Language, War, and Parish Life: The Experience of an Orthodox Community of the Russian Tradition in Germany

Many of us have experienced living in a foreign country for a long time, surrounded by people of another culture and language. Or working in a team where everyone is a foreigner. Or attending a university course where there is not a single compatriot among the students. And suddenly someone greets you in your native language. Or someone learns a few phrases just to support you: “How are you?” or “You look good today.”

Christians have a special word to describe the feeling you experience when a stranger speaks to you in your native language — grace. In a world of alienation and indifference, the soul of another person touches your heart. Language makes this contact possible.

Through language people quarrel, express hatred, and even wish death upon others. But through the same language people become friends, they love, and forgive.

The Church is a space of languages and dialects. The question of language becomes especially important in parish life abroad. It becomes even more sensitive when a parish exists in the context of a large-scale and bloody conflict between two religiously, culturally, and historically close peoples. This article reflects on the experience of language in the life of the Orthodox parish of St. Mary of Egypt in Tübingen (Russian Orthodox Church, Moscow Patriarchate).

Today many of us have become particularly attentive to what happens in church. We notice details that once seemed secondary: which icons hang on the walls, in which language prayers are spoken, who is commemorated at the Divine Liturgy, and what narratives the priest uses in his sermon.

For most parishioners, Russian remains the main language of communication. For late repatriates and for those who have lived in Germany for many years, it is the language of childhood and youth. It is the language in which their mothers spoke kindly to them. It is the language in which they first heard words of love.

For refugees from Ukraine, however, Russian may be associated with aggression and death. For them, the situation can be emotionally complex and sometimes traumatic.

In such circumstances, one task becomes the “rehabilitation” of language. A language that is perceived by many as the language of an enemy can, in a Christian context, become a language of brotherhood, forgiveness, and mutual support. In Germany this is particularly visible: many volunteers who welcomed refugees did not know Ukrainian. Assistance in public offices, at medical appointments, and in language courses was often provided in Russian, thanks to volunteer interpreters.

Although Russian remains the main language of communication, it is essential to allow the Ukrainian language to have a full and legitimate place in parish life. It must be given an undeniable right to be present. The parish leadership can encourage the free use of Ukrainian in conversation. The church space can include signs that remind people of home: traditional embroidery, decorative cloths, folk melodies in the singing. At major feasts such as Christmas and Easter (Pascha), the Gospel may be read not only in Russian and German, but also in Ukrainian. In the Prayer-petitions, it is possible to mention the regions from which parishioners come: Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova, Kazakhstan.

As in many Orthodox parishes in Germany of the “Russian tradition,” the liturgy in our parish is celebrated in Church Slavonic. For some, this language sounds like a symbol of an imperial Church that betrayed its people. Yet Church Slavonic does not truly belong to any one nation. It is both no one’s and everyone’s. It is a language shared by the peoples of Eastern Europe. Today its unifying and comforting potential is especially felt.

Orthodox communities of the Russian tradition in Germany often represent an attempt to preserve the world that existed before 2022. The same Liturgy, the same language, the same calendar with the same saints — from Belarus, Russia, and Ukraine. The demand for such a “memory of peace” is high not only among older emigrants, but also among new refugees from Ukraine and Russia who seek stability in liturgical life. The contrast between external chaos and the internal stability of the Liturgy creates a sense of security.

Is our experience perfect? Certainly not. People remain human, and conflicts, passions, and grievances do not bypass our community. But is it significant? No doubt! As is the experience of many other Orthodox parishes in Germany of the Russian tradition.

In difficult circumstances, often in an atmosphere of misunderstanding and even suspicion from the surrounding society, clergy and laypeople continue to do what the Church essentially exists for: to receive one another, to forgive, to show compassion, and to share what they have. Not in declarations or online statements, but in the everyday and often demanding practice of living together.

Aleksei Volchkov

Doctor of Theology, visiting priest at the Orthodox parish of St. Mary of Egypt (Tübingen)