Caesars lord, p.19
Caesar's Lord, page 19
The first order of business was to hear the letter sent by Emperor Constantine. A lector ascended to the pulpit and read it aloud. The emperor took the same approach in writing as he had taken in the reception hall at Antiochia. He expressed dismay at the theological rift that had emerged within the catholic faith just as it was supposed to give unity to his new empire. Then he chastised both Alexander and Arius for fomenting discord over metaphysical speculations that have no real importance. Constantine instructed the two men to be reconciled immediately. “Restore to me my calm days and carefree nights,” the emperor implored, “so that from now on, the pleasure of clear light and the happiness of a peaceful life might be preserved for me.”
Ossius then added his own exhortation: “Gentlemen, your emperor has spoken. Your theological squabbling must cease. We all believe that ‘in the beginning was the Word’ and ‘the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.’ Now it is time to agree upon what that means. Bishop Alexander, you may give your preamble.”
With the august seriousness that befitted a bishop, Alexander rose from his chair and started for the pulpit. But then he stopped. Surprising everyone, he knelt on the red marble stage. After producing a piece of chalk from the folds of his robe, he drew a long vertical line. On one side he wrote eternal, and on the other, creature. Only then did he ascend the wooden pulpit. Several books of the scriptures lay nearby in case either of the disputants wished to quote from them.
Alexander cleared his throat. “Eternal God? Or God’s creature? That, my beloved flock, is what must be decided today. There is no middle ground. Our Lord Jesus Christ is one of these, or he is the other. He cannot be both. And I cannot—I will not!—seek a reconciliation of views at the expense of doctrinal truth.” After an emphatic pause, the bishop descended and took his seat again.
Now Arius hurried up the steps of the pulpit. “You forget, Master Churchman! In Aegyptus, priests have the right to decide their own doctrines. No one can tell me what to believe. If I want to call Christ a creature, I will—for that is exactly what he is.”
“Watch yourself, brother,” Ossius cautioned from his chair. “All pastors must submit their views before the rest of the church, before the archbishop of the flock, before the sacred scriptures, and ultimately, before God himself.”
Arius wasn’t at all chastened by the rebuke. He kept insisting that Alexander had no right to impose his views on everyone else. With polished eloquence, Arius made his case for priestly independence from episcopal oversight. At last, when his preamble was done, he began to speak in earnest about the doctrine of Christ.
“Too often, this debate has been made philosophical,” he declared. “But what matters most for you and me, as people with sins upon our souls, is salvation. And let me tell you how it is achieved. Hear now the good news! Jesus Christ was a man capable of sins. Therefore he had to work hard to do right and earn God’s favor. This Jesus—such a godly man was he!—kept striving toward God’s high standard throughout his whole life, all the way to death on a cross. In the end, he was found to be a perfect creature who had done everything right. God honored him by taking him as a son. So, too, we have to imitate God’s highest and best creature with similar obedience. If we do this, we, too, can earn God’s favor—like our Brother Jesus who set before us such a fine example. Then we will also be sons of God, and we shall be welcomed into his blessed kingdom. That, my friends, is true Christianity.”
Although the speech went on to say more than this, Flavia found that her emotions had become stirred and she lost focus. Strangely, she felt heat rise to her cheeks, so she fanned the neckline of her dress to cool herself. Eventually she was able to return her attention to the last part of Arius’s oration. He summarized the things he had said at the outset, then concluded with a rousing exhortation to ascend to heaven through great moral effort.
Now it was Alexander’s turn to take the pulpit. Although he wasn’t nearly as eloquent as his skillful opponent, a holy fire burned in his eyes when he spoke. “This man claims to offer ‘true Christianity’ to you, but he is a liar like his serpentine father! Salvation doesn’t consist of achieving virtue—an idea no different from what the Greek philosophers have long offered. Salvation is a gift of grace! It comes from God’s initiative when he saw us falling into the sin of Adam. The Son of God, divine from all eternity, took on flesh and became a man. He lived a perfect life, offered himself upon the cross, and paid the debt of sin. Then God raised him to new life. Friends, listen to me! Salvation doesn’t come from a creature whom we imitate. It comes from the eternal Word who defeated Satan, trampled death, and conquered sin on our behalf. You must believe in this gospel, and it alone, for salvation.”
Alexander fell silent for a long moment. In the hushed silence of the room, he descended from the pulpit and went over to his chalk writing. There he scuffed out the word ktisma with his toe, taking his stand on aionios instead. “My beloved flock, hear the word of your pastor! Only this”—Alexander tapped his foot on the word eternal—“is true Christianity.”
When Alexander said this, the restless feeling in Flavia’s soul came rushing upon her again. Now she perceived the reason for her distress more clearly. Arius and Alexander were both talking about salvation. But Arius was offering steps the sinner could take to gain God’s favor. In contrast, Bishop Alexander’s advice was to rely solely on Christ. But what if there are limits to how much God can forgive? Then there’s nothing I can do to fix it!
A panicky feeling tightened within Flavia’s chest. There wasn’t enough air to breathe. The crowd seemed to press too close. Leaping to her feet, Flavia bolted from the lecture hall.
Rex followed her immediately. He found her leaning against a column and trying to calm her breathing. “What’s the matter?” he asked with concern on his face. “Are you alright?”
“I’m . . . I’m fine. It was just, you know, a fainting spell. It happens sometimes to me. I’m not sure why.”
“Has it passed?”
“Yes, my love. I just needed some fresh air. It’s gone now. We can start walking home.”
“Are you sure? You still look shaken.”
Flavia nodded and took her husband’s arm. “Everything is fine,” she said reassuringly. “Don’t worry about me, Rex. Let’s go home. There’s nothing wrong at all.”
Though it rarely got cold in Alexandria, the winter mornings could be pleasantly crisp. Rex stood at the railing of his apartment’s balcony with a cloak around his shoulders and a steaming cup of calda in his hands. He sipped it slowly as he watched the city rise, stretch, and begin its day.
When his cup was empty, he went back inside. He had hoped Flavia might come out and join him as she often did. Yet she remained in the bedroom, asleep under her covers. It was midmorning when she finally arose and Rex was able to speak with her.
“How are you feeling?” he ventured.
“Fine.”
“In my experience,” Rex said gently, “that answer usually means the opposite.”
Flavia turned her attention from the potted ivy she was pruning and glanced over her shoulder at Rex. She offered a faint smile. “Maybe sometimes it does. But this time, I meant it. I’m fine.”
“Are you feeling better after yesterday? I’ve rarely seen you so distressed like that.”
Instead of answering, Flavia rose from the table and filled a vase from the faucet where running water entered the apartment. It was a luxury that those who lived near the Serapeum enjoyed, for water was piped to that high place from underground cisterns fed by a Nilus canal. Many nearby apartments had a supply from the Serapeum, and Flavia had always been grateful she could water her plants with its flow. Yet now, as she returned to her project, the wet vase slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor. Staring down at the broken shards, she began to cry.
Rex came and stood in front of Flavia, encircling her waist with his arms. She leaned into him, but her crying did not cease. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up, and I’ll get you a new vase too.” He paused, knowing these things weren’t the real problem. Finally, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”
Flavia didn’t answer, but just let her tears flow freely. Eventually, her crying became a soft whimper, and then she was silent for a long time. Rex waited, holding her close while not offering any words. He knew from experience that his wife wanted only his presence at a time like this. When she was ready, she would share what was on her heart.
At last, she seemed ready to speak. And when she did, her words were shocking. Without raising her eyes to look at him, she simply said, “I worshiped the demons.”
Though Rex managed not to flinch, he was taken by surprise. Idolatry was a terrible sin for a Christian, a transgression on the same level as murder or adultery. Many martyrs had shed their blood to avoid it. Those who hadn’t been able to resist the compelled idolatry of the persecutions were asked by the church to go through a process of repentance and restoration after the persecutions had passed. For a Christian woman—especially someone as godly as Flavia—to enter a temple and hail a demon as lord was . . . well, it was indeed a grievous sin.
Yet Rex didn’t say any of those things aloud, for Flavia already knew them. Instead, he said, “I don’t judge you, my beloved. No one but our Savior resisted all temptations. It belongs to humans to fail. And it belongs to the God of grace to restore us when we do. There is hope for you.”
“I believe that,” Flavia said forlornly. “But then I read the scripture where Jesus said, ‘Those whom I love, I rebuke and discipline.’ Rex . . . I think God has disciplined me in a difficult way.”
“How so?”
“Ah! It is so hard to tell you!” Tears returned to Flavia’s eyes, but she pressed on with her confession. “We had a baby, Rex. From just before you left for Rome. Then after I worshiped Isis, I lost it. Do you think it was God’s judgment?”
“I don’t think God is like that,” Rex whispered in Flavia’s ear as he held her close. “He uses hard things to teach us. But he doesn’t strike us out of anger and spite. We lost a child once before, and it drew us nearer to God. We can try again. God hasn’t abandoned us.”
Now Flavia separated from Rex’s embrace and looked intently at him, searching his face. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes red and puffy. “You don’t think I’m under his wrath?”
“God didn’t destine us for wrath but to obtain salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Is that in the scriptures? I can’t recall.”
“Yes. The end of First Thessalonians.”
Flavia’s face brightened at Rex’s mention of that biblical epistle. “Remember when we saw it? The original letter from Paul, right there in Thessalonica. Just before those bad men burnt it.”
“I do remember it. Very clearly.”
“Bishop Basil lost a hand trying to protect it,” Flavia mused as sadness returned to her countenance. “Yet I couldn’t even trust the Lord for a simple pregnancy. I had to appeal to a goddess like an unbeliever.”
“But within the church, there is forgiveness.”
“I know. I’ve begun a process of restoration with Athanasius. He is a spiritual adviser to me.” Flavia let out a deep sigh, then glanced at Rex with tentative eyes. “Something important has been laid on my heart. You might not like it. But I think . . . I think it is from the Lord.”
“Tell me.”
Now Flavia grew apprehensive about what she wanted to say. Rex took her hand in both of his, stroking it gently, and that seemed to help her. She gathered her courage and told him about her desire for abstinence during a season of prayer, as mentioned in First Corinthians. The news was surprising to Rex, yet he tried to understand his wife’s perspective. “Is it like a penance?” he asked.
“No! It’s so we can be devoted to prayer about holiness . . . and about the possibility of children.”
Rex wasn’t sure what to say next. The news had caught him off guard. He wanted to be supportive. Yet the decision would come with a cost. To test the way forward, he asked Flavia a practical question: “How long are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Long enough to have a spiritual effect. That’s all I can say at this point. Rex, do you understand my heart? Do you agree with me on this?”
Stepping close to Flavia, he gazed down at her beautiful face. Her reddened eyes had cleared and had a look of hope in them again. With his thumb, he wiped away the last of the moisture from her cheeks. He smiled warmly to show his support. “I agree with you,” he said, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.
She fell into his arms, embracing him tightly. “Oh, Rex,” she sighed. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” he answered, “and love never fails.”
Arius opened the door and welcomed his eight guests into his private study, a well-appointed room attached to the Martyrium of Saint Mark. The visitors were all large men from surrounding Boukolia, and they had the rough appearance so common to herders. Some of them tended sheep, others looked after goats or pigs or cattle. The smell of their bucolic occupation was thick upon them. Yet they were beloved children of God—and also, Arius reminded himself, very useful for God’s purposes.
“We are honored to be invited here,” said a long-limbed shepherd clutching his cap in his hand.
“The honor is mine,” Arius replied smoothly, “for we are brethren united against a common enemy. Look here!” He snatched a pamphlet off his desk and showed it to the men. It was exactly the kind of papyrus handbill that advertisers made for political elections or gladiator games—except this one was making a theological statement, not a commercial one. Since Arius knew his guests couldn’t read, he relied on the picture to make the pamphlet’s point clear. It showed Arius with his pointy beard preaching to a congregation, but with the body of a snake. Meanwhile, Bishop Alexander, recognizable by his wig, looked on with disapproval. And a divine hand held a sword over Arius’s serpentine image.
“It’s a disgrace!” said the leader of the herdsmen. “It mocks you, Father Arius!”
“I agree. Even though it comes from the commoners and not the bishop, it still shows the kind of leader he is. Now we must respond with countermeasures of our own.”
“We stand ready to help,” the shepherd said, and his seven associates earnestly nodded their agreement.
“Good. I know I can trust you men. And let me be clear about what is at stake. Souls will go to hell because people aren’t motivated to pursue the good works that earn salvation.”
“We cannot let that happen!” cried the shepherd.
“We must not,” added a husky fellow wearing the high boots of a pig herder.
“You shall not,” Arius declared, “and here is how you can prevent it.”
After Arius had outlined his plan to his assistants, he dismissed them before any worshipers arrived for the liturgy. Now that Sun Day was an imperial holiday due to Constantine’s decree, church services were no longer held at dawn because people had leisure throughout the day. But soon the congregants began to show up. When the Martyrium of Saint Mark was full, Arius proceeded down the middle of the hall with his deacons, acolytes, and lectors. He took a seat behind the altar in his acacia-wood chair. Once the greetings, prayers, and scripture readings were finished, he began to preach. His text was the passage at the beginning of John’s gospel where Jesus clears the temple of money changers.
The people were thoroughly engaged with the sermon, and Arius could feel their energy. After about an hour of stirring oratory, he sensed it was time to issue a call to action. “Do you notice, my brethren, which holy psalm came to the disciples’ minds? It is the sixty-eighth, where it says, ‘Zeal for thine house hath consumed me.’ So I ask you, does such holy zeal consume you as well?”
At this prearranged signal, the tall shepherd cried out, “It does! What must we do?”
Without missing a beat, Arius replied, “Do what Christ did, my brother! You must cleanse the house of the Lord with purging fire and overturn the tables of his false worshipers. Is this the will of God’s people?”
“It is!” shouted the eight herders who had met earlier with Arius. Immediately their enthusiasm caught on, for the foundations of zealotry had been well laid by the rousing sermon. Soon everyone in the church was proclaiming their agreement.
Now Arius arose from his chair and withdrew something from beneath it. He kept the item hidden as he approached the altar. Everyone fell silent and stared at him, since it was strange for a priest to stand up during his sermon. They waited to see what he would produce from behind his back.
“Let the faithful expel the trespassers from God’s temple!” Arius cried, then dropped a herder’s whip onto the altar that stood above the relics of Saint Mark.
For a long moment, no one spoke, nor even moved. Then the leader of the herders dashed to the altar and snatched up the whip. “Zeal for God’s house consumes me!” he exclaimed to the congregation with a loud crack of the lash. And then, like a volcano erupting, an agitated crowd of Arian fanatics surged out the church’s door and spilled into the street.
One of Rex’s occasional duties in the diaconate was to serve as a lector during the service of the Holy Eucharist. It wasn’t a duty he enjoyed, because Greek was his third language, after German and Latin, so he didn’t feel especially fluent. His conversational Greek was fine, but reading the words of scripture in front of the church took him out of his comfort zone. Even so, he performed the duty whenever he was asked because God preferred humility over expertise.
