This is a prose essay rather than a poem, so I provide a faithful translation of the full text:
For two thousand years of its history, the church has undergone many different changes. The first Jerusalem church was one large family, striving for justice where all was held in common. Such a form, though considered ideal by many, did not take root in a world of persecution, flight, and migration. Centuries later, the church becomes a parish. This is an interesting metamorphosis, but this article will not be a historical study. We will look at the changes occurring in modern communities.
So, what distinguishes a parish from a community, and why does the latter gradually become a parish over time?
Certainly, this expresses the purely subjective opinion of the author, with which the reader may disagree (I invite discussion).
A community forms on the basis of shared convictions and doctrine, if it already exists. If it does not yet exist, a community or group of communities strives to develop one. The closer a community is to its time of origin, the more collective and brotherly spirit it contains. Communities usually arose in hostile surroundings, so members strived for fellowship with one another and, as a rule, gathered together far more than once a week. Their interests were in the community, they were understood and accepted there, children felt safer in the community, young people formed families within it. In a word, all the hopes of believers were in God and the community. The church in such cases was separated from the world and foreign to it.
In the late Soviet Union, the state very much helped believers live a communal life, because everywhere they were "not of this world." In school, children from Christian families were humiliated, often with teachers participating, pointing out objects of mockery, displaying before the class a boy or girl unwilling to join the Pioneers. Young believers were denied higher education, just as career advancement—on the factory floor, a Christian could almost never rise above brigadier. There were, of course, exceptions, but that's what made them exceptions.
Where could a Christian go if he was foreign everywhere and everyone wanted to "remake" him? Of course, he went to church. Only there could he feel accepted, understood, and understanding; there he was home, among his own.
In small communities, people knew, befriended, loved, and respected one another. The world's hostility greatly fostered Christian unity. Of course, I am far from idealizing the situation—friction arises in any community—but that is not the point here.
Servants of communities, as a rule, worked alongside other believers somewhere in production. Therefore their material position did not depend on the number of people in the community. If communities strove for growth, their motivation was the salvation of sinners, never the desire to increase the budget.
Believers in communities differed greatly from the world in their behavior, diligence, reliability, speech, clothing, sobriety, faithfulness, and moral purity. In society, believers often recognized one another by behavior and dress, being complete strangers. Communal life prompted believers toward better and deeper knowledge of Scripture. Simply because they attended services often: two or three times on Sunday, at least twice on weekdays, and thus heard biblical texts more frequently. And frequent hearing aids memory. Besides, many, especially young people, desired to delve deeper into God's Word and meditate upon it.
Young people from communities, entering military service, were sufficiently prepared to withstand the atheistic system represented by their commanders, from lieutenants to colonels, and to resist pressure from their fellow soldiers.
Communal life fostered the development of hospitality. The simpler people lived, the wider they opened their home doors to co-believers, often complete strangers. Brother-soldiers often benefited from such hospitality. Abandoned far from home, they sought and thirsted for fellowship with kindred souls, even if only the elderly.
Here I would like to provide a concrete example of Christian hospitality in the Murmansk community. Near the apartment where a Christian family lived were military units. This family's address was passed from one conscription to the next by believing soldiers, and brothers would visit when possible. On leave, sometimes without permission, day and evening, sometimes late at night. Living there was a widow of about forty-five and her four daughters. The doors of their apartment were always open to guests. They came singly, sometimes two or three at a time, all were welcomed, all were fed, all encouraged with God's Word. Sometimes soldiers' parents would visit...
Patrols also knew this address and would sometimes drop by, searching for deserters. And this was not without danger. The hostess made these sacrifices, and perhaps this partly accounts for the fact that all her daughters and many grandchildren, now even great-grandchildren, became believers. God does not remain in debt and blesses the righteous to a thousand generations!
I too inherited their address... Then we, young soldiers, didn't even suspect what discomfort we created for them. Only much later did we realize that their modest budget was divided with us—soldiers, of course, had no money at all. This family acted according to God's Word and with complete selflessness—what could they possibly take from us? Much more could be remembered here... Thank you very much, sisters!
But what of the parish? In a parish, people know each other very little, if at all. There is almost no communal life. In our age of individualism, this suits many: no one questions you, no one pries into your soul. You attend service or sit through a meeting—and go home. Parishioners bear almost no responsibility to the church. You come and go; whether you return in a month or a year—no one is particularly concerned. A parishioner's spiritual life is a fortress behind seven locks, where even a priest or elder is forever barred.
In the parish, clergy receive salaries at the expense of parishioners or are forced to maintain their own enterprises and perform religious services for fees.
Over time, the parish church becomes increasingly ritualistic, while spiritual life, at best, remains only among the clergy, and initiative from among the parishioners is almost nonexistent. And such a church becomes ever more like Laodicea—it has everything, but has no life.
But why then, given all the attractiveness of communal life, do communities often transform into parishes? This happened with Anglicans, Lutherans, Reformers, and other denominations. I cannot speak of earlier times—that is the "bread" of historians—but observing our changes, I dare conjecture a few things.
In the last years of the Soviet Union, freedom suddenly burst upon us. Streams of people (sometimes quite full-flowing) flowed to prayer houses, hungering for spiritual truth and seeking God. But they had no experience of communal life in the world and were far from always ready to fully and completely enter into a community. But they entered the church and were often influential enough to gradually move the community toward a parish. This was also aided by a new generation, growing up in communities but not particularly burdened with spiritual life. (As specialists say: each new generation is weaker than the previous one. I don't know how accurate this is, but in the spiritual life of both Old Testament Israel and the New Testament church, it is evident!) It began, as usual, with small things: traditions were declared outdated, biblical norms were often included among them, meekness and modesty were discarded as history, elements of worldly music, fashion, and behavior crept in. During the time of freedom, believers began to be accepted equally in all circles of society, consequently one had to be "on par," often closely imitating the world. Here the words of Apostle Peter ring true: "By whom a man is overcome, by him also is he brought into bondage." A folk proverb echoes this: "Whoever you walk with, that is whom you will become like."
Due to activities outside the church, there was no longer time for community meetings. Attendance fell, the number of services was reduced, and in many churches only one Sunday service remained. Into this one service, pastors try to squeeze everything: children's ministry, musical ministry, dozens of important announcements and so forth. Time for preaching becomes minimal, in which the pastor tries to gather all the ingredients of a prayer meeting, biblical reflection (word study), and a Sunday service. Pastors try their best, but you cannot embrace the boundless. People lose interest in fellowship, which becomes increasingly rare; church members become ever more strangers to one another. Thus gradually a community transforms into a parish, where ministers—that is, the brotherhood council—still try to breathe life into the community-parish, but parishioners, if they attend church only on Sundays, consider this quite sufficient.
In our time of business relations where "time is money," the value of services falls, and believers easily exchange services for the chance to earn extra money. Selfless brotherly aid has also become a paid service. This list could continue...
What is the conclusion? The less influence God's Word has on a community, the more influence the world has (nature abhors a vacuum, or the sacred place will not remain empty). The weaker the spiritual and communal life, the faster a community transforms into a parish, alas.
The picture, as you see, is not very optimistic. Is everything really so bad?
Speaking of the general situation, Christ notes: "And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold."
Regarding believers, Paul advises: "Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, be strong, be steadfast."
And again Christ: "Behold, I come quickly: hold that fast which thou hast, that no man take thy crown."
