Imagine being a Byzantine Emperor, having absolute power, enjoying Constantinople’s most beautiful treasures, armies at your fingertips and all of a sudden, deciding to abandon everything to become a monk.
Now, imagine trading all that for a life of quiet prayer. Sounds crazy, right? But for quite a few rulers of the Eastern Roman Empire, that’s exactly how their story of absolute power ended and a life of quiet monasticism began.
This wasn’t some bizarre imperial trend or a weird Orthodox tradition. This decision of several emperors was a combination of Byzantine politics, machinations and faith. Maybe it was genuine spiritual calling, maybe they were forced out by rivals, or maybe the sheer weight of the crown just got too heavy. Whatever the reason, several emperors finished their days in a monastery, hidden away from it all.
Let’s start with Theodosius III. His reign was short, just two years, from 715 to 717. When Leo the Isaurian (soon to be Leo III) revolted, Theodosius actually chose to step down instead of dragging the empire through more conflict and engaging in a bloody civil war to protect his power. Pretty sensible, if we think about it. He and his son simply entered the monastic life, choosing spirit over matter. After this decision, he lived peacefully, maybe even becoming a bishop of Ephesus, although there is no clear archaeological evidence for that. For the turbulent 8th century, that’s a remarkably drama-free exit for an emperor.
Then you’ve got Michael I Rangabe, who reigned approximately a century after Theodosius, between 811 and 813. His imperial power imploded after Khan Krum and the Bulgars handed him some serious defeats, forcing the Byzantines to change course. His support among his people dried up fast. Facing an uprising from Leo the Armenian, Michael opted for abdication. He became the monk Athanasius, packed off to the island of Prote (modern-day Kınalıada in Turkey) and never saw the palace again. But the story gets darker: in classic Byzantine style, his sons were castrated and forced into monasteries too, just to be sure they wouldn’t cause trouble later. That casts a long, grim shadow over Michael’s own pious retreat, which somehow lasted nearly 30 years.
Power politics really took center stage with Romanos I Lekapenos. This cunning admiral had managed to climb his way to the top spot alongside the legitimate emperor, Constantine VII, effectively ruling from 920. His undoing, though, wasn’t some foreign enemy, but his own greedy sons, Stephen and Constantine. His own children booted him out in 944, hoping to grab power for themselves. Constantine Lekapenos and Stephen Lekapenos briefly ruled as co-emperors after deposing their father, but their reign lasted only about 40 days . The once-powerful Romanos found himself exiled—the island of Prote was again chosen, it seems it was the place to send fallen emperors—and forced into monastic vows. Despite spending the rest of his life as a monk, Romanos I Lekapenos didn’t last long, dying just four years later in 948 AD. His body was buried at the Myrelaion Monastery.
Jump ahead about a century to Michael VI Bringas, nicknamed Stratiotikos (Greek for military). His reign lasted from 1056 to 1057, so it was very short. Michael was an older bureaucrat pushed onto the throne and he quickly managed to annoy the powerful military elite with his opinions and actions. When the general Isaac Komnenos marched on the capital Constantinople, Michael tried negotiating but was soon “persuaded” (probably forced) by figures such as the intellectual Michael Psellos, to just abdicate and allow a peaceful transfer of power to the next Byzantine Emperor. Michael agreed and retired to a private monastery he had founded, becoming the monk Michael. His monastic journey was even shorter than his imperial one; he died soon after in 1057.
His successor, Isaac I Komnenos, whose reign lasted from 1057 to 1059 AD, offers a different story to that of Michael VI. He was the general who had ousted Michael VI, and was a genuine reformer, trying to fix the empire’s troubled finances and military. But after just two years, he fell ill. His reforms, which were mainly austerity measures against the clergy and the elites, met severe opposition from these classes. Isaac, exhausted from his constant fever, chose to step down voluntarily. He named Constantine Doukas as his heir and headed to Constantinople’s respected Stoudios Monastery. As the monk John, he apparently focused on studying books, dedicating himself to enriching his knowledge until his death. It feels like a dignified exit, perhaps one truly driven the desire for a different life far from the constant machinations of politics.
Centuries roll by, we’re in the chaotic era of the Palaiologan dynasty, and guess what some of the Emperors choose to do; yes, they are still ending up in monasteries.
Take Andronikos II Palaiologos. His reign stretched for several decades, from 1282 to1328, but it was poisoned by brutal civil wars against his own grandson, Andronikos III. Finally defeated, old and probably heartbroken, he was forced off the throne. He was then sent to a monastery, where he took the name Antony. Androkikos II Palaiologos died cloistered just a few years later, a casualty of the family political drama that was tearing Byzantium apart.
Maybe the most fascinating case is John VI Kantakouzenos. This figure was right in the thick of the messy civil wars of the mid 14th century, towards the end of the Byzantine Empire. He ruled from 1347 until being pressured to abdicate in 1354 in favor of the rightful heir, John V Palaiologos. But retirement didn’t suit him. As the monk Joasaph Christodoulos, he basically began a second life as one of Byzantium’s most important historians, writing his incredibly valuable memoirs from inside the monastery. Despite his vows, he remained involved in current affaits, debating theology, even dipping into diplomacy. Clearly, the monk’s habit didn’t completely eradicate his passion for politics. He lived nearly 30 more years like this, commentating on current situations and producing historical documents—quite the post-imperial act.
Following, though less spectacularly, was his son, Matthew Kantakouzenos. He was co-emperor with his father from 1353 to 1357. After he was captured fighting John V’s forces, he had to give up his imperial claims. He eventually settled in the Peloponnese in the South of Greece and—you guessed it right—became a monk like his father, probably keeping a version of his name. He spent his later years helping the elder Joasaph with his historical writing, keeping up that unique family tradition of politics and monastic life.
Our last example of a Byzantine Emperor who became a monk is John VII Palaiologos. His time at the top of the dying Empire was patchy and incomplete—a brief grab for the throne in 1390, when acting as regent while his uncle Manuel II was off begging for help in the West as the Ottomans were approaching, then he was tasked with governing the region of Thessalonica. Eventually, he stepped back from the political scene. Before he died in 1408, he made his way to Mount Athos, the absolute heart of Orthodox Christian monasticism and became the monk Joasaph. A turbulent life finding a quiet end after years of adventures.
