Defending Constantine: The Twilight of an Empire and the Dawn of Christendom
Page 1
Peter J. Leithart
To Dr. Paul W. Leithart
Beloved Physician, Father, Patriot, Friend Above all, Follower of Jesus
Preface
Acknowledgments
I SANGUINARY EDICTS
2 JUPITER ON THE THRONE
3 INSTINCTU DI VINITAT US
4 BY THIS SIGN
5 LIBERATOR ECCLESIAE
6 END OF SACRIFICE
7 COMMON BISHOP
8 NICAEA AND AFTER
9 SEEDS OF EVANGELICAL LAW
10 JUSTICE FOR ALL
II ONE GOD, ONE EMPEROR
12 PACIFIST CHURCH?
13 CHRISTIAN EMPIRE, CHRISTIAN MISSION
14 ROME BAPTIZED
Bibliography
Author Index
Subject Index
Constantine has been a whipping boy for a long time, and still is today. In popular culture (Dan Brown, Da Vinci Code), among bestselling historians (James Carroll, Constantine's Sword), and among theologians (Stanley Hauerwas, John Howard Yoder and their followers), his name is identified with tyranny, anti-Semitism, hypocrisy, apostasy and heresy. He was a hardened power-politician who never really became Christian, a hypocrite who harnessed the energy of the church for his own political ends, a murderer, a usurper, an egotist.
Defending Constantine is a rather old-fashioned book. I am asking the traditional "Constantinian questions" that historians have long since tired of answering: Did he really convert? Did he control the church? Did he determine orthodoxy at the Council of Nicaea? Did he mandate that every Roman citizen become a Christian? How did he treat pagans and Jews and heretics? At least since Norman Baynes delivered a groundbreaking lecture,' there has been a growing consensus among English-speaking scholars on some central questions about the first Christian emperor. From an examination of Constantine's own writings, Baynes argued, against the critics of his day, that Constantine was a sincere Christian gripped with a profound confidence that God had anointed and appointed him to ensure the expansion of the gospel to the Roman world and beyond. Today, few specialists in the period question the fact that Constantine was a "real" Christian, and those who want to dispute the accounts of his conversion do so because they think he grew up a Christian. Yet, though 1930 is a long time ago, Baynes's thesis has barely penetrated popular consciousness, or even the consciousness of scholars who are not fourth-century specialists. In this book, I summarize some results of the newer scholarship for a wider audience to provide a fairly detailed, fairly popular, and fairly fair account of Constantine's life and work.
It was a dramatic life, full of vivid scenes: his questionable origins, conceived, so one legend has it, in a one-night stand; his nighttime escape from Nicomedia across Europe to Bologne to reach his father; the vision of the cross that preceded his victory at Rome; his entry into the Council of Nicaea; the death of the heretic Arius in a Greek water closet in Alexandria; disguised bishop Athanasius confronting the emperor as he rode into Constantinople; Constantine's baptism and death and his burial as the "thirteenth apostle" in the Church of the Apostles. It is one of the epic lives in Western history, full of firsts and foundings. Constantine was the first overtly Christian Roman emperor, the first emperor to support the church, the first emperor to call and participate in a church council, the founder of Constantinople and thereby the founder of the Byzantine Empire, which lasted for the next millennium. Without sacrificing accuracy, I have attempted to capture some of the drama, some of the epic scope, of Constantine.
Writing a life of Constantine, though, is only one of the four aims I have in this book. Readers who enjoy a fight will be happy that here biography serves the interests of polemic, and as the book progresses biography recedes as polemic comes to the forefront. By the final chapter I have abandoned biography almost completely. Nearly everything about Constantine is disputed, from the date of his birth to the sincerity of his conversion to his exact role in the Council of Nicaea. Again, I summarize the results of recent scholarship to take sides in those debates and to rebut the popular caricatures that are still widespread.
My main polemical target, though, is a theological one, and this theological polemic opens up the third aim of the book. Constantiniansm is the name given by Yoder,2 Hauerwas, and their increasing tribe to what they consider a heretical mindset and set of habits that have distorted Christian faith since (at least) the fourth century. Most of my argument is directed at Yoder, who provided the most sophisticated and systematic treatment of the concept. In part my argument is historical; Yoder gets the fourth century wrong in many particulars, and this distorts his entire reading of church history, which is a hinge of his theological project. The heart of my polemic against Yoder, though, is theological. In Yoder's telling, the church "fell" in the fourth century (or thereabouts) and has not yet recovered from that fall. This misconstrues the theological significance of Constantine, and in the final chapter I offer an alternative account. I will not give away that secret now, but I can tell you it has something to do with sacrifice. As always, one aim in this book is to contribute to the formation of a theology that does not simply inform but is a social science.'
My final aim is a practical one. I have found that, far from representing a fall for the church, Constantine provides in many respects a model for Christian political practice. At the very least, his reign provides rich material for reflection on a whole series of perennial political-theological questions: about religious toleration and coercion, about the legitimacy of Christian involvement in political life, about a Christian ruler's relationship to the church, about how Christianity should influence civil law, about the propriety of violent coercion, about the legitimacy of empire.
In that respect, it is a propitious time to be writing a book on Constantine. Never before have American Christians been so exercised by the question of American empire. In the back of my mind I have been asking, What, ifanything, can we learn about the proper Christian response to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan from examining the church's relation to Constantine Caesar? I offer only incomplete answers to those questions here, but this book will, I hope, be followed by another where I can give more thorough and direct attention to imperialism.
These political issues are of interest to Christians throughout the world, not only in the U.S. What Philip Jenkins calls the "Southern churches" look to be forming the "next Christendom." Given that prospect, rootand-branch rejection of "Constantinianism" or "Christendom" is doubly wrong-headed. First, insofar as Northern churches still set trends for the Southern churches, our hostility to our own heritage of Christian politics encourages the Global South to ignore the history we ignore. If the South is forming into a new Christendom, it is important that it learn from both the successes and the failures of the first Christendom. Northern Christians will be irresponsible if we have nothing more to say than "Don't try it. It went badly last time."
Second, the Northern churches cannot presume to be a "teaching church" to the Southern "listening church." We are, I trust, long past that kind of paternalism. But if the Southern churches think that a new Christendom, Christian nations, Christian legal systems, Christian international alliances are worth pursuing, it is condescending for us to dismiss their efforts with a world-weary shrug and a knowing shake of the head. By listening to the Southern churches, we Northern Christians may be able to examine our own history of Christian civilization with deeper sympathy. And that could only benefit all of us.
I have many people to thank for help on this project. Aaron Rench, my l
iterary agent, convinced me to do the book when I was lukewarm. I am very glad he persisted.
I had lively and beneficial conversations with several students, colleagues, and friends over the course of my research. My biweekly coffee meetings with Brad Littlejohn were always challenging. I had fewer opportunities to discuss the themes of this book with Justin Hughes, Davey Henreckson and Josh Davis, but they all contributed and kept me honest. Lisa Beyeler guided me to a better understanding of Constantine's architecture. In conversations with Joshua Appel, Toby Sumpter, Doug Jones and Brendan O'Donnell my ideas have been clarified.
During the spring of 2009 I taught a course on Constantine and Constantinianism, which gave me a chance to coalesce my research; several students provided research help on issues that I could not investigate myself. Colleagues at New St. Andrews College were generous with their time. Tim Griffith assisted with several Latin questions, and Chris Schlect helped me see the complexity of church finances in the medieval period. I presented a version of the final chapter at the Graduate Forum in fall 2009, and I benefited from questions from Roy Atwood and others.
I also had help from scholars who know what they are talking about: Robert Louis Wilken was generous in answering questions and providing bibliographic and other advice; Timothy Barnes graciously responded to emails out of the blue and provided me with an essay of his that I had no access to; David Rankin guided me on some details of Tertullian; Eric Enlow gave me bibliographical help on Roman law; exchanges with Charlie Collier about Yoder helped me, I trust, read him more accurately and charitably, and Charlie also provided a copy of his stimulating recent Ph.D. thesis; Andrew Motyl kindly provided me with an electronic copy of an article I had trouble locating; Bill Cavanaugh read portions of the book and pointed out sizable weak spots in my argument; and Steven Wedgeworth read through the first four chapters and suggested several improvements. Two of my graduate students, Justin Hughes and Stephen Long, helped me revise the original manuscript by proofreading and correcting my Latin, saving me much embarrassment on both scores. My editor at IVP, Dan Reid, was encouragingly excited about this book and offered helpful suggestions to make it more accessible for readers; Dan also forwarded me enthusiastic comments and suggestions from an outside reader.
My family assisted in various ways. My son Woelke provided invaluable research aid. My sons Jordan, Sheffield and Christian each had the misfortune to catch me on a day when I was charged up about things Constantinian, and they listened to my rantings with patient good cheer. They will receive their reward. My wife, Noel, also had to listen as I droned on; she seemed to be as interested as I try to be when she talks about midwifery.
Early on, I had several lengthy conversations with my father, Dr. Paul Leithart, which convinced me that I had done enough research to begin writing. Dad has always been deeply interested in my writing, and I suspect, given his long engagement in politics, that he will find this book of particular interest. I owe more of my interest in political questions to him than I realize, and while he may differ with or be baffled by some parts of this book, I could not have written it without his lifelong example of faithful service to the city of God, a service that does not forget the city of man. With great love and deep gratitude, I dedicate this book to him.
Amongst our other regulations for the permanent advantage of the common weal, we have hitherto studied to reduce all things to a conformity with the ancient laws and public discipline of the Romans.
EDICT OF GALERIUS, 311
Hardened by a lifetime of military and civil service, the emperor Diocletian (285-305) was no coward. According to the Historia Augusta, he was "an outstanding man and wise, devoted to the commonwealth, devoted to his kindred, duly prepared to face whatever the occasion demanded, forming plans that were always deep though sometimes overbold, and one who could by prudence and exceeding firmness hold in check the impulses of a restless spirit."' Eutropius casts him as a man of "crafty disposition, with much sagacity, and keen penetration" who "was willing to gratify his own disposition to cruelty in such a way as to throw the odium upon others"-in all, "a very active and able prince."2
Contemporaries described him as an "investigator of things to come," a man "devoted to holy usages." Surrounded by priests and soothsayers, he examined entrails for clues to the future and started at lightning bolts. Diocletian believed his rise to the imperial purple had been foretold by a Druid priestess. He elevated Maximian to the position of second Augustus because the two shared a birthday, and when Galerius was later given the position of Caesar he took the name Maximianus "in order to effect a magic bond with the proven loyalty of the elder Maximian."3
Diocletian was no coward, but the incident in 299 was alarming. Visiting Antioch, he had participated in a sacrifice that failed. Priests slaughtered the animal, and the haruspex, a soothsayer who foretold the future by reading entrails, stepped forward to take the liver from the hands of the servant. Planting his left foot on the ground, he raised his right foot on a stone and bent low to examine the liver.4 He found none of the usual indicators. They slaughtered another animal, and another. Nothing. Plutarch had written centuries before about the silencing of the oracles, and the same was happening to Diocletian. His recovery of the Pax Romana was, Diocletian firmly believed, the product of a pax deorum, the peace of the gods. Roman sacrifice was at the center of that peace. It was the chief religious act, the act by which Romans communicated and communed with the gods, keeping the gods happy so Romans could be happy.' If the gods stopped talking with the emperor, what would happen to Rome? Did the failed sacrifice in Antioch foretell the end of sacrifice? Did it foretell the end of Rome?
What had gone wrong? The presiding diviner investigated and concluded that "profane persons" had interrupted the rites, and attention focused on Christians in Diocletian's court who had made the sign of the cross to ward off demons during the proceedings. Diocletian was outraged and demanded that all members of his court offer sacrifice, a test designed to weed out Christians. Soldiers were required to sacrifice or leave the sacred Roman army.' At least at the heart of the empire, in the court and in the army, sacrifices would continue without being polluted by Christians. At the heart of the empire, where it really mattered, gods and men would remain in communion. With the purge of Christians, the problem seemed solved. The miasma was expelled and the gods were satisfied. Diocletian was secure.
The problem, however, had not been solved. An imperial letter probably issued in March 3027 to the proconsul of Africa confronted another threat to the empire, the dualistic religion of Manichaeanism. Mani was a Persian teacher whose religion, along with other Eastern religions, had been seeping into the Roman Empire and undermining traditional Roman pieties. Diocletian's letter was filled with encouragement of "Roman virtue" and condemnation of "Persian vice," and ended with an exhortation to preserve the tranquillitas of the empire by suppressing dangerous Oriental innovations.' Diocletian insisted that "it is wrong to ... desert the ancient religion for some new one, for it is the height of criminality to try and revive doctrines that were settled once for all by the ancients."9 This "superstitious doctrine of a most worthless and depraved kind" must be stopped? Manichaean leaders were to be burned along with their books, their dis ciples decapitated or sent to the mines."
The parallels with Christianity were not lost on Diocletian. Like Manichaeanism, Christianity had come from the East and was non- and perhaps anti-Roman; its unpatriotic teachings undermined civic virtue. As the protector of the empire, Diocletian felt as bound to fight off an invasion of Christians and Manichaeans as he did to turn back attacks from Persians and Goths.12
Still the problem was not solved. Several years after the failed sacrifice, Diocletian was back in Antioch when a Christian deacon, Romanus, burst in on another imperial sacrifice loudly denouncing the worship of demons. Diocletian ordered that his tongue be cut out and sentenced him to prison, where he was executed,13 but the emperor knew something more needed to be done. Wintering in Nico
media the following year, Diocletian consulted with his Caesar Galerius about the problem. "Arrogant and ambitious" and a "fanatical pagan,"" Galerius urged Diocletian to issue a general order against the Christians. Diocletian hesitated. He needed divine guidance, but when he consulted Apollo's oracle at Didyma it informed him that "just ones" had silenced the prophecy." Years later Constantine recalled the incident, which he witnessed while serving in Diocletian's court. Calling on God as a witness, Constantine remembered how the "unhappy, truly unhappy" Diocletian, "laboring under mental delusion, made earnest enquiry of his attendants as to who these righteous ones were" and learned that "they were doubtless the Christians." Diocletian lost no time in issuing "those sanguinary edicts," which Constantine said were "traced, if I may so express myself, with a sword's point dipped in blood .1116
For the Latin Christian rhetorician Lactantius and Eusebius, bishop of Caesarea, the Caesar Galerius-who was, to refined Romans like Lactantius, a brutal, pagan, barely Romanized barbarian17-was the evil genius behind the edict. Many modern historians discount the tale,18 but there is evidence that the more tolerantly pagan Diocletian was persuaded by his junior colleague to initiate the general persecution. Galerius had never quite sung in harmony with the other rulers of the empire, as Julian the Apostate was later to say. His triumphal arch that still stands in Thessaloniki highlights his personal exploits in his war with the Persians. One panel shows him "defeating the Persian king in direct hand-to-hand combat."19
In 303, Galerius was at the height of his power. It had been a long recovery. Seven years earlier, in 296, he had lost a battle to the Sassinid Persian king Narseh, and Diocletian had added to his humiliation by forcing him to walk for a mile in front of Diocletian's carriage, vested in his imperial robes.20 Two years later, Galerius recovered his honor by defeating the Persians in another campaign. His victory gave him considerable weight, and Diocletian, though senior emperor, had come to fear his junior colleague. The gods must be with Galerius, Diocletian thought. Galerius decided to capitalize on his recovery of ethos by jockeying for advantage. When the persecution began, Galerius held the second position in the Eastern empire. In the West, Maximian was the chief, with Constantius, Constantine's father, his imperial lieutenant. If Diocletian died before Maximian, Galerius reasoned, Galerius would be marginalized; it would be the two Western emperors against him. He needed to protect his power, and he discerned that the Christian problem could be turned to his advantage. He hated Christians, while Constantius was sympathetic to them. If he could persuade Diocletian to attack the church, Galerius would be on the majority side of imperial religious policy and his rival Constantius would be mar- ginalized.21 So at that private conference in 302, the vigorous Galerius had firmly nudged the vacillating Diocletian toward persecution.22