiastical communion, merely to profess the Orthodox faith and express a desire to belong to the relevant ecclesiastical community: one must also reconsider one's previous journalistic and public commentary and perhaps renounce one's own opinions in writing.

In the ancient Church, a person was required to renounce heresy. In the contemporary Moscow Patriarchate, it has become possible to require the renunciation of Facebook posts. This is undoubtedly a significant contribution to the development of Orthodox dogmatics. Apparently, a new heresy has been added to Arianism, Nestorianism, and Monophysitism: a critical attitude toward the Moscow Patriarchate.

Of course, one might object that the document concerns not every disagreement but specific actions against the Church. Yet this is precisely where the problem lies: the authors draw no clear distinction between a crime, a moral offense, a canonical violation, and public criticism of ecclesiastical administration.

These distinctions, however, are of fundamental importance. The Church has the right to demand repentance for sin. But first it is necessary to establish what exactly constitutes the sin. If someone has knowingly spread slander, the falsity of the relevant statements must be demonstrated; if someone has participated in violence, the specific circumstances of that participation must be established; if someone has violated ecclesiastical discipline, the relevant norm must be identified and the nature of the violation determined. Yet publicly challenging decisions of the Moscow Patriarchate is not, in itself, heresy, sin, or a canonical offense. Otherwise, we would have to admit that the Apostle Paul did something reprehensible when he publicly opposed the Apostle Peter in Antioch (Gal. 2:11). After all, he not only expressed disagreement with a Church leader but also left a written account of it, which subsequently became part of Holy Scripture. By Moscow's criteria, such an act might well have required a separate canonical investigation.

Of course, the comparison is deliberately ironic. But the principle is entirely serious: ecclesiastical authority does not possess dogmatic infallibility in every administrative decision, and disagreement with it is not equivalent to falling away from the Church. Moreover, canon law exists, among other things, to limit the arbitrary exercise of ecclesiastical authority itself: it establishes procedures for examining accusations, defines the competence of ecclesiastical bodies, and protects the faithful against arbitrary punishments.

Canon 6 of the Second Ecumenical Council pays particular attention to the procedure for bringing accusations against bishops. Canon 9 of the Fourth Ecumenical Council provides ecclesiastical means for resolving disputes. Of course, these canons concern particular categories of cases and cannot be mechanically applied to the procedure for receiving laypeople. Nevertheless, they testify to a principle that the authors of the Moscow guidelines apparently do not regard as especially important: an ecclesiastical accusation requires established grounds and proper examination. In the new guidelines, however, the category of “anti-canonical materials” is left so undefined that virtually any reasoned criticism of the Moscow Patriarchate could be brought under it if someone so wished.

This procedure takes on a particularly troubling character in the context of the Russo-Ukrainian war. A person is asked to disclose to a representative of an ecclesiastical structure closely connected with the aggressor state information about previous public activities, politically sensitive statements, and involvement in ecclesiastical conflicts. The document itself does not prescribe the transfer of such information to state authorities, and it would be dishonest to claim otherwise without evidence. Nevertheless, the absence of clear guarantees of confidentiality and criteria for assessment creates quite obvious risks.

Moreover, the authors themselves acknowledge the possibility of adverse consequences arising from a public renunciation, allowing it to be replaced by an oral one in certain cases. They therefore understand that ecclesiastical decisions and public statements may affect a person's safety. All the more surprising, then, that similar caution is absent when determining the scope of information to be collected about that person's past.

The result is a rather peculiar form of pastoral care: before receiving someone into ecclesiastical communion, it is necessary to determine what that person wrote, whom they supported, and how correctly they assessed the activities of the Moscow Patriarchate. Perhaps the next stage in the development of this practice will be a mandatory examination of browsing history, since one cannot rule out the possibility that a prospective parishioner once took an interest in the contents of the Tomos of Autocephaly or, even more dangerously, independently (!) read the canons of the Ecumenical Councils.

Yet behind all this almost comical bureaucracy lies a serious ecclesiological substitution. Repentance is a person's turning toward God, not a procedure for confirming loyalty to an ecclesiastical institution; professing the Orthodox faith is not an oath of allegiance to every resolution of the Synod; and the restoration of ecclesiastical communion is not a reward for abandoning critical thought. When ecclesiastical administration ceases to distinguish its own interests from those of the Church, it inevitably begins to perceive criticism of itself as an attack on Orthodoxy, and then discovers that defending ecclesiastical unity requires written renunciations, scrutiny of publications, and special instructions for identifying unreliable parishioners. The result is that canon law gives way to an administrative ideology in which fidelity to Christ is increasingly measured by the degree of obedience shown to ecclesiastical superiors.

And here the authors of the guidelines should be reminded of one simple truth: The Church is not synonymous with the Moscow Patriarchate. And criticism of the Moscow Patriarchate is not a crime against the Church.

Of course, had the authors of the document truly grasped this distinction, they would probably have had to rewrite a substantial portion of their own guidelines.

Canonical Ignorance as a Synodal Virtue

We thus have before us a document whose authors have undertaken to teach Orthodox Christians the Church canons, having first exempted themselves from the need to understand their contents. They have confused the validity of Baptism with the canonical status of a cleric, apostolic succession with administrative affiliation, ecclesiastical unity with submission to the Patriarch of Moscow, and repentance with a written renunciation of inconvenient statements. And all this appears not in some private publication by an overzealous ecclesiastical fringe figure, but in an official resolution of the Holy Synod.

That the canonical literacy of a Church once respected throughout the Orthodox world has deteriorated badly was already observed by Deacon Andrei Kuraev when he commented on the pathetic attempt to provide a canonical justification for his deposition from holy orders. But what we are witnessing now is nothing less than a verdict on the Moscow Patriarchate. Apparently, even its most loyal personnel who knew at least something about canon law and dogmatics have fled. But why say they fled? The ecclesiastical authorities themselves got rid of them, voluntarily consigning themselves to the depths of the Dark Ages.

And this is precisely where the central problem becomes apparent. The Moscow Patriarchate has long claimed to be the last bastion of canonical Orthodoxy. It readily levels accusations of schism, lectures other Local Churches, and demands unwavering observance of the canons from everyone around it. Yet as soon as those same canons are applied to its own decisions, the principles suddenly become flexible, the exceptions limitless, and administrative expediency more persuasive than the conciliar Tradition.

In Ukraine, canonical territory is inviolable. In Africa, it is perfectly negotiable. Other people's ordinations are invalid, even when performed by bishops whom Moscow itself consecrated. Other people's Baptisms must be repeated, although the canons prohibit repeating true Baptism. Ukrainian is incompatible with the prescribed liturgical order, while Japanese and Romanian present no difficulties whatsoever. And criticism of ecclesiastical administration becomes grounds for a penitential renunciation. All this would be amusing if it did not concern the sacraments, human lives, and the very understanding of the nature of the Church.

The history of Christianity has known many bishops who served conquerors, patriarchs who justified violence, and ecclesiastical institutions that blessed crimes. A historian may explain the circumstances of their actions, though that by no means amounts to justifying them. But there is a particular kind of disgrace from which neither political circumstances, nor appeals to obedience, nor even patriarchal dignity can provide protection: militant ignorance elevated to the status of an ecclesiastical decree.

You may be occupiers, you may bless acts of savagery, you may turn the Church's pulpit into a platform for military propaganda. But if you undertake to justify all this by appealing to Holy Tradition, at least have the decency to know it. Nobody is demanding holiness of you—judging by appearances, that would be an excessive expectation. But elementary theological literacy? Has even that become an unbearable burden?

Wickedness is a moral crime. Ignorance masquerading as canonical wisdom is also a professional bankruptcy. And if the former may someday become the subject of history's judgment, establishing the latter requires nothing more than opening the Book of Canons.

After all, even from Satanists who decided to write a manual of Orthodox canon law, one would expect at least some familiarity with the subject.

And so the principal question for the Moscow Patriarchate is no longer why it presumes to pass judgment on grace in other Churches. The question is far more prosaic: who allowed people who so confidently presume to determine the status of other people's sacraments to know their own canons so poorly?

Br. Ergatis Ikonikos