Women Saints for the Twenty-First Century Women? The Politics of 2025 Canonizations in the Romanian Orthodox Church

This essay is the first in the two-part series offered by Dr. Ionut Biliuta in his continuing examination of the recent canonizations in the Romanian Orthodox Church.

Icon of newly-canonized women saints. www.basilica.ro

In the case of contemporary Romanian Orthodoxy, however, the 2025 canonizations had a much deeper meaning, one that touches at the very core of Romanian society. In one of the most patriarchal and traditional societies in Eastern Europe, often described as marked by rampant misogyny and feminicide, and in an Orthodox Church where the voices of women, regardless of their political, intellectual, or professional empowerment, remain largely absent from decision-making, the decision seemed nothing short of revolutionary. At a more profound level, canonizing women as saints represented a public relations strategy intended to appease the increasing discontent among educated women with the longstanding conservatism of the Romanian Orthodox Church on several controversial issues (abortion, contraception, and the overall standing of women within ecclesiastical administrative and theological structures). As in the case of the 2024 canonizations of confessors of the Orthodox faith during communism, the Orthodox hierarchs hoped that presenting communities with a list of women saints would stem the tide of secularization among Orthodox women and re-sacralize, along traditional lines (the maternity of male saints, unconditional obedience to men in monastic life, and financial generosity), a society increasingly attuned to secular women’s rights.

The salutary decision of the all-male Holy Synod seemed to acknowledge social realities and respond to the sociological conditions of contemporary times: at every Sunday liturgy, women constitute most worshipers; women take monastic vows in greater numbers than men; and women contribute significantly to the charitable activities and social outreach of the Romanian Orthodox Church. At the same time, because of the narrow-mindedness that still characterizes many bureaucrats within the ossified and sclerotic institutional structures of the Romanian Orthodox Church regarding a more substantial presence of women in faculties of Orthodox theology or in top positions within church administration, women are gradually departing from Orthodox communities. Combined with a hardline attitude toward same-sex marriage and with the increasing number of women graduating at undergraduate and postgraduate levels, these dynamics help explain the rapid rise of atheism and anticlericalism directed primarily at the Orthodox clergy.

There are several reasons why the 2025 wave of canonizations of women should be considered a controversial process and should not be taken at face value. First, in Orthodox communities across Romania and its diaspora, few people know the reasons for these canonizations or what aspects of these women’s lives qualified them for sainthood. In gathering relevant information about these saints, the Romanian Orthodox Church worked in mysterious ways, without publicizing the list of potential candidates or its intention to canonize them. Public criticism of the fascist and antisemitic ideas associated with some of the figures canonized in 2024 by the Romanian Patriarchy during its centennial celebration, as well as the cool reception of many of those new saints in Orthodox communities, appears to have prompted the Holy Synod, its in-house historians, and researchers, to approach the matter with caution and prudence. With only a few exceptions, most of the newly canonized women lived before the twentieth century or had such a low public profile or such a faint historical imprint that their canonization would not generate controversy within the Romanian public sphere. In doing so, the Church deliberately disregarded one of the main traditional theological conditions for canonization: the existence of a local cult or preexisting devotion within Orthodox communities that is later officially recognized by the Holy Synod. Instead, the process placed the cart before the horse: communities learned about the lives of these women only after their canonization had already been proclaimed, with no prior devotion to them and little awareness of their very existence. For example, leaving aside the fact that the list of potential female candidates for sainthood remains unknown to most Orthodox clergy and believers, the official brochure presenting their lives was published by the Romanian Patriarchy only after their public canonization, and without any input from Orthodox communities. Through a series of press interviews in church publications and secular media, patriarchal officials promoted the idea that some of these saintly women already had local cults developed around them or that the canonizations were carried out in response to requests from Orthodox believers. In reality, this was far from the truth. A cloud of rumors, whispers, and historical suppositions surrounded the entire process.

Another major point of contention concerning these sixteen new women saints relates to their biographies, or, more precisely, their lack of biography. Confronted with a wave of criticism in 2024, when the canonization of confessors of the faith during the communist years came under heavy public scrutiny because of the fascist and antisemitic sympathies of some of the newly canonized saints, those responsible for selecting candidates for sainthood (hierarchs, in-house historians, theologians, and patriarchal bureaucrats) clearly decided not to repeat the same mistake. In selecting new candidates for hagiographical reinterpretation, the lives of the new saints were chosen precisely because they shielded the canonization process from historical criticism: with a few exceptions, most of these women lived either before or after the interwar and communist periods, rendering their lives largely immune to accusations of controversial ideological affiliations, xenophobia, or antisemitism. Moreover, the hagiographical narratives presented to the public contain very few details of these women’s private lives and display a striking degree of historical decontextualization. Their lives are presented almost as immaterial narratives, disconnected from the historical eras in which they lived or from the concrete contours of their spiritual experiences. Most of the characteristics attributed to these women are confined to the standard tropes of Orthodox hagiography: lives devoted to prayer and ascetic discipline, steadfast adherence to the Orthodox faith, and, especially in the case of monastics, total obedience. These traits are often accompanied by the usual repertoire of miraculous attributes, such as the ability to foresee the future, extraordinary humility, or even harmony with wild animals. While St. Elisabeth (Lazăr) (1970–2014) of Pasărea Monastery did have a following of devoted disciples among both men and women, Princess Marica Brâncoveanu (c. 1661–1729) and Princess Despina Elena (1487–1554) were canonized largely because of their marriages to rulers previously recognized as saints: Prince Constantin Brâncoveanu of Wallachia (1654–1714) and Prince Neagoe Basarab of Wallachia (1482–1521). As a close disciple of Patriarch Nifon II of Constantinople (d. 1508), Prince Neagoe played a significant role in reaffirming the Orthodox faith along hesychast lines in Wallachia and on Mount Athos. He generously sponsored monasteries on Mount Athos, in Serbia, and in Wallachia, and authored a well-known treatise on governance grounded in hesychast principles, addressed to his son. Prince Constantin Brâncoveanu likewise made a substantial contribution to the flourishing of Orthodox monasticism in Wallachia. He financed the construction of new monasteries and supported, with funds and printing presses, Orthodox communities on Mount Athos, in Georgia, and in the Patriarchates of Constantinople, Jerusalem, and Antioch. He also played a crucial role in patriarchal elections throughout his reign. Betrayed by his uncle and cousin, who handed the Ottomans his secret correspondence detailing negotiations for an alliance with the Austrian Empire, Brâncoveanu was beheaded in Constantinople on August 15, 1714, together with his four sons and his treasurer, after urging his sons to accept death rather than convert to Islam. Because their husbands had already been canonized as saints (Brâncoveanu, his sons, and his treasurer as martyr-saints; Neagoe Basarab as an Orthodox hesychast prince), Marica Brâncoveanu and Despina Elena (who took the veil as nun Platonida in 1545) were also canonized as saints through participation in their husbands’ sainthood, rather than their own achievements or their saintly lives. In these hagiographical accounts, there is no mention of a single miracle, striking ascetic achievement, or distinctive virtue. Nor is there any acknowledgment that their husbands’ vast wealth was built on the backs of their fellow Orthodox peasant serfs and Roma slaves, or that the monasteries erected by these princes and their consorts were financed through heavy taxation that placed considerable burdens on large segments of the population.

A similar pattern emerges in another category of saints that attracted the attention of the Holy Synod in Bucharest: “mothers of male saints” and not just saintly mothers. Historically, Christian tradition has recognized the formative role of mothers in their spiritual lives and the intellectual development of their sons. One could hardly imagine St. Basil of Caesarea (330–379) and St. Gregory of Nyssa (330/335–394) without St. Aemilia, St. John Chrysostom (347–407) without St. Anthusa, or St. Augustine of Hippo (354–430) without St. Monica. Yet the question of motherhood and sanctity requires more careful reflection in the contemporary Church. When interpreted exclusively through the self-sacrificial lens of Mariology, often deployed as a universal theological prosthetics instead of consulting them for addressing questions concerning women in Orthodox communities, the canonization of women primarily for giving birth to saints risks transmitting a problematic message in society. By implicitly modeling female sanctity on the paradigm of Mary as the mother of Christ, such canonizations may suggest that women’s most valued contribution to the life of the Church lies in biological motherhood. In this framework, motherhood becomes the principal, if not the exclusive, expression of women’s divine vocation. This emphasis risks overshadowing other forms of spiritual vocation and the diverse ways in which women have historically contributed to Orthodox religious life (theological and intellectual acumen, social work, apostolic vocations among youth and non-Christians, and spiritual maternity). By defining female sanctity largely in causal relation to and as a direct byproduct of male sainthood, the category of “mothers of saints” can inadvertently reinforce a vision of womanhood centered almost entirely on maternity. In the broader cultural context of contemporary Eastern Europe, where political movements on the far right frequently promote a traditional, submissive role of women towards dominant men, such representations may resonate with ideological narratives that advocate a return to more conservative and restrictive gender roles. It is, therefore, unsurprising that many of the lives of the newly canonized women resemble those of the princesses discussed above. Among their defining attributes as wives of rulers, their most celebrated accomplishment was the production of male heirs. In some cases, such as that of St. Olimpiada (Tănase) of Fărcașa (1880–1967), recently canonized, the testimony of her son, St. Petroniu Tănase (1916–2011) of the Prodromou Skete on Mount Athos, appears to have played a decisive role in her canonization, since no other testimonies or recollections of her sanctity are known. Rather than being remembered for distinctive spiritual gifts, St. Olimpiada was primarily noted, consistent with the norms of early twentieth-century rural Romanian society, for having borne eight children. In other cases, such as St. Filofteia of Pasărea Monastery (d. 1833), the mother of St. Calinic of Cernica (1787–1868); St. Filotimia (Manolache) (1896–1989) of Râmeț Monastery, the mother of St. Dometie (Manolache) (1924–1975); or St. Anastasia (Șaguna) (1785–1836), the mother of St. Andrei Șaguna (1808/1809–1873), canonization appears to have followed a similar pattern. These women were recognized largely because of their relationship to sons already venerated as saints, sometimes after entering monastic life later in life at their sons’ urging, and sometimes simply by virtue of their maternal connection.

In this context, the canonization of these women reveals less about the recognition of female sanctity than about the symbolic frameworks through which the Romanian Orthodox Church continues to interpret women’s roles within its spiritual and social order. By elevating women primarily as wives of rulers or as mothers of male saints, the Holy Synod reinforces a narrowly defined model of female holiness grounded in obedience, maternity, and relational proximity to male authority. Rather than broadening the spectrum of recognized female spiritual agency, these canonizations largely reproduce traditional hierarchies in which women’s sanctity is validated through their service to men, whether as loyal spouses, self-sacrificing mothers, or obedient monastics. In doing so, the canonization process risks transforming what might have been an opportunity to acknowledge the diverse forms of women’s spiritual leadership and experience in Orthodox history into a symbolic reaffirmation of long-standing patriarchal norms.