APPENDIX B. THE ROMAN STATE AND THE EARLY CHRISTIAN CHURCH
Written Specially for the Present Work
By DR. ADOLPH HARNACK
Professor in the University of Berlin; Member of the Imperial Academy of Sciences.
During the period between the reign of Diocletian and the fall of the Western Roman Empire, were laid the foundations of the history of the Middle Ages; and of these the most important was the recognition of the Christian church by the state and the privileged position thus accorded to it. This union of state and church involved an amalgamation of their intellectual forces, their rights and powers, and also to a certain extent of their system of government. There arose a type of culture and literature which was profane and Christian at one and the same time, a Roman-Christian system of law, and an established church. An alliance was made which would have passed for impossible down to the middle of the third century. Had Tertullian been told that a time was coming when the emperors would be Christians he would have stigmatised the prophecy as impious; had any man proclaimed to Decius that in his persecuting edict he was fighting against the future pillars of the state, he would have flouted the suggestion as absurd. Even as late as the third century the state and church seemed to be irreconcilable antagonists.
And yet Constantine’s resolution to recognise the church and grant her privileges has a long and well-marked preliminary history—and that in the case of both parties, state and church alike. If we study this preliminary history, Constantine’s act appears in the light of the close of a historic process of development which could not have ended otherwise than it did. Constantine’s greatness is not impaired by this fact; he realised and accomplished the one thing needful, and no statesman can do more.
In the following pages we shall attempt to sketch this preliminary history of the alliance between state and church. More than a mere sketch, in which headings take the place of detailed statements, is out of the question, since detailed statements would involve voluminous treatment of the subject; but anyone familiar with the historical facts will be able easily to fill in the brief outline. Our principal task will be to show how the line of development in the Christian church during the first three centuries tended towards conformity with the state; and in conclusion we shall point out in a few brief touches how the state on its part, as it developed, drew towards the church.
I
The Christians of the first century felt themselves aliens in the world, and consequently in the state likewise. They had put faith in a supernatural message which told them that they were citizens of a heavenly kingdom, that this world would shortly come to an end, and the new kingdom, the visible reign of God upon earth, begin. What further interest could they take in things temporal or in the state? Yet the state was not a mere matter of indifference to them. Since it protected idolaters and enforced the worship of idols, it was obviously under the influence of demons; and, being the strongest prop of polytheism, was manifestly the chief seat of the devil. The whole world “lieth in wickedness,” and the state no less. Between church and state, between Christ and Belial, there could be no fellowship. Such, for example, is the spirit in which John wrote his Revelation.
But from the very beginning this simple and confident view was traversed in the minds of many Christians by other views which seemed no less certain: such as (1) this same state, with the emperor at its head, punishes evil-doers and checks injustice in countless instances; (2) this same state not unfrequently protects Christians, the friends of God, against outbreaks of savage hatred on the part of the godless people of the Jews: (3) by the destruction of Jerusalem and of the temple this same state has accomplished the judgment pronounced upon the Jewish nation by the prophets and Christ, and wreaked vengeance upon it for Christ’s death; (4) Jesus and his Apostles did not permit men to revolt against the state, but rather commanded them to obey it and to submit willingly to the punishment it imposed: nay, the Apostles actually commanded that men should pray for the emperor and the magistrates by him appointed.
The early Christians thus occupied an anomalous position towards the state: they judged it to be the chief seat of demons on the one hand, and on the other “the minister of God”; they abhorred it and prayed for it; they besought God that “this world might pass away” and prayed for the continuance of the emperor’s sovereignty. It was as though they had been commanded to adopt different views alternately. They must also have watched with varying feelings the extension of the empire over the “whole world.” When they saw, after the time of Augustus, how one ruler was reverenced upon earth and glorified as king and saviour, nay, as Lord and God, when they were led away to death because they would not worship his image, how could they fail to conclude that here the mystery of sin was revealed and Satan sat upon the throne of God? And yet, on the other hand, was not this rule of a single monarch on earth a type of the rule of God in heaven, the blessed conjunction of all men in one body, the victory over the divisions and animosities of the nations?
And how about the culture of this same state, with its precepts, institutions, and usages? At first sight it all seemed reprehensible, since it was everywhere permeated with idolatry, and not least in philosophy and literature. “Be ye not seduced by philosophy” was the Christian watchword; nay, men went a step further, saying that the Christian had no need of inquiry and learning; in his religion he possessed all things and held the key to the riddles of the world. He was to shut up his reason in prison and despise the lore of the heathen; he was to read the Holy Scriptures, but no worldly books. And yet, does not this same lore teach much that religion teaches? Was nothing but lies to be met with in Socrates, Plato, and the poets? Nay, more, is there not a natural knowledge of God, a natural grasp of truth, and has not every soul obtained a spark of the eternal light? Has it not received knowledge, freedom, and immortality from God? Or are these false doctrines? Yet if they be false, how is it possible to lead men to God? But if they are not lies, a man must read and learn what poets and philosophers have written, and study the inner life that he may learn to know the soul and see what God the creator has bestowed upon it.
Thus here again we have a hesitating “yes,” side by side with an uncompromising “no.” That which but now seemed to be the darkness that opposed itself against the light appears in another aspect as itself a dim degree of light—nay, as the early twilight before the rising sun. Nevertheless, during the first two or three generations the spirit of repudiation was in the ascendant. We can only see that hidden at the heart of things were the germs destined to bring about a change of opinion. A religion which claims to be not national but universal cannot permanently take up a wholly negative attitude towards the history of the human race, nor can it persist in recognising its own preliminary history only along the narrow line of the history of a few prophets or a single small nation. Paul, the great Apostle of the Gentiles, had taught that God had everywhere manifested his being and his will, and in moments of lofty inspiration and joy had proclaimed to the little flock of his brother converts, “All things are yours.”
II
In the second century of the existence of Christian communities (circa 130-230) the development of a tendency towards reconciliation with the state and society is apparent in every direction. This I will proceed to demonstrate as regards (1) the constitution and organisation of the communities; (2) their life; (3) their doctrine; (4) their literature; (5) their form of worship; and (6) their estimate of the state.
(1) As early as the year 140 most Christian communities possessed a system of government widely different from their original organisation. The question of how it came into being is one upon which we cannot enter here. It appears as a combination of monarchical and collegiate government. At the head of the community stood the bishop, with the college of presbyters—in some cases on an equal footing with him and in others his subordinates—at his side; the assistant and executive officers were the deacons. The duties and rights of these clergy extended to matters of discipline, financial administration, the care of souls and the relief of the poor, doctrine, and public worship. The officers were elected by the community, but nevertheless formed a superior class which, decade by decade, assumed more and more the guardianship of the “lay people.” Thus, out of a communion in which the “Spirit” and brotherly love alone were to bear sway, there had arisen a legally constituted community with ordinances in many points analogous to those of municipal administration. The community acquired property and administered it; the officers, under the superintendence of the bishop, cared for the needy; and, together with the oversight of discipline, it exercised a certain amount of jurisdiction in family affairs.
But statutory organisation was not confined to the individual community; the various communities of one province joined in closer bonds and formed a larger confederation. Provincial synods arose, corresponding to the diet of the provinces, met once or twice a year, and dealt with matters of common interest under the direction of a president (the metropolitan). But even this association did not suffice. From the very beginning Christians were conscious of belonging to one great and holy fellowship, to one universal brotherhood. Conceived of, in the first instance, as something ideal and supernatural, it had nevertheless been held with strong and lively convictions, and at this stage the attempt was made to realise it upon earth. The outward conditions were in its favour; Christian doctrine had assumed many forms, a large number of which appeared very questionable in the eyes of the bishops and the majority of the church, and they consequently desired to define their own position in contradistinction to these “pseudo-Christians.” Hence after the end of the second century a great number of communities in the West and East joined to form a single confederation, and presently asserted that only those who belonged to this confederation, the one Holy Catholic church, were real Christians. At the beginning of the third century there was no longer only a heavenly church,—the children of God scattered throughout the world and waiting for the revelation of the kingdom of which they were citizens,—but a visible church extending from the Euphrates to Spain, resting upon fixed laws and ordinances, and thus constituting a political organisation within boundaries that coincided roughly with the frontiers of the Roman Empire.
By this development the church approximated to the state—as its rival in the first instance, it is true; but rivals may become friends. The decisive factor was that Christianity had assumed definite political form.
(2) The Christian life was to be “unspotted from the world.” Most Christians of primitive times interpreted this to mean that they should have as little as possible to do with “the world.” Nor was this a difficult matter, for the greater number of them were people in humble life whose conduct was subject to little outward control if only they performed the hard work required of them. Few of them were “in society”; and hence it was of no consequence what religion they professed or what manner of life they led.
By degrees, however, the situation changed, and the labours of missionaries drew men of all ranks into the church. As early as the reign of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius, Christians were numerous in every class, even among officials and scholars and men of rank and wealth. The question of the attitude one should assume towards the world, which had hitherto been a difficult problem only in individual cases, now became pressing to the whole community. In addition to this the state police and the public (especially the mob) took far more heed of Christianity than before. Any man who made an open confession of Christianity exposed himself to great danger, nay, to death itself. What was the church to do? Should she say to the faithful: “You must confess your faith under all circumstances, and avoid all contact, even the most superficial, with idolatry”? The consequences were obvious: the soldier would be bound to leave his colours, for they bore a heathen emblem; the magistrate to resign his office, for he could not protest against the worship of the emperor; the teacher to cease to teach, for he could not avoid mythological subjects; the tiler to abandon his handicraft, since he could not work on the roof of a temple; the goldsmith, the joiner, the merchant—they all ran the risk of abetting idolatry. The austere members of the communities did actually insist that every Christian ought to renounce his calling if it rendered him liable to the risk of the remotest contact with idolatry. Tertullian explicitly makes this demand in his pamphlet, De Idololatria, nor did he suffer himself to be confounded by the retort: “We shall die of starvation.”—“Who is he that hath promised ye shall live?”
But the great majority of Christians, and first and foremost the bishops their leaders, decided otherwise. It was enough for a man to keep God in his heart and to confess him when open confession was required by magisterial authority—it was enough to refrain from actual idolatry; for the rest the Christian might abide in any honest calling, might come, in the pursuit of it, in contact with the externals of idolatry, and ought to conduct himself prudently and discreetly so as neither to defile himself nor call down persecution upon himself and others. The church everywhere adopted this attitude after the beginning of the third century; and the state thus became the richer by numbers of peaceable, law-abiding, and conscientious citizens, who, far from placing difficulties in its way, were pillars of order and peace in society. The fact that the Christians were remarkable for morality was acknowledged by Galen, the famous physician, as early as the reign of Marcus Aurelius. Thus, by abandoning her attitude of uncompromising repudiation of the “world,” the church developed into a force that made for public order.
(3) There was nothing in Christian doctrine, considered on its merits, that either was dangerous to the state or was bound to be judged dangerous by it, except its exclusiveness. The utterances of Christians concerning Christ their “king” might, indeed, have a revolutionary sound; but the fact that they were harmless was soon patent to all observers. It was not what Christianity taught but what it precluded—tolerance of other religions and the worship of the emperors—that roused well-grounded objections. For the rest, Christian doctrine showed a double face, so to speak, to the Greeks and Romans. Its teaching concerning God, the world, the creation, divine providence, immortality, and the freedom, dignity, and responsibility of man, was both sublime and akin to the loftiest intuitions of the honoured philosophers of old; but mixed up with it was much that sounded to them like myth or fable, or seemed actually repulsive. Such, above all, was the history of Christ (his birth of a virgin, miracles, crucifixion, and ascension). Ordinary Christians laid stress upon the latter element, and hence their religion appeared “outlandish,” absurd, and full of lies. After the time of Hadrian, however, there arose men who expounded and brought to light the philosophico-religious element in Christianity,—monotheism more particularly,—and endeavoured to remove the offence excited by the history and worship of Christ by conceiving of him as the corporeal manifestation of the Logos, the existence and operation of which was recognised by many of the Greeks. At the same time they endeavoured to force their opponents to accept the facts of his history by demonstrating them to be the fulfilment of prophecy; for that which has been prophesied is brought about by God himself, and human criticism must keep silent in face thereof.
During the course of the second century Christian doctrine did not abandon its peculiar character, but it assimilated more and more the ideas of Greek philosophy and so rendered itself more intelligible. At the beginning of the third century a great Greek philosopher testified of Origen, the most eminent teacher of the church, that concerning God and the world he thought like a Greek; the philosopher only deplored the intermixture of alien fables. When this same Origen is invited to lecture upon immortality before the queen-mother at Antioch, when another doctor of the church corresponds with an empress upon religious questions, and the emperor Alexander Severus listens with admiring attention to the words of Christ, we cannot but see how “doctrine” is becoming by degrees a connecting link between Hellenism and Christianity. Such a fact could not be devoid of consequences as regards the relations between state and church, for no state can permanently maintain a hostile attitude towards a spiritual movement which is held in high esteem by large bodies of its citizens.
(4) Nor must literature be ignored in this connection. Christianity was never altogether without literature, nay, rather, it possessed from the outset a literary work of the highest rank in the Old Testament, of which it had usurped possession. But its title to ownership was contested by the Jews and the heathen, and moreover early Christians produced the impression that they were unlettered folk. This made their claims appear singularly presumptuous and unjustifiable. But the beginning of the second century witnessed a change; the Christians, who at first would have nothing to do with the scribbling art—for why should one write if the end is at hand?—began to make use of this method.
Even in the first century brief writings, gospels, epistles, and apocalypses, had been drawn up for the edification of the congregation, but, being regarded as memorabilia to keep the truth in remembrance and in a measure as a gift of the Holy Ghost, they differed in plan and style from what was known as “literature.” Now, however, works began to be composed in which Christianity was endued with the garment of literature. Between the years 140 and 170 the smaller Christian party which is known as the Gnostic party all at once began to avail itself of every literary form, scientific monograph, commentary, systematic statement, scientific dialogue, didactic epistle, polemic, historical description, the novel, the tale, the ode, the hymn, etc. The great church, less apt and more cautious, gave place to this development slowly and hesitatingly. She was fully conscious of her responsibility; she was not blind to the lurking danger—the danger, that is, of the profanation of religion; nevertheless she gradually admitted one literary form after another, until, at the beginning of the third century, she also had a Christian literature, with every means of expression that Greek art and learning had created at command. But the fact that she was thus equipped with literary forms could not but have some bearing on the relations between state and church, for no state can persist in regarding a movement which has taken literature into its service as a negligible quantity. Through the medium of literature it influences all political conditions, and in so far as the state itself is the exponent of culture, and not merely of law and authority, such a spiritual movement becomes a part of it by the mere fact of its literary existence.
(5) Though public worship is essentially esoteric and the private concern of any particular religion, yet we must here take its development into consideration. As long as Christian worship consisted only in homely prayers, rude psalmody, and preaching, and in the simple celebration of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, it differed so widely from other forms of worship that the adversaries of Christianity did not regard it as worship at all. A few Greeks, it is true, were impressed by this purely spiritual worship, but the great multitude despised it. They saw no images, and consequently concluded that the Christians were “atheists”; they saw no priests, and felt that their worship lacked legitimate authority, solemnity, and dignity; they saw no sacrifice, and consequently doubted its efficacy with the Deity. Many of them held that the Christians had other religious services which they carefully concealed from other men, and that there they exhibited the secret “Sacra,” held wild orgies, and feasted at horrible banquets. There were, as a matter of fact, a few small Christian communities which practised evil rites in secret. But it is unlikely that these constituted the starting-point of the vile aspersions cast upon all Christians; they arose rather from the evil tendency, prevalent in all ages, to regard adherents of an alien faith as persons of evil life and to say the worst that can be said concerning both them and their assemblies. The populace takes every religion which differs from its own and which it does not understand for devil worship.
This view of Christian worship underwent no great change in the second century, but towards the end of that period the preliminary signs of change set in, and the development of Christian worship met the change halfway. Three great alterations were made in the services, and brought it nearer to the comprehension of the Græco-Roman mind: (1) after circa 190 a separate class of priests arose (under that title) in the Christian church; (2) the Lord’s Supper was elaborated into a solemn sacrificial rite; (3) the Lord’s Supper and certain other acts of public worship were invested with the glamour of mysteries. By these developments, which are to be accounted for by the unconscious influence of the world around, Christian worship approximated to the ceremonials of the Greeks and Romans. The absence of image worship, it is true, still marked the distinction between them, but there was no lack of pictures of saints and symbols of holy things. Already there began to grow up about the sacramental elements, the water of baptism, the sign of the cross, etc., a superstition second to none of the fancies of the heathen, and the sensuous element steadily encroached upon the spiritual. These changes were likewise bound to exercise a certain though indirect influence on the relations between state and church, the Christian religion adapted itself to conditions in which it could act upon the widest possible circle, and in the process modified the exclusiveness it had resolved to maintain.
(6) But perhaps the point best worth noticing is the way in which, in spite of persecution, the Christian estimate of the state grew more favourable in the course of the second century—not indeed in the whole body, by a long way, but among the most influential teachers. It is true that the suspicion that the Roman Empire was the kingdom of antichrist never wholly died away, and that it still came to the surface occasionally; but a succession of admirable emperors—Trajan, Hadrian, Pius, and Marcus Aurelius—made a profound impression upon Christians, and the world-wide monarchy of which Augustus had laid the foundations bore the aspect of peace, and hence of a fulfilment of the divine will. Justin was convinced—as was even Tertullian—that the “good” emperors could not have been and were not unfriendly to Christians; both believed that none but the wicked were really the adversaries of the Christian religion, and that nothing but better information was required to make the emperors extend toleration to their faith. It is possible that even Luke had a dim sense of a certain solidarity between the empire and Christianity, between Augustus and Christ; the apologists of the age of the Antonines were more decided in their utterances, the most decided of all being Bishop Melito of Sardis. In the Apology for Christianity which he dedicates to Marcus Aurelius, he writes:
“This our philosophy did indeed first flourish among an alien people. But when it began to prosper in the provinces of thy empire under the rule of thy mighty predecessor Augustus it brought a rich blessing upon thy empire in singular wise. For from that time forth the Roman Empire hath ever increased in greatness and glory, whereof thou art and wilt be the desired ruler, even as thy son also, if thou wilt protect this philosophy which began under Augustus and hath grown with the growth of the empire, and which thy forefathers likewise held in honour among other religions. And the strongest proof that our religion hath arisen together with the monarchy so happily begun and for the benefit of the same is supplied by the fact that since the reign of Augustus the latter hath been smitten by no calamity, but on the contrary, all things have but augmented the fame and glory thereof, according to the desires of all men. The only emperors who, led away by malicious men, strove to cry down our religion were Nero and Domitian, and from their time forward calumnious falsehoods concerning the Christians have been propagated abroad by the evil custom of the common people, who believe all rumours without examination.”
We read these words with amazement, for they imply nothing less than an assertion that the empire and the Christian religion are fellow-institutions. God himself, so this bishop teaches, joined them together, for he has brought them into being at the same time as brethren, as it were; and to Christianity is due the greatness and glory of the monarchy! True, we must not forget that these are the words of an apologist, and of an Asiatic apologist to boot—and emperor worship flourished in Asia more than elsewhere; but the fact that he should have gone so far in his bold and flattering historical speculation is in the highest degree remarkable. “God,” “Saviour,” “Prince of Peace,” were titles bestowed upon the emperor in Asia, and his appearance was there spoken of as an epiphany of the Deity. Hence Melito deduced the conclusion that a “pre-established harmony” existed between the emperor and Christ, to whom these same titles were applied. His “philosophy of history” was an augury of the future.
We have seen that down to the reign of the emperor Alexander Severus the church approximated to the state along every line of development; but in practical life the two were still remote from each other. The state firmly upheld the opinion that it was impossible, on principle, to extend toleration to the intolerant Christian religion—though many governors and some emperors tolerated it tacitly; while the church was still far from taking Melito’s idea seriously.
III
In the seventy years that elapsed between the death of the emperor Alexander Severus and the rise of Constantine, the affairs of the church continued to develop in the same direction as they had taken during the preceding century. This I shall again proceed to prove from (1) its constitution, (2) life, (3) doctrine, (4) literature, (5) worship, and (6) its estimate of the state.
(1) The political organisation of the church attained its complete development, and the result was a structure so stable, homogeneous, and comprehensive that no other association within the empire could vie with it. While the framework of the state grew looser and looser, and the several parts began to exhibit symptoms of falling apart, the edifice of the church grew steadily firmer and stronger. The bishops, as successors of the Apostles, everywhere concentrated the power in their own hands and suppressed all other forms of authority; the church became an episcopal church. But the bishops were not only united among themselves by provincial synods, they kept up an active and intimate correspondence throughout the whole empire by means of letters and emissaries, and even at this time all matters of importance were settled by common consent. If we take the provincial synods as corresponding to the diets of the provinces, the organisation of the church had advanced a step beyond the latter. As early as the second half of the third century synods were held at Rome to which bishops came from every part of Italy, and sixty years before the Council of Nicæa a synod sat at Antioch to which bishops flocked from all the countries between the Halys and the Nile. Thus the episcopal confederation which ruled the Christian communities was a state within a state. The fact could not be hidden from the chiefs of the state. Under Maximinus Thrax the bishops had borne the brunt of persecution; Decius is reported to have said that he could sooner endure a rival emperor in Rome than a Christian bishop; and the persecutions of Gallus, Valerian, Diocletian, Galerius, and Maximinus Daza were directed in the first instance against the bishops. Gallienus and Aurelian addressed letters to the bishops, the former to those of Egypt, the latter to those of Syria, and thus made it plain that they were well aware of the authoritative position of the bishops in the churches.
More than this, Aurelian appreciated the value of the episcopate which had Rome for its centre as a conservative and patriotic element in the state; for when a quarrel was raging at Antioch as to the ecclesiastical party to which the church buildings, and consequently the church property, belonged of right, he ignored the theoretical disqualifications of the church before the law and decided that possession was due to that party which was “in epistolary correspondence with the bishops of Italy and the city of Rome.” That is to say, he was already using the church to reinforce the Roman spirit in the East. But what warrant had he to interfere? Thus much: the disputant parties in the church had themselves applied to him to decide their quarrel. Thus, forty years before the time of Constantine the church had appealed to the emperor to arbitrate in a question of canon law, and the emperor had practically acknowledged the existence of the church and its value as a pillar of imperial authority.
If, in addition to this, we consider that the church already possessed buildings, land, and property in every province of the empire; that the clergy, in the large towns, at least, were very numerous and represented a strictly organised scale of hierarchical degrees; that by their assistance the bishops directed and superintended all the affairs of the communities in even the most trivial details; that each community was likewise an effective organisation for the relief of the poor; and, finally, that in many provinces the country districts were overspread by a close network of provincial bishoprics and parishes, we shall no longer be surprised that even the emperor Alexander regarded the system of church government with envious eyes.
The civil and military system of the empire was falling into decay, the legions were permanent centres of revolution, the generals born pretenders; but the milites Christi were everywhere united in compact squadrons, and, though many internal dissensions might prevail amongst these troops, they confronted the state as a single army. The state had no other alternative than to try and destroy this army, as Decius, Valerian, Diocletian, and Maximinus Daza would fain have done, or to enter into alliance with it, as Constantine did. After the middle of the third century a policy of laissez-aller or weak toleration was an impossibility. The church seems also to have been numerically strong—though this is a point which has not been exhaustively examined as yet. As early as the year 251 the Roman bishop Cornelius wrote: “Besides the one bishop, there are at Rome forty-six priests, seven deacons, seven sub-deacons, forty-two acolytes, fifty-two exorcists, lectors, and ostiarii, and more than fifteen hundred widows and needy persons, all of whom are maintained by the grace and goodness of the Lord.”
(2) During the last decades of the third century Christian life underwent a virtual amalgamation with that of the world. The Christian who desired to live a life apart from the world became a member of a distinct class, the ascetics, or withdrew into the desert; the rest—i.e., the vast majority, had come to terms with the world. There was no class, from senators to artisans, in which Christians were not to be found, and in each class they fulfilled the obligations of their station. They were, indeed, bound to eschew certain callings (e.g., municipal appointments, which were all too closely bound up with “idolatry,” the theatrical profession, etc.), but the admonitions and penalties which were promulgated and denounced against the infringement of these prohibitions show that they were not always regarded. Certain facts, such as that, in the year 255, a Christian bishop in Spain was at the same time a member of a pagan society and had his children interred in the burying-ground of the said society; that a Syrian presbyter was director of the imperial purple-dye factory at Tyre; that a metropolitan bishop of Antioch was a ducenarius; that not a few of the clergy engaged in trade and travelled to the annual fairs—give us a clear insight into the amalgamation of Christian life with the life of the world. And it is very significant that Origen, in his pamphlet against Celsus, draws a comparison between Christian and municipal communities in order to commend the moral advantage of the former, and merely demands an admission of their superiority. That is, he insists on a difference of degree only, and refrains from contrasting the Christian communities with the municipal communities, like light with darkness.
Thus Christianity was no longer separated from the “world” in practical life, as every persecution made abundantly plain, for at first the number of apostates always exceeded that of confessors. The Christians only gathered strength as the persecutions proceeded. They were practically “exclusive” no longer, except in matters of religion in the strict sense of the word. Why should not the state tolerate them? The malicious aspersions on their moral character had died away into silence. Was it not madness on the part of the government to continue to persecute people, who were more conscientious and peaceable citizens than many others, and did not disturb the organisation and functions of public life? If they would not give up their exclusive faith, then the government must give them leave to hold it—a way out of the difficulty so simple that it would have been adopted long before the time of Constantine if the Christians, on their part, had not stipulated for certain conditions. Their God was not to be merely tolerated, he was to reign alone in the sphere of belief. With the world they had already come to terms.
(3) With regard to doctrine, the astounding labours of Origen brought the preparatory work of earlier Christian theologians to a kind of conclusion in the East; in the West, doctrine and learning never played more than a subordinate part. Origen worked the doctrines of Christianity up into a religious system which was able to vie with the systems of the neo-Platonists and give them battle upon equal terms. His schools at Alexandria and Cæsarea were attended by even pagan young men, and continued to flourish after his death; his pupils and their pupils occupied the episcopal sees of the most important cities. It was no longer possible to esteem Christianity a religion for mechanics, slaves, and old women. The Christian “mythology” which gave so much offence was not actually altered, but it was spiritualised by the application of the allegoric method. In this form the majority of philosophers and men of culture found it endurable; for they were accustomed to employ the allegoric method in the interpretation of their own religious traditions, and to transmute base images and repulsive tales into sublime conceptions and the history of ideas. Even the solemn confession of Jesus Christ was so expressed by philosophical bishops that it sounded like a brief philosophical dissertation.
Strictly speaking, there were only three points on which Christian dogma differed essentially from the neo-Platonic which was then in the ascendant; the former taught the creation of the world in time, the incarnation of the Logos, and the resurrection of the flesh; the latter rejected all these three doctrines. Nevertheless the pupils of Origen conceived of these theological propositions in such wise that the assertion was very like a denial, and they made common cause with the neo-Platonists in their contest with the dualistic-pessimistic school of philosophy. Christian philosophy was in the mid-current of the intellectual movement, and it was therefore a singular anachronism that the state could not as yet bring itself to place those who professed it upon the same footing as other citizens.
(4) The literature produced and read by Christians was by this time hardly to be distinguished from literature in general. It differed only in name; the spirit was the same, if we leave out of consideration the texts of Scripture which the Christians interwove in their books. The legends of Apostles and Martyrs took the place of the old stories of gods and heroes, and adopted from the latter whatever element of fiction they could make serve their turn. The forms of epistolary and literary correspondence had already won full acceptance among Christians; their dedications, plots, titles, and headings were those of pagan literature. In this last connection we note particularly how ceremonious the “brethren” have become. Finally, educated Christians were familiar with the whole body of profane scholastic literature, derived their culture from it and used it for example and quotation. The shoot of Christian literature had been grafted on the stock of Hellenism, and the sap of it streamed through the new branch.
(5) With regard to public worship we note the following changes during the sixty years before the time of Constantine. In the first place the ritual became more solemn and mysterious; the prayers more studied and rhetorical; symbols and symbolic acts were multiplied; and secondly, there was an increased tendency to meet halfway the polytheistic leanings which swayed the Christian masses. This is indicated, on the one hand, by the constantly increasing importance attached to “intercessors” (angels, saints, and martyrs) both in public worship and in private life; and, on the other, by the “naturalisation” and differentiation of religious rites after the manner of pagan ceremonials. An observer watching a Christian religious service about the year 300 would hardly have realised that these Christians were monotheists, and in words proudly professed their monotheism and spiritual worship. Except the bloody sacrifice, they had adopted almost every part and form of pagan ritual ceremonial; and, in fact, the bloody sacrifice was not lacking, for the death of Christ and the celebration of the Lord’s Supper were dealt with in materialistic fashion as bloody sacrifices. They were fond of appealing to the Old Testament to warrant the innovations, and in virtue of this appeal nearly the whole pagan system of worship could be dragged into the church.
Chapels were dedicated to angels, saints, and martyrs and decorated on their festivals; a habit grew up of sleeping in churches or chapels in the expectation of holy dreams or miraculous cures; holydays were multiplied and differentiated more and more; superstitious ceremonies, usually associated with the holy cross or consecrated bread, were woven into the tenor of ordinary life; nor were charms in the name of Jesus or of holy men, nor even amulets wanting; wakes and banquets for the dead were celebrated; the relics of saints were collected and adored, etc. What more was lacking to complete the analogy with heathen cults? Was not a sagacious Roman statesman bound to confess that this church, with the form of divine worship it had adopted, met every religious need? And how then could he fail to wish that the senseless state of war that prevailed between state and church should come to an end? A monotheistic form of doctrine, combined with a worship so diversified, so adapted to every need—no better device could possibly be invented.
(6) In considering the church’s estimate of the state there are two points of importance to be observed. In the first place we note that Christians now began to profess that those emperors who had not shown active hostility towards the church, or whose personal piety had borne a certain kindred likeness to that of Christians, had really been Christians in secret. Bishop Dionysius of Alexandria (about 260 A.D.) merely repeats an opinion widely received when he states that Alexander Severus and Philip the Arab were Christians; of Philip it was even reported that he had on one occasion done penance at the bidding of a bishop.
Such legends are eloquent; they disclose the daring wishes of the Christians and show that they no longer thought the empire and Christianity incompatible. This is likewise evident from the fact that this same Dionysius does not shrink from applying a Messianic prophecy in the Old Testament to the emperor Valerian. Gallienus had cancelled his father’s writ for the persecution of Christians, and Dionysius therefore applies to him the prophecy of Isaiah, and styles him, moreover, “our sanctified emperor, well-pleasing in God’s sight.” This is the very language which Christian bishops used of Constantine sixty years later. Secondly, it is a significant token of change that Origen, in his great work against Celsus, written towards the end of his life, in the reign of the emperor Philip, expressed the hope that by gradual advances Christianity would attain to victory in this world. This is the exact opposite of what primitive Christians had believed and hoped. Origen could not have put the anticipation into words, unless, in spite of all the differences which still subsisted between state and church, these two great powers had drawn considerably nearer to each other. At bottom the only question was that of the removal of “misunderstandings”; in actual fact, nothing blocked the way to the conclusion of peace except the church’s demand not for mere toleration but for exclusive recognition.
IV
In the foregoing pages we have shown how the church, as it developed, drew nearer to the state; all that now remains to be done is to point out how, in the second century, and still more in the third, the state, on its part, drew nearer to the Christian religion and to the church. I will confine myself to a few suggestive indications.
(1) During the imperial period the Roman state wielded no real influence upon the religious life of the citizens of its domains, except by means of the worship of the emperors; the other Roman cults were of local importance only, and were perpetually being thrust into the background by alien religions. Under these circumstances the state had made an attempt to develop emperor worship into the actual universal religion of the empire. Sagacious statesmen and religious politicians were, however, constrained to own that this cult, the adoration of the secunda majestas, was not enough. The state accordingly had recourse to the expedient of officially recognising as many alien religions as it possibly could (indeed, it was in a manner forced to accord them recognition), in order that these alien religions might not constitute a barrier between it and its subjects. By this means there gradually arose a medley and diversity of religions in the empire which was bewildering and rendered a sound religious policy impossible.
A single, new, universal religion was the crying need of the hour. It seemed that this need might be met in various ways. Elagabalus, Alexander Severus, and Maximinus Daza were the emperors who tried to strike out a fresh line before the time of Constantine. Elagabalus wished to do this by exalting one Syrian divinity to the position of Supreme God of the empire and giving a subordinate place to all other cults; Alexander, by endeavouring to discover the common element in all religious doctrines and forms of worship and uniting them in peaceful conjunction (as all, at bottom, meaning the same thing); Maximinus Daza by making regulations for the administrative union of all the religions and cults of a single province under one high priest appointed by the state, and for the control of these priests by the civil government. These were all attempts to create a new church, and an established church to boot, and must all be regarded as preliminaries to Constantine’s achievement.
A certain bias towards monotheism was involved in the case of Elagabalus and Alexander; towards an oriental monotheism in the former. Diocletian, indeed, attempted once more to make the old Roman religious system serve the purpose; but as he had placed the political administration and government of the empire on an entirely new basis, and introduced a new oriental and despotic system after the dissolution of the ancient state, his reactionary religious policy was a grave error. It was foredoomed to utter failure—the new state could not possibly rest upon the scanty foundations of the old cults; and Constantine, who witnessed its collapse, drew from it the only correct inference. The new basis of the state must be a monotheistic religion—an oriental monotheism. So much the third century had taught.
(2) The Roman state approximated to Christianity and the church by a steady process of levelling up from within and by its transformation from a Roman state into a state of provinces. Caracalla bestowed the rights of Roman citizenship on the inhabitants of all the provinces; the influence of the old Roman aristocracy steadily declined, the state became really cosmopolitan. But the church was cosmopolitan likewise; indeed, Christianity was at bottom the only really universal religion. It was not bound up with Judaism, like the religion of the Old Testament; nor with Egypt, like Isis-worship; nor with Persia, like Mithras-worship; it had shaken itself free from all national elements. Hence every step by which the state lost something of its exclusively Roman character brought it nearer to the church.
(3) The legislation begun by Nerva and Trajan and continued by the Antonines and the emperors of the first half of the third century under the guidance of great jurists marked an enormous advance in the sphere of law. The Stoic ideas of the “rights of man” and the leavening of law by morality were introduced into legislation and operated by countless wholesome ordinances. By this means the state met halfway the feeling which prevailed in the church as a matter of principle. By the beginning of the fourth century there were but few points in Roman civil law to which the church (which, it must be owned, had somewhat lowered its moral standard) could fairly take objection, and many, on the other hand, which it hailed with joyful assent. Thus the development of Roman law must be recognised as a preliminary step to the amalgamation of state and church.
(4) At first sight it seems as though after the middle of the third century the state had met the church in a far more hostile spirit and had therefore been far less capable of appreciating it than in the preceding epoch. But although it is true that the systematic persecution of the church first began under Decius, yet the conclusion that therefore the state cannot have appreciated the church does not hold good in fact. Rather, the persecutions of Decius and Valerian prove, as has been suggested before, that these emperors realised the danger the old political system implied in the existence of the church more clearly than their predecessors had done. They accordingly endeavoured to extirpate the church, as Diocletian’s co-emperor did likewise. But these attempts must be regarded as desperate and (with the exception of the last named) short-lived experiments. During the early years of the reign of Valerian and from 260 to 302 the church enjoyed almost absolute peace within the empire; and, above all, the imperial government recognised the importance of the bishops and the ecclesiastical hierarchy. This is proved not only by the persecutory edicts, but, as has been said above, by peaceful acts. Gallienus and Aurelian wrote letters to the bishops, and the latter even tried by peaceful means to use their influence to strengthen Roman dominion; nay, Maximinus Daza actually attempted to copy the constitution of the church and to organise the pagan system of worship in similar fashion. Under the circumstances it was much simpler to ally the hierarchy of the church itself with the state than to make any such attempt. That the strength of the church lay in the hierarchy the despots had long recognised. Accordingly as soon as he had decided in favour of Christianity, Constantine joined hands with the bishops. He not only joined hands with them, but he honoured them and bestowed privileges upon them, for he was anxious to secure their power for the state. His success was immediate; the hierarchy put itself—unreservedly, we may say—at his disposal when once he had set the cross upon his standard. Thus the state within the state was abolished; the strongest political force then existent, to wit, the church, was made the cornerstone of the state. Both parties, the emperor and the bishops, were equally well pleased; history seldom has a conclusion of peace like this to record, in which both contracting parties broke forth into rejoicings. And both were fully justified in their rejoicing, for a thing for which a way had been slowly made ready now had come to light; the empire gained a strong support and the church was delivered from an undignified position, in which she could not avail herself freely of the forces at her disposal. The church of the fourth century not only accomplished much more than the church of the period between 250 and 325, but she brought forth men of greater distinction and more commanding character.
