Writing as Protest
Theological Resistance against Soviet Oppression
About the author: Rev. Andria Sarias, hailing from Tbilisi, Georgia, is a scholar whose journey began at Tbilisi Theological Seminary and culminated at the University of Georgia (PhD). He specializes in church history and theology, and recently completed a ThM at Columbia Theological Seminary. He has had notable roles in both academic and spiritual institutions. Passionate about advancing knowledge, Andria has authored numerous publications, reflecting his dedication to scholarly discourse.
During the Soviet Union, religious individuals in this context entrusted church literature and writing with a special mission.1 Writers were seen as national leaders, and citizens viewed church ministers as advocates who fought and prayed for freedom of thought. Amid Soviet oppression, two forces protected those who cherished freedom—the Christian religion and literature. As the Soviet Union suppressed freedom of expression, writing assumed the critical role of safeguarding the people and their ideals.
Preserving people and ideals through the written word is ancient. Reflecting on the pre-Soviet era in the Georgian context, it is important to mention figures like Saint Nino, a spiritual and secular leader known for defending the nation’s interests.2 One finds notable expression of the important religious writings of figures like Nino in the “Martyrdom of Abo,” a work by Ioane Sabanisdze that—during times of adversity—inspired faith, imparted strength, and advocated for the individual right to self-defense.3
The incorporation of various countries into the Soviet Union resulted in the suppression of national identities and the cessation of the publication of freely written theological works. The theological expression that was acceptable to the Russian authorities was imposed upon the non-Russian peoples without their consent, effectively reducing these nations to mere provinces of Russia.4 Theological discourse and religious freedom were subordinate to the ideological control of the Soviets, stifling diverse expressions of faith and theology that previously flourished in these regions. This subjugation not only curtailed national and cultural identities but also hindered the spiritual and theological development of these communities, as they were forced to conform to a homogenized and state-approved narrative.
American philosopher and queer theorist Judith Butler contends that: those who assemble in heavily policed public spaces are perpetually at risk of detention, arrest, and even lethal force.5 Therefore, when we examine police violence against protesters, it not only pertains to physical demonstrations but also—in the case of Christians in Soviet-led Georgia—encompasses written protests.
Throughout the centuries, Georgian writers and poets emerged to defend the freedom of speech. We find figures such as Sulkhan-Saba Orbeliani, Davit Guramishvili, and Ilia Chavchavadze among them. These figures were statesmen, writers, and Spiritual leaders in Georgia. Orbeliani was a Christian monk, writer, and statesman. Guramishvili was a poet and statesman who wrote about human perversity and the plague of thought. Lastly, Chavchavadze boldly proclaimed that writers, such as himself, led the nation:
The sky appoints me and the nation raises me, From earthly to heavenly, I speak to God on its behalf, To lead the people of the past . . .
The emergence of free speech within these individuals is crucial because such speech seeks an outlet. As Judith Butler states, “we are already familiar with the idea that freedom can be exercised only if there is enough support for the exercise of freedom, a material condition that enters into the act that makes it possible.”6 The alternative to such freedom leads to tyranny and the Soviet Union exemplified a regime of tyranny.7 Karl Barth, in his reflections on the tyrannical Soviet Union, voices a profound critique: “One can harbor extensive concerns and speak extensively against the East due to its totalitarian nature and its methods.”8
During the Soviet era, collectivization demanded uniformity of thought, eroding any possibility of individual independence. This imposition extended to the church, which was coerced into serving the Soviet regime under the motto: “Whoever is not with us is our enemy.” Unfortunately, this is not too different from how we see the integration of state and church in post-Soviet era Eastern Europe—the lingering effects of Soviet ideology persist today.9
Although I was born during Georgia’s disintegration from the Soviet structure, I grew up under its residual influence. The liberation from state and religious propaganda ingrained by the Soviet Union will require generations to achieve, even in a so-called free state.10
Comparatively, contemporary Russian leaders exert similar constraints on church representatives who cannot express their Christian positions or oppose them freely. The lack of freedom stems from the idealization of the Soviet Union. While these dissenters may not face execution, they risk property confiscation, harassment, and imprisonment, as seen in the case of Alexei Navalny, Andrey Kuraev, or Hilarion Alfeyev. Furthermore, theological institutes may expel students, or professors may be forced to resign for expressing dissenting opinions.
The strict control exerted over Soviet-era citizens diminished their capacity for independent thought. The enforced homogeneity of thought mirrored the leader’s pronouncements. Without the freedom to think and write critically, people in general and Christians in particular risk reverting to a system reminiscent of Soviet political correctness. Soviet censorship stringently scrutinized every spoken or written word to find dissenters. Repressive mechanisms stifled thought, creating a climate of fear that prevented people from participating in the way of Jesus by sharing their beliefs.
If individuals are subjected to two political systems, their perspectives will diverge significantly. This divergence highlights the danger of totalitarian systems and their potential resurgence, even in ostensibly free states. Various political mechanisms and agendas can initiate repression, and such developments must be vigilantly prevented. One of the most pernicious aspects of the Soviet Union was the “troika” system, where three officials could decide, without a fair trial, who would be executed or sentenced to life imprisonment.
Once policies of repression and restriction are initiated, they become difficult to halt, especially when seemingly noble slogans justify them. The Soviet restriction aimed at building a socialist and communist utopia where oppression would cease and all people could live happily. However, the Communist Party perceived dissidents as obstacles to this vision and deemed their elimination necessary. The underlying logic was that the happiness of millions justified the sacrifice of those who, in the Party’s view, opposed the construction of a free communist society.
This utilitarian rationale recalls the biblical narrative where one finds such themes. It is, according to one reading of the Bible, better that one man should die for the people than for the whole nation to perish (John 11:50). The apparatus behind this statement, used to justify the crucifixion of Jesus, believed it could prevent national unrest. Similarly, the Soviet Union, and by extension, the current Russian leadership, adopt the stance that extreme measures—including labeling Europe as demonic and Russia as Ukraine’s savior—are necessary for the greater good.
Even in the 19th century, Russia’s expansion and solidification of its presence did not overtly demand that Transcaucasian peoples (i.e., Georgians) and church writers extol and propagate the Russian Empire’s efforts. The Tsarist regime did not explicitly subordinate Georgian theology to the Russian Empire, opting instead for covert Russification policies, such as imposing Russian as the medium of instruction in the Tbilisi Theological Seminary (my former institution).
In stark contrast, the Soviet regime displayed no such subtlety. Masking Russian chauvinism with a veneer of internationalism, Soviet authorities enforced partisan theology, co-opting the writings of all non-Russian peoples to serve Russian interests.11 This policy effectively transformed Georgian and other non-Russian theologies into instruments of Soviet ideology, undermining their cultural and intellectual identities.
The starkly evident suppression of Georgian intellectuals ended in the executions of dissenting Georgian writers in 1937 and the deportation of their families. Soviet ideology mandated the primitivization and facelessness of Georgian culture and the cultures of all non-Russian peoples, stripping them of intellectual rigor and diversity. This enforced cultural uniformity dates back to the Russian Imperial era, revealing the deep inequalities faced by these cultures, whose voices were suppressed by the strict control of Soviet ideology.12
Soviet-era domination led to tens of millions being unjustly punished. This systemic injustice was acknowledged by the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) during its 20th, 21st, and 22nd congresses. This recognition highlights the profound moral and ethical failures of the regime, which systematically violated human dignity and rights. The theological implications of such widespread persecution underscore the importance of advocating for justice and the sanctity of human life, as these values are foundational to Christian teachings. The church’s role in bearing witness to these injustices and advocating for oppressed persons remains crucial to its mission.
Karl Barth serves as a guide to this witness. He asserts, “The civil community as such is spiritually blind and ignorant. It has neither faith nor love nor hope. It has no creed and no gospel. Prayer is not part of its life, and its members are not brothers and sisters.”13 This starkly contrasts with the Soviet Union, which was constructed as a faith unto itself, opposing all other beliefs and elevating its ideology to doctrine. In the Soviet Union, no faith could exist independently; all were subjugated to the service of communism.
The Soviet regime arrogated to itself the role of divine judge, categorizing individuals as either virtuous or malevolent, allies or adversaries, while paradoxically denying the existence of God and any knowledge thereof. Barth insightfully notes that “awareness of God is one thing, being in God quite another.”14 This communist system eradicated the possibility of preaching the gospel, which envisions the church as the “light of the world” (Matt. 5:14–16). This concept emphasizes the church’s role in fostering truth, promoting justice, and nurturing hope within communities facing oppression. By silencing diverse religious voices, the Soviet regime not only marginalized individual identities but also diminished the collective moral guidance and spiritual illumination that faith communities are meant to provide. Consequently, this suppression undermined the church’s vital mission to serve as a light source amid darkness, leading to a significant spiritual and ethical void within society.
In contemporary times, church representatives in post-Soviet contexts should boldly write and speak according to their conscience without fear. When events unfold, the church must not simply evaluate from the sidelines but take a central role in advancing the cause of justice. Karl Barth emphasized the importance of timely engagement by the church and warned against tendencies to intervene only when the risks were minimal. This principle applies equally to Christian journalism and writing, whether conducted under the church's formal authority or independently.15
True church freedom entails accepting responsibility, which is neither cheap nor easy.16 The church must consistently express its stance against imperialist ideologies and defend Christian principles. Otherwise, like in Soviet literature, imperialism will on-goingly dictate whose work is “struck down” and whose writings are granted “freedom.”
For more information, see Yasha Klots, Tamizdat: Contraband Russian Literature in the Cold War Era (New York: Cornell University Press, 2023).
Margery Wardrop, Life of Saint Nino, 1st ed. (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, LLC., 2019).
“The Marytrdom of Abo, the Perfumer from Baghdad” in Lives and Legends of the Georgian Saints, trans. David Marshall Lang (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1956), 115–133.
For an examination of the 1920s as a period of “ethnophilia,” see Yuri Slezkine’s article, “The USSR as a Communal Apartment, or How a Socialist State Promoted Ethnic Particularism,” Slavic Review 53, no. 2 (Summer 1994): 414–452. For the 1930s and the retreat in nationality policies, as well as discussion of ethnic cleansing terminology, see Terry Martin, “The Origins of Soviet Ethnic Cleansing,” Journal of Modern History 70, no. 4 (December 1998): 813–61. For a discussion on the genocidal aspects of Soviet nationality policy, including deportations, see Norman Naimark’s Stalin’s Genocides (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010).
Judith Butler, “Rethinking Vulnerability and Resistance,” in Vulnerability in Resistance (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016), 12.
Butler, “Rethinking Vulnerability,” 14.
On early notions of Soviet citizenship, see Eric Lohr, Russian Citizenship: From Empire to Soviet Union (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), and Golfo Alexopoulos, Stalin’s Outcasts: Aliens, Citizens, and the Soviet State, 1926–1936 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003). On postwar Stalinist citizenship as a communal practice, see Serhy Yekelchyk, Stalin’s Citizens: Everyday Politics in the Wake of Total War (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014).
Karl Barth, Against the Stream: Shorter Post-War Writings, 1946–52 (London: SCM Press, 1954), 138.
Refer here to Timothy K. Blauvelt and Jeremy Smith, eds., Georgia after Stalin: Nationalism and Soviet Power (New York: Routledge, 2016). For an in-depth study of Georgian socialism and political history, see Stephen F. Jones’s works: Socialism in Georgian Colors: The European Road to Social Democracy, 1883–1917 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005); Georgia: A Political History since Independence (London: I. B. Tauris, 2012); and The Making of Modern Georgia, 1918–2012, ed. Stephen F. Jones (New York: Routledge, 2014). Jones provides comprehensive coverage of both pre- and post-Soviet periods. For insights into Georgian national opposition during the Soviet era, see Jürgen Gerber, Georgien: Nationale Opposition und kommunistische Herrschaft seit 1956 (Baden-Baden, Germany: Nomos Verlagsgesellschaft, 1997). Gerber’s work emphasizes opposition rather than the defining characteristics of Soviet-national belonging.
For an analysis of the distinction between Bolshevik and Soviet modernity, see Anna Krylova, “Soviet Modernity: Stephen Kotkin and the Bolshevik Predicament,” Contemporary European History 23, no. 2 (May 2014): 167–92. On a parallel process among Russian generations, see Donald J. Raleigh, Soviet Baby Boomers: An Oral History of Russia’s Cold War Generation (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012).
John Roy Staples, Johann Cornies, the Mennonites, and Russian Colonialism in Southern Ukraine (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2024).
One exception was in 1937 for a specific reason: In 1937, Stalin’s national identity was awakened when he learned of his origins in a savage nation. That year, he organized a series of anniversaries that laid the foundation for Georgian canon-building. This included commemorating the centennial of Ilia Chavchavadze, known as the “father of the Georgian nation,” and the 750th anniversary of Shota Rustaveli, the author of the medieval Georgian epic poem Vepkhistqaosani (The Knight in the Panther Skin), which Stalin first encountered at the seminary. Additionally, Stalin’s mother, Keke Geladze, passed away in 1937. In January of that year, the Moscow Dekada of Georgian Art showcased Georgian cultural achievements to a multinational Soviet audience and Kremlin leadership familiar with Caucasian cultural heritage. See Claire P. Kaiser, Georgian and Soviet: Entitled Nationhood and the Specter of Stalin in the Caucasus (New York: Cornell University Press, 2023), chap. 1.
Barth, Against the Stream, 17.
Barth, Against the Stream, 18.
Barth, Against the Stream, 47–8.
Barth, Against the Stream, 58.
