Constantine came on the scene in an age of political instability, the age of the Tetrarchy when the Roman empire was governed by four emperors—by two major emperors called Augusti and two junior emperors called Caesars. These emperors were not succeeded by their biological sons; the Caesars were supposed to succeed the Augusti after the latter retired while new Caesars were to be promoted from among the well-positioned. It was a disastrous way to run an empire. As I said, it was an unstable setup; it didn’t last long. Constantine himself put a violent end to it.
One of the ways these unstable emperors sought legitimacy was to claim for themselves the status of divinity. Now emperors had long been deified at their deaths, declared divus. But in the unstable age of the Tetrarchy, the emperors began to claim the status of divinity before their deaths, while still living and breathing and running things. Constantine was the last emperor to do this. One of his titles was Herculius; also after some victory in Gaul, he supposedly recognized himself as Apollo. Diocletian before him insisted that be addressed as “Lord,” allowing himself to be “worshipped and addressed as a god.”[1] Again, remember this is an age of frighteningly precarious political instability. Claiming divinity for yourself was one way to try to make things a little more stable, to give your rule (which may be violently overrun at any moment) the aura of divine legitimacy. But again, such thinking was disastrous; it didn’t last long.
Now why this little history lesson? Well, all this instability belongs to the context of council of Nicaea, the council presided over by the convert Constantine exactly 1700 years ago from May to probably the end of July in the year 325 in what is now the city of Iznik in Turkey. That’s where we get the first two-thirds of the Creed we will recite in a moment. Constantine had just violently put an end to the Tetrarchy and now he was seeking, a bit more peacefully, to put an end to the religious instability that had started in Egypt with a fight between the bishop Alexander of Alexandria and his priest Arius. They were fighting over just how it is exactly that the Son relates to the Father. Now this was a subtle and complex debate, very theological and philosophical, but let’s just state it simply for now that Arius thought that Jesus was made while Alexander insisted Jesus was begotten. We will all side with Alexander in a moment when we recite the Creed; listen for it.
Of course, we can’t go into all the details of the Council of Nicaea; we’d be here forever otherwise. The outcome I simply want to underline is the faith that the council articulated and preserved—our faith in Christ, “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God.” What the council professed was simply our biblical faith in Christ, that what is said of the Holy One of Israel, God the Father, must also be said of Jesus Christ; that Christ is God. The word the council used—some say Constantine himself suggested it—was homoousios; “consubstantial” is the translation. Again, listen for it. Jesus is God, of the same nature as the Father; that’s the scandalous claim. It is still scandalous. But it is the center of the Christian faith. It’s why for over a thousand years, the Church has made us profess this faith each Sunday.
But why the theology lesson? Well, today is Trinity Sunday, and a little theology is good for you. But also, remember that ancient context of political instability I mentioned at the start, a world of rival emperors claiming divinity for themselves. And then think about the substance of our Christian faith, that actually Jesus is the “Only Begotten Son of God,” not Diocletian, not Maximian or Severus—these violently pretentious men you’ve never heard of—but Jesus Christ.
And then think about what it means when Christians say or sing in Mass what they’ve been saying and singing now for 2000 years. Not the Creed now; you sang it already this morning, but you may have not realized it is the most politically subversive thing you’ve ever said in your life. Kyrie eleison, Christie eleison. Diocletian, you’ll remember, called himself Kyrios; he insisted his subjects call him that. All those other emperors were just as pretentious. But Christians since the beginning have always said to this pretension: no thank you. Why? Because Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. Because our allegiances are not paid to any other power but Christ; we worship none other than the carpenter God who taught us to love.
Now you all can connect all the dots you want and argue about it and ask me questions later. I am not sure I will have any answers for you. It’s just for me—and this is what I want to share with you—when I finally discovered the Catholic faith, the truth of it, I finally found ground to stand on, a faith that has kept me sane amidst the comings and goings of the world’s supposed greats. I know we live in a world that worries many, and for many different reasons; good people in this room disagree about all sorts of things, sometimes heatedly. But we’re about to stand up together and recite ancient words that if you opened your mind to understand them, I think you would find them a source of strength; I think you would find they introduce you to the depths of a faith that will hold you as you hold on no matter what the world brings. Anyway, “his kingdom will have no end,” we will say in a moment. That’s what I’m talking about. That’s why I do not worry, why I think no Christian should worry too much about anything. Because we Christians know who Jesus is. Amen.
[1] Raymond Van Dam, “Imperial Fathers and Their Sons: Licinius, Constantine, and the Council of Nicaea” in The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea, 32-33
