It is generally recognised that from the later sixth century onwards there
was an increasing desire to have direct access to the power of the holy.
Again, this cannot be demonstrated beyond peradventure, since the means
of access – cults of saints and their relics, and perhaps even the veneration
of icons – were already well established by the sixth century. Traditionally,
imperial authority had been justified by the divinely protected status of
the emperor, expressed through an imperial cult. The Christianisation of
the imperial cult tended rather to enhance its authority than to diminish
it, since the representative of the only God was hardly reduced in status
in comparison with a divine emperor holding a relatively lowly position
in the divine pantheon.23 It seems to be demonstrable that this Christian
imperial authority and that of the hierarchy of the Christian church, which
was closely bound up with it, were reinforced by holy men and holy images
claiming immediate access to supernatural power. It seems, too, that even
traditional imperial authority was increasingly expressed through images
that spoke of a more immediate sacred authority. This becomes evident at
the beginning of the seventh century fromthe use of icons of Christian saints
as military banners, especially of theMother ofGod; from the way in which
Christian armies are seen as fighting for the Virgin, with her protection and
even her assistance; and from the role claimed for the Virgin as protector
of the city of Constantinople. A sacralisation of authority is also manifest
in the increasing significance attached to coronation by the patriarch in
the making of an emperor; this was always conducted in a church from the
beginning of the seventh century, and in theGreat Church of St Sophia from
641. The institutional church, indeed, may well have felt itself threatened
by the proliferation of the holy in the seventh century: the church in the
Byzantine east certainly failed to establish the kind of control over the
holiness present in saints, their images and their relics, that the popes and
bishops had won in the western church.24
But if there is little evidence of tension between the proliferation of the
holy and the church hierarchy in the Byzantine east in the seventh century,
25 there is certainly evidence of tension between the centre and the
periphery in geographical terms. Despite the wealth of theological literature
that survives from the seventh century, we know little about theology
at the capital, for the simple reason that by the ninth century no one in
Constantinople wanted to be reminded of it. Theology in Constantinople
was subservient to the emperor, and to the politically inspired doctrines of
monenergism, monothelitism and, in the next century, iconoclasm. Resistance
to all of these – a resistance that was finally recognised as ‘orthodoxy’ –
came from the periphery, and in the long term especially from the monks
of Palestine, who had long been known for their commitment to Chalcedonian
orthodoxy. This fact had curious long-term consequences for orthodox
Byzantium, and is worth pursuing briefly here. Resistance to monenergism
began with Sophronius, who had been a monk in Palestine and later became
patriarch of Jerusalem; resistance to monothelitism was led by Sophronius’
disciple Maximus, whose impact on the orthodox in Palestine was such
that they were called Maximians by the monothelites in Syria and Palestine.
26 In the second half of the seventh century dyothelite (‘orthodox’)
Christians in Palestine found themselves in a new situation. Previously
they had been adherents of an imperial orthodoxy that had been backed
up, in the last resort, by force. Now they found themselves in a situation
where their religious position was opposed by other Christian groups –
monophysite, monothelite and even Nestorian – and by non-Christians
like Jews, Samaritans, Manichees and, eventually, by Muslims. They had
both to defend what they believed in and to work out exactly what their
faith amounted to. In order to do this, they had to pay attention to matters
of logic and definition, for the only way to defend and commend their position
was by convincing others; they could no longer appeal to the secular
arm.
One element in this refining of the presentation and understanding of
the Christianity of the ecumenical councils was dialogue with – or polemic
against – the Jews. After a long period when there was scarcely any dialogue
with Jews, or even simple refutation of Judaism, the second half of
the seventh century witnessed an extraordinary burgeoning of such works.
Most come from the provinces seized by the Arabs: Syria, Palestine, the
Sinai peninsula and Cyprus. It is clear from some of these works that Jews
themselves took the initiative, forcing Christians to produce fresh defences
of doctrines such as the Trinity and practices such as veneration of saints,
relics and icons.27 Alongside such doctrinal clarification there was also celebration
of the doctrines of Christianity in liturgical poetry, which came
to form the backbone of monastic worship and again stemmed principally
from Palestine. This eventually became the worship of the orthodox – that
is Byzantine – church, and of those churches which learnt their Christianity
from Byzantium. The crucial century for this definition, defence and
celebration of orthodoxy was the period from 650 to 750. It is epitomised in
the works of JohnDamascene, an Umayyad civil servant turned Palestinian
monk, who thought of himself as a Byzantine Christian. Its first test was
the iconoclasm of Byzantine emperors, beyond whose political reach these
Christians lived.28
As we have seen, this form of Christianity was called Maximianism
by its enemies, but it owed more to Maximus than simply its attachment
to dyothelite Chalcedonianism, as declared at the Lateran synod
of 649 and vindicated at the sixth ecumenical council of 680–1 (see above,
pp. 231, 235). For Maximus’ genius as a theologian was to draw together
the several strands of Greek theological reflection into an imposing synthesis.
One strand in this synthesis was the dogmatic theology of the great
patriarchs of Alexandria, Athanasius and Cyril, which formed the basis for
the dogmas endorsed by the ecumenical councils from the fourth to the
sixth centuries. Another strand was the Christian Hellenism of the fourthcentury
Cappadocian fathers, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory Nazianzen and
Gregory of Nyssa. A further strand was constituted by the ascetic wisdom
of the fourth-century Egyptian desert fathers; and of their successors in the
Judaean desert to the east of Jerusalem, in the coastal desert of Gaza and
the barren mountains of the Sinai peninsula. These three strandsMaximus
wove together, the final tapestry being shot through with the Neoplatonic
metaphysics of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, believed to be in reality
an early sixth-century Syrian monk (see above, pp. 111–12). It was this theological
vision ofMaximus which inspired the more soberly expressed, even
dry doctrinal synthesis that we find in John Damascene. Maximus’ vision,
in which humankind, the cosmos and the scriptures themselves were all
interrelated, was reflected in the domed interior of the Byzantine church.
In that space, asMaximus explained in his reflections on the divine liturgy
called the Mystagogia, the liturgical ceremonies involving the clergy and
the people celebrated the whole unfolding of the Christian mystery, from
creation to Christ’s second coming, in a way that probed the depths of the
human heart and illuminated the mysteries of the cosmos.29
But to turn from what may seem giddy heights – albeit expressed in
such gesture, movement, melody and colour as to impress the simplest of
Byzantine Christians – we see a more detailed picture of the life of the
Byzantine church in the seventh century emerging from the 102 canons of
the quinisext council, called by Justinian II in 692.30 Like his predecessor
and namesake, Justinian II wished to mark his reign and manifest his
exercise of imperial power by calling an ecumenical council. Hitherto, all
councils regarded as ecumenical had been called to deal with some pressing
doctrinal issue, but with the monenergist/monothelite controversy now
settled, there was no doctrinal issue to provide occasion for an ecumenical
council. However, the previous two ecumenical councils, the second and
third of Constantinople, had issued only doctrinal canons, whereas all the
earlier ones had dealt with both doctrinal and disciplinary issues. Thus the
council Justinian eventually called, which issued only disciplinary canons,
was regarded as finishing off the work of the previous two councils (the fifth
and the sixth ecumenical councils) and was therefore called the quinisext
council. It is also known as the Trullan council (in Trullo) from the domed
chamber (troullos) in the palace where proceedings took place.
The 102 canons issued by the council cover many aspects of the life of
Christians, both their religious duties and their behaviour in secular life.
The first two canons affirm and define the existing tradition, of which
the rest of the canons constitute a kind of completion: canon 1 affirms the
unchanging faith defined at the previous six ecumenical councils; and canon
2 confirms the body of disciplinary canons already accepted by the church.31
The rest of the canons complete this body of canonical material, and the
whole body of legislation constituted by this council can be compared in
some ways to Justinian’s code, in that it is intended as the final statement of
an ideal of Christian life, expressed through much quite detailed legislation.
It remains the foundation of the canon law of the orthodox church. In this
context it is worth drawing attention to the last canon, which affirms that
the administration of penalties in accordance with the canons must take
account of the quality of the sin and the disposition of the sinner, for the
ultimate purpose of canon law is to heal, not simply to punish. This canon
reaffirms a principle already expressed in earlier canons,32 usually called the
principle of ‘economy’ (oikonomia). It is not unlike the way in which in
seventh-century secular law used Justinian’s code as an ideal, trying to fit
the ideal to concrete issues rather than promulgating fresh legislation (see
above, p. 241).
One guiding principle of the canons of the quinisext council was to
define the practices of the Byzantine church in conscious opposition to the
developing customs of the Latin west. For instance, canon 55 forbids fasting
on Saturdays and Sundays, except for Holy Saturday, and is explicitly
directed against the practice of fasting on Saturdays during Lent found in
the city of Rome. More important are the canons that allowed for a married
pastoral clergy. Although restricted to priests and deacons – since on
appointment to the rank of bishop, a married man had to separate from
his wife, who took the veil (canons 12 and 48) – this too is in conscious
opposition to the Roman canons; it would be some centuries, however,
before a celibate priesthood was strictly enforced in the western church.
A similar independence of Rome is manifest in canon 36. This prescribed
the order of the patriarchates and, following the canons of the first ecumenical
council of Constantinople (canon 3) and the ecumenical council
of Chalcedon (canon 28, which had been repudiated by Rome), ranked
Constantinople second after Rome, with equal privileges. Although the
papal legates accepted the canons, Pope Sergius I (687–701) refused to sign
them and Justinian’s furious attempt to enforce papal consent only exposed
the limits of his power in Italy. Sergius’ introduction of the singing of the
Agnus Dei into the mass at Rome is perhaps to be seen as a snub to the
council (see canon 82, discussed below).33 Although Pope John VII (705–7)
seems to have accepted the canons of the council in 705, when Justinian was
restored to the imperial throne, this represented no lasting endorsement of
them by the western church.
Other canons regulated the life of the local church, still understood
as essentially an urban church ruled by a bishop although, as we have
seen, the reality of the city was fading fast. Urban churches were grouped
into provinces, under the leadership of a metropolitan bishop, and these
provinces were to convene once a year (canon 8). Bishops were to live in
their sees, and must return to them as soon as possible if they fled during
‘barbarian’ raids (canon 18). This anxiety that the bishop should stick to his
city was partly to ensure his continuing pastoral care, but also his control of
the church’s financial interests; the local churches were frequently considerable
landowners with their estates being administered by the bishop. The
requirement that bishops reside in their own sees was taken seriously, as is
evident from the more abundant later evidence, especially from the Komnenian
period, when the empire was even more focused on Constantinople
and provincial sees were regarded as exile by their bishops.34 There are also
canons against selling the sacraments and purchasing church office (what
the west later called simony: canons 22–3). Legislation concerning monasticism,
like much earlier legislation, attempted to confine monks to their
monasteries and control the power of holy men (canons 40–9). Legislation
concerning the laity forbade various entertainments, such as playing dice
(canon 50); watching mimes, animal fights or dancing on stage (canon 51);
the observance of civic ceremonies such as the Calends, Vota or Brumalia,
which had pagan associations, as well as female dancing in public, dancing
associated with pagan rites, cross-dressing, the use of comic, satyr or tragic
masks, and the invocation of Dionysus during the pressing of grapes for
wine (canon 62). All of this the church regarded as ‘paganising’, though
such practices should probably not be thought of as the survival of paganism
outright, but rather the continuance of traditional forms of worship
involving the laity.35
Canons also forbade the confusion of traditional liturgies with the Christian
sacraments – for example canon 57 forbidding the offering of milk and
honey on Christian altars – and others regulated the institution of marriage
and the circumstances of divorce (canons 53, 54, 72, 87, 92 and 93). Several
canons dealt with relations between Christians and Jews. Canon 11 forbade
eating unleavened bread with Jews, making friends with them, consulting
Jewish doctors or mixing with Jews in the baths; canon 33 forbade the ‘Jewish’
practice of ordaining only those of priestly descent. Both these canons
illustrate the way in which Jews were permitted to exist, but separately
from the orthodox society of the empire. In fact, the seventh century had
seen the beginning of a more radical policy towards the Jews: forced baptism
on pain of death. Maximus the Confessor expressly objected to such
a policy introduced by Heraclius in 632,36 and the policy was introduced
again in the eighth and tenth centuries, by Leo III (717–41) and Romanos I
Lekapenos (920–44) respectively. But the more normal Byzantine attitude
to the Jews, to be preserved as a standing witness to the truth of Christianity
with limited civil rights, is that envisaged by the canons of the Trullan
council.37
Two canons bear witness to the place of religious art in the Byzantine
world. Canon 100 forbids pictures that excite immoral pleasure, and emphasises
how easily the bodily senses move the soul. Canon 82 is concerned
with religious paintings and forbids the depiction of Christ as a lamb, a
popular form of religious art that picked up the words of John the Baptist
about Jesus as the ‘lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world’ (John
1: 36). However, the canon argues, such symbolism has been fulfilled since
God has come in human form; now the reality of the Incarnation is to
be expressed by depicting the Incarnate Word as a man. Such concern for
the content of religious images, expressed in theological terms, prefigures
the controversies of the next two centuries caused by iconoclasm.
The comparatively settled picture of Christian life in the Byzantine
empire presented by the canons of the quinisext council is not, however,
the whole story. The second half of the seventh century saw the production
of apocalyptic texts, composed in Syriac. One of these, soon translated
into Greek and subsequently into Latin, was ascribed to the early fourthcentury
bishop Methodius (of Olympus, according to the Syriac original;
of Patara, according to the Greek translation).38 The Apocalypse of Pseudo-
Methodius responds to the loss of the eastern provinces to the Arabs –
termed Ishmaelites or ‘wild ass of the desert’ – by recounting the history of
the Middle East since biblical times. It predicts the final overthrow of the
Ishmaelites at Jerusalem by the king of the ‘Greeks’ (so the Syriac; ‘Romans’
in the Greek version), whose victory will usher in the end of the world.39
The emergence of such apocalyptic hopes and fears at the end of the seventh
century contrasts sharply with the spirit of the early sixth-century Chronicle
of JohnMalalas, written partly to demonstrate that the world had survived
the transition from the sixth to the seventh millennium from the creation
(i.e., c. ad 500) without disaster.
The end of the seventh century saw the Byzantine empire still in a
process of transition and redefinition: the Arab threat to Constantinople
would continue well into the eighth century, and iconoclasm is probably
to be seen as a further stage in the empire’s search for its identity and ways
of expressing this in the aftermath of the crisis of the seventh century.40
But there were scarcely any signs of incipient iconoclasm at the end of that
century. The quinisext council invested a clearly articulated theological
significance in religious art, and the process observed since the end of the
sixth century of authenticating political authority by imagery invoking the
supernatural was taken a stage further at the end of the seventh century:
Christ’s image appeared on the obverse of imperial coinage, the imperial
image being consigned to the reverse (see fig. 10 above, p. 236). But the
structures of the society that would eventually emerge from this period of
crisis can already be seen, albeit in inchoate form; so too can some of its
limitations, when compared with Justinian’s vision of the Roman empire
which it claimed to embody. Already there is a sense in the legislation
of the quinisext council that the customs of those Christians who looked
to Constantinople were different from those who looked to Rome: a gap
that would widen as Rome moved from the Byzantine emperor’s sphere of
influence to that of the Franks. The Mediterranean Sea was no longer to
unite the territories that bordered it, but would come to separate the several
societies which claimed the heritage of that lost unity.
World History
