The Cave That Broke the Throne

Kyiv in the mid-11th century. A time when Christianity had already become the state religion, but had not yet managed to penetrate into the nooks and crannies of society. On Starokyivska Hill, the golden domes of the Church of the Tithes and St. Sophia gleam. There, well-fed Greek metropolitans serve; there, solemn choirs sing; there, the air is filled with expensive incense and the whiff of power. This is the “official Church,” embedded in the vertical of princely governance.

And a few miles away, in the wild area of Berestove, in a clay cliff above the Dnipro, sits a man named Anthony. He dug himself a cave, not to be closer to power, but to escape from it.

The Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra did not begin as a state project. It began as a harsh, uncompromising opposition to the world.

Anthony and the first monks went underground because up above, they felt suffocated by hypocrisy.

From its very first day, the Lavra declared itself a zone of freedom. A territory where princely decrees do not apply. And, of course, the state could not tolerate this.

The First Clash

The conflict between the Lavra and the authorities did not arise over theology. The reason was cynically worldly. It was a personnel issue.

Prince Iziaslav Yaroslavich, son of Yaroslav the Wise, was a weak but ambitious ruler. Like many rulers after him, he considered people to be his property.

In the 1060s, two young men came to Anthony’s cave. The first was Varlaam, son of the noble boyar named Ioann. This was the “golden youth” of that time. Brilliant prospects, marriage to the daughter of a Kyiv voivode, a career. The second was Ephraim: the prince’s favorite, head of the court household (essentially the treasurer), and a eunuch. They asked to be tonsured.

For Anthony and Abbot Nikon, these were not “profitable clients.” They were souls seeking God. Anthony ordered them to be tonsured.

When Iziaslav learned that his best managers had put on ragged cassocks and gone to dig clay, he had a fit of hysteria. The prince summoned Nikon and, as the chronicler writes, “was greatly angered at him.”

The prince’s logic was clear: “I trained them, I promoted them, they belong to me (the state), and you stole them.” The monks’ logic was different: “The soul belongs only to God.”

Iziaslav moved to direct threats. He promised to send soldiers to dig up the cave, forcibly drag out the newly tonsured monks, and throw the elders into prison.

The atmosphere heated up to the breaking point. Imagine the scene: damp earth, the dim light of torches, and the anticipation of an assault. The prince’s retinue was already saddling horses.

What does Anthony do? Write a petition? Seek compromise? Ask for intercession from the boyars?

No. He performs an act that disarms the authorities. Anthony simply takes his staff, puts on his worn-out mantle, and leaves Kyiv toward Chernihiv. The monks follow him.

This was not the flight of a coward. It was the démarche of a prophet.

Anthony’s message was simple: “You need walls and land? Take them. We don’t need your walls. We will carry the grace with us. And let’s see what will remain of your Kyiv without prayer.”

It was blackmail by holiness. And the prince broke first. Iziaslav was overcome by mystical terror. His wife (the Polish princess Gertrude) begged him to bring the elders back, fearing God’s wrath. The Grand Prince of Kyiv, ruler of vast lands, humbly asked the monks to return to their cave.

Anthony returned. But he showed the main thing: the Church cannot be forced. It has nothing to lose, because its treasures are not in chests.

The Second Clash

Time passes. Iziaslav, having shown his weakness, loses the throne. In 1073, he is overthrown by his own brothers, Sviatoslav and Vsevolod. The usurper Sviatoslav Yaroslavich ascends in Kyiv. For most “systemic” people, a change of power is a reason to swear allegiance anew. The king is dead, long live the king.

But the Lavra now has a new abbot: Theodosius of the Caves. A disciple of Anthony, a man of steel. Sviatoslav tries to legitimize his seizure of power. He needs the Lavra—the spiritual authority—to recognize him as the legitimate ruler. He invites the Venerable Theodosius to a feast. He sends rich gifts. He even comes to the monastery himself.

Theodosius does not simply refuse. He goes into open conflict.

“I will not go to the feast of a fratricide,” he tells the envoys. “And I will not commemorate him at the Liturgy as prince.”

Moreover, Theodosius writes denunciatory letters to Sviatoslav. In one of them, he compares the prince to Cain. For medieval consciousness, this is not just an insult: it is a curse.

The boyars whisper to Theodosius: “They will kill you. Or exile you.” Sviatoslav truly boils with rage. He is used to power being right. But he can do nothing to the frail monk who looks at him without fear.

The saint says: “What can you do to me? Imprison me? I will be glad to suffer for the truth. Deprive me of property? I have only a cassock and dry bread.”

Once again, power retreated. Sviatoslav did not dare touch Theodosius, seeing how the people honored the saint. The Lavra remained under the law of conscience, refusing to play by the rules of political expediency.

The Psychology of the Persecutor

If we look at Prince Iziaslav (and later Sviatoslav), we see not cartoonish villains, but tragic figures.

Iziaslav spent his whole life trying to build a “vertical.” He wanted to control everything, including the Spirit. He needed a “pocket Lavra”: convenient, obedient, ready to bless any of his decisions.

Instead, he got prophets. His own powerlessness enraged him. He persecuted the monks, threatened them, expelled them. Yet the end of his life was sad. Iziaslav lost Kyiv, wandered through Europe, humiliated himself before the German emperor and the Pope, begging for military aid. He died far from home.

And Anthony, whom Iziaslav threatened to bury alive, went to Chernihiv. And what did he do there? He simply dug a new cave on the Boldyni Hills. And monks gathered around him again. And another monastery arose.

Because holiness cannot be “forbidden.” Holiness is not tied to geolocation — to walls or seals.

The Lesson for Us

The history of the first persecution of the Lavra is strikingly cyclical. Almost a thousand years have passed. The scenery has changed: instead of princely retinues, we face the police; instead of torches, spotlights. But the essence of the conflict remains the same.

The world always tries to “nationalize” the Church—to turn it into a department for ideological affairs. To force it to tonsure those it needs to and bless what is profitable.

When the Church says “no,” the world begins to threaten: “We will take away your walls. We will fill your caves. We will drive you out.”

The response of the Venerable Anthony and Theodosius echoes through the centuries: “Take the walls. They are only stone. Fill the caves. We will dig new ones—in Chernihiv, in the forest, or in our own hearts. You can take property from the Church, but you cannot take Christ.”

As 11th-century history shows, persecutors usually end badly and are quickly forgotten. While those they persecuted lay an unshakable foundation for Eternity.

This article by Konstantin Demidov was first published by the UOJ's Ukraine bureau.

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