Polytropy

THE defeat of Licinius left Constantine master of the Roman world, and face to face with an embarrass­ment compared to which all his previous ecclesiastical difficulties must have seemed trifling. Arianism, be­ginning cir. 318 at Alexandria as a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, was already increasing with por­tentous speed and was shortly to darken the whole Christian horizon. The bishop of Alexandria had had a dispute with one of his presbyters on a purely speculative question; mutual accusations of heresy had been followed by the excommunication of the pre­sumptuous priest. The subject was one which none but men trained in dialectic subtleties could possibly comprehend, and which to the uneducated seemed to turn on mere hair-splitting definitions. Yet the result was to set house against house and family against family, to fill cities with confusion and the whole empire with disorder, to arouse the most furious passions and to make men at enmity with one another on questions which not one in a thousand could understand. The excitement caused by the Arian disputes seems to us almost incredible, until we realise how much religious questions occupied the mind of mankind in the fourth century. The legislation of Constantine shews that the government was able to exercise the most despotic power, to enforce a system of enormous taxation, and to regulate almost every action of the lives of its subjects. But to the Christian Church Constantine found it necessary to accord almost complete inde­pendence. In her the liberty and loyalty, which had

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deserted the Roman world, had taken up a new abode. Her leaders bore on their bodies the marks of the Lord Jesus as signs of their constancy in the late persecution, and had proved that neither force nor persuasion could influence them or their followers to yield a point when the Faith was at stake. The question which had been raised divided the Christian world into two parties, and everyone considered himself bound by his religious loyalty to range himself on one side or the other.

Our account of the development of the science of theology in the second and third centuries has already brought us to the threshold of the Arian position. We have seen how difficult it was to avoid the Sabellian error of confusing the Son with the Father and at the same time to maintain the doctrine of His distinct hypostasis without dissolving the Unity of God. Alexander, bishop of Alexandria, in a charge to his clergy insisted strongly on the unity in the Trinity, and made use of expressions perilously near to the language of the dreaded heresy of Sabellius. He thought, as Socrates informs us,¹ that he was gaining honour by his argument; but one of his listeners was on the watch to catch any error in doctrine that might fall from the bishop. This was Arius, a presbyter of Baucalis, a suburb of Alexandria. The great heresiarch was a tall, grave, ascetic man, whose solemn face and severe manner had made him much respected, especially by the fairer portion of the community. He had been a disciple of the martyr Lucian,² and added to a character for piety a reputation for learning and ability.³ His chief failing seems to have been an overweening vanity,

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which no doubt prompted him to offer a popular solution of a doctrine which had remained impene­trable even to the minds of Clement and Origen.

(1) Starting from the essentially pagan conception of God as a Being absolutely apart from His creation, Arius could not conceive of a mediator being other than a created being, and found that between the Father and the Son there was the impassable gulf which according to his theory must separate the unbegotten, or uncreated, from that which is begotten, or created. The Father was therefore essentially isolated from the Son. (2) The creation of the Son as a second God Arius proceeded to explain by the logical method he had learned in the school of Lucian, and urged that He must be a finite Being. (3) Therefore the Son had no existence before He was begotten. Although He was created before the universe and before all time, there was ‘once’ (ποτέ) – Arius avoided the use of the word ‘time’ – when He was not. (4) Assuming that the Son was a creature, and could not therefore be of the same substance as the uncreated God, Arius proceeds to declare that He was made out of nothing (ἐξ οὐκ ὄντων); (5) and he argues that the Son, being of a different essence (οὐσία) to the Father, can only be called God in a lower and improper sense. (6) As a creature, this pre-existent Christ was liable to change, and even capable of sin; nothing, as a matter of fact, keeping Him sinless but His own virtue.¹

What appears to us most repulsive in the scheme of Arius was in the fourth century its great attraction. To our minds there is something almost revolting in the way in which Arius thus coldly applies a shallow system of reasoning to the explanation of so profound a mystery as the relation of the Supreme Being to the Redeemer. We see no attractiveness in the theory which keeps God and man for ever apart, and we are unable to realise the idea of a Christ who is neither God nor

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true man.¹ It was quite otherwise in the fourth century, especially when after the edict of Milan the heathen were crowding into the Church, bringing many of their old habits of thought with them, and being more anxious to win the favour of the Emperor by professing Christianity, than to acquire the true doctrines of the now privileged religion.² Arius in the popular judgment had simplified the Faith and brought Christian doctrine into accord with the generally accepted notions of the time. For the great attraction of Christianity for the men of the third and fourth centuries was, not its doctrines of Atonement and Redemption, but its Monotheism. The Faith had given life and reality to the unity of God, which even heathen philosophy had pronounced to be a necessary belief. Nor had the Christian teachers been less influenced by Neo-Platonism than that philosophy by Christianity. The Church teachers of the fourth century very fre­quently appeal to Philo, to Porphyry, to Plotinus, and other Neo-Platonists, in their belief that they could find in their writings the Christian conception of God. Certainly the Neo-Platonists had constructed a kind of doctrine of the Trinity. The Father was here the ὄν, the αἴτιον. This use of the term ὄν may have been the ultimate foundation of the subordinationism, from which the Eastern Church found such difficulty in freeing itself.³ In isolating God from the world Arius both satisfied the desire for Monotheism, and conformed to the prejudice which feared to unspiritualise the idea of God by bringing Him into contact with creation. At the same time he opposed the Sabellian heresy by giving the Son a distinct hypostasis.⁴ The heresiarch appears in addition to have possessed the abilities necessary for a successful demagogue. He appealed to the populace by writing verses in the style of a licentious

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Egyptian poet, Sotades, in which his doctrines were stated in a form easy to be remembered.¹ We are told that the Alexandrian mechanics sang the songs of Arius about the Trinity at their work and in the streets. Support of a more respectable character was accorded by the Syrian bishops, of whom the most learned was the historian Eusebius of Caesarea. A footing in the imperial palace itself was secured by the adhesion of the other Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia, the spiritual adviser of the empress Constantia, wife of Licinius and sister of Constantine.

The tediousness of the Arian con­troversy, with its tangled intrigues and hair-splitting definitions, has sometimes hid from the modern historian the real importance of the issue. But the Fathers of the fourth century were not engaged in a mere dispute about words. The principles of Arianism were a serious menace to the well-being of Christianity, and the practical services of Ulfilas² the Gothic missionary, and other excellent men of this school, must not divert our attention from the gravity of their error. If God is a mere abstraction – the Platonic ὄν – a Being separated by an impassable gulf from the world, how can He be described as loving man, or how can man’s love be directed to Him? If Christ is a created being, essen­tially different from God, His manifestation only reveals new gradations of being between the human and the divine, nor can it fulfil the purpose of bringing men nearer to God. And if Christ is not indeed God, we cannot offer Him the worship due to God alone. If, moreover, the Logos merely used the human body as a means of communicating with the world, mankind cannot turn to Him as to one who bore our human nature. Granted that many of the followers of Arius were Christians of the highest type, the logic they had used to prove the relation of the Son to the Father really led back step by step to the Pagan doctrine of

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an unknown and unknowable God, and to the worship of a demi-god.¹

In truth this system was, as Dorner points out, unsound in that which was regarded as its strongest point. It was illogical. In isolating God from the world, Arius is logically conducted to the Epicurean doctrine that creation is the result of chance. This Arius does not dare to face; he accordingly gives this chance a seat in the will of God. Yet this will is actuated by caprice, for to what other motive can we assign the creation of the Logos as creator of the world by a God who is essentially divided from both? Again, when he repre­sents the Father as entirely unknowable, and teaches that this attribute is necessary to His exalted nature, he remains confronted by the dilemma: If man cannot know God, and if the Son cannot reveal the Father to us, how can we know that He cannot be known?²

Notwithstanding its unscriptural and illogical character, no heresy was harder to refute than that of Arius. The sub­ordination of the Son had, as we have seen, been taught by such honoured teachers as Origen and the Alexandrian Dionysius; and more recently, Lucian of Antioch, celebrated as a scholar no less than a martyr, had taught a similar doctrine. It seemed only a step from the teaching of these divines to that of Arius, for though they may be honourably acquitted of heresy, their language appeared at times to countenance his conclusions. Moreover the Arians were quite willing

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to accept the strongest phrases used in the Scriptures on the subject of our Lord’s divinity. They were prepared to admit that He was in the image of God, and the first-born (πρωτότοκος) of all creation. Provided they might teach that the Saviour’s being was independent of that of the Father, they cared not what honour was paid to Him or what language was used in His praise, as it was always possible to explain it away by some evasion of the true sense of the passage.¹

Alexander, alarmed by the spread of these opinions and finding that a certain Colluthus had made his forbearance to­wards Arius the excuse for a schism, summoned a council to meet at Alexandria, and ex­communicated the heresiarch and his two followers, the bishops Theonas and Secundus. In order to refute the new heresy, he put forth an encyclical letter signed by his clergy, among whose signatures we find the name of his deacon Athanasius, in which he terms the Arians Exucontians (οἰ ἐξ οὐκ ὄντων)² Arius continued for some considerable time to hold assemblies in Alexandria, but was at last compelled to leave that city, and went first to Palestine and afterwards to his friend Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia. From Nicomedia Arius wrote to Alexander, bishop of Byzantium, a long letter in which he set forth his opinions in a sort of creed;³ and also published his Thalia or Spiritual Banquet in verse for the use of the common people. The troubles in the East caused by the quarrel between Licinius and Constantine were to the advantage of Arius, who after being acquitted of heresy at a synod held by Eusebius, returned to Alexandria.

Such then was the state of affairs when Constantine became master of the East. Although he could have had no special interest in the theological question, the

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Emperor found it impossible to ignore it, for ex­perience had taught him what disturbances in Egypt meant.¹ Accordingly Constantine sent Hosius of Cor­dova with letters to Alexander and Arius, exhorting them to peace, and blaming them for having presumed to disturb the Church by the discussion of so high a theme.² But it was too late for mediation, and Constantine was impelled to measures of more drastic character. He determined to restore peace to the Church by assembling a General Council.

It is not improbable that Hosius was the first to suggest to Constantine the advisability of thus settling the disputed question of the true place of the Son in the Godhead. The project, however, was a dramatic illustration of the new personal status of the Emperor.³ In Constantine’s mind the notion of one Church and one Empire had in all probability been long strengthening, and the very name oecumenical, applied to this and other councils, proves that it was considered as representing the Roman empire. But at the great Council of Nicaea bishops from countries which lay beyond the imperial frontier were invited to be present. Persia and Scythia sent representatives,⁴ as well as the provinces acknow­ledging the rule of Constantine. The disinclination of the Western mind for transcendental theology is perhaps illustrated by the fact that the majority of the bishops were Orientals. The provinces of the West were indeed very inadequately represented. The Roman Silvester sent to the Council two presbyters, Victor and Vincentius; and Hosius of Cordova, the Emperor’s friend and spiritual adviser, Caecilian of Carthage, whose election as bishop had caused the Donatist schism, and three ether bishops, were the only other Westerns present,⁵

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though Constantine had done all that was possible to afford facilities for travelling by placing the public conveyances at the disposal of the Church’s delegates.¹ The choice of Nicaea as a place of meeting was also favourable to a large concourse of bishops. Situated upon the shores of Lake Ascanius, which is joined to the Propontis by a navigable river, Nicaea was very easy to reach from all the provinces, especially from Asia, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Greece and Thrace.² The quick eye for locality which is shewn in Constantine’s choice of Byzantium for the site of his capital, is also exhibited in his fixing upon Nicaea as the meeting place for his great council. The name may also have influenced the Emperor as being of good omen for the success of his plans.³

The number of bishops present was, according to Eusebius, more than two hundred and fifty. Other accounts give three hundred and eighteen, and dwell on the fact that this number corresponds with that of Abraham’s servants when he delivered Lot. Athanasius, who like Eusebius was an eye-witness, says that there were three hundred bishops at Nicaea.⁴ As the number must have varied during its sitting, and perhaps not all reached the locality ere the opening of the Council, it is easy to reconcile these discrepancies.⁵ Many of those present had suffered in the Diocletian persecution. Both at the time and afterwards, it was as an assemblage of confessors and martyrs, no less than as an Ecumenical Council, that this conclave claimed authority.⁶ A large number of dialecticians were present at Nicaea, some of whom had been brought by the bishops to assist them in their

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debates, whilst others had doubtless been attracted to the Council simply by curiosity. A very characteristic story is told by Socrates, an historian of the fifth century. Whilst the Council was assembling, the dia­lecticians raised a discussion in which many were joining from mere love of argument, when suddenly a layman, who had been a confessor during the persecution, stepped forward and said abruptly, “Christ and His Apostles did not give us the art of logic or vain deceit, but naked truth to be guarded by faith and good works.” This bold rebuke called forth universal approval, and gave a higher tone to all subsequent discussion.¹ Rufinus and Sozomen give a more dramatic turn to the story by making a philosopher, by name Eulogius, refute every Christian disputant, till an aged Christian priest or bishop, whom later tradition identifies with Spiridion of Cyprus, stepped forward and declared the Christian Faith to the philosopher. Unable to withstand the spirit with which the old man spoke, Eulogius forthwith submitted to baptism.²

The important question of the heresy of Arius was the first subject which occupied the Council after the arrival of Constantine. The bishops had begun by presenting to the Emperor numerous petitions stating their grievances against one another; but Constantine gathered these together and committed them to the flames, that the world might not know that Christian bishops had any differences among themselves. After this well-timed rebuke the real business of the Council began. It speedily became manifest that there were three ecclesiastical parties present. The extreme sections were represented by Arius and by Marcellus of Ancyra respectively. Pro­minent on the side of Marcellus was a worthier exponent of orthodoxy, Athanasius, the deacon whom Alexander, bishop of Alexandria, had brought to the Council. Marcellus was, however, a dangerous friend, and his subsequent language led to his being some years later not unjustly pronounced a heretic. Arius’ warmest

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supporters were the bishops Theonas, Secundus, and the powerful Eusebius of Nicomedia, who was destined to do him yeoman’s service in after days. Between these two extremes was the large majority of the Council, who disliked innovation and, for the most part, were unable to perceive the exact point of the controversy. The position of these men is illustrated by the acute remark of the historian Socrates, who regarded the affairs of the Church with the eye of a layman and a lawyer, and who loved the Christian Faith more than the Christian clergy. Speaking of a later phase of the Arian con­troversy, he says, “what took place resembled a fight in the dark, no man knew whether he struck at friend or foe.”¹ A fear of heresy on the one hand, and of innovation on the other, made them waverers; yet it was by the vote of such as these that the matter had to be decided.

It is difficult in describing the state of parties at Nicaea to give Eusebius of Caesarea a place in any one of them. His name-sake of Nicomedia says that he shewed great zeal on behalf of the Arian doctrine before the meeting of the Council.² This statement, however, must be accepted with caution, as the Arians were most anxious to claim the alliance of the most learned bishop in the world, who was also the friend and counsellor of Constantine. It seems more probable that Eusebius’ conduct was prompted by a sincere desire for peace, a dislike of rigid tests of orthodoxy, and a wish to see Arius treated fairly. He appears to have been no zealot: rather was he one who could appreciate the courage which inspired others to court the glories of martyrdom, without any burning desire to suffer in his own person. At a later time Eusebius was taunted with having escaped martyrdom by sacrificing. Bishop Lightfoot, however, reasonably argues that it is hardly likely that he would have been unanimously elected bishop of Caesarea at the close of the persecution, had

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he been guilty of apostasy. But though this accusation, made by Potammon at the synod of Tyre, was in all probability without good grounds, Eusebius was not the man to be martyred.¹ Like our own Archbishop Parker, the erudite bishop of Caesarea probably had the skill to keep himself tolerably safe during the days of persecution, when men of more zeal but less discretion suffered death or at least torture.² His behaviour at Nicaea goes far to countenance this view. Let it be added that candour and liberality were in Eusebius joined with wide learning, and his moderate policy will not appear devoid of a moral justification. If he lacked the virtues which make a man a martyr or confessor, he was without those bitter prejudices which have marred so many otherwise saintly characters.

As Eusebius gave a creed to the Council, the phraseology of which, in spite of a very material alteration, became the basis of the famous Creed of Nicaea, his teaching on the subject of the Trinity deserves careful attention. He considers that the attributes of God can be predicated sensu eminenti only of the Father, who is indeed the τὸ ὄν. He alone is the representative of the μοναρχία. If another, the Son for example, were co-eternal with the Father we should have two eternals, and thus we should drift back into Polytheism. In order that He might create the world, the Father sent the Son, Who, after abiding in Him (ἐνδον μένων ἐν ἡσυχάζοντι τῷ Πατρί), became an hypostasis when He went forth from God. Yet He, as Son and Word of the Father, is Himself endowed with all divine attributes.³ Eusebius goes farther than Origen in glorifying the Son, by admitting that He is the Very Word, the Very Wisdom, and even the Very God (αὐτόθεος). As He was begotten before all the aeons, the Son is ἀναρχος, that is without beginning in time, for He was begotten out of time. By this means Eusebius avoided the objectionable language of Arius, and was able to deny that he had

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said of the Son ἦν ποτε ὅτε οὐκ ἦν, and to say that He was ever with the Father, though he does not use the term co-eternal (συναΐδιος).¹ In its phraseology Eusebius’ doctrine is inoffensive and represents the popular belief of his day. But if pressed to a logical conclusion, the result is Arianism, though he and others were unwilling to admit the extreme views of that heresy. Eusebius is interesting to us as the representative of the majority of Christians whose opinions were unformed, and who consequently tried to occupy a middle position in the controversy, being alternately attracted and repelled by orthodoxy and Arianism. In the controversies which followed Nicaea these formed the bulk of the Semi-Arian party.

Men like Eusebius of Caesarea could not do more than postpone the question. The symbol most agreeable to this party would be a creed which would neither offend nor fully satisfy anybody, but would leave the Arian dispute much as it had been before. Arius and his friends knew perfectly what they wanted, and were not the men to be crushed by a majority, however large, which did not know its own mind. But on the other side there was also one man who was fully determined on his course of action, – Athanasius, the Alexandrian deacon. Though not yet thirty years of age, Athanasius had taken an active part in the controversy, and had already published two treatises on the subject.² Despite his comparatively humble rank in the Church, he was listened to with profound attention, possibly as the mouthpiece of his bishop, Alexander. A cursory glance at his theological system, as it is found in the treatises he wrote before A.D. 325, will shew how remote was the position of Athanasius from the cold definitions of Arius and the vague uncertainties of Eusebius. Like Arius, Athanasius distinguishes clearly between God and the World; but unlike him, he will not believe in the isolation of the

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Creator. God is in the World as the immanent principle of its harmony. When He saw man deprived by sin of his former spiritual union, the Father was touched with compassion; – it appealed to His pity (ἐξεκαλέσατο). But God could not deny Himself by accepting man’s submission without atonement for his sin. Thus it was that the Logos, who had created man out of nothing, intervened to save man by suffering in his stead. Because the Logos took our nature upon Him, our nature possesses Him, He belongs to us; we constitute the body of which He is the Head. And being thus united to men, the Logos unites us to the Father, for He is the image of the Father, pre-existent, yet ever resting in God. Here we have a true view of God, His Word, the universe, and man. A Father who is a real Father, loving mankind, grieving over their estrangement from Him, and providing a means for their salvation. A real Son, the Word of the Father, ever with Him and yet with His own hypostasis. A universe, the harmony of which is due to the presence of God, of which it can be said “The Lord has touched its every part.”¹ Mankind, alienated from God yet restored to Him by His incarnate Word, who became man that we might be made God.² Such then was the Christian system as it appeared to Athanasius. It seemed indispensable to a proper representation of the unity of the Godhead, that there should be left no possibility of a believer accepting the dangerous ex­planation of Arius.³

The learning, eloquence, and the court favour enjoyed by Eusebius gave him great weight at the Council. He had pronounced the inaugural address of the Council to the Emperor, and it was his ambition to be allowed to give a creed to the Church. Accordingly, after the creed of Arius had been read and torn in pieces by the indignant bishops,⁴ he produced a symbol, which he

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averred had been long in use in his own church of Caesarea. His exact words are: “As we received from the bishops who were before us, both when we were catechized and when we received baptism (τὸ λουτρόν), and according to what we have learnt from the Holy Scriptures, and as we have believed and been in the habit of teaching both in our own presbyterate and in our episcopate. Thus believing, we lay this statement of our faith before you.” It was in many ways satisfactory. It harmonized with Apostolic tradi­tion in attributing the highest honours to the Second Person of the Trinity, and it was at the same time free from all suspicion of the dreaded heresy of Sabellius. It was, moreover, one which everybody could sign, if not ex animo, at least without doing violence to his conscience. But this was exactly what Alexander and his friends did not want; they had come to the Council, not to make an agreement between all parties, but to sift the matter thoroughly. Either Arius was right or he was wrong. No compromise was possible. The Council had no hesitation in pronouncing an unqualified condemnation of the views of Arius; not twenty mem­bers were found to vote for an Arianizing creed proposed by Eusebius of Nicomedia, and Arius soon found himself with only five supporters. It was at this juncture that Eusebius of Caesarea brought forth his creed.¹ It was as follows: –

We believe in One God, Father, all-Sovereign, Creator of all things whatsoever, both visible and invisible; and in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Word of God, God of God, Light of Light, Life of Life, only-begotten Son, the First-born of all creation, begotten of God the Father before all the ages, by Whom also all things came into being, Who became flesh for our salvation, and lived among men, and suffered, and rose again the third day, and ascended to the Father, and will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. We believe also in one Holy Ghost. (We believe) that Each of these is

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and subsists: the Father truly as Father, the Son truly as Son, the Holy Ghost truly as Holy Ghost; as our Lord also says when He sends His disciples to preach: Go and make all nations disciples, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.¹

This creed, though perfectly inoffensive, was un­satisfactory to Alexander and the opponents of the teaching of Arius, since it left the two points at issue practically untouched. After his denial of our Lord’s union with the Father, it was no longer possible to be content with the acknowledgment that the Second Person of the Trinity was “born before all the ages” (πρὸ πάντων τῶν αἰώνων) or that He was “First-born of all creation”, since his followers could accept these expressions and still teach that the Logos was not eternally begotten. In like manner they were prepared to accept the expression θεὸς ἐκ θεοῦ, for all things are of God, and the Son is, in a sense, God. A further objection to the proposed creed was the studiously ambiguous expression, which left the whole doctrine of the Incarnation in uncertainty.²

The creed of Eusebius was however accepted as the basis of the new symbol, but in an amended form. There was only one way of making Arianism impossible, and that was to use a word, which was not only un­scriptural, but which was in bad repute as having been used by the heretics Valentinus and Paul of Samosata. The Son must be declared to be of one substance or essence (ὁμοούσιος) with the Father, in order to exclude Arius from the Church. The courage of the orthodox party in proposing to make use of such an expression was very great. According to Irenaeus it had been used by the Valentinians, and it had gained an evil notoriety in the East in the disputes about Paul of Samosata. The Arians could taunt their opponents with having borrowed the word from the armoury of heresy. The

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orthodox party, however, resolved to face the reproach of having used an heretical word as a means of over­throwing error. The Homöousion left no room for Arian­ism. If our Lord was declared to be of one substance with the Father, the whole theory of Arius, that He was of a lower nature, and capable of change and even of sin, entirely fell to the ground. According to Eusebius, Constantine wanted the creed already proposed to be accepted with the word ὁμοούσιος inserted: but the majority of the Council, by the advice of Hosius of Cordova, Eustathius of Antioch, Marcellus of Ancyra, and the other anti-Origenist bishops of the East,¹ de­cided to make six important alterations in the creed before them. They were, according to Prof. Gwatkin, as follows: –

1. In the words, “τὸν τῶν ἁπάντων ὁρατῶν τε καὶ ἀοράτων ποιητήν,” πάντων (all things) was substituted for τῶν ἁπάντων (all things whatsoever), to exclude the creation of the Son and Spirit.² This shews how carefully the Council did its work.

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2. The Sonship of the Second Person was thrown to the front, and all subsequent clauses referred to the Son instead of to the Logos.

3. The words τουτέστιν ἐκ τῆς οὐσίας τοῦ Πατρός were added to explain the word μονογενής.

4. Ζωὴν ἐκ ζωῆς … πρωτότοκον πάσης κτίσεως became Θεὸν ἀληθινὸν ἐκ Θεοῦ ἀληθινοῦ, γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθέντα, ὁμοούσιον τῷ Πατρί. The two participles which the Arians had confused were thus carefully distinguished.

5. To σαρκωθέντα was added καὶ ἐνανθρωπήσαντα.

6. An anathema was added.¹

The creed of the Council was therefore set forth in the following terms:

Πιστεύομεν εἰς ἕνα Θεὸν Πατέρα παντοκράτορα, πάντων ὁρατῶν τε καὶ ἀοράτων ποιητήν.

Καὶ εἰς ἕνα κύριον, Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν, τὸν υἱὸν τοῦ Θεοῦ, γεννηθέντα ἐκ τοῦ Πατρὸς μονογενῆ – τουτέστιν ἐκ τῆς οὐσίας τοῦ Πατρός – Θεὸν ἐκ Θεοῦ, Φῶς ἐκ Φωτός, Θεὸν ἀληθινὸν ἐκ Θεοῦ ἀληθινοῦ, γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθἐντα, ὁμοούσιον τῷ Πατρί, δι’ οὗ τὰ πάντα ἐγένετο, τά τε ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ καὶ τὰ ἐν τῇ γῇ· τὸν δι’ ἡμᾶς τοὺς ἀνθρώπους καὶ διὰ τὴν ἡμετέραν σωτηρίαν κατελθόντα, καὶ σαρκωθέντα, ἐνανθρωπήσαντα, παθόντα, καὶ ἀναστάντα τῇ τρίτῃ ἡμέρᾳ, ἀνελθόντα εἰς τοὺς οὐρανούς, ἐρχόμενον κρῖναι ζῶντας καὶ νεκρούς.

Καὶ εἰς τὸ Πνεῦμα τὸ Ἅγιον.

Τοὺς δὲ λέγοντας, ἦν ποτε ὅτε οὐκ ἦν, ἢ οὐκ ἦν πρὶν γεννηθῆναι, ἢ ἐξ οὐκ ὄντων ἐγένετο, ἢ ἐξ ἑτέρας ὑποστάσεως ἢ οὐσίας φάρκοντας εἶναι, ἢ κτιστὸν ἢ τρεπτὸν ἢ ἀλλοι-

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ωτὸν τὸν Υἱὸν τοῦ Θεοῦ, τούτους ἀνθεματίζει ἡ καθολικὴ καὶ ἀποστολικὴ ἐκκλησία.¹

Constantine after some deliberation agreed to this creed, and the majority of the Council subscribed to it without hesitation. Eusebius of Caesarea objected to the anathema; he took a day to consider whether he should sign at all, and referred the matter to the Emperor. Constantine (who apparently understood the Greek language imperfectly)² was able to assure the greatest scholar of his day that ὁμοούσιος involved no such material unity in the Persons of the Godhead as Eusebius feared might be deduced from it.³ Fortified by this weighty opinion, Eusebius signed the creed, and wrote to his congregation in Palestine to explain why he had done so. The letter does no honour to the character of Eusebius, who gives the language of the Arians a meaning which he must have known they did not intend.⁴ His name-sake of Nicomedia also subscribed to the creed, but his action brought him little benefit, as he was banished within the year. Arius was left with only five supporters, the bishops Theonas and Secundus, the presbyter Saras, the deacon Euzoïus, and the reader Achillas. They were all banished to Galatia or to Illyricum; Arius remaining some six years in the last-named province, where he may perchance have instructed Ursacius and Valens, who in after days championed his doctrines.⁵ But the

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exiles do not seem to have hastened from Nicaea, as the name of Secundus appears among the signatories of the Council.¹

Nevertheless, the triumph of the Homöousion was more apparent than real. The vast majority of the bishops failed to comprehend the actual meaning of the point at issue. Constantine pressed them to accept the creed because he hoped that it would secure the peace of the Church; and the Arianizing party allowed the Homöousion to be acknowledged, in the hope that they could explain it away. The contest only began with the Council of Nicaea. Alexander, Eustathius, and Athanasius had won a great victory, but the war was not ended.²

Before proceeding with the history of the Council it may be well to pursue the Arian controversy to the death of Constantine. Constantine. Constantine may in all probability have felt that in securing a practically unanimous assent to the Creed of Nicaea he had silenced controversy, and that henceforward the Christians would live in concord. The failure of the Synod of Arles to heal the Donatist schism gave indeed but a doubtful omen as to the success of the Council of Nicaea, still he may have regarded the practical unanimity with which the creed was accepted as an earnest of peace. He was destined to be speedily undeceived. The Arianizing party began to intrigue as soon as the Council closed. By A.D. 330 they felt themselves strong enough to attack Eustathius, bishop of Antioch. How his enemies managed to secure his deposition is not very certain. Various charges are suggested by the historians.³ In the meantime Eusebius of Nicomedia had returned from exile, and was once

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more in favour with the Emperor. The time seemed to have arrived when the Arians would be strong enough to strike at their chief opponent, Athanasius, now bishop (or, as he was generally styled, pope) of Alexandria. But this required some caution. Marcellus of Ancyra, whose anti-Arian opinions verged on Sabellianism, was first attacked and condemned as a heretic. The next step was to prejudice the Emperor against Athanasius. He was accused of extortion and of magic; a darker insinuation – the murder of Arsenius, a Meletian bishop – was also added. At the Synod of Tyre, A.D. 335, Athanasius was formally charged with the murder of Arsenius, who was hidden by the bishop’s enemies and only discovered by him with great difficulty. At the synod, however, the hand of a dead man was produced as evidence, but Athanasius presented Arsenius alive and with both his hands.¹ He then, seeing the impossibility of obtaining justice from such a tribunal, hastened to Constantinople and presented himself before the Em­peror to demand a fair trial. His accusers were sum­moned, and this time made a charge of high treason against Athanasius; they declared that he had detained the Alexandrian corn ships, which supplied Constan­tinople with provisions.² The very whisper of such an accusation was enough to arouse the suspicion of the Emperor, and Athanasius was banished to Trèves, A.D. 336. The triumph of his opponents was complete: Arius wrote to Constantine a confession of his faith, which eluded the points at issue, but satisfied the Emperor,³ and the Emperor ordered him to be restored to the Church in Constantinople. To the great joy of the orthodox, he died on the very day appointed for his restoration.⁴

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With the drawing up of the Nicene Creed the main business of the Council ended, but a few matters remained to be arranged before the bishops dispersed. The ancient Paschal controversy was settled by an agreement to adhere to the practice of the majority of churches, and to dis­continue the mode of keeping Easter on the 14th of Nisan, as had been the custom in Syria, Mesopotamia, and Proconsular Asia. The church of Alexandria was entrusted with the duty of ascertaining the date of Easter every year and announcing it to the churches throughout the world. To this circumstance we owe the Festal Letters of Athanasius.¹ Several sects of Quartodecimans survived into the fifth century, notably an ascetic body, styled the Audians.

The Meletian schism also demanded the attention of the fathers of Nicaea. Its origin is obscure. Gibbon, in one of his biting sentences, says “it has been mis­represented by the partiality of Athanasius and the ignorance of Epiphanius.” Hefele summarises the facts as follows: – (1) Meletius, an Egyptian bishop, held ordinations in other dioceses in times of persecution. (2) They were unnecessary, and Meletius never obtained leave either from the imprisoned bishops or from Peter of Alexandria, who was not incarcerated at the time. (3) Meletius despised the remonstrances of the im­prisoned bishops, and would not listen to them or to Peter. (4) Accordingly Peter excommunicated Meletius. Epiphanius says that this schism, like the earlier schism of Novatian, turned on the question of the treatment of the lapsed. The Council acted

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with great tact and moderation by deciding that Meletius was to retain the title of bishop, but that the clergy whom he had ordained should be confirmed in their position by the laying on of hands, and then take rank below those ordained by Alexander. The Meletian faction subsequently supported the Arians.¹

The Canons of Nicaea are twenty in number, and provide, among other things, for the establishment of provincial councils to be held twice a year, for con­firming the patriarchal rights of the sees of Alexandria and Antioch on the same footing as that of Rome, and for the recognition of the honour due to the bishop of Aelia (Jerusalem), saving, however, the rights of the metropolitan see of Caesarea.²

The Council of Nicaea has an abso­lutely unique position among Christian assemblies. As the first Ecumenical Council it marks the commencement of a new era. The very name oecumenical (εἰκουμενική) denotes its imperial character: we see in it the germ of the idea which exercised so powerful a fascination on the mind of the middle ages – that of the Holy Roman Empire, the union of the civil and ecclesiastical governments. At the same time it must be borne in mind that the Council of Nicaea had all the characteristics of an Oriental assembly. It was dominated, not by the Western ideal of Pontiff and Emperor ruling co­ordinately, but by the Eastern belief that the Emperor in himself represents all authority, both spiritual and temporal. This theory still remains in the Greek Church. Not only had Constantine the whole ordering of affairs at the Council: unbaptized as he was, he speaks as an episcopus episcoporum, and delivers public homilies on religion.² The decrees of Nicaea are still held in reverence by every branch of the Catholic Church. The canons of the first four General Councils,

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except those which have been expressly repealed, are a part of the laws of England.¹ The Creed of Nicaea is the creed of Christendom. It has been shewn that there were blemishes even in this great Council, but notwithstanding we must ungrudgingly pay our tribute of admiration to the truly Christian spirit which prompted many of its decrees. The Meletians were treated with rare forbearance. The attempt to enforce celibacy on the clergy was stopped by the protest of the ascetic confessor, bishop Paphnutius. The rights of individuals were carefully guarded in the fifth canon, ordering the assembly of provincial synods. Best of all, there were so few denunciations of heretics that St.  Jerome could say, “Synodus Nicaeana omnes haereticos suscepit praeter Fault Samosatensis discipulos.”²

Constantine must have quitted Nicaea feeling that he had done a good work and achieved a marked success. He had, to all appearance, both organized and pacified the Church. The intrigues which subsequently caused confusion, and almost undid the work of the great Council, had not yet begun. The Emperor seemed justified in considering that he had given to his dominions a Church at peace with itself, ready to undertake the great work of elevating and purifying mankind without let or hindrance. Little did he suppose that this hour of triumph was the prelude to a dark and dreadful tragedy, destined to embitter the remainder of his life, and to leave on his name an ineffaceable stain. In the year 326 Constantine visited Rome for the last time. He arrived shortly before the celebration of the anniversary of the battle of Lake Regillus. He was injudicious enough to scoff at the pageant of the knights riding ‘in all their pride’

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to the Capitol in commemoration of the deliverance of Rome by Castor and Pollux, who were supposed to have fought for Rome and to have brought the news of the victory to the city. The people were infuriated at the Emperor’s contemptuous attitude towards their pageant, and a riot ensued.¹

The popularity of Crispus, the eldest son of Con­stantine, excited the jealousy of his father, who perceived that the people were transferring their affections to the young Caesar. Crispus was sent under a strong guard to Pola in Istria, and there made away with. The Caesar Licinius, son of Constantine’s sister and of his late rival, was also executed. Helena, the mother of Constantine, furious at the murder of her favourite grandson, accused the Empress Fausta of having caused the Emperor to put Crispus to death on a false charge. Later writers say that Fausta was guilty of adultery. At any rate, according to Zosimus’ account, it appears that she was put to death by being suffocated in a bath. Great uncertainty overhangs these dark transactions, the truth respecting which will perhaps never be known.²

After the terrible scenes enacted in the Palace, Constantine determined never to return to Rome. Before, however, he left the Imperial City, legend ascribes to him an action which, though without any foundation in fact, has left a more permanent impression on the Western Church than any historical event in his reign. It is said that he established the temporal dominion of the Papacy, by his famous donation to Silvester, bishop of Rome. The legend (which cannot be traced back to a period anterior to the Iconoclastic controversy in the eighth century) relates that Constantine, after cruelly persecuting the Christians and driving Silvester into exile, was smitten with leprosy. The Pope restored Constantine to health, and, in gratitude, the Emperor bestowed on him the sovereignty of the whole of Italy and of the West.³

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This wonderful story lived – such is the vitality of falsehood – for no less than seven centuries. Dante, a strong supporter of imperialism, believed it, and blames Constantine for enriching the Pope in such a way. The honour of refuting this impudent fiction belongs to Laurentius Valla, a scholar of the fifteenth century. It is to the credit of the clerical authorities of Rome that Valla was reconciled to the Church and buried (strangely enough) in the precincts of the Lateran Palace, which was perhaps the actual donation of Con­stantine to the Roman bishop.¹ A curious contrast is presented by the pagan story of Constantine’s conversion at this time. According to one version, Constantine, stricken with remorse, sought purification at the hands of the Roman Flamens, but this was refused by them on the ground that their religion knew of no expiation for such crimes as his. According to another version, it was from the philosopher Sopater that he sought con­solation, but without success; a however, an Egyptian magician from Spain (Hosius, bishop of Cordova), who had much influence with the ladies of the imperial court, told Constantine that in the Christian Church there were mysteries which could purify from every sin: accordingly the Emperor became a Christian.

If we compare these two widely different narratives we shall find that in one detail they agree, namely, that Constantine became a Christian after the execution of Crispus. But it is precisely at this point that they appear most unhistorical. Constantine was a patron of the Christian Church and a worshipper of the Christians’ God twelve years previously; and he was not baptized till he was on his death bed, eleven years afterwards. Therefore neither his formal conversion nor his baptism had taken place at the time of his son’s death. It is nevertheless possible that the harmony of the two accounts indicates some quickening of Con­stantine’s religious convictions in view of the crimes

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recorded above. We must not forget that in that age of transition such men as Constantine really fluctuated between Christianity and paganism. At Nicaea, in the society of bishops and divines, the Emperor must have felt himself a believer. Transported to Rome, in the midst of the pagan surroundings of the stronghold of the ancient faith, Constantine may have felt drawn towards the heathen rites. The unjust execution of his distinguished son, and the terrible retribution Fausta’s folly compelled him to inflict upon her, naturally aroused feelings of profound sorrow and re­morse. Constantine may have turned to philosophy in the person of Sopater, or for the consolation of religion to the Flamens. He found them alike unable to quiet the voice of an accusing conscience, and at last discovered by his own spiritual experience that Christ alone was the source of pardon. That Con­stantine was not immediately baptized need not surprise us, if we may believe that he was at least so far convinced as to become a Christian catechumen.¹ The legend of the Donation almost rises to the dignity of an allegory. Constantine probably made over to Silvester Fausta’s palace of the Lateran. Shortly after­wards he left Rome. Thus he was in effect the first to lay the foundation of the papal supremacy in the West. Once the imperial seat was removed from Rome, the popes were free to give to the Eternal City spiritual power destined to prove more than a compensation for that of which she had been deprived by the transference of the seat of empire to the East.

The year following the departure of Constantine from Rome witnessed the restoration of Jerusalem to its position of a Holy City. For two centuries it had borne the name of Aelia Capitolina, and a temple of Venus had stood on the site of the Jewish Temple. The Emperor’s mother, Helena, at the persuasion of her son, had em­braced Christianity. She visited Palestine, and was con­ducted to the places which are sanctified to Christians as the scenes of the work of our Redemption. She

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was supplied with ample funds by Constantine, and erected two churches, one marking the spot from which our Saviour ascended, another at Bethlehem. A third church was afterwards built over the cave of the Resur­rection by Constantine himself. Thus much we gather from the contemporary account of Eusebius.¹ From the letter of Constantine to Macarius, bishop of Jerusalem, given by the same historian, we may infer that Helena made some discovery of the instruments of our Lord’s Passion. The allusion is however obscure. We must wait seventy years to read in a Western writer the developed account of the ‘Invention of the Cross’. According to Rufinus three crosses were discovered, and an inscription, detached from them, bearing Pilate’s words, ‘This is the king of the Jews.’ To test the crosses a sick lady was placed on each, and was healed when put upon the True Cross. The historians all repeat this statement, and add that Constantine, receiving two of the nails used at the Crucifixion as a present from Helena, had one worked into the bit of his bridle, and the other placed in his crown or helmet. This latter incident has a real significance as an illustration of Constantine’s position. His Christi­anity appears in his receiving the nails that pierced Christ with reverence, his pagan ignorance in the use he made of them.²

The closing years of the reign of Constantine were occupied by the founda­tion of the New Rome which bears his name. It was to the genius of this Emperor, in fixing

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his capital on the Bosphorus, that the Eastern Roman Empire owed that wonderful vitality which enabled it to survive so many almost unparalleled calamities and to outlive so many kingdoms. The building of Constan­tinople was a fit occupation for the ruler who had first recognised in Christianity the firm ally of the Roman empire. It was just that he who had assembled the first General Christian Council should lay the foundation of the first city which rose under Christian auspices and which for eleven centuries proved a real bulwark of Chris­tianity. Constantine observed the usual ceremonies in founding the new city, and his conduct shews the am­biguous nature of his religious opinions. He attributed his action in selecting the site of Constantinople to the inspiration of God. Yet he held the golden statue of the Fortune of the city in his hands on the day of its dedica­tion. With that theatrical instinct which he displayed on other occasions, Constantine marched spear in hand to trace the limits of the new city; remarking to a courtier who humbly enquired how far he proposed to go, “Till he that goes before me shall stop.”

When his end approached, Constantine took the step from which he had hitherto shrunk, and declared himself a Christian. Eusebius, bishop of Constantinople, the opponent of Athanasius, admitted him to the Church, first as a catechumen by the imposition of hands, then by baptism. On the feast of Pentecost, A.D. 337, the great emperor passed away. One of his last acts was to recall Athanasius from exile.

The character of Constantine has been the subject of much discussion. The Eastern Church has canonized him; the Western, with greater discernment, has given him the honour of founding the temporal power of the Papacy, but refused him the title of saint. He is one of the few who have been awarded the title of Great – a title which the world seldom if ever bestows on its greatest men, but which has often been the posthumous heritage of those who have turned the greatness of others to their own advantage. As Alexander’s conquests would have been impossible without the previous reign of his

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father Philip – as Augustus owed his empire to the work of Caesar – as Frederick I. of Prussia, and not his more famous son, was the real founder of the military power of his nation – so Constantine’s success was really due to the masterly policy of the forgotten Diocletian. In one thing, however, Constantine shewed his genius. His predecessors had seen in the Christian Church an enemy which refused divine honours to the Emperor: Constantine, recognising in her a purifier of the social evils of the Empire, almost persuaded the clergy to restore the ancient Caesar worship. The emperor Galerius died apologising to the Church and beseeching the prayers of the Christians. He is handed down to posterity by Lactantius as the Evil Beast: Constantine, on the other hand, passed away amid a chorus of episcopal benedictions, and to this day bears the title of the Equal of the Apostles (Ἰσαπόστολος). Not that he was without religious convictions. He did not, like our Queen Elizabeth, regard religion as one of the counters in the game of politics. On the contrary, he and all his family were extremely impressionable to religious influences. That Constantine believed himself to be favoured by visions from Heaven there seems to be no doubt. He was sincerely desirous to do his best for the interests of the Church. One is struck by his patience at Nicaea, and by the forbearance he shewed to the Donatists. But whether his patronage was on the whole advantageous to Christianity is very doubtful. In trying to settle the Arian question off­hand Constantine certainly attempted more than any human being could accomplish; but the blame lies rather with his ecclesiastical advisers than with the Emperor. As regards the deaths of Crispus and Fausta, it is hard to acquit or condemn Constantine. We know so little of the circumstances, that our judgment must remain unpronounced. It is equally impossible to define the Emperor’s religious views by the terms Orthodox and Arian – we might even add, Christian and Pagan. He directed an age of change, and from time to time he changed himself. He was orthodox when he thought that the Homöousion would give peace to the Church, Arian when it failed; he was a Christian

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at Nicaea, and a semi-Pagan when he traced the founda­tions of Constantinople; a true type of his age, un­settled, but ever drawing nearer to Christianity. Few men, we may at least say, have done such enduring work. Greater characters than his have passed and will pass into oblivion, but Constantinople will probably preserve his name for many future centuries; and as long as Christianity lasts it will never be forgotten that Con­stantine summoned the great and holy Synod of Nicaea.

When we pause at the grave of Constantine we seem to stand on a mountain top; before us lies the modern, behind us the ancient world. We are at the source of three great rivers of modern thought. The one representing the Eastern Church goes brawling down the mountain side, a copious but noisy stream, deafening us with its perpetual controversy; when it reaches the level country it breaks into many courses, which flow in silent and unbroken streams divided by mighty barriers from one another, all alike seeming unable to fertilize the land through which they glide. Westward there flows a more silent but a mightier river; every mile of its splendid course is full of interest; at one time it carries a flood of blessings, at another, its wrath destroys millions; at one part of its course it purifies all around; at another, it poisons the air with the pollutions it has received. Now loveable, now hateful; now gentle, now furious and terrible; now pure, now corrupted; now broad, now narrow – the Latin Church may at times cause disgust, but never indiffer­ence. Teutonic thought at last diverges from Latin Christianity. Its course lacks the uniformity of the Greek and the majesty of the Latin Church; but beauteous plants spring up by its sides, and goodly trees are nurtured by its waters. As we gaze from our mountain top, clouds yet obscure the horizon, which the eye longs to penetrate in the hope that all these waters may be joined together in the ocean of God’s love.