‘The significance of which is — what exactly?’ enquired a puzzled-looking deacon.
‘The three writers were all Nestorians,’ replied Stephen. ‘For the benefit of those of you whose knowledge of ancient ecclesiastical history may be sketchy, I shall endeavour to explain. Back in the time of Emperor Theodosius the Second, one Nestorius, a Patriarch of Constantinople, propounded the doctrine that Christ was essentially a man, but a man onto whom God grafted a divine nature, making Him a single entity you could call a God-man. After the Council of Chalcedon, such a doctrine was naturally obnoxious both to Chalcedonians for whom Christ has two natures, human and divine, and also to the Monophysites, who believe that Christ has only one, divine, nature.’
‘So, if I’ve understood you aright, Apocrisiarius,’ put in a presbyter in tones half-disbelieving, half-exasperated, ‘in condemning the writings of these three disciples of Nestorius, who was anathema to Chalcedonians and Monophysites alike, Justinian’s hoping to curry favour with both sects. How? By reheating a forgotten controversy from the past, on which, at the time, they both happened to share the same view. Surely that does absolutely nothing to resolve the fundamental differences between the two creeds? This Edict seems to me just a crude attempt to paint over the cracks.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ concurred Stephen warmly.
‘This is classic Justinian,’ fumed a bishop. ‘All smoke and mirrors, designed to obfuscate what he’s really trying to do — make concessions to a foul Egyptian heresy. Well, I for one refuse to subscribe to such a shabby ruse.’
‘And I!. . And I!. .’ An angry chorus of agreement erupted throughout the chamber.
‘Who the hell does Justinian think he is, laying down the law on matters of theology?’ shouted a fiery-eyed lector. ‘That’s for the Pope and the Patriarch of Constantinople to decide. This whole charade’s a blatant con, designed to fob us off!’
Which pretty well summed up the mood of the assembly, and, when news of the Edict reached the streets, of Rome itself, eventually of all of Italy and Africa. Within a few weeks, the Condemnation of the Three Chapters had become, so far as the West was concerned, as dead a letter as the Laws of Hammurabi, the Edict viewed as a Trojan Horse to sneak in concord with Monophysitism by the back door.
In the East, the Edict was received with scarcely more enthusiasm than in the West. What the Monophysite clergy (now in the ascendant, thanks to the evangelizing clout of Jacob Baradaeus) wanted, was not the condemnation of Nestorius but the creed of Chalcedon itself. However, made subject, by Geography, to direct pressure from Justinian and Menas, the strongly Chalcedonian Patriarch of Constantinople, most of them reluctantly gave their assent to the imperial decree — a surrender which, in Menas’ case, resulted in his excommunication by a furious and disgusted Stephen.*
Arriving in Constantinople,** Vigilius was welcomed at the harbour by Justinian himself. Treated with respect and cordiality as an honoured and distinguished guest, the Pontiff nonetheless soon found himself under pressure (relentless though courteously applied) from his imperial host — and in a quandary. Vigilius, a covert Monophysite, owed his election as Pope to the machinations of Theodora who, as a quid pro quo, expected him to promote the Monophysite cause in the West: a virtually impossible commission, considering the loathing in which the staunchly Chalcedonian West Romans held the eastern creed. An arch-trimmer and survivalist, Vigilius, however, had brought off a tricky balancing act. Keeping his Monophysite sympathies to himself, he had avoided offending the Western clergy, while at the same time keeping Theodora at bay with endless excuses regarding the delay in proselytizing on behalf of Monophysitism.
But now, a virtual prisoner in the eastern capital with both emperor and empress holding him to account, the wily Pope could vacillate no longer. Yielding to the inevitable, Vigilius handed to Justinian and Theodora* a signed statement declaring his condemnation of the Three Chapters. Fully aware that if this became public knowledge in the West his authority as Pope would disappear, he managed to persuade the imperial couple that his signed statement should remain secret until he, Vigilius, had had time to hold a final enquiry into the views expressed in the Three Chapters. Breathing a huge sigh of relief at obtaining this all-important concession, Vigilius set about preparing his case against the moment of truth when he must reveal his stance regarding the Three Chapters — whatever that stance should turn out to be.
In his luxurious suite in Constantinople’s Palace of Placidia, Vigilius stared at his reflection in the looking-glass. What had happened, he wondered, to that sleek young deacon who, eleven years before, had — thanks to Theodora and Antonina — found himself the occupant of Peter’s Throne? That his promotion had involved the deposition and subsequent ‘disappearance’ of Pope Silverius had not cost the ambitious cleric any sleep; climbing the ladder of success necessarily involved stamping on others’ fingers on the rungs. What had put lines on those once-smooth cheeks and thinned a luxurious mop to a few greying strands on a balding pate, was the strain of constantly having to maintain a precarious balance between fobbing off Theodora and keeping up a pro-Chalcedonian front for the benefit of Western bishops.
In practice, what this had entailed was endless procrastination regarding his promise to Theodora, involving the fabrication of convincing reasons as to why it was never quite the right time to keep his side of the bargain. For let the clergy and people of Italy once suspect him of compromising with what they saw as heresy, the ensuing uproar could bring about his downfall. And that, he was determined, he would never allow to happen. He relished the feel of the pallium about his shoulders far too much to let another take it from him.
Yet there was a very real and present risk of precisely that happening. Time had finally run out for Vigilius. For today he must address the synod formally convoked to enquire into the views expressed in the Three Chapters. And, in addressing the synod, composed of seventy bishops from the West, he must finally reveal that he had signed that statement condemning the Three Chapters — news that would be as welcome to the bishops, as a side of bacon in a synagogue. It would take all of his negotiating skills to tread a safe path through the maze of theological pitfalls that awaited him.
‘. . and after diligently perusing the aforementioned Chapters of Theodore, Theoderet, and Ibas, and carefully weighing up the views expressed therein, I came to the conclusion — a surprising one to me, I must confess — that these were in fact extremely dangerous men whose ideas, unless anathematized, could lead men into heresy. Consider this, my friends.’ Looking round the seventy attentive faces in the audience chamber, Vigilius assumed an expression of meekness and humility, then went on, ‘Nestorius, whose views these men subscribed to, held that the Virgin Mary was not the Theotokos or Mother of God, but the mother of the man Jesus only, not of the divine Christ. I ask you, as a humble seeker after truth, can such a view be tenable?’ (In fact, Vigilius hadn’t the faintest idea if it was tenable or otherwise. He had never read the works of Theodore et al., and was simply parroting the words of the ecclesiastic assigned by Justinian to ‘enlighten’ him.)