Holy Blood, Holy Grail

by Baigent, Michael

  Given the need to disseminate a god myth, the actual corporeal family of the "god," and the political and dynastic elements in his story would have become superfluous. Fettered as they were to a specific time and place, they would have detracted from his claim to universality. Thus, to further the claim of universality all political and dynastic elements were rigorously excised from Jesus’ biography. And thus all references to Zealots, for example, and Essenes, were also discreetly removed. Such references would have been, at the very least, embarrassing. It would not have appeared seemly for a god to be involved in a complex and ultimately ephemeral political and dynastic conspiracy—and especially one that failed. In the end nothing was left but what was contained in the Gospels—an account of austere, mythic simplicity, occurring only incidentally in the Roman-occupied Palestine of the first century and primarily in the eternal present of all myth.

  While "the message" developed in this fashion, the family and its supporters do not seem to have been idle. Julius Africanus, writing in the third century, reports that Jesus’ surviving relatives bitterly accused the Herodian rulers of destroying the genealogies of Jewish nobles, thereby removing all evidence that might challenge their claim to the throne. And these same relatives are said to have "migrated through the world," carrying with them certain genealogies that had escaped the destruction of documents during the revolt between A.D. 66 and 74.1

  For the propagators of the new myth the existence of this family would quickly have become more than an irrelevance. It would have become a potential embarrassment of daunting proportions. For the family—who could bear first-hand testimony to what really and historically happened—would have constituted a dangerous threat to the myth. Indeed, on the basis of first-hand knowledge, the family could have exploded the myth completely. Thus, in the early days of Christianity all mention of a noble or royal family, of a bloodline, of political or dynastic ambitions would have had to be suppressed. And—since the cynical realities of the situation must be acknowledged—the family itself, who might betray the new religion, should, if at all possible, be exterminated. Hence the need for the utmost secrecy on the part of the family. Hence the intolerance of early Church Fathers toward any deviation from the orthodoxy they tried to impose. And hence also, perhaps, one of the origins of anti-Semitism. In effect the "adherents of the message" and propagators of the myth would have accomplished a dual purpose by blaming the Jews and exonerating the Romans. They would not only have made the myth and "the message" palatable to a Roman audience. They would also, since the family was Jewish, have impugned the family’s credibility. And the anti-Jewish feeling they engendered would have furthered their objectives still more. If the family had found refuge in a Jewish community somewhere within the empire, popular persecution might, in its momentum, conveniently silence dangerous witnesses.

  By pandering to a Roman audience, deifying Jesus, and casting the Jews as scapegoats, the spread of what subsequently became Christian orthodoxy was assured of success. The position of this orthodoxy began to consolidate itself definitively in the second century, principally through Irenaeus, Bishop of Lyons around A.D. 180. Probably more than any other early Church Father, Irenaeus contrived to impart to Christian theology a stable and coherent form. He accomplished this primarily by means of a voluminous work, Libros Quinque Adversus Haereses (Five Books against Heresies). In his exhaustive opus Irenaeus catalogued all deviations from the coalescing orthodoxy and vehemently condemned them. Deploring diversity, he maintained there could be only one valid Church, outside which there could be no salvation. Whoever challenged this assertion, Irenaeus declared to be a heretic—to be expelled and, if possible, destroyed.

  Among the numerous diverse forms of early Christianity, it was Gnosticism that incurred Irenaeus’ most vituperative wrath. Gnosticism rested on personal experience, personal union with the divine. For Irenaeus this naturally undermined the authority of priests and bishops and so impeded the attempt to impose uniformity. As a result he devoted his energies to suppressing Gnosticism. To this end it was necessary to discourage individual speculation and to encourage unquestioning faith in fixed dogma. A theological system was required, a structure of codified tenets that allowed of no interpretation by the individual. In opposition to personal experience and gnosis, Irenaeus insisted on a single "catholic" (that is, universal) Church resting on apostolic foundation and succession. And to implement the creation of such a Church, Irenaeus recognized the need for a definitive canon—a fixed list of authoritative writings. Accordingly he compiled such a canon, sifting through the available works, including some, excluding others. Irenaeus is the first writer whose New Testament canon conforms essentially to that of the present day.

  Such measures, of course, did not prevent the spread of early heresies. On the contrary, they continued to flourish. But with Irenaeus orthodoxy—the type of Christianity promulgated by the "adherents of the message"—assumed a coherent form that ensured its survival and eventual triumph. It is not unreasonable to claim that Irenaeus paved the way for what occurred during and immediately after the reign of Constantine—under whose auspices the Roman empire became, in some senses, a Christian empire.

  The role of Constantine in the history and development of Christianity has been falsified, misrepresented, and misunderstood. The spurious eighth-century "Donation of Constantine," discussed in Chapter 9, has served to confuse matters even further in the eyes of subsequent writers. Nevertheless, Constantine is often credited with the decisive victory of the "adherents of the message"—and not wholly without justification. We were therefore obliged to consider him more closely, and in order to do so we had to dispel certain of the more fanciful and specious accomplishments ascribed to him.

  According to later Church tradition Constantine had inherited from his father a sympathetic predisposition toward Christianity. In fact, this predisposition seems to have been primarily a matter of expediency, for Christians by then were numerous and Constantine needed all the help he could get against Maxentius, his rival for the imperial throne. In A.D. 312 Maxentius was routed at the Battle of Milvian Bridge, thus leaving Constantine’s claim unchallenged. Immediately before this crucial engagement Constantine is said to have had a vision—later reinforced by a prophetic dream—of a luminous cross hanging in the sky. A sentence was supposedly inscribed across it —"In Hoc Signo Vinces" ("By this sign you will conquer"). Tradition recounts that Constantine, deferring to this celestial portent, ordered the shields of his troops hastily emblazoned with the Christian monogram—the Greek letters Chi Rho, the first two letters of the word "Christos." As a result Constantine’s victory over Maxentius at Milvian Bridge came to represent a miraculous triumph of Christianity over paganism.

  This, then, is the popular Church tradition on the basis of which Constantine is often thought to have "converted the Roman empire to Christianity." In actual fact, however, Constantine did no such thing. But in order to decide precisely what he did do, we must examine the evidence more closely.

  In the first place Constantine’s "conversion"—if that is the appropriate word—does not seem to have been Christian at all but unabashedly pagan. He appears to have had some sort of vision, or numinous experience, in the precincts of a pagan temple to the Gallic Apollo, either in the Vosges or near Autun. According to a witness accompanying Constantine’s army at the time, the vision was of the sun god—the deity worshiped by certain cults under the name of "Sol Invictus," "the Invincible Sun." There is evidence that Constantine, just before his vision, had been initiated into a Sol Invictus cult. In any case the Roman Senate, after the Battle of Milvian Bridge, erected a triumphal arch in the Colosseum. According to the inscription on this arch Constantine’s victory was won "through the prompting of the Deity." But the deity in question was not Jesus. It was Sol Invictus, the pagan sun god.2

  Contrary to tradition, Constantine did not make Christianity the official state religion of Rome. The state religion of Rome under Constantine was, in fac
t, pagan sun worship; and Constantine, all his life, acted as its chief priest. Indeed, his reign was called a "sun emperorship," and Sol Invictus figured everywhere—including on the imperial banners and the coinage of the realm. The image of Constantine as a fervent convert to Christianity is clearly wrong. He himself was not even baptized until 337—when he lay on his deathbed and was apparently too weakened or too apathetic to protest. Nor can he be credited with the Chi Rho monogram. An inscription bearing this monogram was found on a tomb at Pompeii dating from two and a half centuries before.3

  The cult of Sol Invictus was Syrian in origin and imposed by Roman emperors on their subjects a century before Constantine. Although it contained elements of Baal and Astarte worship, it was essentially monotheistic. In effect, it posited the sun god as the sum of all attributes of all other gods and thus peacefully subsumed its potential rivals. Moreover, it conveniently harmonized with the cult of Mithras—which was also prevalent in Rome and the empire at the time and which also involved solar worship.

  For Constantine the cult of Sol Invictus was, quite simply, expedient. His primary, indeed obsessive, objective was unity—unity in politics, in religion, and in territory. A cult or state religion that included all other cults within it obviously helped to achieve this objective. And it was under the auspices of the Sol Invictus cult that Christianity consolidated its position.

  Christian orthodoxy had much in common with the cult of Sol Invictus, and thus the former was able to flourish unmolested under the latter’s umbrella of tolerance. The cult of Sol Invictus, being essentially monotheistic, paved the way for the monotheism of Christianity. And the cult of Sol Invictus was convenient in other respects as well—which both modified and facilitated the spread of Christianity. By an edct promulgated in A.D. 321, for example, Constantine ordered the law courts closed on "the venerable day of the sun" and decreed that this day be a day of rest. Christianity had hitherto held the Jewish Sabbath—Saturday—as sacred. Now, in accordance with Constantine’s edict, it transferred its sacred day to Sunday. This not only brought it into harmony with the existing regime but also permitted it to further dissociate itself from its Judaic origins. Until the fourth century, moreover, Jesus’ birthday had been celebrated on January 6th. For the cult of Sol Invictus, however, the crucial day of the year was December 25—the festival of Natalis Invictus, the birth (or rebirth) of the sun, when the days began to grow longer. In this respect, too, Christianity brought itself into alignment with the regime and the established state religion.

  The cult of Sol Invictus meshed happily with that of Mithras—so much so, indeed, that the two are often confused.4 Both emphasized the status of the sun. Both held Sunday as sacred. Both celebrated a major birth festival on December 25. As a result Christianity could also find points of convergence with Mithraism—the more so as Mithraism stressed the immortality of the soul, a future judgment, and the resurrection of the dead.

  In the interests of unity Constantine deliberately chose to blur the distinctions among Christianity, Mithraism and Sol Invictus—deli— berately chose not to see any contradictions among them. Thus, he tolerated the deified Jesus as the earthly manifestation of Sol Invictus. Thus he would build a Christian church and, at the same time, statues of the mother goddess Cybele and of Sol Invictus, the sun god—the latter being an image of himself, bearing his features. In such eclectic and ecumenical gestures the emphasis on unity can be seen again. Faith, in short, was for Constantine a political matter; and any faith that was conducive to unity was treated with forbearance.

  While Constantine was not, therefore, the good Christian that later tradition depicts, he consolidated, in the name of unity and uniformity, the status of Christian orthodoxy. In A.D. 325, for example, he convened the Council of Nicea. At this council the dating of Easter was established. Rules were framed that defined the authority of bishops, thereby paving the way for a concentration of power in ecclesiastical hands. Most important of all, the Council of Nicea decided, by vote,5 that Jesus was a god, not a mortal prophet. Again, however, it must be emphasized that Constantine’s paramount consideration was not piety but unity and expediency. As a god Jesus could be associated conveniently with Sol Invictus. As a mortal prophet he would have been more difficult to accommodate. In short, Christian orthodoxy lent itself to a politically desirable fusion with the official state religion; and insofar as it did so Constantine conferred his support upon Christian orthodoxy.

  Thus, a year after the Council of Nicea he sanctioned the confiscation and destruction of all works that challenged orthodox teachings— works by pagan authors that referred to Jesus, as well as works by "heretical" Christians. He also arranged for a fixed income to be allocated to the Church and installed the bishop of Rome in the Lateran Palace.6 Then, in A.D. 331, he commissioned and financed new copies of the Bible. This constituted one of the single most decisive factors in the entire history of Christianity and provided Christian orthodoxy—the "adherents of the message"—with an unparalleled opportunity.

  In A.D. 303, a quarter of a century earlier, the pagan emperor Diocletian had undertaken to destroy all Christian writings that could be found. As a result Christian documents—especially in Rome—all but vanished. When Constantine commissioned new versions of these documents, it enabled the custodians of orthodoxy to revise, edit, and rewrite their material as they saw fit, in accordance with their tenets. It was at this point that most of the crucial alterations in the New Testament were probably made and Jesus assumed the unique status he has enjoyed ever since. The importance of Constantine’s commission must not be underestimated. Of the five thousand extant early manuscript versions of the New Testament, not one predates the fourth century.7The New Testament as it exists today is essentially a product of fourth-century editors and writers—custodians of orthodoxy, "adherents of the message," with vested interests to protect.

  THE ZEALOTS

  After Constantine the course of Christian orthodoxy is familiar enough and well documented. Needless to say it culminated in the final triumph of the "adherents of the message." But if "the message" established itself as the guiding and governing principle of Western civilization, it did not remain wholly unchallenged. Even from its incognito exile, the claims and the very existence of the family would seem to have exerted a powerful appeal—an appeal that, more often than was comfortable, posed a threat to the orthodoxy of Rome.

  Roman orthodoxy rests essentially on the books of the New Testament. But the New Testament itself is only a selection of early Christian documents dating from the fourth century. There are a great many other works that predate the New Testament in its present form, some of which cast a significant, often controversial, new light on the accepted accounts.

  There are, for instance, the diverse books excluded from the Bible, which comprise the compilation now known as the Apocrypha. Some of the works in the Apocrypha are admittedly late, dating from the sixth century. Other works, however, were already in circulation as early as the second century, and may well have as great a claim to veracity as the original Gospels themselves.

  One such work is the Gospel of Peter, a copy of which was first located in a valley of the upper Nile in 1886, although it is mentioned by the bishop of Antioch in A.D. 180. According to this "apocryphal" Gospel, Joseph of Arimathea was a close friend of Pontius Pilate—which, if true, would increase the likelihood of a fraudulent Crucifixion. The Gospel of Peter also reports that the tomb in which Jesus was buried lay in a place called "the garden of Joseph." And Jesus’ last words on the cross are particularly striking, "My power, my power, why hast thou forsaken me?"8

  Another apocryphal work of interest is the Gospel of the Infancy of Jesus Christ, which dates from no later than the second century and possibly from before. In this book Jesus is portrayed as a brilliant but eminently human child. All too human perhaps—for he is violent and unruly, prone to shocking displays of temper and a rather irresponsible exercise of his powers. Indeed, on one occasion he strikes de
ad another child who offends him. A similar fate is visited upon an autocratic mentor. Such incidents are undoubtedly spurious, but they attest to the way in which, at the time, Jesus had to be depicted if he were to attain divine status among his following.

  In addition to Jesus’ rather scandalous behavior as a child, there is one curious and perhaps significant fragment in the Gospel of the Infancy. When Jesus was circumcised, his foreskin is said to have been appropriated by an unidentified old woman who preserved it in an alabaster box used for oil of spikenard. And "This is that alabaster box which Mary the sinner procured and poured forth the ointment out of it upon the head and the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ."9 Here, then, as in the accepted Gospels, there is an anointing that is obviously more than it appears to be—an anointing tantamount to some significant ritual. In this case, however, it is clear that the anointing has been foreseen and prepared long in advance. And the whole incident implies a connection—albeit an obscure and convoluted one—between the Magdalen and Jesus’ family long before Jesus embarked on his mission at the age of thirty. It is reasonable to assume that Jesus’ parents would not have conferred his foreskin on the first old woman to request it—even if there were nothing unusual in so apparently odd a request. The old woman must therefore be someone of consequence and/or someone on intimate terms with Jesus’ parents. And the Magdalen’s subsequent possession of the bizarre relic—or, at any rate, of its container—suggests a connection between her and the old woman. Again we seem to be confronted by the shadowy vestiges of something that was more important than is now generally believed.