I would like to reflect on the issue of women’s priesthood in the Orthodox Church and on the questions that arise in connection with it. When we look at the problem of women’s ordination in Orthodoxy, we find that there are actually not very many arguments against it. Most of the arguments that do exist were articulated by Metropolitan Kallistos Ware and can be found in the collection of essays The Ordination of Women in the Orthodox Church (authors Kallistos Ware and Elisabeth Behr-Sigel). In turn, Kallistos Ware largely follows the reasoning of the papal declaration Inter Insigniores (Declaration on the Admission of Women to the Ministerial Priesthood, 1976).

I will briefly recall these arguments, highlighting their strengths and weaknesses. I will then add an argument of my own and, most importantly, try to outline the range of issues that arise in connection with the ordination of women—issues that are often overlooked or not given much attention.

Main Arguments Against Women’s Priesthood

Biblical Texts

The primary and most commonly cited argument, especially among fundamentalists, comes directly from Scripture. Certain passages are interpreted as forbidding a woman to teach or preach in the church, for example: “It is disgraceful for a woman to speak in church” (1 Corinthians 14:35) or “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; she is to remain quiet” (1 Timothy 2:12).

These are presented as ironclad arguments, yet such a literal reading of Scripture has its own problems—problems that are inherent to biblical literalism as a whole. If we interpret these passages about women literally, why do we not interpret other passages in the same way? For instance: “If your eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life with one eye than with two eyes to be thrown into hell” (Matthew 18:9). And the passages that call on the faithful to give away their possessions to the poor—these are almost always read allegorically, even by the most rigid literalists. I will not go into the many other issues that arise from literal interpretations of Scripture. Such selective reading suggests that literalism here is not a reasonable solution.

Fortunately, these challenges were recognized by both Catholics and Orthodox theologians. This is why neither the papal declaration nor Metropolitan Kallistos’ arguments rely on these particular citations.

Argument from Tradition

The next argument—hardly an argument in the strict sense—is the appeal to tradition. Put simply, it goes something like this: “It was not done in the past, so it should not be done now.” Yet many things that were once absent from Church practice have eventually been introduced.

The Argument of “Choosing Male Apostles”

This argument holds that Christ chose only men as His apostles. While women were present around Him, He selected men, and therefore the successors of the apostles—that is, bishops and priests—can only be men. This is the simpler version of the argument.

A more nuanced version, articulated by Fr. Thomas Hopko and drawing on the theology of Pavel Evdokimov, goes as follows: Christ chose men because there is a distinction between the sexes, and each sex has its so-called “natural” function—men as leaders and heads, women as helpers of men. Of course, women are endowed with many great gifts, but their role remains secondary. These theologians lean toward an archetypal, binary opposition between male and female, reminiscent of yin and yang, yet Christian monistic rationalism does not support such views.

As one can see, this essentialism of male and female is directly shaped by the patriarchal structure of ancient society. The patriarchal culture in which the Bible was written simply could not envision women otherwise. Christ did not call women as apostles because, in that society, women occupied a disregarded and marginalized position. Women’s testimony was not accepted in court; thus, any testimony about the Messiah coming from a woman would have been considered unreliable.

The same applies to the Apostle Paul’s words about women in the church. His instructions correspond to the patriarchal culture of the time, aimed at avoiding scandal and maintaining order and approval from the surrounding society. Therefore, when reading these passages, one must take into account the patriarchal cultural context.

To clarify the matter, we need to ask: Is patriarchy part of Revelation itself, or merely a cultural epiphenomenon? If we answer that patriarchy is not part of Revelation—as I believe—then the argument from male apostles loses its force. In a different historical context, for example in a matriarchal culture, Jesus could have chosen women as apostles.

However, the choice of apostles alone—regardless of their sex—does not tell us anything about the role of the priest or why a woman could not perform that role. The apostles are not equivalent to the priesthood as we know it today.

In this section, by revealing the influence of patriarchy, we expose a “false essentialism” and question the idea that women must always be only helpers of men. At the same time, there exists a real essentialism: there are indeed differences between the sexes on various levels, and we need to understand on which level the boundary lies that separates women from the priesthood. This will be discussed further below.

The Liturgical or “Iconic” Argument

The iconic argument is based on the role of the male priest within the structure of the liturgy. A man, in this view, serves as the icon of Christ during the liturgical action. This argument is developed in detail by Metropolitan Kallistos; here, I will highlight what I consider the key points.

Christian liturgy has an established structure and symbolism. Beyond performing the liturgical actions, the priest carries a symbolic function: he is the symbol—or icon—of Christ within the liturgical space. In the symbolic acts of the Proskomedia and the liturgy, the priest passes through all the stages of Golgotha and the Resurrection. That is, this symbolism does not represent a metaphysical idea but real historical events: Christ’s beating, His trial, the piercing of His side by the soldier Longinus, and so on. If these are real historical events, then the priest representing Christ should correspond to the “realism” of the narrative and be male, just as Jesus was male. In this sense, gender is significant; it is part of the structure of the symbol itself.

To put it in simpler, cinematic terms: Cinderella should be played by a young girl, not an elderly black man. A progressive director might dress an old man as Cinderella, but no child would believe it. It would be a false symbol, conveying only the director’s avant-garde message.

The comparison with cinema or theater is not accidental. Liturgy is, in a sense, a form of theater—or, better, a mystery. Within this mystery, there are rules, and the male priest plays a significant role. Therefore, Christ should be represented by a male priest.

This iconic argument is indeed one of the strongest. Yet it has its weak point: it applies only to the current form of the liturgy. As we know, the liturgy’s form has changed over time and may change in the future. Even now, there are two approaches to understanding the liturgy’s symbolism: the Orthodox focus on Golgotha, sacrifice, and the shedding of blood, while the Catholic emphasis is on the symbolism of the Last Supper and the breaking of bread. In the future, the structure of the liturgy and its symbolism may evolve even further.

The Argument from Old Testament Priesthood

Some appeal to the fact that New Testament priesthood is said to originate in the Old Testament priesthood according to the order of Aaron. In ancient Israel, only men from the line of Aaron could serve as priests. Since the Christian Church inherited much from Old Testament practice, including the idea of priesthood itself, it is argued that Christian priests must likewise be male. However, this argument is essentially a particular expression of patriarchy—that is, of the cultural conditions of that historical period.

Moreover, in chapters 7 and 8 of the Epistle to the Hebrews, the Apostle Paul explains in great detail why the Old Testament priesthood according to the order of Aaron is abolished and replaced by a new priesthood according to the order of Melchizedek.

Christ is the one and only High Priest of the New Covenant. The Epistle to the Hebrews states this quite explicitly: “So also Christ did not glorify himself in becoming a high priest, but was appointed by the one who said to him, ‘You are my Son; today I have begotten you’… and having been made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him, being designated by God a high priest according to the order of Melchizedek” (Heb. 5:5–10). It continues: “Now if perfection had been attainable through the Levitical priesthood—for the people received the law under this priesthood—what further need would there have been to speak of another priest arising according to the order of Melchizedek rather than one named according to the order of Aaron? For when there is a change in the priesthood, there is necessarily a change in the law as well” (Heb. 7:11–12).

It is therefore clear that, although the Church inherited much from Old Testament tradition, New Testament priesthood is not a continuation of Old Testament priesthood. At the same time, the theme of sacrificial blood does not disappear in the New Testament Church but is instead concentrated in the once-for-all yet eternal sacrifice of Christ, the Lamb of God. For this reason, the priesthood of the New Covenant is necessarily connected with sacrifice and the shedding of blood—albeit in a symbolic form. This, however, will be addressed further below.

The Mythological–Archetypal Argument

In addition to the arguments already discussed, I would like to propose one of my own. This argument seriously restrains me personally when it comes to accepting women’s priesthood, and therefore I cannot simply pass it by. It is a broadly religious argument, grounded in general religious intuitions and deep archetypal structures.

Let us return once again to the mythological binary opposition of “male–female,” often expressed through the yin–yang framework. No matter how much we may wish to move away from essentialism, differences between the masculine and feminine principles undeniably exist. The real question is: what kind of differences are these, and on what level should we seek them? The patriarchal answer is well known: the masculine is associated with power and leadership, while the feminine is associated with assistance and submission. This understanding is characteristic of many dualistic mythologies, Jungian descriptions of anima and animus, and various models in the study of religion.

Yet this patriarchal interpretation of the difference between masculine and feminine principles seems to me to be only a consequence, not an origin. It does not grasp the cause itself but rather reflects a patriarchal attempt to interpret certain effects that follow from a deeper cause—one that remains hidden from us, or perhaps accessible but ignored because of its archaic and unsettling nature. In other words, the patriarchal claim that woman is eternally a “helper” is not a primordial assertion or a self-evident dogma of patriarchy. It is more like a rational conclusion drawn from another foundation—one that is no longer visible to us. This is not a self-evident truth for patriarchal consciousness, but a rational inference, the result of a mythological syllogism in which one premise or predicate remains unclear. I found myself asking how one might approach this hidden premise.

Let me put this differently. The stereotype of female subordination, passivity, and weakness is not a self-evident fact. For example, if I were placed in a boxing ring with a professional female boxer, I would most likely lose. This means that the stereotype of women’s weakness does not stem from male physical superiority, but from some other cause. What might that be? The stereotype of female “weakness” is a second-level construct; its source lies deeper, on a more fundamental level. We are searching for the “patient zero” of female stereotyping.

The most obvious differences between men and women are visible in the biology and physiology of the human body. Yet genital differences in themselves do not provide spiritual grounds for distinguishing between the masculine and the feminine. Moreover, the mechanisms of conception and the functions of reproductive organs were historically difficult to understand. As a result, sexual function became surrounded by mythology. In other words, the mere presence of a sexual organ does not generate mythology; only the organ together with its function can do so.

Furthermore, this function must be terrifying—or terrifying precisely in its mystery and ambiguity. For example, the nose, with its function of smell, may give rise to fairy tales, but it is neither frightening nor mysterious enough to generate a foundational myth. We do not have mythologies in which the nose plays a cosmic role. By contrast, we have an abundance of myths—indeed, most myths—in which sexual organs and conception carry a cosmic, creative significance.

So what is terrifying and mysterious about the genitals and the entire sexual sphere? There is one fundamental complex that brings together genitality, birth, desire, and blood: menstrual blood. Menstruation is one of the most ambivalent, mysterious, and powerful phenomena, endowed with immense symbolic force. Its perception across cultures has been almost universally dual—combining sacred horror (taboo) with sacred reverence (gift).

For mythological consciousness, this appears as a self-revealing, bleeding wound that heals itself and leaves no trace. In other words, it is a bloody wound without violence. Let us note that in the male world, a wound is typically the result of violence or struggle. In the female world, a wound can exist without violence: it appears on its own and heals on its own. More than that, it becomes the prologue to new life. This is a truly terrifying and mysterious process, all the more so because it is bound up with blood—a substance that has always been regarded as possessing immense magical power. These processes formed the foundation of virtually all cosmogonies.

Why is menstrual blood perceived simultaneously as gift and taboo? It is a gift because it brings woman closer to the spiritual realm, marks the possibility of new life, and signifies fertility as such. Menstrual blood is blood without a wound, blood associated with the potential of life rather than with its loss. This makes it magically powerful and frightening. It is linked to childbirth, not to death, as blood usually is in nature.

Why, then, is it taboo? As we know, in nearly all religions this blood is considered “unclean” or “defiling.” The concept of defilement is crucial not only in primal religions but also in Judaism and in Orthodoxy, where it was often inherited mechanically and not always theologically reflected upon.

What, then, does “uncleanness” or “defilement” actually consist in? Not in sinfulness, but in the fact that this blood neutralizes all other forms of magic: it nullifies the protective mechanisms created by a magician, shaman, or priest. It dissolves sacred spaces and objects that were established to impose order on the world. In this sense, this blood is not sinful, as some mistakenly believe; it is entropic. It returns a world structured by ritual to a primordial state of pure, unformed matter, ready for new creation.

For this reason, a woman during menstruation was understood as becoming magically active and entering into opposition with the male priest, who ordered the world through sacrifice and erected protective sacred boundaries. Through her mere touch, she could accidentally dismantle these boundaries. This is why women were tabooed during these days: they were forbidden to go outside, to participate in rituals, and so on—or, as in contemporary Orthodoxy, forbidden to enter the altar.

Further discussion of these issues can be found in Mary Douglas’s Purity and Danger (1966) and in Blood Magic: The Anthropology of Menstruation (1988) by Alma Gottlieb and Thomas Buckley.

It seems to me that here we have identified the level at which the masculine and the feminine differ in the most fundamental way—fundamental, that is, in religious terms. This is a distinction that is meaningful for religion itself. For mythological consciousness, the difference between man and woman lies in the manner of bloodshed: man sheds blood through violence, woman sheds blood peacefully. This is our “patient zero,” the point of origin from which patriarchal consciousness begins to draw its conclusions.

From this point onward, patriarchal consciousness began to interpret this difference—perhaps mistakenly, or, in religious language, “under the influence of sinfulness”—in other categories: those of female subordination, oppression, passivity, domination, and so forth. Why peacefulness came to be perceived as weakness and passivity is another complex question, one undoubtedly connected with the Fall and with Cain, but it lies beyond the scope of the present discussion. That is a question about the origins of patriarchy.

The Shedding of Blood in Christianity

Why have I turned to these magical and mythological narratives at all? In order to use them as a lens through which to examine women’s priesthood in the Christian Church—specifically in the historical churches that preserve ancient mythological intuitions.

Throughout history, women have in one way or another been closely associated with spiritual practice. Women were always healers; wise women and herbalists could be found in every village. In Judaism and early Christianity, women served as prophetesses. The prophetess and judge Deborah governed Israel for many years in the Book of Judges, and the Acts of the Apostles also mentions prophetesses. In other words, spiritual activity has never been forbidden to women; on the contrary, it has been entirely natural to them. The problem arises when, out of the entire diversity of spiritual vocations, only priesthood remains. Women, sensing a spiritual calling within themselves, then begin to aspire to priesthood simply because no other forms of realization are available.

Priesthood, however, is a very particular path. A priest is, first and foremost, one who offers sacrifice—and sacrifice entails killing, blood, and death. Today a priest wears a dignified cassock, but in the time of Solomon priests stood knee-deep in blood and looked more like butchers than like the pastors we know today. The priest is bound to sacrifice and to death, that is, to the violent shedding of blood.

Even the Christian priest performs a sacrifice—bloodless, yet still a sacrifice. The archetype of the feminine principle, by contrast, is connected with peaceful sacrifice, with life and fertility. It is oriented toward birth and the sustaining of life. The feminine principle is a generative principle, bound to fertility and to the beginning of life.

Here lies the fundamental religious distinction between the masculine and the feminine principles. By “religious” I mean the very core of any religion—namely, sacrifice, that is, the shedding of blood. Masculine bloodshed is always an act of killing and violence, no matter what symbolic form it may take. Feminine bloodshed, by contrast, is always oriented toward renewal and new life. These two forms of bloodshed cannot intersect or be exchanged.

It is precisely for these mythological and mystical reasons that I oppose women’s priesthood. If such foundations do not exist—if we do not believe in the sacraments, if we exclude sacrifice from our religious discourse and understand everything purely rationally (as in Protestantism)—then a woman can indeed be a pastor or even a priest. In that case, however, the mystical essence of priesthood is destroyed, and only its social function remains.

The male priest is always an image of the killer—but not a simple one. He symbolizes a god who is the sovereign of life and death. In the sacrificial rite, he takes life. The task of restoring life has always belonged to female deities of fertility. Therefore, when a woman took life in a ritual context, it was regarded as black magic—even in cultures where the distinction between black and white magic was not sharply defined.

If we attempt a Christian interpretation of sacrifice, we see that the Church did not invent anything fundamentally new. Sacrifice operates according to the same principles as in antiquity; only its form changes. The figure of Jesus Christ absorbs and unites within Himself all participants in the sacrificial act. In the Epistle to the Hebrews, Paul describes this transformation in detail and calls Christ the eternal priest: “For it is attested of him, ‘You are a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek’” (Heb. 7:17), who offers a single, eternal sacrifice: “But when Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God” (Heb. 10:12).

Yes, the one eternal sacrifice of Christ gathers up all sacrifices within itself and becomes the prototype of sacrifice as such. This is true. Yet the sacrifice of Christ is still a shedding of blood—and a violent one. The Christian priest takes upon himself this entire complex symbolism and at once becomes the killer of Christ, Christ Himself, the centurion Longinus, the people (as their representative), the angel, and the Church.

After the epiclesis, the priest breaks the bread, which symbolizes the Lamb. At this moment he proclaims: “The Lamb of God is broken and divided, broken yet not divided, ever eaten yet never consumed, sanctifying those who partake.” Is this not a symbolic killing? For any scholar of mythology, it undoubtedly is.

I do not wish to delve further into liturgics or mysticism here. All of these arguments were presented solely in order to clarify the distinction between masculine and feminine forms of bloodshed. Priesthood corresponds to masculine bloodshed. For this reason, a woman cannot be a priest who offers sacrificial blood.

In practice, however, the Church has only one sacrament that involves sacrifice—namely, the Eucharist. Let us suppose that a woman would not celebrate the Eucharist and would leave this to men. Could she then administer the other sacraments? Let us examine this question more closely.

Female Leadership

Beyond the arguments discussed above, which may not seem convincing to everyone, there is a broader set of questions that arise when we consider women’s priesthood: leadership, sacrament, and sacred hierarchy.

I have already shown the specificity of priestly service—it involves offering a blood sacrifice. However, in the modern world, not everyone understands the role of a Christian priest in this way. In our rational age, ancient archaic symbols have receded into the background. The social function of the priest has come to the fore. He is seen as a leader, a political figure, or a religious official.

In antiquity, as we have seen, there were many types of religious roles and services. There were priests, Levites, prophets and prophetesses, judges, righteous men and women, virgins, and apostles—there was a great diversity of religious vocations. Priests were not always the leaders; for example, in the time of the Judges, leadership lay with individuals possessing a special calling—judges. In the age of the prophets, people listened to and trusted prophets more than priests.

Only after a significant degradation of religious consciousness were all these roles, functions, and services merged into one: the priesthood. This led to major problems in Church life. It created conditions for the concentration of power in the hierarchy, the elevation of the clergy—especially bishops—into a distinct caste of the initiated, the complete exclusion of women from Church life, and the restriction of lay participation in general. These developments, in turn, contributed to atheism and secularism.

If we perform a mental dispersion of the priesthood, similar to how physicists decompose white light into its spectral colors (a rainbow), an interesting picture emerges. Today, the priest combines the roles of priest, spiritual leader, psychotherapist, psychologist, NGO chairperson, volunteer, social worker, CEO of a money-making enterprise, and entertainer. But this should not be the case. Leadership is an incidental epiphenomenon of the priest; it is not essential to priesthood.

A priest is not required to lead a church group, to be socially active, or to act as a director. He is called to focus on the Sacraments and the Word. All other roles can be performed by deacons and laypeople. Therefore, women can serve as church leaders—whether in the form of diaconal service, prophetic ministry, or any other role.

Sacrament and Hierarchy

When the question of women’s priesthood arises, we almost always view it through the lens of the threefold hierarchy: bishop–priest–deacon. This is the traditional understanding, introduced into the Church by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, which closely mirrors the Neoplatonic teaching on the emanations of the One and its hierarchies. Of course, people knew about this before, but Dionysius gave it a mystical meaning. It appeared elegant and became fashionable in the Middle Ages, but it bore little relation to the life of the real, pre-imperial apostolic Church, and even less to the Old Testament community with its decentralized spiritual authority.

The development of sacramental theology occurred in parallel with the formation of the priesthood. The division between clergy and laity developed alongside the sacramental system, which eventually became the exclusive domain of the clergy. The charismatic element that allowed the Eucharist to be celebrated not only by priests but also by prophets without ordination had disappeared by the end of the 4th century. By the late Middle Ages, the sacraments were fully “clericalized,” with the exception of baptism, which survives as a vestige of the early Church and reminds us of the universal priesthood of the faithful.

Sacred Hierarchy: Not a Ladder, but a Hub

We are accustomed to thinking of the Church’s sacred hierarchy as military in nature—that is, ladder-like. For example, a colonel is subordinate to a general, a major is subordinate to the colonel, a lieutenant to the major, and so on. Each lower rank is subject to the one above it, and the lower rank cannot skip levels to appeal directly to the general. Similarly, we assume that the deacon is subordinate to the priest, the priest to the bishop, the bishop to the metropolitan, and the metropolitan to the patriarch.

This very Aristotelian model was introduced into the Church by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite in his treatise On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy. It became an effective and timely means of integrating the medieval Church into the imperial state structure. Perhaps it was necessary at the time. Even in the Middle Ages, however, inconsistencies were apparent—and they are even more evident today.

The primary inconsistency concerns the role of the deacon. Or, phrased differently: why is the deacon part of this hierarchy? Why is he considered a sacred order, while the lector or cantor is not, even though the deacon does not perform any sacraments, much like the lector, and often carries out the lector’s functions?

If we evaluate the steps of the priesthood not from an abstract hierarchical perspective, but in terms of function, the deacon is the level of clergy that does not participate in the administration of the sacraments. If the deacon does not perform sacraments, then why is he considered a sacred order?

The priest is understood as the bishop’s assistant in the administration of the sacraments, which is clear. The deacon is said to be the priest’s assistant—but in what way? In holding the chalice or reciting a few prayers? Clearly, the deacon’s role in the liturgy is artificial and unnatural; the liturgy could easily function without him. He is superfluous in the liturgy. Incidentally, this may explain why the Catholic Church has nearly done away with the diaconate—they have very few deacons left. This makes sense, because the deacon’s role is not primarily liturgical but social. He assists not the priest (in any meaningful way) but the bishop in the Church’s larger social work. Viewed in this light, a very different picture emerges.

The sacred hierarchy is not a ladder, but a hub. In network architecture, there is a structure called the hub-and-spoke model—a center with spokes—or a center with two poles, connected not hierarchically. Or, to use another analogy, it can be compared to a water molecule: one oxygen atom with two hydrogen atoms on either side. The bishop is not the top step of a ladder but the core, distributing very different authorities to his “spokes”—the deacon and the priest—who are not in hierarchical relation to each other at all. The deacon is not the priest’s assistant holding the chalice; he is the bishop’s assistant in the Church’s social work, which is no less important than the liturgical dimension.

In essence, the only true priest is the bishop. He embodies the fullness of priesthood, gifts, and charisms. He alone can administer all the sacraments of the Church. He delegates authority to his assistants: to the priest, he grants the power to celebrate the Eucharist—the principal, regular sacrament; to the deacon, he grants authority over humanitarian and social work, which is an integral part of authentic Church life.

Women and the Sacraments

Let us return to the question: can a woman administer sacraments that do not involve the shedding of blood? Yes, she can. In fact, this has been happening for a long time, both in Orthodoxy and in Catholicism. There is a sacrament in the Church that is not reserved for priests at all: Baptism. Any baptized person—man or woman—can administer it. Women can baptize. We recall, for example, how in the USSR, after churches were closed and religious practices were banned, grandmothers secretly baptized children. These baptisms were later accepted by the Church as valid.

If we understand the specificity of priesthood solely in terms of administering sacraments, we encounter two issues: the deacon, who does not perform sacraments, and women, who can administer the sacrament of Baptism. The deacon can also baptize, but in this respect he is no different from a woman.

It is clear that this leads us to the question of deaconesses—women who serve as deacons. I will not go into the historical research on deaconesses here; much has already been written. Suffice it to say that deaconesses existed in the Church and should exist in the future.

As we know from history, the sacraments in the Church did not appear all at once. Only Baptism and the Eucharist are explicitly attested in the Gospels; the other sacraments developed gradually over the centuries. Some practices eventually became sacraments—the last being Marriage in the 12th century—while others were removed from the list of sacraments (for example, monastic tonsure, anointing of the king, or burial rites). Therefore, the list of seven sacraments is a fairly conventional construct. It is entirely possible that this list may change in the future—some rites may be added, others removed.

The question then arises: if a woman can baptize, why should she not administer other sacraments (except the Eucharist)? I have no argument against this.

On what basis were the sacraments of Confession or Anointing of the Sick entrusted exclusively to priests? After all, Scripture says, “Confess your sins to one another,” and anyone may pray for another’s healing. Why, then, were these practices assigned only to priests? The answer is simple: at that time, the priest was the sole actor of the sacred rite. In other words, everything associated with religion became the exclusive domain of the priest. In my view, this reflects nothing more than a degradation of religion and spirituality, even an early form of secularization. We should not accept these distortions of Church life as normative.

To speak properly about women’s priesthood, we simply need to reconsider our understanding of sacred hierarchy and the sacraments. As long as we treat them as eternal dogma—when in fact there is nothing dogmatic about them—we will fail to perceive the diversity of Church life and its potential. Priesthood, as the bearer and executor of sacraments, is merely a historical stereotype, reflecting the concentration of spiritual authority in the clergy, preferably monastic. In reality, there is no biblical, spiritual, or historical basis for such an understanding.

My Personal Conclusion

I would like to offer my personal opinion on this matter. I understand that I may be influenced by patriarchal assumptions. After all, I am a post-Soviet person, and such influence is quite possible. Nevertheless, I will share my view of the problem.

After deconstructing the concepts of priesthood and sacraments, we must recognize that there is no ladder-like hierarchy of bishop–priest–deacon. This military-style hierarchy is a degeneration of true priesthood, which, unfortunately, has been considered the norm for centuries. The proper hierarchy looks different: the bishop is the center of apostolic activity, which he delegates to the priest—liturgical service, specifically the Eucharist—and to the deacon—social ministry. In other words, there is only one true priest: the bishop, who has two “hands”: the priest and the deacon.

In this arrangement, a woman cannot offer the blood sacrifice of the Eucharist, but she can perform all other functions. Therefore, the powers of the female diaconate should be expanded. I consider it entirely reasonable for a female deacon to serve as the head of a parish or mission. I see no obstacles to a female deacon hearing confessions, administering the Anointing of the Sick, or officiating at weddings, not to mention performing baptisms. I also consider it permissible for a female deacon to celebrate the Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts, where the elements have already been consecrated.

The question is whether canonical churches will agree to such a revision of priesthood. After all, it would require them to relinquish a portion of their authoritative powers—and, as we know, the temptation of power is very difficult to overcome.