Every time I read Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, I walk away with fresh insight into the human heart and new applications for contemporary challenges. This year, reading through Michael Katz’s new translation, I was struck by Kolya Krasotkin—a 13-year-old on the precipice of manhood whose past history and present insecurities result in outward bravado.
Kolya is a minor character in Dostoevsky’s towering work of Christian moral vision. It’s easy to focus only on the Karamazov brothers—Ivan’s intellectual rebellion, Dmitri’s ill-fated passions, and Alyosha’s saintliness. But this time around, I found in Kolya the 19th-century Russian equivalent of today’s drifting young men, flailing about due to a lack of direction, often overcompensating by trying to impress others with their intelligence or strength.
Pain Behind the Performance
Kolya is sharp. He knows how to impress his teachers. He dominates his classmates. At one point, he tries to prove his courage by lying down under a speeding train. He throws around references to Voltaire and socialism to seem more grown-up than he is. But beneath it all, Kolya is scared. Insecure. Afraid he’ll be exposed as ridiculous. In his own words,
Sometimes I imagine all sorts of things, that everyone’s laughing at me, the whole world, and then I’m simply ready to destroy the entire order of things.
I wonder at times if many young men today, who espouse semirevolutionary aspirations that would destroy the social order, are just trying to escape the sense that their lives are laughable. What if this deep insecurity is the root that causes young men to act out online, or hide behind anonymous personas, or disengage from real-life challenges, or express a false bravado by trampling cultural norms?
Kolya represents a generation of precocious, insecure young men. What he mocks (classical education or religious belief), he secretly admires. But it’s safer to don the garb of the mocker and appear above it all than to risk being sincere.
What must happen if Kolya is to be redirected? He needs a mentor. That’s where Alyosha Karamazov comes in.
Disarming Power of Grace
When Kolya first meets Alyosha, he’s expecting to be judged. After all, Alyosha is a 20-year-old novice monk. Kolya assumes he’ll be dismissed as immature, that his parade of opinions and philosophies will be ridiculed. So he enters the room ready for attack, calling classical languages “vile,” mocking Christianity as a tool of the powerful, and tossing around half-read references to Voltaire and socialism.
But Alyosha doesn’t take the bait. He listens. He smiles. He responds with respect, asking simple, honest questions: “Have you read Voltaire?” “What makes you say that?” “Why is it vile?”
What surprises Kolya isn’t just that Alyosha engages him—it’s how he does it. Alyosha treats Kolya as a peer. He doesn’t wag his finger. He doesn’t roll his eyes. His correction isn’t harsh. He shows interest, even affection.
It’s the graciousness of Alyosha that breaks through Kolya’s defenses. After stumbling through a series of attempts to impress, Kolya blurts out, “Tell me, Karamazov, do you despise me terribly?”
Alyosha replies,
Despise you? What on earth for? I’m only sad that such a splendid nature as yours, which has not yet begun to live, has already been corrupted by all this crude nonsense.
Alyosha’s grace pierces Kolya’s heart. A few moments later, he confesses, “Oh, Karamazov, I’m deeply unhappy.” He admits to tormenting his mother, to being prideful, to playing the part of the intellectual without really understanding what he’s talking about. “If you only knew how I value your opinion! . . . You’ve treated me as an equal. . . . I love you for that.” By the end of the scene, Kolya is in tears. He has found in Alyosha someone he can look up to, a mentor whose guidance could prove invaluable.
Kindness, Respect, and Calling Men Upward
What does this encounter from an old Russian novel teach us?
For starters, we should look beyond the outward behavior, the performative aspects of youth. Young men often act out. They show off. They spout ridiculous things online, trying on new identities to see what gets attention or affirmation. But beneath the surface, there’s a longing to be seen and known. Alyosha wasn’t distracted by the performance—he saw through it.
Second, we should seek to lead young men without adopting an attitude of condescension. That doesn’t mean we opt for an ingratiating accommodation. Alyosha didn’t let Kolya’s foolishness slide. He called nonsense what it was. He provided correction. But he did so in a way that preserved Kolya’s dignity. He showed respect, even before it was earned.
Third, we can call young men up to their potential. We cast a vision of betterment through the power of the Spirit. Alyosha saw Kolya’s potential. “You are a delightful person,” he said, “although you’ve been distorted.” Isn’t that what every sinner needs to hear? You were created to delight in God, but sin has distorted and corrupted your nature. Look up to the One who made you. Rise up. Become the man God intends you to be.
This scene in Dostoevsky’s novel reminds us: What awakens the soul and leads to a lasting change in behavior isn’t shame or guilt or flattery—it’s love. It’s grace. It’s truth. It’s looking past the facade to see the glorious possibilities behind what’s presently warped.
The world is full of Kolyas. They may be in your student ministry, in your school, or in your family. They try to sound smarter than they are, to act tougher than they are, to seem like they don’t care when, really, they yearn for respect and honor. A world of Kolyas needs the wisdom of older men—seasoned leaders who, with truth and kindness, see through the bravado and beckon them toward a better way.
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