Our Scandalous Emperor-Saint

by presbyter Justin Patt erson

When I was a student at Saint Vladimir’s Seminary back in the mid-2000s, a literary phenomenon swept the United States. The author Dan Brown captivated believers and non-believers alike with his bestseller, The Da Vinci Code. At the request of panicked parishioners in my first parish, whose trust in the Church seemed to be teetering after reading Brown’s novel, I decided to read it myself.

To my surprise, I found it to be a thoroughly riveting read—at least in the same way that I enjoy a good romp through biblical archaeology with Indiana Jones. At the same time, I recognized at once that Brown’s grasp of history was slipshod at best. He parroted as established facts “pop-history” claims about Christianity in general, and about the legacy of Emperor Constantine in particular. At one point in The Da Vinci Code, a crafty English archaeologist gives Sophie, the main character, a brief synopsis of the "history" of Christianity. In it, he makes the following points about Constantine:

◗ He was a lifelong pagan who was unwillingly baptized on his deathbed. ◗ He made Christianity the official Roman religion solely for political gain.

◗ Christianity is a hybrid religion, the result of Constantine's fusing of the pagan cult of Sol Invictus with Christian beliefs.

◗ Under pagan influence, he moved the primary day of Christian worship from Saturday to Sunday.

◗ He ordered a redaction of the Bible that would reinforce his own pagan-inspired view that Jesus was the divine Son of God.

◗ He tried to erase the documentary evidence that showed an alternate and more pristine version of Christianity.

Each of these absurd claims can, of course, be refuted point-by-point (though such detailed refutation is not the purpose of this reflection). And yet, the fact remains that Orthodox Christians celebrate and venerate a Roman emperor who was, by all accounts, a shrewd political animal and steely-eyed soldier. Many of our fellow Orthodox—particularly in the West—have understandably wondered: What does it mean that this man is a canonized saint? Ought I to trust the Church? Might the “cult of Constantine” among Orthodox prove the Enlightenment charge that Eastern Christians have been fundamentally sycophantic and even “Caesaro-papal” in relation to the state? Might not the whole “Constantine thing” be a blemish on our tradition that ought to embarrass us?

Before tackling such broad questions, it might be more helpful to frame them with another one: “Why would a man like Constantine be drawn to the Christian faith in the first place?”

It might be strange to begin by answering, “because of his mom,” but the example of our parents is often crucial in our lives. The historical record shows clearly that Constantine deeply loved and admired his mother Helena. As the pious Christian wife of Constantius Chlorus, one of four co-rulers under Emperor Diocletian, Helena profoundly influenced her son. His devotion to her was so pronounced, in fact, that when Constantine became master in the West, he proclaimed her “Augusta,” the highest title in the empire. For the remainder of her life, Helena’s faith and piety remained a fixation for Constantine, who zealously funded her (quite costly) faith-based works.

Second, while Constantine was indeed a product of his time in terms of being part of a violent imperial system, we can see his gradual embrace of Christianity as an expression of his deep reservations about this very system. As a young man, Constantine couldn’t help but note that the Christian population, under the cruel hand of Emperor Diocletian, was bled of a tenth of its faithful. It is now supposed that 1% of the Roman Empire’s entire population was exterminated in an orgy of persecution that would not be surpassed until the 20th century. As the 4th-century church historian Eusebius later noted, such a situation horrified young Constantine personally—perhaps in part because he was keenly aware that his own mother could be accused as a Christian. Though Constantine became a soldier, and, at key moments, did not hesitate to use violence to achieve his ends, he himself made clear on more than one occasion that there were absolute limits to his capacity to shed blood. Most notably, on the eve of the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, it is reported that his pagan generals advised him to resort to a sacrificial bath in the blood of children—an especially powerful invocation for victory, according to Roman military custom. In horror, Constantine declined. By the same token, Constantine’s most odious act as emperor, the brutal suppression of his wife and son who were in rebellion, was ordered so that civil war and chaos might be averted. Even so, the emperor would reportedly be haunted by this bloody deed for the remainder of his life.

In determining why Constantine would be drawn—sincerely—to the Christian faith, we might look at a third response. Throughout his life, Constantine was surrounded by people who cared about what Plato called “the Good.” Not least among the people who pursued the Good was the emperor’s own father, Caesar Constantius Chlorus of Gaul and Brittania. Though not a Christian, Constantius Chlorus was reputed to rule justly and wisely, a devotee of the monotheistic cult of the sun, which shared much with Christianity. At the same time, Constantine himself was also generally impressed with the lives and commitment of Christians he met. They cared not only about their God, but about their society and the poor. They prayed for those who hated them. When he saw the Christians and their manner of life, Constantine discerned something approaching The Good. For the emperor, moreover, the claims made by the Christians to have “seen the True Light,” and to hold a universal truth, suggested that this “Way” of the Christians might unite his warring and fractious people. The Christian proclamation of all being one in Christ filled the emperor with hope that the divisions among the people of the empire could in fact be surmounted. For Constantine, a truth that could be both benign and universal was a sign that it was approaching the elusive Good. Latter-day commentators sometimes point out that such a calculation on the part of the emperor demonstrates his “using” of Christianity. I would submit, however, that this calculation is actually a sign of sincere and rational striving for the Good!

So what did Constantine accomplish in his life? First, he granted Christians freedom of worship (via the Edict of Milan) in AD 313. Second, he generously gave the Church lands and buildings to further its mission. To this day, in both the East and West, important Christian churches and centers are anchored by the emperor’s 4th-century gifts. Third, Constantine asked to be enrolled as a catechumen and ruled for decades as such, accepting baptism prior to his death when he knew he could lay aside the burden of imperial rule for good. Fourth, he abolished a number of practices Christians deemed dehumanizing and evil, such as state crucifixion, the exposure of infants (the widespread Roman practice of selective murdering of female and deformed children), and the gladiatorial games. Fifth, as a sign of his seriousness about Christianity, Constantine outlawed public offerings to idols on behalf of the Roman state (though he wisely allowed freedom of conscience for pagans who wished to worship privately). Sixth, in response to the Arian crisis and other pressing concerns for the Church, Constantine convened the First Ecumenical Council in AD 325, subsidizing the travel expenses for over 300 bishops and their entourages.

Most moving, perhaps, of all of Constantine’s recorded acts was his behavior at the Council of Nicea. He had just completed his final campaign to reunite the Roman Empire. In the aftermath of that effort, Constantine found it particularly tragic that the Christians, who had recently been delivered from the grave oppression of Licinius and his lieutenants, would now be quarreling among themselves. The 4th-century church historian Eusebius writes:

When the day came for all to gather, it was an incredible sight. This cloud of bishops, many of whom were visibly wounded from the recent persecution, stood as the Emperor of Rome—the “deified” head of the very state that had killed the Lord himself 300 years before—entered the room. He came neither as an enemy nor a pagan, but as one who had himself submitted to the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. On seeing the wounded and confessing bishops, Constantine set aside his state garments and refused to sit until they all had been seated—something he likely would have done only for his own mother (perhaps he had already begun to see the Church as his Mother)! As the council began, Constantine exhorted the bishops to maintain their faithfulness to Christ as they sought to bring the Church to unity. In addition, the emperor affirmed publicly that the decisions were theirs to make—and, as emperor, he would abide by their rulings in council. The shock to these poor bishops must have been considerable.

Capping off the scene at Nicea, as the council began, the emperor went around the room greeting the various bishops. It is said that as he offered them the ancient Christian greeting, the holy kiss, he would also venerate their wounds, the stumps where their hands had been cut off, and the marks on their faces. At one point, he made his way to one Bishop Thomas, who was, the accounts agree, frightful to look at. Apparently, some local governor hated the Christians and had held Thomas in prison for 22 years. Each year he had cut off part of Bishop Thomas’s body: one year, his right leg; the next, his left. One year, his right arm and then the left. The same fate befell his lips, eyes, and ears. When the emperor saw him, it is said that Constantine wept, fell down in prostration before the maimed saint, and kissed his wounds.

A trend of our times is to glibly categorize people and to see them forever locked into the category the culture bestows upon them. Sometimes, even we Orthodox Christians find ourselves tempted to see everyone, from bishops to heretics and historical figures in the Church, either as flawless heroes or as über-villains. When we hear the word “saint,” many of us imagine some infallible, immaculate figure. One of the great gifts of Orthodoxy, however, is that we don’t need to imagine that our saints were perfect. So often, in our reading of the Scriptures or of the lives of the saints, we see that the holy and the broken coexist. For instance, in Holy Saturday’s Old Testament readings, we celebrate the life of scheming Jacob and relish the prophecy of reluctant Jonah. We honor Peter’s tears of repentance by reflecting on his three-fold denial of Christ. We commemorate Saint Paul being mindful, not only of his dramatic conversion and bold actions as an apostle, but also of his occasional, yet undeniable, crankiness (it seems that the Church routinely pushes us to consider the unique personal qualities of each saint: the maternal love of an abbot, the strength of a female ascetic, the determination of a child martyr, and so on). We claim to follow a Savior who surrounded himself with redeemed, yet flawed, sinners. And we come to recognize that the Christian life is nothing if not a journey in God—a journey that transforms, renews, and covers the “multitude of our transgressions.”

As we who were brought up on ideas such as those in Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code reflect on the mixed legacy of the man whom Orthodox Christians venerate as Saint Constantine, we have an opportunity to break free from easy categories. Indeed, we can see in Constantine a man of blood who (re-) forged an empire. And yet, the Church suggests to us that Emperor Constantine is far more than just a clever ruler who legalized Christianity. In presenting him as a saint, the Church invites us to consider the context of Emperor Constantine’s life and to see in him a flawed yet heroic figure who stretched himself, tried to do good as far as he could see it, and came—almost miraculously—to put his whole faith in Christ.

The Rev. Justin Patterson is the rector of Saint Athanasius Orthodox Church in Nicholasville, Kentucky.