“And it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that everyone should be registered. … And everyone went to be registered, each one to his city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (for he was of the house and family of David:) to be registered with Mary, his espoused wife, who was with child.”
Thus begins the beautiful story of Gospel of Luke about the Nativity. Note the prominent mention of Caesar Augustus: from its beginning, the religious movement founded by Jesus would be closely linked to the Roman Empire. Then, as now, religion and politics were intertwined, sometimes as adversaries but just as often symbiotically.
In “Ancient Christianity: The first five hundred years”, Paula Fredriksen – professor emerita of Scripture at Boston University and professor emerita of Comparative Religion at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem – explores the complex question of how a sect located in what is now Israel could become a stable and universal Roman church. His approach is primarily historical, even sociological, charting how early “Christianities” – passionate, argumentative and multivocal – were gradually, and then forcibly, silenced by both secular and ecclesiastical insistence that everyone sing the same tune.
At first, Jesus’ promise of salvation did not extend beyond his fellow Jews. Throughout the canonical gospels, as Fredriksen notes, he appears as an observant Jew, “frequenting synagogues, participating in the great Jewish pilgrimage festivals, reciting the central prayer of Judaism, the Shema; wearing the Jewish prayer fringe on his clothing; giving instructions on fasting and prayer, on offerings in the temple, on the appropriate dimensions of Jewish ritual objects.”
After the crucifixion and resurrection, Jesus’ followers believed they would live to see the second coming of their savior, when he would return to Earth, defeat his enemies, redeem the living and the dead, and usher in a thousand years of the kingdom of Jesus. God before the final judgment. When these apocalyptic events did not occur, the disciples had to recalibrate, postponing the end times further and further into the future. They also expanded and redoubled their efforts to spread the gospel to non-Jews. The apostle Paul, in particular, would bring the good news to the greater Greco-Roman empire. As Fredriksen points out, many pagans were already attracted to Judaism. Synagogues often functioned as community centers, welcoming “God-fearing” Gentiles who wished to learn about Israel’s religious traditions and beliefs. To this sympathetic group, Christianized Jews began to talk about Jesus, salvation, and his coming kingdom on Earth.
Paul’s evangelism naturally took him to Rome, where both he and Peter were martyrs. In common belief, early Christians were thought to be regularly thrown to lions because they refused to bow down to idols. For the most part, this was not the case. Rome tolerated a multitude of religions, including Judaism and various subgroups of Christianity. Before Diocletian, who, between 303 and 313, instituted widespread persecution, there was no specific law prohibiting Christianity. As Fredriksen writes: “Most religions, in fact, were neither legal nor illegal: they simply existed, being a defining and inherent part of the ethnic packaging of ancient empire people groups.”
What mattered to the emperor and the Roman authorities was simply staying on the good side of their own susceptible deities. Therefore, periodic ceremonies honoring the gods were essential to ensure their benevolence. As long as Christians did not cause problems in performing this civic duty, they were left alone.
Many, if not most, never considered it an impediment to their personal religious beliefs. Those who did break Roman laws could eventually end up as martyrs, but there were fewer of these than you might imagine. Christian friends routinely visited convicts in prison and even appeared at the arena to provide spiritual support. They neither feared nor expected retaliation.
All this began to change in the year 312. According to legend, just before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, a Roman commander saw a cross in the sky with the inscription “In hoc signo vinces” (“With this sign you will conquer”). Constantine won the battle and with it the imperial crown, shortly thereafter making Christianity the de facto official religion of the Roman Empire. However, he was not particularly Christian himself: he had his rival Licinius murdered, along with his 9-year-old son, as well as his own wife and eldest son. Only on his deathbed would Constantine be baptized.
But none of this prevented him from acting as the supreme arbiter of Christian dogma. As Fredriksen writes: “I convened an ‘ecumenical’ episcopal council, that is, at the imperial level, to be held under imperial patronage at Nicaea in the year 325. And he himself would be present, to ensure the result he sought: concord. ”
Above all, Roman rulers detested unrest, although stability could be difficult to achieve. “In a fifty-year period,” Fredriksen notes, “about 25 emperors came and went.” Constantine recognized that a uniform state religion would allow for better control of the empire’s citizens and conquests. However, the multiple Christianities then flourishing were deeply divided over many theological complexities.
For example, could the temperamental and somewhat selfish god of Pentateuchdisproportionately interested in blood sacrifices, really be the father of sweet Jesus? Some sects argued that there was a superior deity of pure and ineffable spirit and that the god of Genesis He was simply a kind of demiurge or “contractor god” employed to create the world. Was Jesus fully god and fully human, or did he only appear to be human, as the Docetists argued? How did the Trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit really work? Does only the soul ascend to a heavenly realm? And what about the promise that our bodies and souls will one day be reunited? Pelagius argued that original sin—that is, that even newborns were condemned until they were baptized—was unworthy of a good and just God. Not least, there was a theological mystery that people still struggle with to this day. As Fredriksen puts it: “Why, if the world was the creation of a completely good and all-powerful deity, were things as bad as they were?”
Some of these questions would be addressed at the Council of Nicaea, where its pronouncements—summarized in the Nicene Creed—were promulgated as the standard of orthodoxy at the imperial level. Those who believed otherwise were thereafter declared heretics, and Christian diversity was criminalized. According to Fredriksen, more Christians were subsequently martyred for their outlawed beliefs than had been fed to the lions in the days before Constantine ascended the throne. When some Donatists self-immolated inside their burning church, Augustine, the most profound mind of late antiquity, actually wrote: “It is better that a few Donatists burn in their own flames…than their vast majority perish in the flames of hell.” ”. As Fredriksen notes with due asperity, “from this principle of pastoral concern, Augustine developed a theological justification for the use of coercion against other Christians.”
Still, Constantine’s most brilliant strategy for quickly achieving the order, harmony, and uniformity required by imperial Christianity lay in reinforcing the emerging power of the bishops, especially those with metropolitan sees. By granting him gifts, money and other forms of patronage, these prelates, leaders of his communities, became his administrative tools, a kind of clerical magistracy, helping him maintain control over the vast empire.
Previous histories of Christianity, such as the classic The Early Church of Henry Chadwickare based predominantly on the written records and correspondence of the Church Fathers, intellectuals highly educated in Roman rhetoric and Greek philosophy. In contrast, Fredriksen gives equal weight to what ordinary people believed and how they practiced their new faith. In most respects, he concludes, they differed little from their non-Christian contemporaries in “complying with imperial edicts, soliciting the services of astrologers and various ritual experts,” and attending “gladiator contests, horse races, and other rituals.” shows.”
While Augustine and Jerome could debate doctrinal niceties, the common people wanted a religion that offered solace and community, one touched by mystery and magic, which partly explains why they preserved many traditions from their pagan past. Weren’t the miraculous powers attributed to the sacraments essentially Christianized magic? In Mediterranean culture, people regularly gathered in cemeteries to drink and feast at the graves of their ancestors. To the annoyance of local bishops, similar boisterous celebrations were now held over the graves of devotees or martyrs. Fredriksen argues that these convivia articulated how ordinary people imagined life after death, at least until the Last Judgment. The highest minds could anticipate being some kind of Platonic soul bathing in the eternal light of God, but that sounded pretty boring, especially compared to a wonderful party with plenty of food, good friends, and lots of drink. Today, some of that same earthly conviviality survives, and even thrives, as a large part of the Christmas festivities.
Although unlikely to please religious conservatives, “Ancient Christianity” is a masterpiece of research and academic thought. To guide non-specialist readers, it includes a chronology and glossary of specialized terms, as well as 20 pages of lightly annotated further reading. Fredriksen makes a compelling argument that, for better or worse, these varied, deeply felt, and often admirable “Christianities” would never have become the global institution we now call “Christianity” were it not for help—and the legalistic and organizational example—of the Roman Empire.
Fuente: The Washington Post
