In the Christian empire, theological discourse and heresiological polemic followed in the long classical tradition of seeking a ‘‘middle way’’ between opposing extremes. Fourth-century Trinitarian controversy had been framed in terms of a contrast between Arian and Sabellian extremes. In the fifth century, conciliar authorities sought Christological truth between the opposite poles of Eutyches and Nestorius. This ‘‘three-term’’ model of orthodoxy as defined against multiple heresies contrasted with and coexisted alongside the more familiar ‘‘two-term’’ model, used in reference to single opponents, which set up a stark distinction between truth and falsehood. The use of ‘‘centrist’’ discourse in the context of the fifth century’s controversies and conciliar pronouncements served to support broader political ideologies and strategies of ecclesiastical government. Emperors, in particular, tended to favor ‘‘centrist’’ strategies that privileged consensus and harmony above doctrinal exactitude. In this respect Zeno’s Henotikon of the late fifth century, in its attempt to back away from the controversial issues raised at Chalcedon, followed in the tradition of those earlier fourth-century emperors who had endorsed the moderate Homoian position against both extreme Nicenes and extreme Arians. Where extremist discourse sought to sharpen distinctions, expose and denounce heretics, and provoke conflict, centrist discourse sought to blur boundaries, create consensus, and repress argument. Establishment authorities attempted to force compromise, create an appearance of unanimity, and enforce it by suppressing debate and by defining opponents not just as heretics but also as ‘‘extremists’’ and enemies of peace. These ‘‘extremists’’ could be singled out on more than one side, and used as contrasts to one’s own ‘‘moderate’’ stance. Self-consciously centrist discourse seems to have been characteristic of the establishment, the party in power - whether in the state or within the Church itself - with the confidence to make distinctions more subtle than the purely binary while still maintaining a firm sense of its own superiority. Centrist paradigms supported governing authorities’ propensity to explain and justify in disciplinary terms the coercive power they deployed to maintain religious unity (Gaddis 2005, esp. ch. 4).
In speaking of theological ‘‘moderation’’ and doctrinal ‘‘extremes,’’ we should not take these terms as given, but rather remain aware of the ways in which conciliar authorities sought to define center and fringe. What degree of consensus needed to exist within the Church prior to the council, and to what extent was it created by the process of the council itself? What understandings and ideologies underlay the ‘‘consensus’’ they all claimed to prize? How paramount was its value, and how was it to be constructed? What was the permissible role in this process of emperors or secular officials? Of bishops? Of other religious figures such as monastic leaders or prominent ‘‘holy men’’?
With these questions in mind, we may regard official creeds and conciliar definitions of faith as not only theological but also political and ecclesiological statements. The Chalcedonian Definition of Faith, which faced the difficult task simultaneously of expounding true doctrine and of explaining by what authority the assembled bishops dared to define it, devoted considerable space to answering charges of ‘‘innovation’’ and to arguing its fidelity to the Nicene Creed, even though much of its Christological teaching addressed issues that had not been considered at Nicaea (Chalcedon, session 5. 30-4, Price and Gaddis 2005, ii: 201-5, with discussion at 183-91). We find such apologia not only within the creeds and definitions themselves but also in the associated letters and proclamations made in the name of the council as a whole. The bishops at Chalcedon ended their synod with an ‘‘Address to Marcian’’ and a letter to Pope Leo, which both explained their condemnation of Dioscorus and defended their adoption of the Twenty-Eighth Canon over the opposition of the pope’s legates (Price and Gaddis 2005, iii: 104-28, with discussion).
In its bold insistence that necessary clarification did not constitute impermissible innovation, Chalcedon’s doctrinal product differed from other imperial initiatives that sought to sidestep controversies by imposing a simple prohibition on arguing the controversial term, in essence pretending that the divisive question had never been asked. With this rather optimistic approach, backers of the Homoian party in the fourth century, and of Zeno’s Henotikon in the fifth, manufactured a centrist consensus that rested upon a fragile surface unanimity.
But the ‘‘center’’ itself was neither inflexible nor unchangeable. Imperial support, though not on its own sufficient to settle all argument, was certainly an essential precondition for consensus. Conciliar authority carried great weight, but even so it could be swayed by the emperor’s expressed or implied preference. The death of Theodosius II in July of ad 450, and the subsequent accession of Marcian, swung the balance decisively against Dioscorus of Alexandria and the one-nature Christology that had prevailed at Ephesus II. At Chalcedon, more than 100 bishops who had attended and endorsed the decisions of the prior council now changed sides and repudiated their earlier pronouncements (for attendance numbers see Honigmann 1942-3; Price and Gaddis 2005, iii: 193-203).
Initially, Chalcedon seemed to command solid support within the episcopate, enjoying a more durable legitimacy than Ephesus II. In ad 457, when the emperor Leo circulated the Codex Encyclius in order to poll the bishops on their attitudes toward Chalcedon, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Only a few years later, however, equally large majorities of bishops followed the wishes of the new emperor Zeno and jumped aboard the more ambiguous position expressed in the Henotikon (see generally Frend 1972: 143-83; Meyendorff 1989: 187-202). It is impossible, of course, to discern to what degree this shift represented a genuine evolution in doctrinal stance rather than a simple response to political and institutional pressure. We may imagine that the great majority of bishops - hardly great theologians and polemicists like Cyril or Theodoret - were content to follow the dictates of higher authority. The problem, and the underlying cause of most ecclesiastical strife, lay in deciding which authorities were to be followed. Past creeds might be used to impeach current conciliar definitions, or teachings attributed to past Fathers set against the interpretations pronounced by contemporary leaders of the Church.
Those who were so minded had little difficulty in finding grounds for opposition to conciliar decisions. What if a present council seemed to contradict the truths expressed by councils past? The Nicene Trinitarian Creed, divisive and controversial in its own time, had by the early fifth century achieved a near-scriptural infallibility, codified in ad 431 when Ephesus I pronounced anathema against anyone who composed or taught a ‘‘different’’ faith from that of Nicaea (‘‘seventh canon,’’ quoted at Chalcedon, session 1. 943: Price and Gaddis 2005, i: 323). The Council of Chalcedon aroused considerable opposition and recrimination after the fact: did its elaborate Definition of Faith constitute necessary elaboration and explanation, or impermissible innovation? Arguments against the council made accusations of innovation and usurpation against apostolic and patristic authority. Critics questioned by what right the bishops at the council could decide matters of faith, how far were they authorized to go, and for whom they could claim to speak. As a constitution for the Christian Church, was the authority of the Nicene Creed to be taken in an ‘‘origin-alist’’ sense, limited to its strict wording and to the intentions of its early fourth-century authors, or was it rather to be understood as a ‘‘living’’ document within whose penumbras and emanations future councils might discover new answers to new questions never anticipated by its sainted authors?
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