The Forest, Faith, and Silence

The Forest Finns, Norwegianization, and the Church’s Late Recognition

There is injustice that cries out loudly. And there is injustice that works more quietly. It does not necessarily drive people away from the land in which they live. Instead, it takes from them their language, names, stories, songs, faith, and eventually also the right to understand themselves as bearers of their own history.

In this way, a culture can become silent without the people disappearing.

The Forest Finns are such a people in Norwegian history. They originally came from eastern parts of Finland, especially Savolax and Karelia, and from the seventeenth century settled in forest areas on both sides of the border between Sweden and Norway. They brought with them language, building traditions, slash-and-burn agriculture, crafts, stories, religious beliefs, and a deep experience of the forest as a lifeworld. The forest was not merely a natural resource. It was home, work, shelter, memory, and horizon.

Today, the Forest Finns are recognized as one of Norway’s national minorities. They have their own day, June 21, connected to the time when slash-and-burn rye was sown. It is a beautiful and powerful date. It reminds us that culture is not found only in books, archives, and public resolutions. Culture also exists in the rhythm of the seasons, in the soil, in the ashes, in the seed grain, and in the tacit knowledge passed from one generation to the next.

But the history of the Forest Finns is also a history of Norwegianization.

Norwegianization does not only mean that the state tried to make minorities Norwegian in language and culture. It also means that certain ways of life were made less worthy. The Norwegian became the measure of what was educated, Christian, modern, rational, and normal. What did not fit this measure could be described as primitive, superstitious, old-fashioned, or insignificant.

This is often how injustice begins. Not always through violent acts, but through the gaze. Through the power of definition. Through the self-evidence of the majority.

Practical philosophy begins precisely here: in the question of how we live together with people who are not like ourselves. Not only how we think about them, but how we meet them, speak about them, give them space, listen to them, and allow them to help shape the common world.

For Aristotle, practical wisdom, phronesis, was not an abstract theory. It concerned judgment in concrete situations. Wise action had to take account of the particular, the singular, that which cannot simply be reduced to a rule. Applied to the history of minorities, this means that justice can never be reduced to formal equality. Treating everyone the same may, in some contexts, become a new form of injustice if differences, wounds, and historical experiences are made invisible.

Norwegianization was precisely such a false equality. Everyone was to become Norwegian. Everyone was to enter the same language, the same school, the same churchly and cultural framework. But the price was that some had to lay aside what carried their own history.

This applies to the Sámi. It applies to the Kvens and Norwegian Finns. And it applies to the Forest Finns.

The report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission has brought this injustice forward as a public concern. The Norwegian Parliament has since apologized for the active role earlier parliaments played in the policy of Norwegianization and has acknowledged responsibility for the consequences for groups and individuals. This matters. But an apology is only a beginning. It cannot in itself restore language, lost traditions, or broken self-respect. Nor can it alone make the majority society wiser.

For apology must be followed by remembrance.

Hannah Arendt writes of human actions as something that leaves traces in a common world. We are born into a world that is already there, but we also take part in renewing it. When the history of a minority disappears from the common narrative, the world becomes poorer. Not only for the minority itself, but for everyone. We lose part of reality.

This may be one of the most serious aspects of Norwegianization: it made Norway less true.

It taught us to see the country through the eyes of the majority. Mountains, forests, villages, churches, and family lines were told as one history, while other histories lay beneath like unnamed roots. But roots that are not given names do not cease to exist. They continue to work in the soil. They are found in place names, family memories, crafts, old stories, food traditions, archives, church records, and in people who perhaps for a long time lacked words for why something in them belonged to another story.

The new report on Forest Finn history, culture, and religiosity within the framework of the Church of Norway is therefore important. It comes late, but not too late if it is taken seriously. It points out that the Church of Norway did not merely stand beside Norwegianization. The Church was part of it. For long periods, the Church was closely intertwined with the state, the school, the civil administration, and local morality. The Church administered baptism, confirmation, marriage, burial, language, rituals, and social belonging.

Thus the Church must also ask: Who was allowed to be visible among us? Who had to be translated before they could belong? Which voices were regarded as Christian, and which were pushed aside as folk belief, magic, or superstition? Which forms of understanding nature were recognized, and which were rejected because they did not fit the theology of the majority?

The religious history of the Forest Finns is complex. It is not accurate to say that the Forest Finns came to Norway as a unified Orthodox minority. Many were Lutheran, and Finnish-inspired Lutheranism appears to have been the most widespread tradition among them. They brought catechisms, hymnals, and Christian practices with them. At the same time, some came from areas where Orthodox Christianity had left deep traces. In Karelia and eastern Finland, Christianity had also arrived from the east, through Novgorod and the Orthodox tradition.

What the Forest Finns carried with them, then, was not one pure and clearly bounded form of faith. It was a religious inheritance in which Lutheran, Orthodox, Catholic, and older folk beliefs could live closely together. To the eyes of the majority, this could appear unclear, foreign, or suspicious.

What, then, did the Orthodox and eastern Finnish element involve?

Orthodox Christianity is not only doctrine. It is liturgy, icons, candles, fasting, the remembrance of saints, prayers, crosses, singing, blessings, and the memory of the dead. Faith is lived through the body and the senses. It is rhythm, repetition, and presence. In a popular eastern Finnish and Karelian context, this could also be woven together with an understanding of nature, healing practices, protective rituals, and an experience of the landscape not merely as matter, but as a space in which human beings stood in relation to forces, memories, and boundaries.

For modern people, this can easily be called “superstition.” But such a word often reveals more about the one who uses it than about the tradition being described. It says that the majority’s form of faith is regarded as religion, while the minority’s form of faith is reduced to remnants, customs, magic, or ignorance.

Here, the religious side of Norwegianization becomes clear. The Forest Finns had to learn Christianity in Norwegian. It was not necessarily enough to know the catechism in Finnish. Faith had to be translated into the language of the majority in order to be recognized. In some cases, young people who were not confirmed in the proper way could be entered in church records with terms such as “heathen.”

That is a powerful word.

“Heathen” does not only mean that someone stands outside a particular church order. It may also become a social stigma. It says that the other person’s faith is not merely different, but deficient. In this way, religious power can become part of cultural Norwegianization. One is not only told to speak another language. One is also told that one’s own way of believing, remembering, and belonging is not good enough.

The question, therefore, is not simply whether the Forest Finns were persecuted because they were Orthodox. That would be too simple. The sources do not provide sufficient grounds for saying that the Forest Finns in Norway were systematically persecuted as an Orthodox minority in the narrow church-historical sense. The injustice was more complex. It consisted in the fact that Forest Finn language, religious expressions, views of nature, and popular forms of belief were pressed into a Norwegian-Lutheran framework.

What did not fit could be made inferior.

This may be a more quiet form of persecution, but not necessarily a less serious one. Persecution does not occur only when people are denied the right to believe. It can also occur when people are allowed to believe only if they do so in the manner of the majority. When they must lay aside their language, rituals, beliefs, and religious memory in order to be accepted.

Axel Honneth’s theory of recognition can help us understand this. Human beings need more than formal rights. They need to be seen as bearers of a worthy form of life. When a culture is not recognized, people’s relation to themselves is also affected. They may begin to feel ashamed of where they come from. They may fall silent about language, ancestry, and faith. They may allow children to grow up without knowing what actually existed in the family.

This is how Norwegianization works across generations.

It does not always take everything at once. It makes some words difficult to use. It makes certain memories embarrassing. It makes particular rituals something one would rather not speak about. It teaches people that the safest thing is to remain silent.

The church report therefore raises an important question: How can Forest Finn language, culture, and tradition find expression in the Church without first having to pass through the Norwegian?

This is a practical-philosophical question of great importance.

For it is not only about liturgy, hymns, or forms of worship. It is about recognition. To have to pass through the Norwegian before one is allowed to be Forest Finn is to be told that one’s own way is not legitimate enough. It is to have to translate oneself into the language of the majority before one can be heard. Many minorities know this experience. The other must first make themselves recognizable to power before power listens.

But true reconciliation cannot begin there.

Reconciliation does not begin with the minority explaining itself so that the majority does not have to change. Reconciliation begins when the majority can bear to lose some of its self-evidence. It begins when we discover that what we called common was often our own. It begins when we understand that others are not merely asking to be included in our world, but asking us to realize that the world was already larger than we had made it.

Here, the Forest Finn understanding of nature may become a corrective.

The church report highlights an understanding of nature as something that comes to meet the human being. This is a formulation worth preserving. It points toward a different understanding of nature than the instrumental one. Nature is not merely something we own, measure, cut down, buy, sell, or manage. Nature is also what gives life, forms experience, carries memory, and makes human existence possible.

This has significance far beyond Forest Finn history. In a time of climate change and ecological crisis, we need traditions that can help us think differently about the human place in nature. Not as rulers. Not as external managers. But as participants in a life on which we ourselves depend.

Here, Forest Finn tradition, Christian theology of creation, and practical philosophy meet.

For practical philosophy does not ask only: What is true? It also asks: How should we live when we have understood something to be true? If it is true that the Forest Finns were made invisible, we must live differently with that knowledge. If it is true that the Church was part of Norwegianization, the Church must not only apologize. It must change its practice. If it is true that nature is not only a resource, but a lifeworld, then our modern way of life must also be reconsidered.

This is where reconciliation becomes demanding. It must become practical.

Fine words from public platforms are not enough. Reports are not enough, even though reports may be necessary. Reconciliation must be felt in education, worship, museum work, naming policies, research, genealogy, cultural arenas, and in the everyday way we speak about Forest Finn history. It must make it possible for people with Forest Finn ancestry to feel that their history is not an addition to Norwegian history, but part of the country’s real history.

Perhaps this is also a question of memory.

A society without memory easily becomes brutal, not necessarily because it intends evil, but because it does not know what it is doing. When historical experiences disappear, injustice becomes easier to repeat in new forms. Memory work is therefore not nostalgia. It is ethical work. It is to give the dead, the silent, and the translated a place in the common world.

The Forest Finns teach us something important about this.

They teach us that a people can be present and yet become invisible. They teach us that names matter. That language matters. That landscape matters. That songs, rituals, and stories can carry human dignity. They teach us that the forest is not merely the background of human life, but may be part of the human inner landscape.

And they teach us that the majority must practice a difficult virtue: humility.

Humility is not self-contempt. It is not giving up one’s own history. It is realizing that one’s own history was never the whole history. It is listening without immediately taking over. It is recognizing without assimilating. It is giving space without demanding that the other first become like us.

The Church of Norway therefore faces a task that is both theological and practical-philosophical. It must not only ask how Forest Finn tradition can be given a place within the Church’s existing frameworks. It must also ask whether Forest Finn tradition can change the Church’s own self-understanding.

For if the Church truly listens, it may discover that Forest Finn understandings of nature, song traditions, practices of memory, and attachment to place are not merely minority culture to be preserved. They may be a source of renewal. They may help the Church speak more truthfully about creation, the earth, the forest, the body, work, and the human dependence on nature.

In this way, reconciliation may become more than repair of the past. It may become a new beginning.

But only if it happens with the Forest Finn communities themselves, not over their heads. The history of Norwegianization is precisely the history of the majority taking the power of definition. A reconciliation process that repeats this will only continue the injustice in gentler language. Therefore, Forest Finn voices, organizations, elders, young people, researchers, artists, genealogists, church actors, and local communities must themselves help shape the way forward.

Reconciliation is not that the majority becomes finished with its guilt. Reconciliation is that the relationship changes.

Perhaps we can say it like this: the forest never became silent. It was we who stopped listening.

The task of practical philosophy is to help us hear again. Not only with our ears, but with judgment, with the body, with historical consciousness, and with ethical responsibility. To hear the history of the Forest Finns is to hear a part of Norway that has long been muted. It is to allow the country to become larger, truer, and more diverse than the story many of us grew up with.

It is also to understand that injustice does not always consist in people being driven away. Sometimes injustice consists in people being allowed to remain, but only if they become less themselves.

That is why the history of the Forest Finns concerns us all.

It reminds us that a human being needs more than rights. A human being needs belonging. Language. Place. Stories that do not feel ashamed of their origin. And a society that does not merely tolerate diversity, but understands that diversity can be a source of wisdom.

The Forest Finns brought with them a faith that carried traces of both West and East, of church and forest, of hymnal and folk tradition. It was a faith that did not always fit into Norwegian categories.

Perhaps that is precisely why it is worth listening to today.

The forest is still there.

The question is whether we are now willing to hear.

Recommended literature

Arendt, H. (1958). The human condition. University of Chicago Press.

Church of Norway / Diocese of Hamar. (2026). Forest Finn history, culture, and religiosity within the framework of the Church of Norway.

Gadamer, H.-G. (2004). Truth and method (2nd rev. ed.). Continuum. Original work published 1960.

Honneth, A. (1995). The struggle for recognition: The moral grammar of social conflicts. Polity Press.

Nussbaum, M. C. (2011). Creating capabilities: The human development approach. Harvard University Press.

Truth and Reconciliation Commission. (2023). Truth and reconciliation: Foundations for a reckoning with Norwegianization policy and injustice against Sámi, Kvens/Norwegian Finns, and Forest Finns. The Norwegian Parliament.

Taylor, C. (1994). The politics of recognition. In A. Gutmann (Ed.), Multiculturalism: Examining the politics of recognition (pp. 25–73). Princeton University Press.