One Iota

The smallest of the Greek letters – or what we'd think of as the letter 'i' – blows early Christian doctrine wide open. T&J link up and find themselves on opposite sides of the bitter theological divide. 

Transcript

One Iota

Content Warning: A quick content warning: there is swearing, references to sex and sex work in this episode, as well as a graphic description of a murder. Please take care of yourselves, and thank you so much for being here.  

Intro

It was December 2017. My brother, Andrew, was in New York visiting me for Christmas. And we were having a pizza dinner at a restaurant on a snowy, December day in my then-neighborhood of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, when the conversation meandered over to the dietary component of religion ... 

How religions make a point of having things one can and cannot consume. Or rules around when or how much one consumes, like fasting. And off the top of our heads, we couldn’t name any religions that didn't involve themselves, in some way or another, in what or how their adherents ate.

And then, I made a joke about eating only beets on the 4th Tuesday of every month as a foundational dietary principle for my upstart religion, Beetism. That is, B-E-E-T. The beautiful magenta root vegetable that is the star of the best stew in the whole wide world: borscht. 

And then Andrew, clever heretic that he is, broke away from my new religion with his unwavering belief that beets should only be eaten on the 3rd Thursday of the month. 

So thanks to my brother, within seconds, Beetism — so pure, so true — had a schism. And the enmity between the 4th Tuesday Beetist orthodoxy and the 3rd Thursday Beetist off-shoot — pun-intended — remains incendiary and controversial to this very day. 

Andrew: Damn it, Christine! 3rd Thursday Beetists are the one true faith!

One of the many fascinating things about the T&J period of Byzantium is that during Theodora and Justinian’s lifetimes, Christianity, at least as the official state religion, was still fairly young. Their rule marks both an end to the old ways and a cementing of the new ones.

The last vestiges of paganism and Neoplatonic philosophy — which made up the core of elite belief in Antiquity — are pretty much stamped out. As are some early Christian beliefs, which are deemed heretical. And the empire’s Jews and Samaritans don’t fare much better.

Byzantine life grows into one where intellectualism no longer really exists beyond a Christian framework, and the theological underpinnings and praxis of Roman Catholicism are still being ironed out.

Theodora and Justinian are essentially driving the minivan on the highway to the Christendom of the Middle Ages. Where there will not be any exits for some time.

But perhaps even less known, is that long before Martin Luther kicked off the Protestant Reformation with his ninety-five theses and King Henry the Eighth formed the Church of England so he could wed Anne Boleyn, T&J’s Christianity had them beat … Deeply divided into two warring camps you’ve probably never heard of, but that shook the Byzantine empire to its Christian core. That is, the division between the Monophysites. And the Chalcedonians.

The Monophysites and the Chalcedonians.
 
And to add some wild spin to this story: Theodora was a fervent Monophysite and Justinian a staunch Chalcedonian. They were a house divided, people. Or … maybe not? Procopius tells us in the Secret History that he thinks it was all a ruse. 

Intriguingly, Theodora wasn’t born into her Monophysite beliefs. She adopted them years before she and Justinian would link up and become a couple.

How was Theodora’s Christianity different from what Chalcedonians like Justinian, her future husband, believed? And how might it have served them to have opposing ones?

In what ways can the Byzantine Christianity of the T&J era help us understand about the often ornate and puzzling tree of Christianity as it stands today? 

I’m Christine Laskowski and this is T&J, a limited podcast series devoted to sixth century Byzantium and the greatest recorded love story on earth — that between Empress Theodora and her husband, the Emperor Justinian. This is Episode Two: “One Iota.” 

Part I.  The Nicene Creed

Once we hit the T&J era, the expression of Christianity, at least to me, has this undeniable masochistic quality.  And I’m talking not just in the embrace of the cenobitic lifestyle, but the extremes to which cenobites would take that lifestyle.

It was not altogether unusual for men to voluntarily castrate themselves upon becoming a monk. The rationale being they’d be less likely to engage in sexual activity. There were also what were known as ‘the Sleepless Monks.’ Self-appointed guardians of Chalcedonian orthodoxy who, as the name implies, took shifts endlessly praising God in their monastery on the eastern shore of the Bosporus. 

My favorite by far, however, were the stylite monks.

Now, stylite monks would climb to the top of a large stand-alone column or pillar and … stay there. For like, a decade.

St. Simeon the Stylite Monk was so intense that he was kicked out of a monastery, and then climbed to the top of a 50-foot-tall column … and lived there. For thirty-seven years.

Early Christians were also obsessed with the nature of Christ. I mean, obsessed.

Was Jesus God? Or was he a man? How could he be God if his dad was also God? Was he both God and man simultaneously? Or was he born man and then became God?

There were many cracks that we’ll get into, but the first big crack in Christianity can be traced back to an inflection point in the year 325 AD.

Exactly five years before Emperor Constantine would officially inaugurate Constantinople as a Roman capital, Constantine held an ecumenical council — the very first of its kind — in the town of Nicaea. Located today in the Turkish city of İznik
 
Christine: Talk, just so I can be sure it’s getting both of us.
Andrew: Hello, hello. Can you hear me? 

That’s my little brother Andrew. Beetist apostate and high school physics teacher.   

Christine: All right. We are going to try and recite, purely from memory …
Andrew: Mmmm hmm.   
Christine: The Nicene Creed. 
Andrew: Oh, the Nicene creed? 
Christine: Yeah.   
Andrew: Oh. Okay.   
Christine: Are you ready?   
Christine and Andrew [together]: ‘We believe in one God, the Father the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen. One in being with the Father, through him all things were made … ‘   
Andrew [cont.]: For us men and for our salvation.   
Christine [interrupts]: No, no, I think it’s ‘For all that is seen and unseen.’   
Andrew: ‘For all that is seen and unsee —.’ 

The Nicene Creed was a recitation of belief from our childhood attending Catholic mass each Sunday, or actually, if I’m being completely transparent, 5 o’clock mass on Saturday.   
It became so rote, though, I never really thought about what the Nicene Creed was actually saying, or why the Catholic Church saw the need for it in the first place.     

Part II. Theodora and Hecebolis in Pentapolis 

 Last episode, we left Theodora in Constantinople on the verge of a life-altering decision. She was then in her late-teens or early twenties. Already a very popular actor and comedian and the young mother to a young daughter. But at that particular juncture in Theodora’s life, she’d masterminded an exit. Not only from the city, but from her theatrical life. 

She was going to link up with a powerful man, who was not Justinian. So who was he?

He was Hecebolus from Tyre. And according to The Secret History, Theodora had signed on to be his live-in mistress.

We know very little about Hecebolus other than what Procopius says about him, which is that Hecebolus had just been appointed governor of Pentapolis, which sounds made up, but was a real Roman territory in what is now Libya. Theodora agreed to accompany him across the Mediterranean to his new post. 

Theodora, by attaching herself to Hecebolus in this way was giving herself a very strategic albeit non-prescriptive out.

Remember: Theatrical people — Ding! The Useless — Ding!   

It was also very risky, as she soon learned. Here’s Procopius:   

Procopius: Serving him in the most shameful capacity … she gave some offense to the man and was driven thence with all speed; consequently it came about that she was at a loss for the necessities of life, which she proceeded to provide in her usual way, putting her body to work at its unlawful traffic. 

So they get to Pentapolis and something happens, we don’t know what, but Hecebolus, in the dick-est of dick moves, casts Theodora out. On the other side of the world. Without any fuckin’ money.  

And Theodora, being an adamantine boss B, relies on sex work to get herself out of this jam, earning the money she needs to get herself east, and then home. Her first major stop? Was … you guessed it. 

Part III. Arianism

 We’re going to hear more about Theodora’s time in Alexandria later in the episode. But for now, what’s important about Alexandria is something I discussed back in Episode 1: Bread and Circuses. 

Alexandria was where the Egyptian grain that fed Constantinople shipped out from.  So Alexandria was not really messed with too much for that reason, but what that in-turn allowed was for certain trends and beliefs to gain hold in Alexandria — and spread — in a way that doesn’t really happen anywhere else in the Empire. 

And it was in Alexandria in the 320s that a priest named Arius preached something … different. That Christ the Son was subordinate to God the Father.

Now, what does that mean? Well, it means that Arius and his followers believed that Jesus Christ was lesser. God the Father had existed since time immemorial and was therefore eternal. Since his son, Jesus, was created at birth, Jesus, according to Arius’ logic, was not co-eternal with the Father.

Arius and his adherents also rejected the conventions surrounding the Holy Trinity. That is, Arians believed that the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit (or Ghost, depending on how you vibe) were different entities and possessed godliness in descending order. 

One pretty cool thing about Arius is that he also was a bit of a proto-pop star. Arius crafted his teachings into these really catchy songs, which did not hurt the spread and popularization of his message among the ordinary folks at all. Travelers evidently sang them on the roads, workers and sailors crooned and shared them in the dockyards. As historian James Allan Evans put it, Arius: ‘Brought the fascination of theological controversy to the street.’

Sadly, none of these songs are extant, but suffice it to say, Arius’s message was one that Emperor Constantine and many others were not down with. Which is another way of saying, it probably became too popular, too fast. Arius was wresting control of the narrative. With his theological earworms.

So Constantine did what any boss would do, he called a meeting. A council of bishops from throughout the empire convened at Nicaea in 325 A.D. to settle the Arianism question-problem. And they settled it by declaring it heretical.  As in, nope, God and Christ are of the same nature and if you’re not okay with that, well, buh-bye. 

In the Vatican II version of the Nicene Creed that my brother grew up with — and that we had to look up so as to get it right — Christ’s nature was defined as:

Christine and Andrew [together]: ‘One in being with the Father. One in being with the Father.’   

But that didn’t mean Arianism was over.  A-R-I-A-N-I-S-M. Among the barbarians of the European frontier? Among them, Arianism … took off. 

So when I say that the Chalcedonian and Monophysite split of the T&J era roiled the Empire, that’s exactly what I mean. Within the empire, that was the division. But outside the empire? Different story. And Arianism wasn’t the only one pushed out, although it was the first and by far the most consequential.

The reason Arian Christianity became such a hit among the many Barbarian tribes of Europe can be traced, not solely to Arius’ being the theological Ludacris of Late Antiquity, but rather to a fourth century man whose name actually does sound like a heavy metal band.

His name was Little Wolf. Or Wulfila in Gothic.

Wulfila was an Arian missionary who began proselytizing in Gothic settlements in what is today northern Bulgaria. He and his team of missionaries — as missionaries are wont to do — decided to create a Gothic alphabet so they could make a Gothic Bible.

And using some Greek letters, couple a Latin letterforms, and a handful of tribal runes, the Goths had a new, written language all their own.

And thanks to it, because Gothic is a Germanic language and so is English, we actually know a few Gothic words. 

The Gothic word for entryway? Door.
And who guarded it? Well, that was a Doorwarda or Door warden. 

To this day, Wulfila’s Gothic Bible remains the oldest text of any Germanic language.   

However, very little Gothic text survives. Most of it lives in a sixth century Bible known as the Codex Argenteus, or Silver Bible, which takes its name from the expensive ‘silver ink’ used on its super fancy purple parchment. Say that five times fast. 

The manuscript contains part of Wulfila’s fourth-century translation of the bible into Gothic, and was probably written for the Ostrogothic King Theodoric the Great, who we’ll learn more about in the next episode.

In any case, if you’re ever in Uppsala, Sweden go and check it out.

Wulfila — and his group of Arian missionary scholar collaborators — is ultimately the reason why, by the fifth century AD, barbarians and Arians were synonomous with one another.

At least in the western provinces of the empire where they had begun to settle. Various Germanic peoples on the move in central and eastern Europe — including the most formidable tribes, like the Vandals, the Suevi, and the Burgundians — they, too, became Arian Christians because they picked up the faith from the Goths. 

It was only the Franks — sneaky fuckin’ Franks — it was only the Franks who weren’t Arian, and who entered Gaul — it’s … mainly France — directly from their homeland in what is now the Netherlands and Belgium.

However, the Franks were the lone barbarians who, when they embraced Christianity, they embraced the Nicaean faith, i.e. Catholicism. 

But that didn’t mean Catholicism post-Council of Nicaea was a cut-and-dried thing. Oh, no. And  that’s because at the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD, there was a letter. A single letter of the Greek alphabet, that had been planted into a word like a stick of dynamite and blown the whole thing up. 

Part IV. Lo, The Iota

 It all began, really, and ironically, with the smallest of the Greek letters: the iota, which looks like a lowercase 'i.' 

When Emperor Constantine convened the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD, it was to settle the Arianism question-problem, which really boiled down to whether Jesus and God were made of the ‘same’ substance (in Greek, homos) or of a ‘similar’ substance (in Greek homoios). With that little iota stashed in there.

The contention around Christ’s sameness, or similar-ness, to God originated from a small section of the New Testament. More specifically, in the first chapter of the Gospel According to John.

The Apostle John: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.’

What we tend to translate into English as ‘the Word’ was in Greek called Logos. 
And Logos has nuances of meaning that English translations just can’t convey. It was the divine, yet indefinable element of … godhead?

In the fourteenth verse of the Gospel of John, it continues:   

The Apostle John: ‘And the Word [Logos] was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.’

This is what all of the fuss was about. Jesus was the Logos made flesh … but to what extent? Like, how much Logos are we talking here?   

The Council of Nicaea in 325 decided Christ had a homos amount of Logos and that the homoios, or Team Iota folks, like, Arius, and the Barbarians who would go on to adopt his beliefs, they were all heretics. But spoiler alert. It did not end there.   

Byzantine Christians kept going over this. And like a scab, its emperors would not stop picking at it via Ecumenical Councils and decrees whose aim was to settle the matter of Christ’s nature  once and for all, only to create more dissension, splits, acrimony, blackmail, and persecution.

There was the Ecumenical Council of Constantinople in 381, which declared another upstart, Apollinarianism, heretical. And then there was the First Council of Ephesus in 431, which led to the ouster of Nestorius and Nestorian Christianity to Persia and as far east as China.

Now, the Nestorians … they had the Patriarch of Alexandria to thank for their excommunication — and the Patriarch of Alexandria at the time, was a real piece of work named Cyril.

And according to Byzantine historian, James Allan Evans:

‘Cyril hated pagans, Jews, and heretics more or less in that order of intensity.’ 

Another nutso detail about Cyril is that he had gangs of hospital orderlies who also doubled as thugs ready at his disposal. 

So, when he would launch into verbal tirades against Alexandria’s Jews, it led to violent skirmishes. The Jews fought back; the Christians retaliated by breaking into and robbing Jewish shops and homes. It was all very bad, and then it got worse. 

Cyril demanded, and again, we’re talking about the top priest here, that the city’s entire Jewish population, which was substantial, be expelled. In 414 AD.

Now, there were two important voices of dissent about this. One came from Orestes, Alexandria’s moderate Christian governor, who flat-out refused. And the other prominent Alexandrian, who backed Orestes’ refusal came from a pagan. And not just any pagan. The most prominent and outspoken of them all, someone Cyril really hated. And her name was Hypatia. 

But before we get into Hypatia’s story and that of Christian behavioral pathology … first, we’re going to take a little break. What you’ll be hearing next is a 1917 recording by Van and Schenck of a song called ‘Mulberry Rose.’  

 | Mulberry Rose (1917)  |  

Part V. Paganism & The Jesus Freaks

 Hypatia was a renowned mathematician, philosopher, and pagan — And pagans, like her, were actually still prominent in the intellectual life of Alexandria in the early 400s AD. But by the time we get to the T&J era, that way of life would be taking its last gasp.

To quote the historian, Douglas Boin:

‘The question of how, when and why Rome’s predominantly pagan society converted to a Christian one is a topic many scholars have pondered with unnecessary bewilderment and undue credulity. In ancient Rome, the decisions of a single emperor could have far-reaching systemic effects. The emperor could marshal an army to enforce his will, had the power of the magistrates and courts to prosecute his enemies, and could ask his spokesmen to stand at the rostrum to communicate his wishes to the public. The clearest path to implementing a Christian takeover of society was for the emperor to mandate it, which is exactly what Theodosius did.’ 

Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither was Christianity as its official state religion.

Because from 379 to 395 AD,  during the sixteen years Theodosius was emperor, or co-emperor, if you want to get technical about it — for a time there were two emperors with co-rulers in what was known as the Tetrarchy, which sounds super cool, but is not super relevant for this point so I’m not going to get into it — Okay, so Theodosius, from 379 to 395 AD, used laws, imperial decrees, a soft touch, veiled threats, and actual physical force to turn Rome into a Christian state.

So while Constantine gets a lot of the credit, it was actually Theodosius who kicked it into high gear. Starting with the society of the Vestal Virgins.

The Vestal Virgins were a centuries’ old, all-female group whose duties, including the protection of Rome’s eternal flame, offered one of the few visible roles for women in Roman society.

Theodosius helped to craft a law that didn't necessarily prevent women from joining or participating in the Vestal Virgins. It just made it virtually impossible for it to continue its mission.

In 380 AD Emperor Theodosius declared that Christianity was the only permissible religion for Roman citizens.

By the time Justinian was emperor in 527, he was a Christian on a mission to stamp out anything that, well, wasn’t Christian.

Although, for reasons unknown, he left the empire’s Jews pretty much alone. Justinian no longer allowed Jews to have Christian slaves, but they got off comparatively easy.

Procopius details the persecution the newly minted emperor waged in the years 527 through 529.  Against the Eunomians, the Sabbatiani and the Montani; the Manicheans, who were adherents of a dualist form of Christian belief originating in Persia.

Justinian also ordered the destruction of Samaritan synagogues. 

And sidenote, as a kid, one of the stories I’d learned from an animated Bible stories series on VHS was ‘The Good Samaritan.’ Now, I’d always thought the Good Samaritan was just a good guy from … Samarita, or something, but it turns out Samaritans are actually descended from ancient Israelites and follow a religion that is an off-shoot of Judaism, at least depending on who you ask. 

In addition to the Samaritans, in The Secret History, Procopius also expresses sympathy for the empire’s, get this, astrologers. He notes how they would be whipped - eh - and then paraded on the backs of camels - eh- through the city even though Justinian:

Procopius: ‘Had no other complaint against them, except that they wished to be wise in the science of the stars.’ 

Aw, Justinian, man. Just let them love the stars! 

Then in 529, Justinian dealt the final blow to a group known as the Neoplatonists. 

The Neoplatonists were the pagan philosopher-torch bearers of Platonic thought that, to be honest, I find hard to parse. What is important, though, is that Justinian either shut down the Neoplatonic school in Athens, or allowed it to go the way of the Vestal Virgins.

Ultimately, ultimately … paganism’s death was long and slow. In large part because people really dug its traditions. Even during the T&J era, the Brumalia, or the wine festival of Dionysus, was still celebrated in the late Fall. Justinian saw to it that laws against it happening were renewed.

But if paganism’s death was long and slow, Christianity's rise was short and rapid by comparison. Because sometime in the early 30s A.D. Jesus of Nazareth was executed under Emperor Tiberius in Palestine. And his teachings, in just three centuries’ time, would be adopted by the very empire whose administration saw fit to kill him.   

How did they do it?   
For starters, they networked, baby.   

In the first century AD, Jesus’ apostles hit those Roman roads — and waters — drawing followers from a wide spectrum of society, but making sure, like Josef Stalin and L. Ron Hubbard, to cultivate the support of rich patrons who hosted them. 

These small communities of Christians — sometimes no larger than a handful of people — grew in large cities like Thessaloniki, Philippi, Ephesus, and Corinth. 

I recall many a Biblical passage during Mass as a kid opening with ‘A Letter from Paul to the Corinthians.’ 

In some of those letters, the Apostle Paul was crankypants about these early days Christians still partying with the pagans. But what it also shows is that for a while, people could be, and were, both. 

As the early community grew, true, there was some backlash. Christians did face persecution. The worst stretch appears to be from 303 to 311 AD, when Rome’s Christian citizens were legally required to hand in their Bibles and relinquish church money to the state or risk losing their civil liberties, which was a huge deal. 

Fortunately, for Rome’s Christians, though, the man at the helm of those eight dark years – the Emperor Diocletian – he died. Leading to the enshrinement of Christian tolerance within the empire with what came to be known as the Edict of Milan in 313. 

Emperor Constantine: ‘We gave to Christians and to all people … a free ability to follow the worship practices that each one wished, so that whatever divinity there is in the heavenly seat above may be appeased and made favorable to us and to everyone who had been put under our rule.’ | Emperor Constantine // Rolf Weber
| That little Edict of Milan snippet was a declaration made by Emperor Constantine in 313 AD, and what the Edict of Milan did is it safeguarded the legal status of Christianity by overturning decades of state-sponsored discrimination, but it did so in a way that protected everyone’s religious rights. Which sounds pretty cool, right? 

But was that enough for the empire’s Christians? 
No, no it was not.

Christians demanded that the Roman government prevent Jews from rebuilding their temple in Jerusalem, for example. Church leaders also created a moral panic around the evils of pagan society. Their favorite fixation? Was animal sacrifice. In fact, Christians’ obsessive complaints about animal sacrifice would consume the attention of Roman politicians for nearly 300 years.

This rhetoric of oppression and intolerance soon made partisan compromise impossible. Christian senators who tried to compromise with their pagan colleagues were labeled ‘apostates.’   

But these fanatical Christians also baffled and annoyed some of the other more moderate Christians. Even the Christian tutor of Emperor Constantine's children developed a special name for them. They were the deliri; the ‘crazies.’

Now, let’s fast forward to one century after the Edict of Milan. Because in March of 415 A.D., Cyril, the patriarch of Alexandria, galvanized his own mob of crazies who pulled Hypatia — the mathematician, Neoplatonic philosopher, woman, pagan, and vocal opponent of expelling the city’s Jewish population — from her chariot as she was driving herself home one day. Minding her own fucking business.   

Now, the norm for women at the time was to lead pretty cloistered and quiet lives. But not Hypatia. Unmarried, she could be seen around Alexandria, her unabashedly bad-ass self, driving her own chariot, and wearing her signature philosopher’s cloak.

Hypatia was a very recognizable, local celebrity with a global reputation. People actually came from all over to study with her, as she was faculty at Alexandria’s renowned library, which functioned like a university.  Hypatia, though, she made her own mark in the fields of astronomy, music, mathematics, and philosophy. She evidently did important work on conic sections. 

But on this fateful and horrible, horrible day, the mob of crazies egged on by Cyril pulled Hypatia off of her chariot, dragged her to the cathedral, stripped her naked; beat her, flayed her skin with shards of some kind, and then burned her mangled body on a pyre of brushwood.

And Cyril? Well, Cyril, did push out the majority of Alexandria’s Jewish population and then would go on to be made a saint. Which is super fucked up. 

Hypatia’s violent death — brought on by none other than St. Cyril — would for many mark this delineation between the classical age of Roman paganism and that of Roman Christendom. Hypatia’s death in 415 coincided with paganism’s death as well. 

But, I’m not ready to leave Alexandria just yet. We’re going to take a quick break, but when I come back, we’re going to stay in Alexandria for a bit longer. Not Hypatia’s Alexandria, but the Alexandria of one century later. When another woman, our very own Theodora, undergoes a spiritual transformation.  

What you’re about to hear is a 1917 recording of Alma Gluck singing ‘Angels Ever Bright and Fair’ from Handel’s ‘Theodora.’ 

 | Angels Ever Bright and Fair (1917)  |  

Part VI. Theodora’s Conversion to Monophysitism 

It’s unclear how long it took Theodora to get to Alexandria from Pentapolis, after Hecebolus threw her out. But I’m sure she probably kissed the sweet, sweet ground when she got there.

She was still very far from home, but at least in viable civilization. 
 
Although, the Alexandria Theodora experienced sometime between 517 and 520 AD had, as historian James Allan Evans put it:
 
‘A long-standing reputation for turbulence.’
 
Alexandria was now also the de-facto capital of Monophysitism. And it follows that Timothy, the church’s patriarch there, was a Monophysite, too.

One trait that clearly comes across, though, as being of the utmost importance to T&J in The Secret History is loyalty.

Theodora and Justinian were both fiercely loyal to those that did them a good turn. But violate that loyalty? In any way? Yeah, no.

I’d bet after Theodora’s ordeal, her conversion to Monophysitism was probably also an expression of unwavering loyalty to a man — in this case Timothy — and a group — in this case the Monophysites — that had been kind to her after a totally harrowing and traumatic experience. And it was a kindness that she never forgot. It was a kindness that literally transformed her.

So what was Monophysitism, exactly? To understand that, we have to go back to the Council of Chalcedon in 451 A.D.   

And if you’re asking yourself: Do we really need another Ecumenical Council? Unfortunately, the answer is yes. Yes, we do. 

Monophysites held that Christ had a single nature and that nature was divine. While he was on Earth, he was using his God magic to appear as a man, but he was never actually a man.

I’ll add here that Monophysite Christianity is still around today, and it belongs mainly to what are called the Oriental Orthodox and Eastern Orthodox Churches: the Armenian Apostolic Church, the Coptic Church of Egypt, the Ethiopian Church, the Eritrean Church, the Church of St. Thomas in India, and the Jacobite Syrian Church of Antioch all have their origins in Monophysite belief about the nature of Christ that dates back to the Ecumenical Council of Chalcedon in 451.   

And what happened at the Council of Chalcedon in 451 was … that Pope Leo made a pronouncement that Christ … was both perfect God and perfect man! 

FYI, the Catholic Church, the Eastern Orthodox Church, and Protestant denominations, with a few exceptions, like Mormonism, all fall under Chalcedonian belief. 

Unlike those other ‘heretical’ beliefs that came prior, Monophysitism was already very popular within the empire, particularly in Africa, but also among the elite. Even the Emperor Anastasius, who I’ll talk about more in the next episode, had been an avowed Monophysite, despite Chalcedonian belief being what the church stuck to. 

The Empire was split. Between the …  Monophysites and the Chalcedonians. 

By the time Theodora arrives in Alexandria, the city was the place persecuted Monophysite clergymen fled to. Especially after Emperor Anastasius’ death in 518, when believers essentially lost their protector in Constantinople. 

We don’t know much about Theodora’s relationship to Timothy, Alexandria’s Monophysite patriarch, although she appears to have regarded him as a sort of spiritual father figure. 

Justinian, as I’ve already mentioned, was a Chalcedonian, however the scholarship tends to emphasize how Theodora was by far a more passionate and devout Monophysite than Justinian was a Chalcedonian.   

There’s even the bold suggestion from Procopius that they kind of got off on debating it in the Senate to fuck with people.

Procopius: Now first of all they set the Christians at variance with one another, and by pretending to go opposite ways from each other in the matters under dispute, they succeeded in rendering them all asunder.

There is some speculation, which I buy, that their dual allegiances and feigned conflict, were in fact a strategy for greater peace throughout the empire. Because Monophysites always knew they had a fierce ally in her.

And Theodora, boy did she show up for her Monophysites. Once Empress, she even turned her area of the imperial palace complex into, like,  a Monophysite club house. We’re talking about hundreds of them coming to crash over the course of the 530s. And according to one historian:

‘The public rooms were partitioned into cells where holy men might mortify the flesh and sing hymns of praise. Theodora provided for their needs, and every two or three days she visited them and received their blessings.’

All right. So not a fun clubhouse. But the thing is, Justinian would sometimes go with her, so it’s not as though he didn’t know or share any interest in them. Also, on her deathbed, Theodora was like, ‘Hey baby, will you look after all my Monophysites for me?’ And Justinian was like, ‘Yes, baby.  I will.’ And then he did.   

Needless to say, Theodora’s conversion to Monophysitism in Alexandria was life-long and deeply committed. Because Theodora … she didn’t do anything half-assed.   

After her conversion to Monophysitism, Theodora then hustles her way to the city of Antioch, which is today the city of Antakya in south-central Turkey. Hoo, by golly. She’s almost home.

Once she arrives in Antioch, however, Theodora connects with the very circus faction that saved her family from destitution all those years ago … the Blues. 

And they’d save her again. Here’s Procopius. 

Procopius: There was a dancing-girl, Macedonia by name, belonging to the Blue Faction in Antioch, a woman who had acquired great influence …

So Theodora links up with Macedonia in Antioch. But Macedonia is not your average dancing girl. She is also a spy working for the Blues. And she’s not just any spy working for the Blues. Macedonia just so happens to be one of Justinian’s spies. Justinian, who also happens to support the Blues and whose uncle, Justin, also just so happens to be emperor at the time. Don’t worry, I’ll get into Justinian’s background and trajectory next episode. But for now, what’s important is that Macedonia gets her girl Theodora some work. 

Which puts Theodora in Justinian’s orbit. 

There’s zero details about exactly how Theodora’s transition from Justinian’s spy in Antioch to his girlfriend in Constantinople occurred. Which sucks because that’s absolutely the kind of romantic honey I live for. Nevertheless, I’ve thought about this interlude in their story a lot. 

Like, did Theodora’s spy letters to Justinian turn flirty? Or vice versa? Who made the first move?!

All conjecture here, but I think, I think that if they’d had a meet-cute back in Constantinople, it was probably during the height of Theodora’s stardom. Maybe Justinian had seen one of her performances. Maybe they’d even met or been introduced. If so, I think it was definitely never more involved than that, and my hunch is that it probably did not go very far.

The most likely scenario … is that the two knew of each other. Justinian would have heard her name in connection with her stage career. And from what Procopius relays about her reputation both on-stage and off, Theodora definitely gave the people of Constantinople something to talk about. I mean, doubtful Justinian would’ve have missed it.

I think there’s also a decent chance she had known for a while who he was, too. Theodora was certainly intelligent and enterprising enough to observe his ascendant career, even from a distance, even if his was nothing more than a name tossed around. She’d attached herself to Hecebolus, so she had her elite connections and aspirations when it came to hitching her raft to a man with power, i.e. a man who could get her out of theatrical life.

So when Theodora reappears in Antioch, and is recruited into his spy network, I imagine Justinian was like:

Justinian: Oh, it’s her.

And then, I think the spy letters got flirty — or at least I fucking hope so — and I think they grew to understand pretty quickly with this epistolary spy romance that they were each other’s person. Well before she returned to Constantinople where they would finally experience each other IRL. And I also suspect that went [fireworks].

Because they were each smart, intensely loyal — and they were never more loyal to anyone than they were to each other. I mean, I think, one of the biggest tells is that nowhere in The Secret History does Procopius present a single rumor or allegation of marital infidelity on either of their parts, and as we’ll soon see … he totally would have, if he could have.

T&J had each other’s backs and they were also ambitious as fuck. Theodora wanted to rise as far above her station as she could get, and Justinian could catapult her. 

Justinian seems to have seen right past her pariah status. And more than that … He was proud of her and proud to be with her.

For a man of Justinian’s position to be so loud and so committed to a woman whose background is sex work. I mean, as a woman sitting here in the 21st century, that’s not unconventional. That’s fucking radical. 

Which makes what Procopius says in the Secret History sound … depressingly contemporary.

Procopius: So Theodora, born and nurtured and educated in the manner I have described, came to the dignity of Empress without having been impeded by any obstacle. For not even a thought that he was doing an outrageous thing entered the mind of the man who married her, though he might have taken his choice of the whole Roman empire and have married that woman who, of all the women in the world, was in the highest degree both well-born and blessed with a nurture sheltered from the public eye, a woman who had not been unpracticed in modesty, and had dwelt with chastity, who was not only surpassingly beautiful but also still a maid and, as the expression runs, erect of breast; but he did not ...   

It sort of speaks volumes that Justinian hadn’t married one of these ‘sheltered,’ ‘erect-of-breast’ — Ew, Procopius — noblewomen already. Justinian was in his early thirties by the time he and Theodora got together. So it’s almost as though he was waiting for a spouse with a very particular set of qualities to come along, and Theodora had them: smart, funny, sexy, resilient.

That was what mattered, and that was it. Then, they were. Ready to help each other take on the world. Literally.  

Now, it should be noted that Theodora’s odyssey across North Africa and the Levant had her seeing and experiencing waaaay more of the empire she would soon co-rule than her husband, who was a notorious homebody. Seriously. Notwithstanding his leaving as a young man — the Illyirian village of his birth — Justinian left Constintinople, like, twice. In his whole life.  

But for now, we leave them here. I like to imagine, T&J together, boyfriend-and-girlfriend, intertwined, in bed, in some swanky-ass room in the palace complex, laughing at some post-coital joke Theodora made. She’s not only survived her ordeal, but she’s back home, safe, in love, no longer an actress, but with a good and powerful man who loves her and is taking her along with him for this ride. She was determined to have this kind of life. She busted her ass for it, getting dragged down and humiliated in the process, but fuck you Hecebolus, she got it. And the best is yet to come.  

Outro/Wrap

Research, scripting, narration, and editing for this episode were all done by me, Christine Laskowski.

Scoring and musical arrangements for T&J were also written and performed by me in collaboration with the inimitable Jack Butler. The T&J logo was designed by Meredith Montgomery.

Procopius of Caesarea was voiced by Michael de la Bedoyere. Emperor Constantine by Ralph Weber, and Justinian by Oliver Sachgau. 
 
Special thanks to David Parnell for his notes and feedback. Additional sources for this episode are available in the show notes. 

If you liked what you’ve heard, spread the word and leave a nice note in the review section wherever you’re getting your podcasts. Follow and donate on Patreon – that’s patreon.com/tandjpodcast. It’ll really help me keep the show going and give you access to all upcoming T&J episodes in addition to other objectively delectable perks. 

Now, enjoy the outro because I wrote it just for you.   

Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Whoa whoa whoa … 

Yes, it was The 300s AD
A young missionary was
Proselytizing
Then he thought,
‘You know what’d really help me?’
Get the message across to the Goths
about Christianity
A Bible For the Tribal
Based on the Creed from Rimini 

Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Whoa whoa whoa … 
He helped create a
Written language for the Goths
And Bulgaria was the area where
Little Wolf first taught  
With Greek ‘n Latin letterforms
and a couple a runes
We know the words ‘Daur’ and ‘Dwala’
 and you can check ‘em out in Uppsala!  

Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Wulfila put the Arian in Barb-ARIAN
Whoa whoa whoa …


Sources

Bockemuehl, Markus, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Jesus. Cambridge University Press, 2001. 
Boin, Douglas. Alaric the Goth: An Outsider’s History of the Fall of Rome. W.W. Norton & Company, 2020. Browning, Robert. Justinian & Theodora. Thames and Hudson,  1971.
Evans, James Allan. Power Game in Byzantium: Antonina and the Empress Theodora. Continuum, 2011. Greenblatt, Stephen. The Swerve: How the World Became Modern. W.W. Norton & Company, 2011.
Moorhead, John. Justinian. Longman, 1994.
Parnell, David. “T&J.” Emails received by Christine Laskowski. 26 April and 1 May, 2023.
Parry, Ken, ed. The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Patristics. John Wiley & Sons, Ltd., 2015.
Procopius. The Anecdota or Secret History. Translated by H.B. Dewing, Harvard University Press, 1935.

Non-Original Music 
(Courtesy of Internet Archive, in order of appearance)

Seltzer-Fulton. Arthur Pryor’s Band “Snow Queen.” Victor Record, 1909.
Taylor, Hackel and Berge Trio. “Bohemian Song.” Columbia, 1915.
Sicilian Instrumental Quartette. “Josephine By The Sea.” Columbia, 1918.
Cogane, Franklin, and Skyler. Teddy Tucker His Band The Hilltoppers “Oh, Theodora.” Savoy, 1922.
Goetzl, Anselm. Joseph C. Smith’s Orchestra. “Alexandria.” Victor, 1920.
Val Hamm, J. “Dialogue for Four.” Columbia, 1915.
Paul Biese Trio. “In Sweet September.” Columbia, 1920.
Church Chimes. “The Coming of the Year.” Victor, 1911.
Straight and Biese. Paul Biese Trio. “In the Land of Rice and Tea.” Columbia, 1920.
Raoul Vidas and Walter Golde. "Air For G String." Colombia, 1920.
Alpine Instrumental Quartet. “Tyrolian Airs.” Harmony, 1922
Lopez and Lewis. The Original Memphis Five. “Bee’s Knees.” Banner, 1922.
Mr. and Mrs. Papagikas; A. Macedonas; M. Sifnios. "In Greek." Columbia, 1919.
Duke Ellington and His Band. “Awful Sad.” Brunswick, 1922.
Braga, G. Venetian Instrumental Quartet. “Angels Serenade.” Edison, 1915.
Destrubé. “Théodora.” Pathé, Publication Date Unknown.
Wyman. Taylor Trio. “Idol Eyes.” Connorized, 1922.
Gayler, Robert. “Christmas Eve.” Edison, 1916.
Green Bros. Novelty Band. “Kismet.” Edison, 1920.
The Kidoodlers. “There’s a Blue Sky Way Out Yonder.” Okeh, 1922.
Drumheller, L.A. “Love and Devotion.” Edison, 1914.
Neopolitan Trio. “The Herd Girl’s Dream.” Victor, 1911.
Monaco-Brooks. Paul Biese Trio. “In Sweet September.” Columbia, 1920.
Boldi. Taylor, Hackel and Berge Trio. “Bohemian Song.” Columbia, 1915. 

* Under the Music Modernization Act, all recordings published prior to 1923 will enter the public domain and will be free to use and reuse. 

Non-Original Natural Sounds 

 ‘Only in Lapland’ Audio Library
  Pixabay Sound Effects