BOOK REVIEW: CHRIST AND THE COUNCIL

Orthodoxy is a fraught term in the Christian faith. On the one hand, proponents for thinking in an orthodox manner might stridently argue for the high importance of clarity of thought when speaking about a topic so important, so consequential, as the worship of the Almighty God. To think rightly about God, to think in a manner that conforms with God’s true character and eschew forms of thinking that make God into something lesser than God is — these are matters of great importance! Yet sometimes in the history of the Church it becomes clear that thinking in a strictly “orthodox” manner falls short: there are new frontiers of thinking where the guidelines have become less clear, or perhaps new information has challenged the assumptions we made regarding those former guidelines. Transformations of Church teaching often come hand-in-hand with transformations in the world, in capacities of human consciousness, in fresh expressions of religious and political organization.

And all this is before we even consider the fact that those who call themselves the “orthodox” party are often beset by challenges from still others, no less faithful in their callings as theologians or thinkers or ministers than the ones who gave themselves the “orthodox” title and who quite likely perceive themselves as the “orthodox” party. This, in turn, raises suspicion for those who critically engage with the history of Christian teaching: one group may have “won the day” in a given event and gained the privilege to add their names to the category of “historical orthodoxy,” as we receive it now, but what about the losers – is their Christianity still… our Christianity? This, in a nutshell, is the spiritual core of Rev. Benjamin Wyatt’s recently published book Christ and the Council, based in part on the Road to Nicaea podcast he produced with Earth & Altar in celebration of the 1700th anniversary of the Nicene Creed. The book is a warm, personable exploration of a critical moment in Church history, providing a survey of the crises of the fourth century for those unfamiliar with the era, and providing a fresh retelling of that history for those who haven’t read Tertullian since seminary. But the true heart of the book, as outlined in Wyatt’s introduction, is the underlying concern about what it looks like for Christians to think in an “orthodox” manner.

Of course, ink is constantly spilling over this question of “orthodoxy.” Modern Christians wrestle and wrangle on all kinds of arguments and seek to broadcast, with a measure of clarity, their views on particular topics. The very publication this article is written for exists, for example, to produce writing that engages with “inclusive orthodoxy,” that is, a vision of Christian teaching that incorporates both historical orthodox positions (on the nature of God, on the nature of the Church, and so on) and a committed stance towards egalitarian inclusion of LGBTQ people. There are plenty of people in the Church today who find either of those positions problematic. So what is it that Wyatt offers here that is distinct from any of the other innumerable articulations of “orthodoxy” in the 21st century or in the seventeen centuries that preceded it?

Underneath “orthodoxy,” Christ and the Council unearths for us a vision of “how the sausage gets made,” in Christian terms. Behind the creeds (there are many!), behind the dogmatic positions, there are human beings: bishops, emperors, priests, monastics, and laypersons rioting in the streets. In the fourth century, as in the twenty-first, there were all kinds of theological matters that were open for debate, and a diverse cast of characters who played some role in “settling” those debates. Some of these individuals, such as poor St. Athanasius of Alexandria, experienced severe setbacks; others, like Arius, would become marked as heretics and end up as the punchline of theological jokes ever since. Still others, like the various Roman emperors starting with Constantine’s line who gathered these fourth century ecumenical councils, loom large in the horizons of our suspicions: did the emperors’ voice become the foundation of Christian doctrine? Did the emperors’ power influence and shift the directives of the bishops?

Wyatt’s chief skill in all this is not merely the presentation of the story of these doctrinal developments and all the people behind them, but in the weaving of that story such that the readers understand the complexity belied by the oft-spoken statement: “the Church teaches... [insert doctrine here].” One version of the Nicene Creed was circulated at Nicea in 325, but it wasn’t as widely accepted in the way we tend to assume until an amended version was presented at Constantinople in 381, and even then there remained detractors. What Wyatt showcases for his readers is the tug-of-war that happens when the Church seeks out clarity in its teaching — the different groups who emerge to articulate their particular visions, the ways some groups make temporary alliances and influence one another, the constant processes of negotiations, which, in the 4th century, are not helped by occasional Roman interventions — exiling one party, un-exiling another, and so on.

Christ and the Council is a book riven by the question “what is orthodoxy?” and it comes to an answer that, while less exact that certain so-called “orthodox” thinkers today may wish, is nevertheless the Christian response: orthodoxy is that which emerges from the Church over the course of its conflict and discernment. It does not descend from on high, like the Ten Commandments, and it is not venerated as a sacred text, like the Scriptures. It is born of conflict, and, as is true of all conflicts, it carries with it the weight and pain that emerges as Christians disagree, and then later fervently disagree, and then still later excommunicate over their differences. Yet Wyatt’s book is not a book about disunity — it is, in fact, a mysterious story of unity, of the various ways and means by which the Holy Spirit, working and speaking through God’s people in historical time, guides the Church toward common language with which to speak about God.

In that sense, this book fills the reader with a sense of hope. It took the Church fifty-plus years to (mostly!) settle on a decision regarding the Nicene Creed, a creed that is shared by over two billion Christians across the planet today! Perhaps what we find ourselves in the thick of debating today is a matter that, in one hundred, two hundred, years all Christians will find themselves sharing in common? Perhaps the conflicts over which we toil, in ink, in sweat, even in blood, today are sowing the seeds for a greater unity that we cannot yet perceive, orchestrated by the Holy Spirit? It is that process — the hidden dialectics of the divine guidance — that comes through the meat-grinder of ecumenical councils, imperial sanctions, and fights for episcopal sees and emerges as the true character of “orthodoxy” through this book.