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| Communion of the Apostles |
The following article was published at Crisis Magazine on October 7, 2026, and is reprinted here with the kind permission of the editor Eric Sammons.
In an article published at The Catholic Thing on September 18, 2026, Dmitri Solzhenitsyn endeavors to summarize for readers what he calls “The Original ‘Liturgy Wars’: Between East and West.” His basic argument is that wars over liturgy are nothing new—in fact, the first battlefield was between East and West, inasmuch as the Western church slowly drifted away from the original template still preserved to this day in the Eastern churches. The way he tells the story makes it almost sound plausible.
The argument he puts forth rests on an underlying double premise: first, there was a primitive common liturgical repository from which all the different traditions differently evolved; second, this repository was Greek or Byzantine.
However, no serious liturgical scholar holds either of these positions any more.
As to the first, Paul Bradshaw and others have demontrated that the opposite is true: at the beginning there seems to be considerable diversity, and over time there tends to be convergence and assimilation, as different rites either borrow from each other or replace one another. Ritual practice tends to assimilate itself to that of the great Sees (see Gregory DiPippo’s discussion of this trend in his lecture “Unity in Diversity”). In the West, that great See would, of course, be Rome; in the East, it would not be Byzantium initially, but Jerusalem and Antioch, with Constantinople acquiring dominance after the seventh century.
Solzhenitsyn gives the impression that we have a well-documented commonality between Old Rome and New Rome in liturgical matters, from which one of them (namely Old Rome) diverged; thus, he writes: “All of this established the Roman rite as distinct from the Byzantine,” as if they had begun aligned and then diverged. That is not the case; there is no evidence whatsoever for it. After all, if “by the end of the seventh century, East and West had diverging prayers, hymns, cadences, and even iconography,” what are we to make of the “diverging prayers” etc. within the East itself—since Jerusalem, Alexandria, Antioch, and Byzantium all prayed differently? The notion that the Byzantine liturgy has a normative antiquity or a peculiar fidelity to apostolic origins is an assumption without foundation.
That brings me to the second premise. Solzhenitsyn gives the impression that “the East” means or is equivalent to Byzantine or Constantinopolitan. Not only does it not mean this, but in the earliest period of Christian liturgy Byzantium is very much less important than Jerusalem, Antioch, and Alexandria, whose traditions are older and were more influential for a time. Armenia and Georgia had already adopted the liturgy of Jerusalem at the time when Byzantium/Constantinople/New Rome was first declared a patriarchate. Those older rites already wielded considerable prestige. And yet, we see—as could be expected—a great diversity and vitality of different traditions. The paucity of information and the diversity of traditions in the early centuries make it singularly difficult to pin down where something first occurred, or who influenced whom.
Solzhenitsyn claims: “During the later 300s the Greek liturgy was uniquely refined: garments like the sticharion (a kind of long tunic), hymnography like the short troparia, and sophisticated vessels were a much more prominent feature of Byzantine rites than of the simpler Latin rites.”
By “the Greek liturgy,” presumably he means “the Byzantine.” The problem with such sweeping claims is that we know little to nothing about the Byzantine liturgy of the fourth century. There is precious little documentation of it or citation from it available. There is, for example, no equivalent to St. Ambrose of Milan’s citation of the Roman Canon in the De Sacramentis, written around 387, which strongly points to the Roman Canon already being a familiar anaphora by that time.
The claim about the sticharion cannot be substantiated and is anachronistic. It is well known that clerical attire in the early centuries had not yet evolved into a distinct type of clothing set apart from secular clothing; rather, the clergy wore the best garments available when performing the rites, and due to the innate conservatism of the religious instinct, the sacristy wardrobe remained fixed in style while secular clothing changed out in the world. In any case, it was not long before Western vestments displayed the same stunning beauty as their contemporaneous Eastern counterparts.
Hymns such as the troparia had indeed already emerged as a literary genre by the late 300s, when Byzantium was still a suffragan of Herakleia, not a patriarchate. The Latin hymns of St. Ambrose, long admired for their mellifluous poetry and lofty theological conceptions, were written at just the same time, and soon entered the Western liturgy.
As for “sophisticated vessels,” it is rather difficult to understand what the phrase even means. As soon as we have records of liturgical vessels in the West, we see they are ornate and valuable, which is why the pagan Romans tried to steal them. For example, the Gesta apud Zenophilum/Acta purgationis Felicis, centered on the church at Cirta in North Africa and dated to 303, records an inventory of items taken in a raid, including 2 gold chalices, 6 silver chalices, 6 silver cruets, a small silver basin, 2 large chandeliers, 7 small bronze lamps and their holders, 11 bronze lamps with chains, 38 curtains, substantial quantities of clothing, a silver chest, and a lamp that had been concealed in the library.
The gravest error in Solzhenitsyn’s article is his reporting, with approval, the opinion of some Eastern sources that the Roman liturgy originally had a “descending” epiklesis—that is, an invocation of the Holy Spirit to bring about the conversion of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ—that had somehow dropped out of or been removed from the Roman rite. He cites (approvingly?) Orthodox patriarchs who in 1848 accused the Roman Church of “rejecting” from the Canon “the very ancient and Apostolic invocation of the Consecrating Spirit” and thus “miserably mutilating the Sacrifice in its most essential part.” (A less extreme exponent of the view that the Roman Rite once had this kind of epiklesis would be Adrian Fortescue, the inaccuracy of whose views has been discussed elsewhere.)
In reality, the Roman rite never had such an epiklesis because its unique anaphora predates the Macedonian controversy over the divinity of the Holy Spirit, which afflicted only the East and is the reason why the Byzantine rite inserted an epiklesis that the Roman rite never needed. The Roman theology of consecation is different, and, tellingly, older. If anything, it is the Byzantine epiklesis, as a later insertion, that requires explanation. (I will not enter here into the Roman rite’s “ascending” epiklesis, the Supplices te rogamus, which is not relevant to the point at hand, nor into the Veni, Sanctificator prayer of the Offertory, which alludes to the Holy Spirit but does not have the function of an epiklesis as we are now discussing it.)
Continuing his brief for Latin deviation from or corruption of a putatively pure and uniform “Greek” original, Solzhenitsyn claims that leavened bread was used by everyone from the beginning but the West drifted later on into the practice of unleavened bread, and, similarly, that the marriage of priests was normative but the West later enforced clerical celibacy. He seems unaware that a long history of scholarly debate exists on these questions.
On the topic of the type of bread used, our information is too scant to permit a determination of when unleavened bread began to be used in the West. The West may have used unleavened bread in imitation of what Christ did at the Passover; for all we know, both types may have been in use at the same time in different places. The fact that we know unleavened bread to be widespread by the Carolingian period does not mean it was invented in that period. On the topic of celibacy, Solzhenitsyn oversimplifies the historical record. For a different telling of the history, I recommend Alphonso Stickler’s The Case for Clerical Celibacy: Its Historical Development and Theological Foundations, Christian Cochini’s Apostolic Origins of Priestly Celibacy, and the first chapter of Gary Selin’s Priestly Celibacy: Theological Foundations.
Sadly, it would appear that Solzhenitsyn has permitted himself to be formed and persuaded by classic tropes of Eastern Orthodox apologetics, which tend to grant a fictitious primacy to the Byzantine East, instead of taking seriously the far more complex and diversified picture that scholarship paints of the early Christian centuries. Moreover, Eastern writers in general neglect to pay attention to the historical evidence of slow organic development within their own liturgical (and theological) tradition. The “Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom,” whatever connections it had with the saint after whom it is named, took many centuries to develop to its present completed state; it did not descend fully formed from the heavenly Jerusalem.
I would not wish to be seen as solely negative. The article’s strongest point is its near-admission that the modern rite of Paul VI or Novus Ordo marks an unprecedented rupture from both the Roman tradition itself and from the entire world of historic apostolic rites, both Eastern and Western—a claim I defend at length in my book The Once and Future Roman Rite (2022), a portion of which is available in the article “The Byzantine Liturgy, the Traditional Latin Mass, and the Novus Ordo—Two Brothers and a Stranger.” The melancholy words of Cleenewerck would be difficult to dispute: “The liturgical metamorphosis of the Roman Catholic Church...widened the gulf” between East and West.
The argument he puts forth rests on an underlying double premise: first, there was a primitive common liturgical repository from which all the different traditions differently evolved; second, this repository was Greek or Byzantine.
However, no serious liturgical scholar holds either of these positions any more.
As to the first, Paul Bradshaw and others have demontrated that the opposite is true: at the beginning there seems to be considerable diversity, and over time there tends to be convergence and assimilation, as different rites either borrow from each other or replace one another. Ritual practice tends to assimilate itself to that of the great Sees (see Gregory DiPippo’s discussion of this trend in his lecture “Unity in Diversity”). In the West, that great See would, of course, be Rome; in the East, it would not be Byzantium initially, but Jerusalem and Antioch, with Constantinople acquiring dominance after the seventh century.
Solzhenitsyn gives the impression that we have a well-documented commonality between Old Rome and New Rome in liturgical matters, from which one of them (namely Old Rome) diverged; thus, he writes: “All of this established the Roman rite as distinct from the Byzantine,” as if they had begun aligned and then diverged. That is not the case; there is no evidence whatsoever for it. After all, if “by the end of the seventh century, East and West had diverging prayers, hymns, cadences, and even iconography,” what are we to make of the “diverging prayers” etc. within the East itself—since Jerusalem, Alexandria, Antioch, and Byzantium all prayed differently? The notion that the Byzantine liturgy has a normative antiquity or a peculiar fidelity to apostolic origins is an assumption without foundation.
That brings me to the second premise. Solzhenitsyn gives the impression that “the East” means or is equivalent to Byzantine or Constantinopolitan. Not only does it not mean this, but in the earliest period of Christian liturgy Byzantium is very much less important than Jerusalem, Antioch, and Alexandria, whose traditions are older and were more influential for a time. Armenia and Georgia had already adopted the liturgy of Jerusalem at the time when Byzantium/Constantinople/New Rome was first declared a patriarchate. Those older rites already wielded considerable prestige. And yet, we see—as could be expected—a great diversity and vitality of different traditions. The paucity of information and the diversity of traditions in the early centuries make it singularly difficult to pin down where something first occurred, or who influenced whom.
Solzhenitsyn claims: “During the later 300s the Greek liturgy was uniquely refined: garments like the sticharion (a kind of long tunic), hymnography like the short troparia, and sophisticated vessels were a much more prominent feature of Byzantine rites than of the simpler Latin rites.”
By “the Greek liturgy,” presumably he means “the Byzantine.” The problem with such sweeping claims is that we know little to nothing about the Byzantine liturgy of the fourth century. There is precious little documentation of it or citation from it available. There is, for example, no equivalent to St. Ambrose of Milan’s citation of the Roman Canon in the De Sacramentis, written around 387, which strongly points to the Roman Canon already being a familiar anaphora by that time.
The claim about the sticharion cannot be substantiated and is anachronistic. It is well known that clerical attire in the early centuries had not yet evolved into a distinct type of clothing set apart from secular clothing; rather, the clergy wore the best garments available when performing the rites, and due to the innate conservatism of the religious instinct, the sacristy wardrobe remained fixed in style while secular clothing changed out in the world. In any case, it was not long before Western vestments displayed the same stunning beauty as their contemporaneous Eastern counterparts.
Hymns such as the troparia had indeed already emerged as a literary genre by the late 300s, when Byzantium was still a suffragan of Herakleia, not a patriarchate. The Latin hymns of St. Ambrose, long admired for their mellifluous poetry and lofty theological conceptions, were written at just the same time, and soon entered the Western liturgy.
As for “sophisticated vessels,” it is rather difficult to understand what the phrase even means. As soon as we have records of liturgical vessels in the West, we see they are ornate and valuable, which is why the pagan Romans tried to steal them. For example, the Gesta apud Zenophilum/Acta purgationis Felicis, centered on the church at Cirta in North Africa and dated to 303, records an inventory of items taken in a raid, including 2 gold chalices, 6 silver chalices, 6 silver cruets, a small silver basin, 2 large chandeliers, 7 small bronze lamps and their holders, 11 bronze lamps with chains, 38 curtains, substantial quantities of clothing, a silver chest, and a lamp that had been concealed in the library.
The gravest error in Solzhenitsyn’s article is his reporting, with approval, the opinion of some Eastern sources that the Roman liturgy originally had a “descending” epiklesis—that is, an invocation of the Holy Spirit to bring about the conversion of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ—that had somehow dropped out of or been removed from the Roman rite. He cites (approvingly?) Orthodox patriarchs who in 1848 accused the Roman Church of “rejecting” from the Canon “the very ancient and Apostolic invocation of the Consecrating Spirit” and thus “miserably mutilating the Sacrifice in its most essential part.” (A less extreme exponent of the view that the Roman Rite once had this kind of epiklesis would be Adrian Fortescue, the inaccuracy of whose views has been discussed elsewhere.)
In reality, the Roman rite never had such an epiklesis because its unique anaphora predates the Macedonian controversy over the divinity of the Holy Spirit, which afflicted only the East and is the reason why the Byzantine rite inserted an epiklesis that the Roman rite never needed. The Roman theology of consecation is different, and, tellingly, older. If anything, it is the Byzantine epiklesis, as a later insertion, that requires explanation. (I will not enter here into the Roman rite’s “ascending” epiklesis, the Supplices te rogamus, which is not relevant to the point at hand, nor into the Veni, Sanctificator prayer of the Offertory, which alludes to the Holy Spirit but does not have the function of an epiklesis as we are now discussing it.)
Continuing his brief for Latin deviation from or corruption of a putatively pure and uniform “Greek” original, Solzhenitsyn claims that leavened bread was used by everyone from the beginning but the West drifted later on into the practice of unleavened bread, and, similarly, that the marriage of priests was normative but the West later enforced clerical celibacy. He seems unaware that a long history of scholarly debate exists on these questions.
On the topic of the type of bread used, our information is too scant to permit a determination of when unleavened bread began to be used in the West. The West may have used unleavened bread in imitation of what Christ did at the Passover; for all we know, both types may have been in use at the same time in different places. The fact that we know unleavened bread to be widespread by the Carolingian period does not mean it was invented in that period. On the topic of celibacy, Solzhenitsyn oversimplifies the historical record. For a different telling of the history, I recommend Alphonso Stickler’s The Case for Clerical Celibacy: Its Historical Development and Theological Foundations, Christian Cochini’s Apostolic Origins of Priestly Celibacy, and the first chapter of Gary Selin’s Priestly Celibacy: Theological Foundations.
Sadly, it would appear that Solzhenitsyn has permitted himself to be formed and persuaded by classic tropes of Eastern Orthodox apologetics, which tend to grant a fictitious primacy to the Byzantine East, instead of taking seriously the far more complex and diversified picture that scholarship paints of the early Christian centuries. Moreover, Eastern writers in general neglect to pay attention to the historical evidence of slow organic development within their own liturgical (and theological) tradition. The “Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom,” whatever connections it had with the saint after whom it is named, took many centuries to develop to its present completed state; it did not descend fully formed from the heavenly Jerusalem.
I would not wish to be seen as solely negative. The article’s strongest point is its near-admission that the modern rite of Paul VI or Novus Ordo marks an unprecedented rupture from both the Roman tradition itself and from the entire world of historic apostolic rites, both Eastern and Western—a claim I defend at length in my book The Once and Future Roman Rite (2022), a portion of which is available in the article “The Byzantine Liturgy, the Traditional Latin Mass, and the Novus Ordo—Two Brothers and a Stranger.” The melancholy words of Cleenewerck would be difficult to dispute: “The liturgical metamorphosis of the Roman Catholic Church...widened the gulf” between East and West.
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