Palmer’s Attempt to Draw Closer to the St. Petersburg Theological Academy.—A. N. Muravyov’s View of the Academy’s Condition.—Palmer’s Conversation With Archpriest Pavsky.—Conversation With Archpriest Sidonsky.—Their Theological Views.—Visit to the Theological Academy and Impressions Gained.—Professional Worldview

On returning from the Sergius Hermitage to Petersburg, Palmer met with A. N. Muravyov and, sharing with him the impressions he had gathered from observing Russian monastic life, remarked to him: might it not be possible to convert two or three monasteries into learned communities, along the lines of Benedictine monasteries? Muravyov replied: “Much cannot be done at the present time. If compulsory celibacy is a burden of the Latin Church, then compulsory marriage is an equal burden of our Church—all the more so since the latter is contrary to the spirit of the canons, contrary to the teachings of the Apostle Paul, and rests simply on local custom. Almost all our clergy are of estate origin and form a closed caste. The nobility, merchants, and upper classes have access to holy orders, but they do not take them. What are we to do? We do not live in the age of councils, when such a state of affairs could be changed. As for our monasticism, it consists almost entirely, with few exceptions, of peasants, for whom scholarship is not a priority.”

Finding in the monastery no sufficiently competent representatives of theological thought with whom he could exchange views on higher theological questions, Palmer expressed to Muravyov a wish to draw closer to the Theological Academy in St. Petersburg and even, if possible, to reside there for a time. But Muravyov advised against it.

“They are always occupied there,” he said, “and you will see no one. The inhabitants of the Academy do not form a society; they are lower clergy and their children, with all their peculiarities and prejudices. You will be for them a foreign monster. They would look upon you as a heretic, and the very fact of an English deacon residing among them would be a scandal. They have none of your ideas about union and will not understand them.”

“They seem capable of absorbing Protestant ideas,” objected Palmer; “why should they not also enter into Catholic ideas? It seems to me something could be done to reconcile them and to change their attitude toward us.”

But Muravyov held his ground and continued:

“You would not get on among them, even if you adapted yourself to all their habits and notions. Besides, Russian youth is very mischievous and sarcastic, and could make things very unpleasant for you.”

Palmer did not, however, abandon his wish to see the Theological Academy, and before long a suitable opportunity presented itself. In the meantime he continued his dealings with the leading representatives of Russian theological thought of that period and compared their views with his Oxford doctrine. He now had occasion to meet with the well-known learned theologians Archpriests Pavsky and Sidonsky.

Archpriest G. P. Pavsky occupies a prominent place in the history of the development of our ecclesiastical self-consciousness and theological thought, and although he did not express his worldview in any major work, he nonetheless served as a vivid representative of one of the two currents in our ecclesiastical and theological thought. He was a theologian, if one may so put it, of the Feofan school and was distinguished by a certain freedom of theological views which was, in all likelihood, broader than the Catholic doctrine of Oxford—so much so that Palmer found himself once again having to adjust his theory in order to bring it into accord with the Orthodox worldview as embodied in this new, independent representative. When Palmer raised his favorite topic—the discrepancy he had noted between the Russian translation of the Eighteen Articles of the Jerusalem Council of 1672 and the Greek original—Pavsky immediately agreed that certain changes had indeed been introduced in the translation, and stated that in his opinion they were prompted by the substance of the matter, since traces of Roman Catholic influence were plainly visible there. This same influence, Pavsky remarked, had left its mark on the Orthodox Confession of Peter Mogila, in which the term “transubstantiation” (transubstantiatio) was directly borrowed from the Latins—something explained by Mogila’s own education in Roman Catholic colleges. Palmer said in reply that, in his opinion, it was zealously Orthodox, except in those passages where Mogila had not suspected any danger—but Pavsky generalized about the entire worldview of the West-Russian Church and remarked: “The whole Church of Little Russia was in contact with the Latins and Uniates, and nothing that came out of it could be free from suspicion. The Russian Church has always kept its distance from any novelties, but the term ‘transubstantiation’ has now at last been admitted by Metropolitan Philaret into his Catechism, and the Synod has thus sealed it with ecclesiastical authority. Nevertheless, we are not bound by its Roman Catholic sense.” This unexpected view evidently coincided with Palmer’s own, but on the lips of a Russian theologian it was precisely too unexpected for Palmer not to produce in him a measure of perplexity, and so he remarked: “After all, Philaret’s catechism represents only a new form of the Orthodox Confession, and I do not understand how one can deny the authority of the Orthodox Confession when it was formally corrected and approved at the Council of Jassy in 1642 in the presence of the patriarchal exarch, and subsequently by the Eastern Patriarchs themselves—all the more so since it was originally composed in Russia and for Russia?” Pavsky explained to his interlocutor that it had been compiled exclusively for the western borderland of Russia and by no means expressed the theological views of the Russian Church itself, which had always kept its distance from accepting the theological opinions of Kiev. As for the Greeks, they, Pavsky observed, easily fall into error. “The Eighteen Articles,” Palmer interjected, “unquestionably contain one absurd error—namely in the doctrine of the canon of Holy Scripture—which the Holy Synod has corrected.” Pavsky confirmed this observation and then proceeded to set forth his own theological views, which again brought Palmer into a measure of perplexity by their unexpected boldness and breadth. Thus Palmer found that Pavsky’s views on the Church were not entirely Orthodox, for he too called the Papal Church—as all Russians generally do—“Catholic,” and broadened the concept of the true Church to the point that all Christian confessions holding the essential substance of Christianity fell under it. When Palmer observed that it was impossible to extend the concept of the Church in this way, that Lutherans, for example, could not constitute a church owing to their denial of an essential element of the Church—namely, apostolic succession as expressed in the episcopate—Pavsky said that it was sufficient for this purpose if they acknowledged the Creed accepted by all Christians, and that as for apostolic succession, the Anglicans themselves had no more claim to it than the Lutherans.

“If I thought so,” said Palmer, “I would not be a member of the Anglican Church. The Lutherans, instead of protesting against an unjust excommunication, declared that they had departed from Babylon and founded new human churches on private judgment. The very names given to the clergy among them show that they are not a church.” Palmer was alluding here to the well-known fact that in Protestantism, which had rejected priesthood as a sacrament, the very word “priest” had gradually fallen out of use and been replaced by the common designations of pastor and preacher—terms denoting merely a person’s social function. But Pavsky here too proved broader in his views than the Anglican theologian: not only did he maintain that pastor and priest are one and the same, but he also asserted that Protestant pastors, ordained by the laying on of hands, could themselves transmit in the same manner the ordination they had received to others—which entirely confounded all of Palmer’s theological arguments.

“Did you not find Pavsky too Protestant for your taste?” the chaplain of the English church in Petersburg asked Palmer.

“Yes, I found him sufficiently heterodox,” replied Palmer.

“I thought as much,” the other remarked, “and yet I will tell you—he is an excellent man, very well-liked and respected. He is unquestionably a man of great intelligence and learning.”

Archpriest F. F. Sidonsky, with whom the English theologian became acquainted next, was of a somewhat different character. If Pavsky was distinguished by boldness of judgment and breadth of worldview that at first glance gave an impression of a certain lightness toward important subjects, Archpriest Sidonsky had an entirely different cast of mind. He was a theologian of deep philosophical formation; his religious worldview rested on a vast philosophical erudition that had become so thoroughly embedded in his very being that philosophy and theology had, for him, become as it were a single organic whole at different stages of its development. As a consequence, the higher clergy, Palmer noted, did not regard the Archpriest with particular favor—precisely because he “mingled human philosophy with divine truth.” It is understandable, therefore, that Palmer’s conversation with Sidonsky was bound to take on a serious philosophical cast.

The conversation was conducted in Latin, and Archpriest Sidonsky at once put a question to Palmer: what philosophy did they follow in England—that of Leibniz, Descartes, or some other?

“We are not particularly fond of modern and moreover foreign writers,” replied Palmer. “We read Aristotle and Plato and certain works of our own theologians in order to bring them into connection with the Orthodox theologians. The Germans are intelligent and industrious, but owing to their unfortunate condition all their books are tainted with heresy. So it has been constantly since the moment they performed that unhappy feat—the exodus from Babylon.”

When Archpriest Sidonsky remarked that in our present state there was no need to fear philosophical opinions, and that all was so tranquil that there was no cause to apprehend any influence from Western religious errors, Palmer launched into a lengthy reflection on the state of the Orthodox Church and its relationship to the Western confessions. “If it were not for the civil authority, which at present holds things in check but upon which it is also not entirely safe to rely, you would soon see,” he said to Sidonsky, “how internal division would begin to grow and spread among you—and moreover you would be unable to resist even the force of Roman pseudo-Catholicism. If you are only a part of the Church, then where is the whole? Show us that mother-Church which we confess in the Creed and which both you and we are equally bound to obey. A part cannot exist without a whole. There exists a community that lays claim to being the whole, and from the standpoint of extent and numbers of its members has more right to this than any other; this community you with your own lips call the Catholic Church, as do all its other enemies, and it boldly declares that you belong to it, that you are nothing other than a separated part, an estranged member, a corrupted child, a straying sheep. Do you not justify its pretensions by the name you give it and by your attitude toward it? You allow that you are only a part; it says that it constitutes the whole. And apparently you acknowledge this, since you call this community the ‘Catholic Church,’ and yet you never clearly settle for yourselves what that whole is of which you form a part. Does this not look as though you really are what it calls you? You can of course say that you call yourselves Catholics and the Latins Roman Catholics. We too sometimes make a similar justification when we say that they are only Roman Catholics, while we ourselves are the true Catholics or Catholicos. But despite all these justifications, popular language carries its own serious weight. Let us suppose, however, that you turn about and begin to assert, in accordance with the teaching of your church books and canons, that your Catholic Eastern Church is the entire Universal Church and that Catholicity is Eastern in its very origin, just as Rome says it is Roman in its submission. Nevertheless, will you not be a strange people, laying claim to the whole Catholic Church! In the Russian Empire there are millions of Lutherans and Calvinists, whom you ought to try to convert to the true faith and Church. Then there are the Latins, constituting two-thirds of all Christendom, and not only have you shown no zeal or activity for converting them, but you have in reality constantly followed and imitated them, seeking from them learning and theological knowledge, adopting their scholarly innovations and even framing your doctrinal definitions at councils under their guidance and influence. But let that pass; let us also say nothing of the extraordinary incongruity of the supposition that half the Church fell away as a community and since its fall has grown in spiritual strength and extent far more than the Orthodox; let us only take into account that here, in this one city, there has been an English colony of two or three thousand people ever since the founding of the capital. Now, what have you done in these 130 years for the salvation of their souls, and have you done anything more for them than for some herd of swine? Such is the zeal and love of the one, holy, catholic, apostolic Church!”

Archpriest Sidonsky observed that our Church had always been distinguished by moderation and religious tolerance and had always striven not to condemn others in their beliefs; but Palmer replied that “such moderation is cruel toward others and suicidal toward oneself.” To the Archpriest’s observation that religious zeal had caused the shedding of rivers of blood, Palmer said again that “such zeal as causes the shedding of blood is a bloodthirsty and Satanic zeal; true zeal would rather cause the outpouring of prayers and tears”—and then turned once again to the internal condition of the Russian Church: “Civil government is a very unreliable ally, as we are now beginning to learn from experience in England. When it comes to pass that you have a liberal sovereign surrounded by ministers like our Lord John Russell and Lord Melbourne rather than Protasovs and Muravyovs, and when they give free rein to schismatics and ‘Catholics’ to attack your Church, you will no doubt discover that it would have been far better, instead of sheltering behind the most autocratic of sovereigns, to strive yourselves to think and act as true Catholics—confessing the unity of the Church not only in the reading of the Creed, but believing it in your hearts and manifesting that belief in words and deeds.”

If in these judgments of Palmer there is much one-sidedness, conditioned by his cherished theory of Catholicity and by the sympathy—already beginning to manifest itself—toward the Church that would subsequently receive him into its bosom, certain particulars are nonetheless worth bearing in mind when clarifying those deficiencies from which our ecclesiastical and religious life has suffered. Some events of more recent times have considerably vindicated Palmer’s view regarding the inconvenience, for the proper development of church life, of placing too much reliance on the civil government. When, under the influence of the new era, the protective system of the state in relation to the Church had significantly weakened, all the elements hostile to the Church were quick to avail themselves of this weakening to attack it or its representatives in the person of the clergy. The whole bacchanalia of newspaper and journal detractors of the clergy that we have been living through is one of the manifestations of this hostility, and one must confess that our clergy at first found itself entirely unprepared to repel this hostile opposition in a worthy manner—only now is it recovering itself and, relying on a revived spirit of independent action, beginning to hold the hostile pressure of the opposition in check.

With a view to gaining practical command of the Russian language and becoming more closely acquainted with the life and views of the Russian clergy, Palmer took up lodgings with the priest Fortunatov, on the Vyborg Side. This was still a young man who had only just completed his course at the St. Petersburg Theological Academy and could therefore serve Palmer as an indicator not only of clerical views but also of the state of higher theological education in Russia.

Through the good offices of Father Fortunatov, Palmer satisfied his wish to gain entry to the Theological Academy, and became acquainted with its rector, Archimandrite Athanasius Drozdov (1841–1847), who later became Bishop of Saratov and then Archbishop of Astrakhan. He was, as is well known, a highly educated man, a learned classicist and profound theologian, though he left behind no printed works. He received the Anglican theologian with interest, read his introduction to the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Anglican Church, and finding therein a conciliatory tone, wished to see the Articles themselves. Palmer’s introduction, written from the standpoint of Oxford doctrine, stands considerably closer to the teaching of the Universal Church than the Thirty-Nine Articles themselves, and when Rector Athanasius drew attention to this, Palmer hastened to make the qualification that “the Articles by no means constitute a general confession of faith and that they must be viewed in light of the particular circumstances amid which they arose.” The Articles contain the Western doctrine of the Filioque, and when Palmer began to explain the reasons for its inclusion in the Anglican Creed, Athanasius observed that this was a “profundissima et difficillima quaestio.” The Rector asked Palmer to call on him more frequently, and availing himself of this courteous invitation, Palmer managed to become acquainted with both the outward and inner life of the Academy.

The state of our higher theological schools at that time was not an enviable one. The extreme poverty of the stipends of both teachers and students was capable of crushing all energy, and one can only marvel that despite such material conditions in the higher ecclesiastical educational establishments there were still those who devoted their entire lives to serving them. And these were not men of any kind of failure—men who dedicated themselves to the service of higher theological learning only because they were incapable of any other form of public service; on the contrary, among them are names that unquestionably adorn our theological and philosophical literature. In the St. Petersburg Academy, the period in question encompasses the teaching activity of Archpriests Pavsky and Sidonsky, Professor Karpov, and others; and around the same time the majority of the Academy’s current professors received their education and began their service there, all of whom have to a greater or lesser extent made valuable contributions to our theological and church-historical literature. If one takes into account that alongside material poverty the workers of our higher theological learning of that day had also to endure the open disdain of the higher administration—as may be seen even from the opinion of the Academy expressed above by such a man as A. N. Muravyov—then the concentration of gifted individuals in the Academy can serve as a striking proof of the inner energy of the ecclesiastical milieu, which was capable of producing such selfless workers.

Having looked more closely into the life of the Academy, Palmer found that its inhabitants were by no means the narrow-minded barbarians that A. N. Muravyov had depicted them as. The students proved to be very serious young men who, far from shying away from the Anglican theologian, on the contrary questioned him with great interest about the state of the Anglican Church and showered him with questions of every kind. “What authority,” they asked him among other things, “is given in England to the Septuagint, the Vulgate, and the Hebrew text? What translations are considered the best besides those named? Which Archbishop of London wrote a book refuting Strauss? Whose pupil was Strauss? In which books can the teaching of the Anglican Church be found?” and so on. Some of the students were writing dissertations on the Anglican Church and were interested to know whether it stood closer to Lutheranism or to Papism. By their supposition, Palmer notes, it stands closer to Lutheranism. In the student papers reviewed by Palmer, a mystical-abstract element predominated—an evident echo of the mystical tendency that had shortly before swept through Russian society.

Conversing with Father Fortunatov about theological education in Russia and about the religious condition of the Russian people in general, Palmer was surprised to hear from his interlocutor that truly Orthodox views lived only among the clergy, while all the rest of educated society was infected with freethinking (all freethinkers)—and in particular the professors and students of the Medical Academy (the view of which opened from Father Fortunatov’s apartment)—and not only they, but doctors in general in this respect pessimi sunt. Father Fortunatov was so convinced, among other things, of the inevitability of unbelief and freethinking among members of the medical profession that he refused to believe Palmer when he said that in England these people were not at all distinguished by freethinking, and supposed that they were like this all over the world, according to the saying: “Shall the dead praise Thee, O Lord, and shall physicians rise up to confess Thee?”

This view, for all its exclusiveness and one-sidedness, is not without a certain foundation and still finds some correspondence with reality. In the absence among us of a serious scientific and philosophical grounding in persons of professional education, their general worldview easily goes off the rails at the mere contact with the dead instruments of their trade; in such a state they pass readily from, say, the possibility of anatomical analysis of a corpse to the possibility of the same analysis of the entire world, which presents itself to them as a simple corpse rather than the living cosmos that it appears to be in the light of a philosophical worldview.