In anticipation of Kyiv’s counteroffensive, the Kremlin is attempting to strengthen its positions not only through military means, but also through mysticism. On May 17 and 18, the icon of St. Seraphim of Sarov was flown over “territories in Russia that are potentially under threat from enemy unmanned aerial vehicles” in an apparent attempt to ward off any danger. A few days earlier, the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg handed over a silver reliquary of Prince Alexander Nevsky’s remains to the Russian Orthodox Church (ROC). Most controversially of all, President Vladimir Putin has transferred control of the country’s most famous icon, Andrei Rublev’s Trinity, to the Kremlin-aligned ROC.
The decision to move the fifteenth-century masterpiece—a key symbol of Russian culture and spirituality—from its home for the last century, Moscow’s Tretyakov Gallery, provoked outrage in the art world and among historians. Without museum conditions and constant professional restoration, they warn, the icon is doomed to erode: its condition is already unstable. But as Russia becomes more entrenched in the war, the superstitious beliefs of commander in chief Putin are growing, and he desires stronger talismans.
Senior church officials have directly linked the transfer to the need to strengthen prayer during the war, which they euphemistically refer to as “difficult times.” In reality, for the ROC, it is more an act of asserting power. The icon is now on display in Moscow’s Christ the Savior Cathedral.
If the intention had been to provide believers with access to the Trinity in a sacred space, it could simply have been moved to the Church of St. Nicholas in Tolmachi, which is both a functioning place of worship and part of the Tretyakov Gallery. Indeed, the Rublev icon had previously been moved there on several occasions during Pentecost, which had never resulted in long lines of believers eager to worship upon it, somewhat undermining the argument that there was major “demand among the faithful.” In reality, there were no mass petitions signed by people desperate to venerate the authentic Rublev icon.
Throughout the war, the ROC hasn’t just demonstrated absolute loyalty and ideological support for the “special military operation”; it has actively participated in it. A whole subculture of patriotic Christianity has emerged, complete with a network of Telegram channels and TV shows. Parishes collect aid for soldiers while priests visit army enlistment offices across Russia, distributing icons and blessing soldiers.
Then there are the military clergy: priests who go to the front lines, engage in propaganda, fight, and die. Clergy who dare to speak out against the war face harsh public punishments, including being defrocked. (A priest with restoration expertise who opposed moving the Trinity met a similar fate.)
One could assume, therefore, that the priceless gifts being given to the ROC are payment for its active support for the war. But perhaps they are also an advance, affirming the ROC as a source of miracles.
There are many rumors circulating about the everyday mysticism that has taken hold among Putin himself, his inner circle, and the Kremlin elites as a whole. It is claimed that Defense Minister Sergei Shoigu supplies Putin with magical roots and that the two men visit shamans together, and that officials rejuvenate themselves through baths with elk antlers. Journalists who were once part of the Kremlin press pool tell stories of how they were forbidden from stepping on Putin’s shadow, and how one of the deputy prime ministers rescheduled meetings based on the advice of an astrologer.
The Orthodox artefacts apparently fall into the same category as elk antlers, and the ROC is their willful supplier. Throughout Putin’s years in power, a significant number of pseudo-religious rituals and symbols have accumulated. They are syncretic, utilizing Orthodox design and terminology, but rooted in paganism, incorporating folk practices and esoteric traditions.
Take the recent consecration—at the height of the pandemic—of the ominous Main Cathedral of the Armed Forces of Russia. It is full of ritualistic symbolism: the iconostasis contains forty-eight icons, representing the number of months for which Russia fought in World War II, and the steps are reportedly made from melted-down Nazi machinery. The cathedral is full of esoteric numerology that parasitizes on traditional Christian symbols.
No less magical is the tradition that has become entrenched in Russia in the last twenty years of transporting various relics around Russian cities. An entire industry of worship has been built around this custom, from oligarch sponsorship and VIP tickets for the leadership to long lines, buses full of pilgrims, and field kitchens. President Putin has personally greeted some of the relics upon their arrival at airports.
Back in mid-April this year, two copies of another icon—the Holy Face—were taken by the Russian authorities to occupied Ukrainian territory in the Kherson and Luhansk regions. But the practice predates the current Russian invasion of Ukraine. Back in 2014, the Orthodox oligarch Konstantin Malofeev sponsored the Russian tour of a relic housed in Greece: the Gifts of the Magi. Weeks prior to the annexation of Crimea, the icon was unexpectedly transported to the peninsula, guarded by the soon-to-be Donbas warlord Igor Strelkov.
As Rustem Temirgaliyev, a former deputy chairman of the Council of Ministers of Crimea, later recounted, it was during the tour of the Gifts of the Magi that Malofeev workshopped the annexation plans with Crimean authorities.
Whether the gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the Christmas story in the Gospel served as a cover for a military-political operation or were used for its sacred support as a talisman is uncertain. Most likely, it was both.
In church documents and media reports, both the Trinity icon and copies of it are referred to as “miracle-working.” It’s as if “miracle-working properties” are an additional argument to legitimize the ROC’s rights to any artefact and to justify its value and potential effectiveness in the current political moment. But the Trinity was never considered miracle-working; there are no feast days or liturgy dedicated to the icon.
Indeed, its value lies not in any particular holiness, but in its aesthetic and sensory expression of the complex theological concept of the Trinity of the one God, visualizing the most mysterious Christian dogma. The unique cultural power the icon holds was vested in it not by the church, but by artists and anti-Soviet intellectuals who restored the icon in the twentieth century and hailed it as a masterpiece. In the final moments of his black-and-white film Andrei Rublev, Tarkovsky switches to color and shows the Trinity for several minutes as an allegory of a vibrant and eternal spiritual world. Today, the icon symbolizes Putin’s willingness to sacrifice Russian culture to the god of war.
