“Eusebius! Are you here?” he called out.
“I am here in the courtyard. I just got back a moment ago. The service was wonderful. You have such nice people in your parish.”
“Yes. I suppose. I can’t think of my parish right now.” His voice broke as he said it.
“Good Lord, Arius. Are you ill?”
“No. Upset. It was Alexander, his Sermon. It was as if he was attacking me, personally. So foreign to the Scriptures. I can’t stand it. This is lunacy!”
“Arius, calm down. Please. Let us go inside to your vestibule. And talk there.”
Arius nodded in agreement and they walked inside. His breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed a bit. They sat, facing one another, on the woven benches in the small entrance room of his three-room stone house. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, “Alexander’s sermon concerned the nature of our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
“Good,” said Eusebius, encouraging more.
“Not so good. He ignored the early Scriptures, all of the legacy history of our Lord. And declared Him to be equal to God, our Father. This is an attack on those of us who believe, through the evidence of the early Scriptures, that Jesus was begotten by the Father, at some later time.” Arius could feel his words speeding up again. “He denies that there was a time when the Son was not. He relied on philosophical reasoning. And on the Gospel of John, the glorified musings of some romantic Greek who heard of Jesus third-hand from one of Paul’s converts. Not an eyewitness. Not an Apostle. That…story…should not be considered one of our sacred Scriptures.”
Eusebius held up a hand and smiled in what he meant to be a calming manner. “Please, Arius. Be careful how you account for my namesake.” This was a bit of humor. Some scholars speculated that the Gospel of John had been written by the Greek mystic Eusebius of Ephesus. “Besides, the Gospel of John gives you some of your strongest evidence of Jesus’ admission that he was not equal to God. He says:
“I go away, and I will come to you. If you loved Me, you would have rejoiced, because I go to the Father; for the Father is greater than I.”
The Scripture reference didn’t put Arius at ease.
“Besides, Arius, you are in a very small minority that does not consider the Gospel of John as a sacred text. You know that most believers hold it in high regard.”
Arius flinched. “We are at a crossroads for the future of our faith. It has been evolving away from the Word of our Lord to… to I’m not sure what. Some image taken from the Roman gods. We will be worshiping two equal gods, God and Jesus. Three, if they include the Holy Spirit. Is this the price of Rome’s acceptance of Christianity?”
Eusebius shook his head but tried to keep a positive demeanor. “Rome doesn’t have any concern with theology or metaphysics. Rome only cares about taxes, politics and war.”
They sat silently for a moment. Then, when he’d gathered his thoughts, Arius resumed his argument in terms he thought Eusebius would appreciate: “Jesus was a Jew. A pious Jew, as were his Apostles. And God’s first Commandment to the Jews—handed to Moses— was, ‘I am the Lord, thy God, thou shall have no other gods before me.’ Jesus never challenged this law. And the Scriptures written by those actually knew Jesus—Luke, Mark and Matthew—all portray Him as a humble servant of the Father. The Son of Man, not an equal to the Father.”
Eusebius didn’t seem convinced.
Arius fell back on some of the simple arguments he’d used when teaching younger students. “Jesus was begotten to be God’s divine human Son. There can’t be a Son without the Father existing first. On the cross, He asks, ‘My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?’ Surely, if He was equal to the Father in heaven, Divine as human, He would know He was going to be in paradise soon. He wouldn’t need to plead with the Almighty if He was the Almighty.”
Eusebius sighed, as if he’d had this conversation many times. “The common argument, Arius, is that with time we have grown to appreciate more fully the significance of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection. Now we understand that He was indeed God on Earth, but while on Earth, He was indeed human. The early writers didn’t have that perspective. They couldn’t have it. They were too close to the actual events.”
Arius wasn’t so weary. He answered immediately: “I disagree. Time has only diminished the real message of Jesus. Meanwhile, these vulgate writers—Greeks and pagans—have created a myth based on what they call ‘rational thought ‘starting with the ‘Word’ in John’s Gospel. And they miss Jesus’ message. In a time more brutal than our own, He spoke of peace and goodwill toward all men. He taught us to do unto others as we would have others do unto us. He blessed and prayed forgiveness in His Father’s name. He said that the end of the world was near—and that we should follow his teachings and his example. He was Divine and each of those messages was revolutionary.”
“And each still is.”
“Yes. Yes, each still is. But this is my point: We do not diminish Jesus to worship God and follow Jesus’ example. We diminish Him when do what God commanded the Jews not to do. Worship false gods.”
“Arius, your words come close to heresy.” Eusebius warned.
“Then my words fail me. I worship Jesus. I try to live as He instructed. As I said, I believe that He was a divine man and is Divine now. I believe that He proved Himself to be stronger than Satan and, thus, more glorious and divine than the Angels. But I do not believe Him to be equal to the Almighty. Neither did Paul. Or the early writers. Or Irenaeus, or even the great Origen. They all believed that Jesus was the Son, but not equal to God. Now, Alexander is using Greek reasoning to argue that Jesus is equal to God. But who are we to assume that God uses reason? How can we imagine what God thinks?”
Eusebius nodded slowly. “I agree. But I don’t see it as definitively as you do. There are many phrases in the early writers that have several meanings. And the confusion is compounded in translation. Origen, in particular, created complexity in his translations. He was a brilliant man, but eccentric. Perhaps that came from castrating himself…or perhaps it’s why he castrated himself. In any event, eccentric or not, Origen’s idea of the Trinity is close to my own. I believe that the Son and the Spirit are restricted wills of the Father.”
“Restricted wills. Yes. I remember that term,” Arius said. “Origen has written so many volumes, it is difficult to keep all of them front of-mind. His writing on the preexistence of souls is fascinating.”
“Yes. Another controversy. So, Arius, what would you like to do? Should we meet with Alexander?” Eusebius asked. His close ties to the Emperor made Eusebius a formidable man, regardless of his official rank in the Church.
Arius thought for a few moments. “Alexander’s beliefs are opposite of mine. That’s one issue. But there is also the issue of Alexander’s Deacon, Athanasius. Another influential man. I suspect he writes many of Alexander’s sermons.”
“Two are always more difficult to persuade than one.”
“Exactly my concern. Perhaps the correct thing is to have an informal conversation with Alexander, so that he is aware of my concerns,” Arius concluded. “And I don’t need to involve you in this.”
“Good. One bit of advice,” Eusebius cautioned. “Be wary of mentioning the depth of your thoughts on how the Scriptures have modified the image of Jesus. Alexander is well aware of such teachings. Claiming they were written by mystics or romantics will only divert attention from the important point. I would focus on the writings that define the nature of God and the nature of Jesus.”
“Of course. You are correct,” Arius answered. He was much less agitated than he’d been earlier. “I will write you after I’ve seen how Alexander reacts to my objections. In person.”
That meeting was cordial but brief. Arius had been directed into the bishop’s private chambers, where Alexander reclined on a day bed.
He greeted Arius warmly, gave him a short blessing and waved
him to one of the chairs facing him. “What brings you here, stern Arius?”
Alexander was older than Arius and not in good health. He breathed with difficulty. Like Arius, Alexander had witnessed persecution—at the hands of both the Romans and local pagans— first-hand. He’d lived through the deaths of friends and predecessors. His immediate predecessor, Achillias, had ordained Arius. At the time, it had been a controversial move. Other priests thought that Arius was too unforgiving, some even dismissed the strict Arius with the harshest term in their vernacular: “not Christ-like.”
“Master. I’ve come to discuss your recent sermon—”
“Yes. You don’t like that I described Christ as one with the Father.”
“That’s correct. Forgive my insistence, Master, but I believe this is an essential point….”
Alexander smiled benevolently while Arius explained his essential point. He thought Arius was an excellent shepherd for his parish but not a forward thinker. Arius’ hard focus on the earliest Scriptures was heart-felt. It was also evidence that he didn’t see the broader direction the Church needed to go. This was a constant tension: some priests could see broad issues, some priests could tend to flocks. It was a rare priest who could do both.
When Arius had finished, Alexander nodded and said questions of Christ’s nature—and God’s—were difficult. And that they should both pray over the matter. “In time, I believe the Creator will show us answers. For now, let us ask for His grace in these matters. And in all things.”
After Arius had left, Deacon Athanasius approached Alexander— making no effort to hide the fact that he’d listened to the private conversation. “This is a significant breach of Faith, my Overseer.”
“Perhaps.”
“Arius is a hard man. He shows little mercy for others, so it is just that he is held to a hard standard. His beliefs oppose Church dogma. He must recant these beliefs or be excommunicated.”
Youth, thought Alexander. Athanasius was barely 21 years old. “Quiet, my son. We will consider Arius’ beliefs and let some time pass. Arius speaks respectfully. And he is a knowledgeable priest.”
This was a gentle reminder to Athanasius that Arius ranked above him in the Church’s hierarchy.
Alexander lay back in his day bed and rubbed his sides, above his hips. He prayed that this pain would pass, as it had so many times before.
Sirmium, Pannonia
Spring, 1072 AUC (319 AD)
Ossius sat in a landscaped courtyard, reading a long letter. He took several breaks while he read. The contents of the letter were troubling, but the day around him was pleasant.
Constantine had moved the Imperial Court to Sirmium after his last skirmish with Licinius. He wanted to be closer to his mother and to expand the Empire to the Northeast. He also vastly preferred the cooler, less humid weather. Late springs and summers in Rome could also be pungent. It was a large city with no garbage collection, such waste being thrown on the streets.
Ossius had spent most of the last year with Constantine. It seemed even longer since he’d been back to Cordova, where he remained Bishop.
Discord was growing within the Church. It had started as a dogmatic debate among several priests in and around Alexandria. They argued over whether Jesus could be both God and the son of man. Ossius was not usually interested in such metaphysical musings—but this seemed to have the potential to cause deep division within the Church.
The trouble wasn’t just dogma. It also involved personalities, of course. Athanasius, the young deacon serving under Alexander of Alexandria, had been relentless in his arguments against a group of priests and scholars who cited the early Scriptures to argue that Jesus was a man and not One with God the Father. Eventually, the young deacon persuaded Alexander to make an example of Arius, one of the discordant priests. Arius was removed from his parish and excommunicated.
The controversy did not end there. Arius was a close friend of the Bishop Eusebius, Constantine’s distant cousin. Upon notice of his excommunication, Arius had written Eusebius:
To his very dear lord, the man of God, the faithful and orthodox Eusebius, Arius, unjustly persecuted by Alexander the Pope, on account of that all conquering truth of which you also are a champion, sendeth greeting in the Lord.
Ammonius, my father, being about to depart for Nicomedia, I considered myself bound to salute you by him, and withal to inform that natural affection which you bear towards the brethern for the sake of God and His Christ, that the bishop greatly wastes and persecutes us, and leaves no stone unturned against us. He has driven us out of the city as atheists, because we do not concur in what he publicly preaches, namely, God always, the Son always; as the Father so the Son; the Son co-exists unbegotten with the God; He is everlasting; neither by thought nor by any interval does God precede the Son; always God, always Son; He is begotten of the unbegotten; the Son is of God Himself. Eusebius, your brother Bishop of Caesarea, Theodotus, Paulinus, Athanasius, Gregorius, Aetius, and all the bishops of the East, have been condemned because they say that God had an existence prior to that of His Son.
Through Eusebius, news of the controversy had reached Ossius. And Constantine.
Ossius had read enough. He put down the scroll and stood up to walk. Sirmium was located close to the Sava River, the largest tributary of the Danube, which supplied water through a large aqueduct. For over 25 years, Sirmium had been the northernmost of the four Capitols of the Empire.
The walled Capitol Complex incorporated a Hippodrome, a Coliseum for horse and chariot racing; a large public bathhouse; several barracks for the army; private houses; eight churches and the Imperial Palace. Although the area surrounding Sirmium may have had as many as 100,000 residents, fewer than 10,000 of those lived within the Complex. Ossius had developed a regular path that he walked, just inside the walls of the Complex.
The Imperial Palace was built adjacent to the Hippodrome. A multi-level structure made primarily of fire hardened brick (with radiant heat from its floors), the Palace had been built with a large area for the administration of the Empire’s business. This included offices for ranking officials from various parts of the government— but the majority of the space was for the Quaestors, the imperial accountants. Since the days of Octavius Augustus, the Empire had kept detailed financial records. Over everything. Ossius could hear the clicking of abacuses when he walked past the accountants’ space.
The administrative quarters also included public areas and large sitting areas where the Emperor and his bureaucrats could meet, in groups large or small.
The private part of the Palace was a series of apartments that made up the residence of Constantine, his family and close servants, many of them eunuchs. Frescos, tapestries and statues were displayed throughout the Palace. To Ossius, they seemed ostentatious—and unlike the Emperor.
Ossius stopped in front of the statue of one of Constantine’s distant ancestors. To a passerby, the priest would seem to have been studying the artwork. In fact, he was thinking about imperial politics. There was more than just Church trouble simmering in the Eastern Empire. Licinius was quietly starting to persecute Christians, in violation of the agreement he’d made with Constantine in Milan some years earlier. Apparently, Licinius was taking wealthy Christians’ homes and belongings—even absconding funds from wealthier parishes.
Constantine’s army had faced Licinius’ forces twice in recent years, over minor territorial disputes. Constantine had prevailed both times; but he’d allowed Licinius to remain Emperor. Of an increasingly small territory. A violation of the Milan Agreement would be cause for something greater—which didn’t make sense. The balance of power had moved decisively in Constantine’s favor. Why would Licinius provoke a violent confrontation?
Eusebius of Nicomedia had recently returned to Constantine’s court after a two-month absence. One of the first things he did was visit Ossius—whom he came upon studying the statue.
“Esteemed Ossius, you look well.” Eusebius greeted.
“You are losing your sight, my friend. My prayers are that God has been with you during your busy days.”
The two Bishops knew each other well. Both had the Emperor’s respect and trust. Eusebius, a blood relative of Constantine, was critical of those who used proximity to his cousin for personal gain—but he did not think Ossius was one of those.
Ossius was impressed with Eusebius’ ability to gain trust and affection quickly with whomever he encountered. He viewed it as a God-given gift.
But the strongest bond between the men was their shared faith—which was honest and true.
They walked into the courtyard of the Imperial Palace. Spring had taken a hold and the budding trees were fully bloomed with a sweet smell of pollen in the air. From a distance, it was obvious that both men were priests.
A closer observer would see that Eusebius was the taller of the two and was wearing a dark nettle tunic. Ossius wore his signature undyed wool tunic. Each wore a rope cincture around his waist. Each had a cross hanging from his neck—Ossius’ was wood and Eusebius’ was metal with a small Lamb in the center. Both men were slim. Ossius was slightly less well-kept, his hair and beard a bit disheveled.
On special occasions and holy days, both men would wear an omophorion—a Y-shaped scarf that distinguished them as bishops.
But this was not one of those days.
Eusebius, the more talkative of the two, pushed the conversation forward: “Is my cousin causing you hardship? Still making your life intolerable?”
“Our Imperator is always challenging. But ever fair. Have you seen him yet, Eusebius?”
“No. And I suspect he will disown me when I do.” Eusebius gestured toward a stone bench in the courtyard. They both sat. “I have a problem that he will not appreciate. I sent you some of the letters surrounding the controversy.”
Eusebius relayed the entire saga to Ossius, holding back nothing. He started describing his conversation with Arius in Alexandria, almost a year earlier. He explained that his Diocese was currently hosting Arius. And he explained that he and Eusebius of Caesarea had issued a letter to the eastern Bishops, stating Arius was blameless.
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