O friends, O friends, I wish for you the most excellent of evenings! It has come to my attention of late that I have not been finishing anything I start for the weblog. I have no fewer intentions for it than usual, but they are simply not following though to their respective conclusions. I have two hypotheses as to why this might be the case. The first is that I might be taking the weblog too seriously. If this be the case, let this very posting mark the end of that! The second is that I have been priveleged to engage you friends in person more often in person, which lessens the importance of this outlet of communication with you. In that case, how happy I am to say less via weblog! I think the second is quite true, and I do not know about the first. See how, once I was free of the Academy at Oxnard, my posting suddenly decreased. Clearly I had less reason to ramble.
That said, that was not my purpose in writing this evening. This evening I shall turn my quill upon one of my earlier subjects, that of education. Many things are often said on the subject of education, and as far as I can tell little is ever learnt by saying any of these things. What little is learnt, I think, can be summarized in the fact that hot air rises. This, after all, is how balloning works, at least for ballooners. This is not how ballooning spiders pursue their craft; however, for ballooning spiders merely glide. Spiders have no need for education, but they often have many more eyes than the average ballooner, who does have use for education. Indeed, to float so far by hot air, the ballooner must be in great need of education. Nothing indicates a lack of education like senseless talk of education, so nothing gives rise to more hot air. Spiders do not speak, so they do not run this risk.
Now, how shall we speak of education without becoming lost among the clouds? Furthermore, what is really wrong with being lost in the clouds? I tell you, there is nothing wrong with it, so there must be two kinds of hot air: right hot air and wrong hot air. The former leads to fantastic adventure, the latter leads to humdrum and frustrated wandering. How, then, can we achieve the fantastic over the humdrum? Why, by fine and beautiful education, of course! And what is a fine and beautiful education? It is an adventurous education, but one wrought with difficulty and noble suffering, in conjunction with wonder and cameraderie. Only then will the ballooners see what ballooning is all about. Spiders will never see this.
28 December 2008
21 December 2008
Merry Solstice!
Merry Solstice, my friends! Today is the turning point in the great battle betwixt the gods of light and the gods of darkness. It is this very night, when our hope for the light is at its lowest, seeming to be all but lost, the tide shall turn, and the darkness shall begin its retreat. The reconquest of the sun is at hand, and our cattle shall graze in its warm glow, and our fields and our vineyards shall bear fruit! Alas, not yet, for this remains our darkest hour, but not our saddest. Our saddest hour, of course, is Samhain, for that is a day of dread. The Solstice is a day of hope, on which we may begin the great chase of the giants, the trolls, and dark faerie-creatures back whence they came. In order to ensure the celestial victory of the light, however, we must do all we can to welcome the gods of light. We must show them green things! Deck the halls! We must bring light and warmth to the world! Light fires in both field and hearth! We must display the bounty of life! Let there be feasting and dancing! Let the gods bear witness to our charity! Give gifts to them and to one another! Sacrifice! Sacrifice! How anxious we are for Beltaine!
10 December 2008
The Rabbis and the Bar Kokhba Revolt
The rabbinic attitude toward the Bar Kokhba Revolt of 132 might be considered to be a bit ironic. On the one hand, it was an enormous failure on the part of the Jews to resist Roman authority, and it resulted in disastrous prohibitions of the Jewish people not least among them the expulsion of Jews from Jerusalem and the renaming of Judea to Palestine. On the other, this was in effect being the final separation of the Jews from their holy city as they knew it, and as a result the rabbis were able to fill the resulting gap in the Jewish religion. Thus while the Bar Kokhba Revolt meant that the Judaism of the Temple would not see restoration in the foreseeable future, it also meant a need for some institution like the rabbis if Judaism itself was to survive. There are two main subjects that warrant attention thus far: the historical background of the revolt, and the rabbinic relationship to it, especially their responses in succeeding generations. The Bar Kokhba revolt is not at all well documented, so factual details are scarce. The sources consist of the Historia Romana of Cassius Dio, the Historia Augusta, and the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius. Archaeological discoveries have also revealed the “Bar Kokhba Letters” and other material artifacts from the time surrounding the revolt. From these sources shall the history be gleaned, and in the Midrash Rabbah on Lamentations the rabbinic response is exhibited.
Cassius Dio states in the Historia Romana LXIX 12.1 that the cause of the Bar Kokhba revolt was Hadrian’s construction of Aelia Capitolina on the site of Jerusalem and the construction of a temple to Jupiter on the Temple mount. Shaye Cohen notes in From the Maccabees to the Mishnah that thanks to the archaeological evidence provided by the coinage of Rome and of the rebels, “the city was indeed established before the outbreak of the rebellion, and but whether the construction caused the rebellion is a point that cannot be confirmed” (Cohen 25). Such an action could not have been well received, but still there are other matters worth consideration.
The Historia Augusta attributes the Bar Kokhba Revolt to the Emperor Hadrian’s toughening of Roman legislation against genital mutilation, including circumcision, saying, “At this point the Jews began war, because they were forbidden to practice circumcision” (14.2). The earlier historian Suetonius mentions the existing legislation of Domitian that “He prohibited the castration of males, and kept down the price of eunuchs that remained in the hands of slave dealers” (7.1). Whether the law was simply amended before the war or after it is uncertain, however, since the Historia Augusta is known to be unreliable, and Hanan Eshel, while advocating the probability of the change taking place before the revolt, acknowledges that hypotheses on both sides are inconclusive (107-108). Regardless, the ban on circumcision, whether it was before or after the beginning of the revolt, was a blow to Jewish tradition.
So far it is fairly certain that Aelia Capitoliana was at least a factor before the revolt, and it is arguably probable that a ban on circumcision was also an issue. Significantly, this runs contrary to the statement of Eusebius of Caesarea in his Ecclesiastical History, which places the foundation of Aelia Capitolina after the beginning of the revolt and makes no mention of circumcision (4.6). What other causes, then, might have contributed to the revolt, so that the likes of Eusebius have an explanation? Eusebius seems to indicate messianism, and in addition more recent historians have pointed out the lingering issues of the previous revolts. First is the latter, which can be summed up by the seizure of land by the Romans after the war of 66 to 74. This, says Cohen, “created a large number of landless poor in Judaea, and this group seems to have provided Bar Kokhba with the bulk of his support” (25). Eshel also points this out as “a possible economic decline—a shift from landowning to sharecropping,” mentioning in addition the “nationalistic agitation” lingering from earlier incidents (106). Perhaps all of this, however, can be linked to the messianic ideal, for as Cohen points out, “Seventy years after the destruction of the First Temple, the Second Temple was built in fulfillment of Jeremiah’s prophecy. The Jews had no doubt the prophecy would be fulfilled again” (25). In short it was not fulfilled again, and Hadrian banished the Jews from Jerusalem. Still, the appointed year was fast approaching, and messianism was in the air, and here it is apt to consider the rabbis.
Rabbi Akiba, a contemporary of the revolt, certainly made the most famous pronouncement on Bar Kokhba. According to the Midrash Rabbah on Lamentations, he declared nothing less than, “This is the king Messiah!” (II.2, 4). In this messianic view of things, Numbers 24:17 factors in very heavily: “There shall step forth a star out of Jacob,” and Bar Kokhba means “son of a star.” In fact, this was a play on the rebel leader’s real name, Simon bar Koziba. The later rabbis, given hindsight, however, would not be particularly inclined to agree with this assessment, though apparently Akiba was for the most part an exception among his contemporaries as well. Indeed, much of the text at hand consists of the responses to Akiba and the responses to these responses. These are the words that reveal the rabbinic view of Bar Kokhba.
The text as a whole pertains to Lamentations 2:2, “The LORD hath swallowed up unsparingly all the habitations of Jacob.” It is the commonality of Jacob, it seems, that compels Rabbi Johanan to bring up Numbers 24:17 and the Bar Kokhba Revolt. In so doing, he proposes that Bar Koziba would be best rendered “Bar Kozab,” which means “son of a lie” (II.2, 4). It is this statement that introduces the messianic pronouncement of Akiba, which is torn to shreds by the proceeding commentary. Later, though, Rabbi Johanan does give a small defense of Akiba’s extraordinary view of the rebel leader, citing Bar Kokhba’s ability to “catch the missiles from the enemy’s catapults on one of his knees and hurl them back…On that account R. Akiba made his remark” (II:2 4). In this text, Akiba without question stands alone in his doomed hopes for Bar Kokhba.
The first response comes from Rabbi Johanan ben Tortha, and it says, “Akiba, grass will grow in your cheeks and he still will not have come” (II.2, 4). So much for any imminent messianism after the revolt in the view of Rabbi Johanan ben Tortha. Such is to be expected, though, since the revolt so thoroughly dashed all immediate hopes for the reestablishment of the Temple. How could there be a messiah without a Jewish homeland, and how could there be a homeland when Hadrian had expelled the Jews and repopulated it with Gentiles, changing its very name to Palestine? It was a rational attitude for the Rabbi to develop, that there would be no messiah in the lifetimes of Akiba or himself or even long afterward. This says something about the rabbis’ view of themselves. They were to be the saviors of Judaism, not Bar Kokhba or anyone else. This is further advanced by Rabbi Johanan.
Rabbi Johanan responds next by citing Genesis 27:22, “The voice is the voice of Jacob,” considering the voice to be a cry of distress, and it is the cry of the people at Bethar when Bar Kokhba is recorded to have been defeated there. Rabbi Jusdah proceeds to relate a story of Bar Kokhba’s followers, saying that Bar Kokhba “had with him two hundred thousand men with an amputated finger,” which he demanded be cut off as a test of fortitude (II.2, 4). The “Sages” did not approve, so they advised him to adopt a new test, uprooting a cedar of Lebanon. The Sages, of course, are equivalent to the rabbis, and this story demonstrates the authority to which the rabbis are laying claim, authority even to correct the rebel leader. That said, in the view of Rabbi Johanan, they still recognized that there was trouble with Bar Kokhba, for he writes of the battle cry of the rebels: “[O God], neither help us nor discourage us!” citing Psalm 60:20, “Has not Thou, O God, cast us off? And go not forth, O God, with our hosts.” Thereafter the doom of the revolt is expounded.
It seems that in the history according to Rabbi Johanan, the only reason the revolt went on without being utterly crushed was the fact that Rabbi Eleazar of Modim “continually wore sackcloth and fasted, and he used to pray daily, ‘Lord of the Universe, sit not in judgment to-day!’ so that [Hadrian] thought of returning home” (II.2, 4). This says much of the rabbis’ view of themselves, that it is they who link the Jewish people to God, and they alone, for that very reason, were able turn back the Romans. There is clearly a dichotomy between Bar Kokhba and Rabbi Eleazar at work here, for while Bar Kokhba proudly requests that God have no involvement whatsoever in his battles, Rabbi Eleazar continually beseeches God to have mercy on the people, and Rabbi Johanan leaves no doubt which was successful.
The final defeat of Judea came when Rabbi Eleazar was removed from the picture. According to Rabbi Johanan, a Roman agent identified that without Rabbi Eleazar, the Jews would fall. Even the Romans identified the power of the Rabbi in sustaining the survival of the Jews. This agent, though, was able to persuade Bar Kokhba that Rabbi Eleazar was about to betray the city of Bethar to the Romans, and with a kick to the head, Bar Kokhba killed him. This prompted a Bath Kol to issue forth, proclaiming the words of Zechariah 11:17, “Woe to the worthless shepherd that leaveth the flock! The sword shall be upon his arm, and upon his right eye.” Such Bar Kokhba brought on Israel, so it would befall him. In the words of Rabbi Johanan, “the sins [of the people] caused Bethar to be captured” (II.2, 4). Just as the actions of Bar Kokhba clearly allowed for the final destruction of the land at the hands of the Romans, it is also made clear that this was the just wrath of God. Supposedly a snake was found around the neck of the dead Bar Kokhba after his defeat, prompting Hadrian to say, “If his God had not slain him who could have overcome him?” and Deuteronomy 32:30 is cited: “Except their Rock had given them over.” Without Rabbi Eleazar, Bar Kokhba and all the people faced the wrath of God without intercession, and so this is extrapolated to the Rabbis in general. Without them, the people face separation from God.
The destruction of Bethar, according to Rabbi Johanan, was a bloodbath of hyperbolic proportions, perhaps even with sacrificial implication, and Hadrian furthered the gruesomeness of his conquest by fencing in a large vineyard of his with dead bodies from Bethar, which were not to be removed until a certain king commanded it (II.2, 4). Rabbi Huna comments on this wall, using it to explain the origin of the benediction, “Who art kind and dealest kindly,” for the bodies did not rot and they were eventually allowed to be buried, corresponding to the respective halves of the benediction (II.2, 4). Since dead and decaying things are clearly designated as unclean in the Torah, a wall of death would have been a serious issue, so this partly accounts for the rabbis’ interest in postulating such a thing. Perhaps the best interpretation of this is symbolic, in that the revolt caused the Romans to separate the Jewish people from their land, thereby defiling it, and their God, who gives the land and His people life through Judaism, hence the vineyard to which Hadrian laid claim. The emergence of the blessing upon the removal of this barrier is arguably a simple affirmation of the survival of the vineyard of Judaism apart from the land, via the rabbis. Hadrian failed to banish the people from the true vineyard.
Rabbi Johanan next approaches the sins of Bethar that warranted its annihilation at the hands of the Romans, and the great sin was that “the inhabitants kindled lamps [to manifest their joy] over the destruction of the Sanctuary” (II.2, 4). They did this because of mockery and fraud on the part of the Jerusalemites. Rabbi Johanan records that “when one of the inhabitants of Bethar went up there to pray, he would be asked by [the Councilors of the city], ‘Do you wish to become a councilor?’…[and], ‘Do you wish to be a city magistrate?’” (II.2, 4). These things were asked of him to imply that his interest was in the city and not in prayer. It was then asked whether he would sell his estate, for which the Jerusalemite would proceed to forge a deed and send it to estate’s steward (II.2, 4). This persuaded the Betharites to wish ill on Jerusalem and the Temple, but Rabbi Johanan notes Proverbs 17:5, “He that is glad at calamity shall not be unpunished” (II.2, 4). Such explains the wrath that was poured out upon Bethar itself, not just Bar Kokhba and his followers. Justice yet called for satisfaction, and Bethar was to be sacrificed to that end, flooding the city with its own blood and spilling a sanguinary river for miles into the sea.
According to Rabbi Johanan, it is recorded that “The brains of three hundred children [were dashed] upon one stone, and three hundred baskets of capsules of phylacteries were found in Bethar” (II.2, 4). Rabbi Simeon ben Gamaliel continues with some grandiose numbers: “There were five hundred schools in Bethar, and the smallest of them had not less than three hundred children.” Gamaliel then enumerates the fate of those he says were his former schoolfellows, saying that they were all wrapped in their scrolls and burnt. This is perhaps the ultimate attack on Rabbinic Judaism, for not only were the pupils destroyed en masse, so too were just as many Torah scrolls. With one fire, both the written law and the oral law were lost in Bethar, except in Simeon ben Gamaliel. Like the wall of bodies around the vineyard, again the Romans, in the view of these rabbis, attempted to separate the Jewish people from Judaism with death.
The final episode in the text records two brothers in Kefar Haruba, whose death parallels that of Bar Kokhba himself. Of these brothers it is said that they “did not allow any Roman to pass there but they killed him” (II.2, 4), leading them to decide that they must take Hadrian’s crown for themselves. This, like the styling of Bar Kokhba, is reminiscent of messianism, in the sense that a messiah would free Judea from the Romans and, at this point, restore the Temple. They also provide the same quotation regarding the involvement of the Deity in their quest, “Let Him neither help us nor discourage us!” This, though courageous, did not serve to help Bar Kokhba as the rabbis present him, and in this parallel it does no better. The brothers died violently for this attitude, and Hadrian responds to their bodies and the snakes around their necks the same as he did Bar Kokhba. Deuteronomy 32:30 again applies (II.2, 4). Interestingly, they spoke thus in response to the well wishes of an old man, saying, “May the Creator be your help against him!” Most probably, this seems to be an explanation of the rabbinic attitude toward the revolt; specifically, that the rabbis hoped that God would see to it that Bar Kokhba, whose heroism they at least tended to admire, succeeded, but Bar Kokhba would not heed the old man, representing the rabbis, and turn to God. For this reason he and the rest of Judaea faced justice rather than deliverance from Rome.
The rabbis view with frustration the conditions that allowed them to prosper, namely the loss of the Jewish homeland as such and the defeat of most immediate hope for the reconstruction of the Temple. There would be schemes to rebuild it, especially the attempt to do so under Julian the Apostate in the middle of the fourth century, but just as that failed and the rabbinic institution became more important as far as Jewish practice goes. At least the rabbis do not hesitate to ascribe importance to themselves, whether as the voice of reason in the face of sin and chaos or as the keepers of Torah, without whom Judaism as they knew it would collapse. With this in mind, though the facts of the Bar Kokhba revolt are few, the rabbis derived no shortage of commentary from it.
Cassius Dio states in the Historia Romana LXIX 12.1 that the cause of the Bar Kokhba revolt was Hadrian’s construction of Aelia Capitolina on the site of Jerusalem and the construction of a temple to Jupiter on the Temple mount. Shaye Cohen notes in From the Maccabees to the Mishnah that thanks to the archaeological evidence provided by the coinage of Rome and of the rebels, “the city was indeed established before the outbreak of the rebellion, and but whether the construction caused the rebellion is a point that cannot be confirmed” (Cohen 25). Such an action could not have been well received, but still there are other matters worth consideration.
The Historia Augusta attributes the Bar Kokhba Revolt to the Emperor Hadrian’s toughening of Roman legislation against genital mutilation, including circumcision, saying, “At this point the Jews began war, because they were forbidden to practice circumcision” (14.2). The earlier historian Suetonius mentions the existing legislation of Domitian that “He prohibited the castration of males, and kept down the price of eunuchs that remained in the hands of slave dealers” (7.1). Whether the law was simply amended before the war or after it is uncertain, however, since the Historia Augusta is known to be unreliable, and Hanan Eshel, while advocating the probability of the change taking place before the revolt, acknowledges that hypotheses on both sides are inconclusive (107-108). Regardless, the ban on circumcision, whether it was before or after the beginning of the revolt, was a blow to Jewish tradition.
So far it is fairly certain that Aelia Capitoliana was at least a factor before the revolt, and it is arguably probable that a ban on circumcision was also an issue. Significantly, this runs contrary to the statement of Eusebius of Caesarea in his Ecclesiastical History, which places the foundation of Aelia Capitolina after the beginning of the revolt and makes no mention of circumcision (4.6). What other causes, then, might have contributed to the revolt, so that the likes of Eusebius have an explanation? Eusebius seems to indicate messianism, and in addition more recent historians have pointed out the lingering issues of the previous revolts. First is the latter, which can be summed up by the seizure of land by the Romans after the war of 66 to 74. This, says Cohen, “created a large number of landless poor in Judaea, and this group seems to have provided Bar Kokhba with the bulk of his support” (25). Eshel also points this out as “a possible economic decline—a shift from landowning to sharecropping,” mentioning in addition the “nationalistic agitation” lingering from earlier incidents (106). Perhaps all of this, however, can be linked to the messianic ideal, for as Cohen points out, “Seventy years after the destruction of the First Temple, the Second Temple was built in fulfillment of Jeremiah’s prophecy. The Jews had no doubt the prophecy would be fulfilled again” (25). In short it was not fulfilled again, and Hadrian banished the Jews from Jerusalem. Still, the appointed year was fast approaching, and messianism was in the air, and here it is apt to consider the rabbis.
Rabbi Akiba, a contemporary of the revolt, certainly made the most famous pronouncement on Bar Kokhba. According to the Midrash Rabbah on Lamentations, he declared nothing less than, “This is the king Messiah!” (II.2, 4). In this messianic view of things, Numbers 24:17 factors in very heavily: “There shall step forth a star out of Jacob,” and Bar Kokhba means “son of a star.” In fact, this was a play on the rebel leader’s real name, Simon bar Koziba. The later rabbis, given hindsight, however, would not be particularly inclined to agree with this assessment, though apparently Akiba was for the most part an exception among his contemporaries as well. Indeed, much of the text at hand consists of the responses to Akiba and the responses to these responses. These are the words that reveal the rabbinic view of Bar Kokhba.
The text as a whole pertains to Lamentations 2:2, “The LORD hath swallowed up unsparingly all the habitations of Jacob.” It is the commonality of Jacob, it seems, that compels Rabbi Johanan to bring up Numbers 24:17 and the Bar Kokhba Revolt. In so doing, he proposes that Bar Koziba would be best rendered “Bar Kozab,” which means “son of a lie” (II.2, 4). It is this statement that introduces the messianic pronouncement of Akiba, which is torn to shreds by the proceeding commentary. Later, though, Rabbi Johanan does give a small defense of Akiba’s extraordinary view of the rebel leader, citing Bar Kokhba’s ability to “catch the missiles from the enemy’s catapults on one of his knees and hurl them back…On that account R. Akiba made his remark” (II:2 4). In this text, Akiba without question stands alone in his doomed hopes for Bar Kokhba.
The first response comes from Rabbi Johanan ben Tortha, and it says, “Akiba, grass will grow in your cheeks and he still will not have come” (II.2, 4). So much for any imminent messianism after the revolt in the view of Rabbi Johanan ben Tortha. Such is to be expected, though, since the revolt so thoroughly dashed all immediate hopes for the reestablishment of the Temple. How could there be a messiah without a Jewish homeland, and how could there be a homeland when Hadrian had expelled the Jews and repopulated it with Gentiles, changing its very name to Palestine? It was a rational attitude for the Rabbi to develop, that there would be no messiah in the lifetimes of Akiba or himself or even long afterward. This says something about the rabbis’ view of themselves. They were to be the saviors of Judaism, not Bar Kokhba or anyone else. This is further advanced by Rabbi Johanan.
Rabbi Johanan responds next by citing Genesis 27:22, “The voice is the voice of Jacob,” considering the voice to be a cry of distress, and it is the cry of the people at Bethar when Bar Kokhba is recorded to have been defeated there. Rabbi Jusdah proceeds to relate a story of Bar Kokhba’s followers, saying that Bar Kokhba “had with him two hundred thousand men with an amputated finger,” which he demanded be cut off as a test of fortitude (II.2, 4). The “Sages” did not approve, so they advised him to adopt a new test, uprooting a cedar of Lebanon. The Sages, of course, are equivalent to the rabbis, and this story demonstrates the authority to which the rabbis are laying claim, authority even to correct the rebel leader. That said, in the view of Rabbi Johanan, they still recognized that there was trouble with Bar Kokhba, for he writes of the battle cry of the rebels: “[O God], neither help us nor discourage us!” citing Psalm 60:20, “Has not Thou, O God, cast us off? And go not forth, O God, with our hosts.” Thereafter the doom of the revolt is expounded.
It seems that in the history according to Rabbi Johanan, the only reason the revolt went on without being utterly crushed was the fact that Rabbi Eleazar of Modim “continually wore sackcloth and fasted, and he used to pray daily, ‘Lord of the Universe, sit not in judgment to-day!’ so that [Hadrian] thought of returning home” (II.2, 4). This says much of the rabbis’ view of themselves, that it is they who link the Jewish people to God, and they alone, for that very reason, were able turn back the Romans. There is clearly a dichotomy between Bar Kokhba and Rabbi Eleazar at work here, for while Bar Kokhba proudly requests that God have no involvement whatsoever in his battles, Rabbi Eleazar continually beseeches God to have mercy on the people, and Rabbi Johanan leaves no doubt which was successful.
The final defeat of Judea came when Rabbi Eleazar was removed from the picture. According to Rabbi Johanan, a Roman agent identified that without Rabbi Eleazar, the Jews would fall. Even the Romans identified the power of the Rabbi in sustaining the survival of the Jews. This agent, though, was able to persuade Bar Kokhba that Rabbi Eleazar was about to betray the city of Bethar to the Romans, and with a kick to the head, Bar Kokhba killed him. This prompted a Bath Kol to issue forth, proclaiming the words of Zechariah 11:17, “Woe to the worthless shepherd that leaveth the flock! The sword shall be upon his arm, and upon his right eye.” Such Bar Kokhba brought on Israel, so it would befall him. In the words of Rabbi Johanan, “the sins [of the people] caused Bethar to be captured” (II.2, 4). Just as the actions of Bar Kokhba clearly allowed for the final destruction of the land at the hands of the Romans, it is also made clear that this was the just wrath of God. Supposedly a snake was found around the neck of the dead Bar Kokhba after his defeat, prompting Hadrian to say, “If his God had not slain him who could have overcome him?” and Deuteronomy 32:30 is cited: “Except their Rock had given them over.” Without Rabbi Eleazar, Bar Kokhba and all the people faced the wrath of God without intercession, and so this is extrapolated to the Rabbis in general. Without them, the people face separation from God.
The destruction of Bethar, according to Rabbi Johanan, was a bloodbath of hyperbolic proportions, perhaps even with sacrificial implication, and Hadrian furthered the gruesomeness of his conquest by fencing in a large vineyard of his with dead bodies from Bethar, which were not to be removed until a certain king commanded it (II.2, 4). Rabbi Huna comments on this wall, using it to explain the origin of the benediction, “Who art kind and dealest kindly,” for the bodies did not rot and they were eventually allowed to be buried, corresponding to the respective halves of the benediction (II.2, 4). Since dead and decaying things are clearly designated as unclean in the Torah, a wall of death would have been a serious issue, so this partly accounts for the rabbis’ interest in postulating such a thing. Perhaps the best interpretation of this is symbolic, in that the revolt caused the Romans to separate the Jewish people from their land, thereby defiling it, and their God, who gives the land and His people life through Judaism, hence the vineyard to which Hadrian laid claim. The emergence of the blessing upon the removal of this barrier is arguably a simple affirmation of the survival of the vineyard of Judaism apart from the land, via the rabbis. Hadrian failed to banish the people from the true vineyard.
Rabbi Johanan next approaches the sins of Bethar that warranted its annihilation at the hands of the Romans, and the great sin was that “the inhabitants kindled lamps [to manifest their joy] over the destruction of the Sanctuary” (II.2, 4). They did this because of mockery and fraud on the part of the Jerusalemites. Rabbi Johanan records that “when one of the inhabitants of Bethar went up there to pray, he would be asked by [the Councilors of the city], ‘Do you wish to become a councilor?’…[and], ‘Do you wish to be a city magistrate?’” (II.2, 4). These things were asked of him to imply that his interest was in the city and not in prayer. It was then asked whether he would sell his estate, for which the Jerusalemite would proceed to forge a deed and send it to estate’s steward (II.2, 4). This persuaded the Betharites to wish ill on Jerusalem and the Temple, but Rabbi Johanan notes Proverbs 17:5, “He that is glad at calamity shall not be unpunished” (II.2, 4). Such explains the wrath that was poured out upon Bethar itself, not just Bar Kokhba and his followers. Justice yet called for satisfaction, and Bethar was to be sacrificed to that end, flooding the city with its own blood and spilling a sanguinary river for miles into the sea.
According to Rabbi Johanan, it is recorded that “The brains of three hundred children [were dashed] upon one stone, and three hundred baskets of capsules of phylacteries were found in Bethar” (II.2, 4). Rabbi Simeon ben Gamaliel continues with some grandiose numbers: “There were five hundred schools in Bethar, and the smallest of them had not less than three hundred children.” Gamaliel then enumerates the fate of those he says were his former schoolfellows, saying that they were all wrapped in their scrolls and burnt. This is perhaps the ultimate attack on Rabbinic Judaism, for not only were the pupils destroyed en masse, so too were just as many Torah scrolls. With one fire, both the written law and the oral law were lost in Bethar, except in Simeon ben Gamaliel. Like the wall of bodies around the vineyard, again the Romans, in the view of these rabbis, attempted to separate the Jewish people from Judaism with death.
The final episode in the text records two brothers in Kefar Haruba, whose death parallels that of Bar Kokhba himself. Of these brothers it is said that they “did not allow any Roman to pass there but they killed him” (II.2, 4), leading them to decide that they must take Hadrian’s crown for themselves. This, like the styling of Bar Kokhba, is reminiscent of messianism, in the sense that a messiah would free Judea from the Romans and, at this point, restore the Temple. They also provide the same quotation regarding the involvement of the Deity in their quest, “Let Him neither help us nor discourage us!” This, though courageous, did not serve to help Bar Kokhba as the rabbis present him, and in this parallel it does no better. The brothers died violently for this attitude, and Hadrian responds to their bodies and the snakes around their necks the same as he did Bar Kokhba. Deuteronomy 32:30 again applies (II.2, 4). Interestingly, they spoke thus in response to the well wishes of an old man, saying, “May the Creator be your help against him!” Most probably, this seems to be an explanation of the rabbinic attitude toward the revolt; specifically, that the rabbis hoped that God would see to it that Bar Kokhba, whose heroism they at least tended to admire, succeeded, but Bar Kokhba would not heed the old man, representing the rabbis, and turn to God. For this reason he and the rest of Judaea faced justice rather than deliverance from Rome.
The rabbis view with frustration the conditions that allowed them to prosper, namely the loss of the Jewish homeland as such and the defeat of most immediate hope for the reconstruction of the Temple. There would be schemes to rebuild it, especially the attempt to do so under Julian the Apostate in the middle of the fourth century, but just as that failed and the rabbinic institution became more important as far as Jewish practice goes. At least the rabbis do not hesitate to ascribe importance to themselves, whether as the voice of reason in the face of sin and chaos or as the keepers of Torah, without whom Judaism as they knew it would collapse. With this in mind, though the facts of the Bar Kokhba revolt are few, the rabbis derived no shortage of commentary from it.
07 December 2008
The Fantastic Christmas Village
Here it is! First we have the traditional Christmas tree, next the fantastic Christmas village in the light of the camera's flash, then another perspective of the fantastic Christmas village, and last the fantastic Christmas village in the dark. I produced this darkness by covering the camera's flashing light with my hand, as I could not figure out how to turn the flash off. It is of course much more fantastic in person. I should throw a feast so that the multitudes might gaze upon it in wonder. The snow is exceedingly fluffy this year, though.
03 December 2008
Orthodoxy, Heresy, and Controversy in the Byzantine Empire
Even as Christianity transformed the Roman Empire under Constantine, heresy had long been a problem for orthodox Christians, primarily in the forms of pagan influence and various Gnostic sects. With both the numerical growth of Christianity and the development of the Church as a Roman institution, though, controversy could come in much more nuanced forms. This essentially refers to the great Christological controversies that would persist until the seventh century and their various proposed solutions. After this, though, the Byzantine Empire would find itself in a much less complex but still highly significant struggle over iconoclasm, and when this disappeared upon the Seventh Ecumenical Council, so ended the final great controversy of the Eastern Empire.
The Arian controversy centered on the teaching of Arius, who in the early fourth century denied the eternity of Christ, His equality with the Father, and that the Father and the Son are of the same substance (Clouse 84). After the Donatists, the Arians were the second heretical group that Constantine faced, and so the Council of Nicaea was called in 325 to establish an orthodoxy that denounced Arianism. As far as the current context is concerned, the most significant result was the adoption of term homoousios, proposed by Constantine himself to describe the Father and the Son as being of the same substance (Frend 140). It is interesting here to note the authority asserted by Constantine, by no means a theologian, in thrusting his term upon the Council. In a sense, it is a sign of the imperial domination of the Eastern Church that is to be witnessed on many occasions by many Byzantine emperors to come.
Arianism was not vanquished by the Council of Nicaea; rather, it would take the later Council of Council of Constantinople in 381 to do that. Called by Theodosius I, it “affirmed the full divinity of …the Christian Trinity,” condemning Arianism in the Empire once and for all (Treadgold 29). Theodosius had called the council because, as a full member of the Church, he felt a particular need to involve himself in the affairs of the Church. Thus he deployed his authority to assemble a council and do away with a heresy in his realm.
Nestorianism arose in the early fifth century following the controversy produced by the objection Nestorius, Archbishop of Constantinople, to the use of the term Theotokos for the Virgin Mary, proposing instead Christokos. He argued that while Mary bore the body of Christ, she could not possibly have borne the Infinite God (Clouse 87). Though it is not what Nestorius proposed in this objection, Nestorianism is the separation of the two natures of Christ into two distinct persons. For the spread of this controversy and for the condemnation of Nestorius at both Rome and Alexandria, Theodosius II called the Council of Ephesus in 431. There, Cyril of Alexandria got Nestorius condemned before his supporters even arrived, but when they did, a Christological dispute broke out between the Alexandrians with Cyril and the Antiochenes with Nestorius. For this Theodosius II deposed both Cyril and Nestorius, though Cyril was able to regain power while Nestorius remained an exile until his death (Clouse 88). Here also the emperor displays complete authority over the bishops, but while Constantine guided their theology toward compromise to promote unity, Theodosius II determined who would be in office to avoid conflict.
Opposed to Nestorianism and far more significant to the development of Byzantine Orthodoxy is Monophysitism, the Christological view that Christ has only one nature, and it is divine. This view was espoused by a monk called Eutyches around the beginning of the fifth century (Clouse 88). Monophysitism was favored by Theodosius II, and so the “Robber Council” of Ephesus was allowed to take place in 449, over which Dioscoros, bishop of Alexandria, presided, showing all favor to Eutyches, “[seeing] to it that only documents favorable to his own cause were read” (Frend 229). It goes without saying that this council ended in favor of Eutyches and Monophysitism, but interestingly, Theodosius died in 450, and being dead his dominant influence was gone from the Church. In 451, therefore, the dyophysites Marcian and Pulcheria ordered the famed Council of Chalcedon, which established the Orthodox, Chalcedonian Christology over a Monophysite Christology, which it condemned with Eutyches (Frend 230-231). The emperor and the empress saw their view affirmed as Orthodoxy.
Despite the monumental statement of orthodox Christology at Chalcedon, Monophysitism was not prepared to disappear, and the number of Monophysite bishops remained high. Compromise was therefore sought, and the first instance of this was the Henotikon of the emperor Zeno, issued in 482. This attempted to unify the Church by leaving the Council of Chalcedon without approval or disapproval and upholding those of Nicaea, Constantinople, and Ephesus. This was an imperial decree, but it sought to establish Church doctrine, specifically the affirmation of the full humanity of Christ so as to achieve elimination of extreme monophysitism (Gregory 108). Naturally, it was the extreme monophysite party that immediately rejected it (Clouse 190). All it really achieved was the creation of the Akakian Schism, named for the Patriarch Akakios, who, as a creature of the emperor, accepted the decree (Gregory 108). The Pope did not, claiming that by ignoring Chalcedon the decree ignored the Tome of Leo, and he excommunicated Akakios (Clouse 190). Thus Zeno’s attempt at compromise led to nothing more than trouble with the West; the Akakian Schism would last until 519. Even if the emperor was able to exert his will over the Patriarch, this did not mean he could do so over the Church at large, especially not in the West.
The next important attempts at compromise on the Monophysite controversy would come under Justinian I, culminating in the Fifth Ecumenical Council at Constantinople in 553. First, however, there was the proposal of Theopaschitism, the belief that “one of the Holy Trinity suffered in the flesh,” as a compromise, which Gregory notes was clearly supported in a 533 law of Justinian. When the Monophysites refused this compromise, Justinian decided that persecution was the answer, so by these means Justinian attempted to develop a unified populace in terms of religious belief; however, this persecution failed, more probably resulting only in the dissemination of the Monophysites more thoroughly through the empire (Gregory 138). For this reason, after years of persecution, Justinian would try again to find a compromise.
The road to the Fifth Ecumenical Council began with an effort to appease the moderate Monophysite majority whose main qualm with Chalcedon was that it had been “tainted with Nestorianism.” The Monophysites demanded the condemnation of three Nestorian bishops, and so Justinian issued the Edict of the Three Chapters in the middle of the 540’s to do just that, and it was generally accepted, but not by the Pope (Treadgold 63). Still desiring the acceptance of the Edict, the Fifth Ecumenical Council, or the Second Council of Constantinople, was called in hopes of its ratification. The eastern bishops went along with the emperor’s wishes, and the Pope was pressured into accepting it at last (Treadgold 65). As for solving the problem of Monophysitism, however, and even for achieving any unity at all, the council was an utter failure. Justinian “had alienated the West, infuriated the Nestorians, and even failed to win over the Monophysites” (Clouse 191).
Even while Justinian was trying to unify the religious factions under his rule, Monophysitism continued to spread without regard for the attempted compromises and Chalcedonian orientation of the emperor. This is the Jacobite Church, led by the bishop Jacob Bardaeus, who as bishop of Edessa wandered the eastern regions of the empire, training and appointing large numbers Monophysite clergy, guaranteeing a lasting Monophysite character in the east. Justinian tried to arrest Bardaeus, but he was unsuccessful (Gregory 139). It would only be the loss of these regions to Islamic invaders that would rid the empire of its Monophysite population, and indeed the hostility of these Monophysites, especially in Egypt thanks to anger over monotheletism, caused many to welcome the change in regime when the Arabs came in 641 (Clouse 192).
Before this, though, much of the East was lost briefly to the Persians in the early seventh century, and it was recovered by Herakleios, who completed its reconquest in 630. Having done this, the bulk of the empire’s Monophysite population was back under the control of Constantinople, and this meant that Monophysitism needed to be addressed once more (Gregory 161). The compromise this time was ultimately Monotheletism, the belief that the two natures of Christ have a single will, but this was only after the Pope and the Patriarch of Jerusalem struck down the attempt of Herakleios and Patriarch Sergios to introduce Monoergism, the belief that the natures of Christ have but one “energy” in 633 (Treadgold 92-93). To advance this doctrine, the emperor published the Ekthesis in 648, declaring it to be imperial policy, but this met no success at all. Chalcedonians and Monophysties were brought no closer, and no beliefs were modified as a result of this imperial mandate (Gregory 161-162). Like Justinian’s attempts at both appeasement and persecution, all monotheletism achieved was schism when the pope condemned the belief in 647 (Clouse 192).
Under Constantine IV, the Sixth Ecumenical Council was called to Constantinople to deal with the issue of Monotheletism, and a Western delegation was also invited. Since the recent Arab conquests had done away with the bulk of the Monophysite influence, the council merely reaffirmed a Chalcedonian Christology without any possibility for Monotheletism or any other previously attempted compromise, and this spelled the end of the Christological controversies at last (Gregory 174). The council also managed to upset the Westerners, which caused the schism to continue until 710 (Clouse 193). So with the rise of Islam and the subsequent loss of much of the Byzantine Empire’s Eastern territory and the proponents of Monophysitism nearly all gone, the need for the Byzantine state to deal with Christology, indeed, most any complex theological issue, was greatly diminished. The consequence of this would be the next and final great controversy, iconoclasm.
The iconoclasm of the eighth century turned out to be the final great controversy of the Orthodox Church under the Byzantine Empire, and in this controversy are echoes of much of earlier Byzantine history. According to Warren Treadgold, “Most Byzantines…believed that their military and political misfortunes showed God’s anger against them” (116). In response to this supposed divine anger, the emperor Leo III outlawed the veneration of icons in 730, and he did so most likely because of “his belief that the veneration of ikons was wrong and that, as emperor, he had a responsibility to God and to his subjects to insist on correct religious practice” (Gregory 192). Thus the iconoclastic controversy began, with an emperor inventing a doctrine in a vain effort to appease God.
Neither the majority of the Byzantine people nor of the Orthodox ecclesiastics agreed with Leo that icons were a problem. Of course, the West was also adamantly opposed to iconoclasm, since icons and images were prominent in Western Christianity (Clouse 193). Notably, John of Damascus, immediately responded with his On Images, which basically argues that “the image is a memorial, just what words are to a listening ear” (Gregory 188), to quote the text itself. Rather than standing on theological grounds, Leo’s argument was largely based on flimsy reasoning from the Law and other admonitions against idol worship found in the Old Testament. Of course, this is no surprise considering the decline of the educational system in the time before the iconoclastic controversy, so much so that “iconoclasts and iconophiles were accusing each other, with reason, of ignorance of theology” (Treadgold 121). This was not the same sort of controversy as any preceding it. This was purely a matter of imperial meddling.
The meddling only grew worse under Leo’s son and successor, Constantine V, who began to openly persecute uncooperative iconophiles. To further complicate the matter, probably having identified the weakness of the earlier defenses of iconoclasm, Constantine V decided to draw Christology into the controversy. Under his rule, iconoclast theology advanced that, in order to venerate an icon, one must abandon a Chalcedonian Christology, for the icon cannot possibly represent both the human and the divine nature of Christ. In order to further legitimize his position, Constantine V called the Council of Hiera in 754, which was packed in order to affirm iconoclasm (Gregory 196). It did just that, according to the emperor’s wishes, even in the face of opposition from the likes of John of Damascus.
These emperors had ample reason to meddle in ecclesiastical affairs. The flourishing of popular religion, through such things as icons and hagiographies (Treadgold 117), was a threat to an emperor under whose rule the Eastern Church had always been subject. This new multitude of objects of veneration could not possibly encourage the veneration of the emperor, the representative of God, and so it is naturally concluded that God must not be receiving the proper veneration, either. Gregory grants the analogy some plausibility (192). It is not implausible to think the emperor would prefer to be the one representative of one god, rather than to allow for many representations of God, angels, saints, and so forth. In this way, the divide is almost like that between Christianity and paganism.
After these two emperors, the iconophiles regained control through Irene, the widow of Constantine V. She called the Seventh Ecumenical Council, the Second Council of Nicaea, to meet in 787. There, iconoclasm was “duly condemned,” but “Iconoclasts were allowed to repent” (Gregory 198). In 813, however, the iconoclast Leo V assumed the throne, and he immediately set about enforcing an iconoclastic program in the style of Leo III. He replaced the Patriarch Nikepherous with John Grammatikos, who acknowledged the Council of Hiera, which an emperor again demonstrated his power to do. Iconoclasm had begun its resurgence, but Leo V was assassinated in 820 (Gregory 205). The conspirator that then took control of the Byzantine Empire was Michael II, another iconoclaste. His heir was his son Theophilus, whose iconoclastic background had made its impact. His wife Theodora, however, was not of like mind, and after Theophilus’ death, iconoclasm was put down for good (Treadgold 130-131). Such is the triumph of Orthodoxy.
From the deep and difficult philosophical questions of Christology to the brute assertion of iconoclasm, the Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Empire faced constant difficulty. Emperors, even with the most pragmatic intentions of unifying the Eastern Church, continually exerted their authority over the Church, but this did not translate to an exertion of authority over belief. Thus lingering issues, especially Monophysitism, managed to persist, for better or for worse. Eventually, though, as the Byzantine state weakened and territory was lost, the smaller and more cohesive empire saw a semblance of the unity that the older emperors had sought for their much more widespread domains. By the ninth century, Orthodox belief had become mostly stable, but at great political expense on the part of the empire.
Bibliography
Clouse, Robert, Richard Pierard, and Edwin Yamauchi. Two Kingdoms. The Church and Culture through the Ages. Moody, Chicago: 1993.
Frend, W.H.C. The Early Church. Fortune Press, Minneapolis: 1982.
Gregory, Timothy. A History of Byzantium. Blackwell, Malden, MA: 2005.
Treadgold, Warren. A Concise History of Byzantium. Palgrave, New York: 2001.
The Arian controversy centered on the teaching of Arius, who in the early fourth century denied the eternity of Christ, His equality with the Father, and that the Father and the Son are of the same substance (Clouse 84). After the Donatists, the Arians were the second heretical group that Constantine faced, and so the Council of Nicaea was called in 325 to establish an orthodoxy that denounced Arianism. As far as the current context is concerned, the most significant result was the adoption of term homoousios, proposed by Constantine himself to describe the Father and the Son as being of the same substance (Frend 140). It is interesting here to note the authority asserted by Constantine, by no means a theologian, in thrusting his term upon the Council. In a sense, it is a sign of the imperial domination of the Eastern Church that is to be witnessed on many occasions by many Byzantine emperors to come.
Arianism was not vanquished by the Council of Nicaea; rather, it would take the later Council of Council of Constantinople in 381 to do that. Called by Theodosius I, it “affirmed the full divinity of …the Christian Trinity,” condemning Arianism in the Empire once and for all (Treadgold 29). Theodosius had called the council because, as a full member of the Church, he felt a particular need to involve himself in the affairs of the Church. Thus he deployed his authority to assemble a council and do away with a heresy in his realm.
Nestorianism arose in the early fifth century following the controversy produced by the objection Nestorius, Archbishop of Constantinople, to the use of the term Theotokos for the Virgin Mary, proposing instead Christokos. He argued that while Mary bore the body of Christ, she could not possibly have borne the Infinite God (Clouse 87). Though it is not what Nestorius proposed in this objection, Nestorianism is the separation of the two natures of Christ into two distinct persons. For the spread of this controversy and for the condemnation of Nestorius at both Rome and Alexandria, Theodosius II called the Council of Ephesus in 431. There, Cyril of Alexandria got Nestorius condemned before his supporters even arrived, but when they did, a Christological dispute broke out between the Alexandrians with Cyril and the Antiochenes with Nestorius. For this Theodosius II deposed both Cyril and Nestorius, though Cyril was able to regain power while Nestorius remained an exile until his death (Clouse 88). Here also the emperor displays complete authority over the bishops, but while Constantine guided their theology toward compromise to promote unity, Theodosius II determined who would be in office to avoid conflict.
Opposed to Nestorianism and far more significant to the development of Byzantine Orthodoxy is Monophysitism, the Christological view that Christ has only one nature, and it is divine. This view was espoused by a monk called Eutyches around the beginning of the fifth century (Clouse 88). Monophysitism was favored by Theodosius II, and so the “Robber Council” of Ephesus was allowed to take place in 449, over which Dioscoros, bishop of Alexandria, presided, showing all favor to Eutyches, “[seeing] to it that only documents favorable to his own cause were read” (Frend 229). It goes without saying that this council ended in favor of Eutyches and Monophysitism, but interestingly, Theodosius died in 450, and being dead his dominant influence was gone from the Church. In 451, therefore, the dyophysites Marcian and Pulcheria ordered the famed Council of Chalcedon, which established the Orthodox, Chalcedonian Christology over a Monophysite Christology, which it condemned with Eutyches (Frend 230-231). The emperor and the empress saw their view affirmed as Orthodoxy.
Despite the monumental statement of orthodox Christology at Chalcedon, Monophysitism was not prepared to disappear, and the number of Monophysite bishops remained high. Compromise was therefore sought, and the first instance of this was the Henotikon of the emperor Zeno, issued in 482. This attempted to unify the Church by leaving the Council of Chalcedon without approval or disapproval and upholding those of Nicaea, Constantinople, and Ephesus. This was an imperial decree, but it sought to establish Church doctrine, specifically the affirmation of the full humanity of Christ so as to achieve elimination of extreme monophysitism (Gregory 108). Naturally, it was the extreme monophysite party that immediately rejected it (Clouse 190). All it really achieved was the creation of the Akakian Schism, named for the Patriarch Akakios, who, as a creature of the emperor, accepted the decree (Gregory 108). The Pope did not, claiming that by ignoring Chalcedon the decree ignored the Tome of Leo, and he excommunicated Akakios (Clouse 190). Thus Zeno’s attempt at compromise led to nothing more than trouble with the West; the Akakian Schism would last until 519. Even if the emperor was able to exert his will over the Patriarch, this did not mean he could do so over the Church at large, especially not in the West.
The next important attempts at compromise on the Monophysite controversy would come under Justinian I, culminating in the Fifth Ecumenical Council at Constantinople in 553. First, however, there was the proposal of Theopaschitism, the belief that “one of the Holy Trinity suffered in the flesh,” as a compromise, which Gregory notes was clearly supported in a 533 law of Justinian. When the Monophysites refused this compromise, Justinian decided that persecution was the answer, so by these means Justinian attempted to develop a unified populace in terms of religious belief; however, this persecution failed, more probably resulting only in the dissemination of the Monophysites more thoroughly through the empire (Gregory 138). For this reason, after years of persecution, Justinian would try again to find a compromise.
The road to the Fifth Ecumenical Council began with an effort to appease the moderate Monophysite majority whose main qualm with Chalcedon was that it had been “tainted with Nestorianism.” The Monophysites demanded the condemnation of three Nestorian bishops, and so Justinian issued the Edict of the Three Chapters in the middle of the 540’s to do just that, and it was generally accepted, but not by the Pope (Treadgold 63). Still desiring the acceptance of the Edict, the Fifth Ecumenical Council, or the Second Council of Constantinople, was called in hopes of its ratification. The eastern bishops went along with the emperor’s wishes, and the Pope was pressured into accepting it at last (Treadgold 65). As for solving the problem of Monophysitism, however, and even for achieving any unity at all, the council was an utter failure. Justinian “had alienated the West, infuriated the Nestorians, and even failed to win over the Monophysites” (Clouse 191).
Even while Justinian was trying to unify the religious factions under his rule, Monophysitism continued to spread without regard for the attempted compromises and Chalcedonian orientation of the emperor. This is the Jacobite Church, led by the bishop Jacob Bardaeus, who as bishop of Edessa wandered the eastern regions of the empire, training and appointing large numbers Monophysite clergy, guaranteeing a lasting Monophysite character in the east. Justinian tried to arrest Bardaeus, but he was unsuccessful (Gregory 139). It would only be the loss of these regions to Islamic invaders that would rid the empire of its Monophysite population, and indeed the hostility of these Monophysites, especially in Egypt thanks to anger over monotheletism, caused many to welcome the change in regime when the Arabs came in 641 (Clouse 192).
Before this, though, much of the East was lost briefly to the Persians in the early seventh century, and it was recovered by Herakleios, who completed its reconquest in 630. Having done this, the bulk of the empire’s Monophysite population was back under the control of Constantinople, and this meant that Monophysitism needed to be addressed once more (Gregory 161). The compromise this time was ultimately Monotheletism, the belief that the two natures of Christ have a single will, but this was only after the Pope and the Patriarch of Jerusalem struck down the attempt of Herakleios and Patriarch Sergios to introduce Monoergism, the belief that the natures of Christ have but one “energy” in 633 (Treadgold 92-93). To advance this doctrine, the emperor published the Ekthesis in 648, declaring it to be imperial policy, but this met no success at all. Chalcedonians and Monophysties were brought no closer, and no beliefs were modified as a result of this imperial mandate (Gregory 161-162). Like Justinian’s attempts at both appeasement and persecution, all monotheletism achieved was schism when the pope condemned the belief in 647 (Clouse 192).
Under Constantine IV, the Sixth Ecumenical Council was called to Constantinople to deal with the issue of Monotheletism, and a Western delegation was also invited. Since the recent Arab conquests had done away with the bulk of the Monophysite influence, the council merely reaffirmed a Chalcedonian Christology without any possibility for Monotheletism or any other previously attempted compromise, and this spelled the end of the Christological controversies at last (Gregory 174). The council also managed to upset the Westerners, which caused the schism to continue until 710 (Clouse 193). So with the rise of Islam and the subsequent loss of much of the Byzantine Empire’s Eastern territory and the proponents of Monophysitism nearly all gone, the need for the Byzantine state to deal with Christology, indeed, most any complex theological issue, was greatly diminished. The consequence of this would be the next and final great controversy, iconoclasm.
The iconoclasm of the eighth century turned out to be the final great controversy of the Orthodox Church under the Byzantine Empire, and in this controversy are echoes of much of earlier Byzantine history. According to Warren Treadgold, “Most Byzantines…believed that their military and political misfortunes showed God’s anger against them” (116). In response to this supposed divine anger, the emperor Leo III outlawed the veneration of icons in 730, and he did so most likely because of “his belief that the veneration of ikons was wrong and that, as emperor, he had a responsibility to God and to his subjects to insist on correct religious practice” (Gregory 192). Thus the iconoclastic controversy began, with an emperor inventing a doctrine in a vain effort to appease God.
Neither the majority of the Byzantine people nor of the Orthodox ecclesiastics agreed with Leo that icons were a problem. Of course, the West was also adamantly opposed to iconoclasm, since icons and images were prominent in Western Christianity (Clouse 193). Notably, John of Damascus, immediately responded with his On Images, which basically argues that “the image is a memorial, just what words are to a listening ear” (Gregory 188), to quote the text itself. Rather than standing on theological grounds, Leo’s argument was largely based on flimsy reasoning from the Law and other admonitions against idol worship found in the Old Testament. Of course, this is no surprise considering the decline of the educational system in the time before the iconoclastic controversy, so much so that “iconoclasts and iconophiles were accusing each other, with reason, of ignorance of theology” (Treadgold 121). This was not the same sort of controversy as any preceding it. This was purely a matter of imperial meddling.
The meddling only grew worse under Leo’s son and successor, Constantine V, who began to openly persecute uncooperative iconophiles. To further complicate the matter, probably having identified the weakness of the earlier defenses of iconoclasm, Constantine V decided to draw Christology into the controversy. Under his rule, iconoclast theology advanced that, in order to venerate an icon, one must abandon a Chalcedonian Christology, for the icon cannot possibly represent both the human and the divine nature of Christ. In order to further legitimize his position, Constantine V called the Council of Hiera in 754, which was packed in order to affirm iconoclasm (Gregory 196). It did just that, according to the emperor’s wishes, even in the face of opposition from the likes of John of Damascus.
These emperors had ample reason to meddle in ecclesiastical affairs. The flourishing of popular religion, through such things as icons and hagiographies (Treadgold 117), was a threat to an emperor under whose rule the Eastern Church had always been subject. This new multitude of objects of veneration could not possibly encourage the veneration of the emperor, the representative of God, and so it is naturally concluded that God must not be receiving the proper veneration, either. Gregory grants the analogy some plausibility (192). It is not implausible to think the emperor would prefer to be the one representative of one god, rather than to allow for many representations of God, angels, saints, and so forth. In this way, the divide is almost like that between Christianity and paganism.
After these two emperors, the iconophiles regained control through Irene, the widow of Constantine V. She called the Seventh Ecumenical Council, the Second Council of Nicaea, to meet in 787. There, iconoclasm was “duly condemned,” but “Iconoclasts were allowed to repent” (Gregory 198). In 813, however, the iconoclast Leo V assumed the throne, and he immediately set about enforcing an iconoclastic program in the style of Leo III. He replaced the Patriarch Nikepherous with John Grammatikos, who acknowledged the Council of Hiera, which an emperor again demonstrated his power to do. Iconoclasm had begun its resurgence, but Leo V was assassinated in 820 (Gregory 205). The conspirator that then took control of the Byzantine Empire was Michael II, another iconoclaste. His heir was his son Theophilus, whose iconoclastic background had made its impact. His wife Theodora, however, was not of like mind, and after Theophilus’ death, iconoclasm was put down for good (Treadgold 130-131). Such is the triumph of Orthodoxy.
From the deep and difficult philosophical questions of Christology to the brute assertion of iconoclasm, the Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Empire faced constant difficulty. Emperors, even with the most pragmatic intentions of unifying the Eastern Church, continually exerted their authority over the Church, but this did not translate to an exertion of authority over belief. Thus lingering issues, especially Monophysitism, managed to persist, for better or for worse. Eventually, though, as the Byzantine state weakened and territory was lost, the smaller and more cohesive empire saw a semblance of the unity that the older emperors had sought for their much more widespread domains. By the ninth century, Orthodox belief had become mostly stable, but at great political expense on the part of the empire.
Bibliography
Clouse, Robert, Richard Pierard, and Edwin Yamauchi. Two Kingdoms. The Church and Culture through the Ages. Moody, Chicago: 1993.
Frend, W.H.C. The Early Church. Fortune Press, Minneapolis: 1982.
Gregory, Timothy. A History of Byzantium. Blackwell, Malden, MA: 2005.
Treadgold, Warren. A Concise History of Byzantium. Palgrave, New York: 2001.
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