The Russian Orthodox church in Menton There are places where time seems to keep a different rhythm.
The Russian Orthodox church in Menton is one such place. For more than 130 years, its golden dome has watched over the Côte d’Azur. During that time, the Russian Empire vanished, revolution reshaped a nation, two world wars swept across Europe, and successive waves of Russian émigrés found their way to this corner of France. Generations of parishioners have come and gone. The languages spoken here have changed, as have the countries they once called home.
Yet every Sunday, the Divine Liturgy is celebrated once again. Church Slavonic prayers rise beneath the vaulted ceiling, and people gather here much as they did more than a century ago.
This is hardly a conventional interview.
I came to the church not only as a journalist but also as a parishioner. Perhaps that is why my conversation with Father Evgeny soon became something more than the story of a single parish. We spoke about memory and tradition, about faith, and about why—even in an age of relentless change—we continue to seek places where time seems to move to a different rhythm.
After the Sunday Liturgy, the church slowly begins to empty. A few worshippers linger before the icons. Beyond the open doors, Menton returns to the bustle of everyday life, yet inside an extraordinary stillness remains.
It is in that silence that my conversation with Father Evgeny begins.
To understand that conversation, however, one must first understand the church itself.
In the second half of the nineteenth century, Menton was one of Europe’s most celebrated health resorts. Members of the Russian aristocracy, diplomats, artists, writers, and young people suffering from lung diseases came here in search of the mild Mediterranean climate and hope for recovery. Yet far from home, they needed more than medical care and shelter. They needed a spiritual home as well.
That is why, in 1880, Grand Duchess Anastasia Mikhailovna Romanova founded the Association of Saint Anastasia, which established the Russian convalescent home known as the Hermitage. Soon afterwards, an Orthodox chapel was built in the Old Castle Cemetery, becoming Menton’s first permanent Orthodox place of worship. Then, in 1892, the Church of the Icon of the Mother of God Joy of All Who Sorrow and Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, designed by the Danish architect Hans-Georg Tersling, was solemnly consecrated.
From the beginning, it was more than a church.
Linked directly to the Hermitage, the church allowed residents to pass from the house of mercy into a place of prayer. Here, charity and spiritual life were never separate; each gave meaning to the other.
Before long, the parish became the spiritual center of the Russian community not only in Menton but across the French Riviera.
During the First World War, one of its rectors, Archpriest Nikolai Akvilonov, left the tranquility of the Riviera to serve as a military chaplain in Russia. He endured war, revolution, and years of hardship before eventually returning to Menton. After the Revolution, the parish entered a period of profound crisis and, for a time, even faced the possibility of closure. Then came the years of Russian exile, followed by the Second World War, during which the church suffered extensive damage, and finally the long decades of painstaking restoration.
Yet it endured.
Over more than a century, this modest church has become an inseparable part of Menton’s cultural heritage. Its story is woven into that of the town itself, which has preserved the memory of the Russian community whose presence left a lasting imprint on the history of the Côte d’Azur.
Perhaps that is why, whenever Father Evgeny speaks about the church; he rarely speaks about himself.
Instead, he remembers those who built the parish, those who served here before him, and those who preserved the Orthodox tradition far from their homeland.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiles.
“My father was a Communist. Yet he was the first person to lead me to faith.” It is not the sort of sentence one expects to hear.
Most priests begin the story of their vocation with childhood visits to church, family tradition, or the guidance of a spiritual mentor. Father Evgeny’s story was different.
His father managed a factory and was, by every measure, a committed Soviet man. Yet it was he, Father Evgeny recalls, who insisted that his sons learn Psalm 90 by heart, telling them it mattered more than any ideology.
“Today that almost sounds unbelievable. But it was my father who first opened the doors of the church to me.”
His journey to faith, however, did not begin with theology.
“To be honest,” he says with a smile, “it was church music that first captured my heart.”
He recalls Alexander Blok’s celebrated poem, “The Girl Sang in the Church Choir…”
“Many young people aren’t drawn to theology at first,” Father Evgeny says with a laugh. “A teenager may walk into a church and simply be captivated by the beauty of the choir. That, too, can become a path to God. But sooner or later you realize that isn’t why you keep coming back. You return because of the beauty that unfolds during the Divine Liturgy.”
After completing his military service, he enrolled in a theological college before continuing his studies at the Tobolsk Theological Seminary in Siberia.
“My father gave me one piece of advice,” he recalls. “Don’t go where the prestige is. Go where the work will be harder.” At the time, everyone dreamed of studying in Moscow or St. Petersburg. But he believed that a priest is shaped not by comfort or reputation, but by hard work.”
It was in Tobolsk that another decisive encounter took place. “That is where I met my future wife.”
After graduating from the seminary, the young family moved to Moscow. Years of demanding ministry followed: service at the Sts. Martha and Mary Convent of Mercy, appointments in parishes across the city center, raising a large family, and studying Classical Philology at Moscow State University.
“I wanted to read the Church Fathers in their original languages,” he says. “So I studied Ancient Greek and Latin. A priest never truly finishes learning. It is a lifelong calling in every sense.”
That desire to keep learning—and to keep searching for answers—has remained with Father Evgeny throughout his life. At the time, however, his future seemed all but settled: ministry in Moscow, family life, and the familiar rhythm of home. Then an unexpected conversation changed everything.
An old friend serving in Cannes asked him a simple question.
“Have you ever thought about coming to Menton?”
“I smiled,” Father Evgeny recalls. “It seemed completely impossible.”
A few months later, a letter arrived from Metropolitan Hilarion (Kapral), First Hierarch of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia. “He asked me to send my biography. I sent everything I had—my CV, publications, and supporting documents. Not long afterwards, I received a brief reply: ‘You are exactly what I’m looking for.’ I could hardly believe that someone of his stature even knew who I was.”
There were still several months before his move to Menton.
First came a stay at the Monastery of Saint Job of Pochaev near Munich—a place that, Father Evgeny says, taught him more than he realized at the time.
“I can smile about it now. One day you’re taken to visit museums. The next you’re told to clean out the cowshed. Then Matins begins at four in the morning, followed by another day of hard physical work. At the time it all felt like some strange adventure. Only later did I understand that it was a school of humility.”
Even on the eve of his ordination, uncertainty lingered. “I wrote to my parents and to my wife, asking whether I was doing the right thing. I simply had no idea what awaited me.” After his ordination, he set out for France.
“I remember the journey vividly. A night coach. Italy passing by outside the window. And one thought kept returning to me: ‘What is happening to my life?’ Everything had changed so quickly that it hardly seemed real.”
A few weeks later came the time to bring his family to France. Knowing that an unfamiliar country, a new language, and an uncertain future lay ahead, Father Evgeny called his wife. Her reply was remarkably simple.
“We can’t leave anyone behind. Wherever we go, we go together.” Within weeks, the entire family had settled in France.
Their new life was not without its challenges. It was a new country, a language they did not yet speak, and a parish shaped by generations of Russian émigrés, each with its own memories and expectations.
One encounter, in particular, has stayed with Father Evgeny ever since.
“An elderly parishioner once said to me, ‘It doesn’t matter that your French is poor. What matters is that you’ve come from Moscow.’ At first, I didn’t fully understand what he meant. Later I realized how important it is for priests raised in Russia to serve here, and for those raised here to serve in Russia. That is how the unity of our Church—and of our shared memory—is preserved.”
That conviction runs through everything Father Evgeny says about his parish. For him, it has long ceased to be simply a Russian parish.
“People often ask whether this is a Russian parish. Historically, yes. But if you look around during the Sunday Liturgy, you’ll see something quite different. French worshippers pray here alongside Serbs, Romanians, Moldovans, Ukrainians, and Gagauz. Some were born into Orthodox families; others discovered Orthodoxy as adults.”
One story, in particular, still brings a smile to his face. “Several years ago, handwritten notes began appearing at the church door. A young Frenchman wanted to meet me, but for a long time he couldn’t bring himself to come inside. Eventually we met. He began reading the Gospel—once, then a second time, then a third. We talked for a long time. He asked questions, reflected deeply, and never rushed to a decision. One day he asked to be received into the Orthodox Church. Today he assists during the services. To me, he is one of the clearest reminders that it is the Lord Himself who leads a person to faith. We should never try to persuade anyone by force. Each person must discover, in their own time, that the door is ready to be opened.”
Throughout our conversation, one question continues to occupy my thoughts: why is there so little information online about a church with such a remarkable history?
Father Evgeny smiles. “Christ never advertised Himself. He sent His Apostles out to preach. Of course, today we use modern means of communication, but no article, website, or social media page can replace a living encounter with God. If someone truly seeks Him, they will find the way.”
Perhaps that is why no one seems in a hurry to leave after the service. Some stay for tea. Others help around the parish. A few simply sit in silence. Something has survived here that is slowly disappearing from many large cities: the quiet, unforced sense of belonging that makes a community.
Our conversation turns once more to the inner life.
I ask Father Evgeny which book he would recommend to someone taking their first steps in the Orthodox faith.
He answers without hesitation: “The writings of Saint Ignatius Brianchaninov. What I admire most is his sobriety. He never encourages people to chase extraordinary spiritual experiences, miracles, or famous elders. Instead, he teaches us to look first into our own hearts. I believe that lesson is more important today than ever before.”
Soon our conversation turns to the modern world and, inevitably, to artificial intelligence. Father Evgeny does not see technology and faith as opposing forces. For him, the question is not what technology can do, but what it does to us.
“No technological achievement is good or evil in itself. Everything depends on the person who uses it. Yet the more noise fills our lives, the more important it becomes to recover the ability to hear silence. It is in silence that we most often encounter God.”
Before I leave, I ask one final question. “What would you say to someone who is still searching for the way to the Church?” He doesn’t pause to think.
“Keep it simple. The Lord is simple. The more simply we come to God, the easier it becomes to find Him.”
As I step outside, the sun is already sinking towards the sea. French voices once again fill the streets of Menton. Children laugh. Café terraces are alive with conversation. The town settles back into its familiar rhythm.
And yet, one glance at the church’s golden dome is enough to realize that places like this do not belong to the past. They bind together generations, preserving something that cannot be measured in dates, monuments, or archives.
As long as the Divine Liturgy continues to be celebrated beneath these vaulted ceilings, memory endures.
As long as memory endures, it will always have its guardians.
