Heresy. Frank P. Spinella
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When Arius made no response, Alexander’s tone grew stern. “And you should take better care not to use that gift to sow dissention. If you have an issue with what others preach, I suggest you take it up with them privately first. Especially me! Criticizing my sermon on the Trinity, and even accusing me of Sabellianism; was that designed to endear yourself to me? You should pick your fights more carefully, Arius! Do not forget who was chosen to shepherd this flock, and who is charged with protecting it from ravenous wolves coming down from the hills—or from Libya!”
Arius remained expressionless, hiding his indignation at this bald attack on his character. Alexander, however, could not hide his chagrin at Arius’s lack of reaction; his face reddened in anger and his eyes narrowed menacingly. “Know this, my priest: just before his death, Peter warned both Achillas and me that your views were unorthodox, even dangerous, and that you should not be sanctioned to preach. Achillas nevertheless saw fit to ordain you. I am not sure I would have, either then or now. We shall see what we shall see. Tread lightly, preacher! I have my eye on you.” Alexander raised his cup to his lips and drained it with a single swallow, his defiant eyes never looking away from Arius as he tilted his head back.
“You have no cause for concern,” Arius replied calmly, again repressing the outrage he felt. “I am obedient to my bishop. Will that be all? I am anxious to return to Baucalis and share today’s good tidings with my congregation.”
“Go,” Alexander commanded in frustration. Still emotionless, Arius placed his unsipped cup of wine on the table, and with a slight perfunctory bow to the prelate, turned and proceeded toward the door, giving a quick sideways look at the Clementine manuscript as he passed. Never, he vowed to himself as he read its first line again.
Chapter 5
In mid-summer, when the rains do not come and the air is still, the foul and pungent smells of the crowded city streets can be nauseating. I breathe shallowly through my mouth as I hurry along to noon prayers with the other deacons.
Crouched in the meager shade of the date trees near the entrance of the Catechetical School are the beggars, haggard and emaciated, who look upon the passing clerics first with entreating gazes of expectation, and then, disappointed, with such hatred and vituperation as to send a shudder up the spine of the most hardened. It is as though they feel entitled to receive bread from our hands. Bread, the ancient means of subsistence for the common throngs who press daily into the marketplace, was first baked here in Egypt thousands of years ago, and soon spread throughout the world as a staple of daily consumption. But for these supplicants in the street, bread may be theirs only by theft or by others’ grace—and we deacons are the perceived dispensers of that grace, for they know the Christian teaching on love of neighbor and dispensing of charity to others. They know as well that we pass this way at midday, and it is from us particularly that they expect the charity that will quell the rumbling in their bellies. But today I have no bread, and I do not stop, nor even slow to apologize as I avert my eyes from theirs, carrying my guilt into the communal prayer hall.
The Apostle Paul admonished that we are to pray without ceasing, but this is not possible, except perhaps as Origen wrote: “He prays without ceasing who combines prayer with right actions, and becoming actions with prayer. For the saying ‘pray without ceasing’ can only be accepted by us as a possibility if we may speak of the whole life of a saint as one great continuous prayer.” Today, once again, that is not me. The beggars know.
Origen once studied in these very halls, where now I study him. I struggle mightily to understand him. The enigmatic Origen, who took so much in the Scriptures as allegorical, yet took literally the nineteenth chapter of Matthew regarding those who make themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven! What monstrous insight could have inspired him to pick up a knife and castrate himself? It is said that later in life he regretted doing so. Male sexual function was an ancient prerequisite to communal worship; it is written in Deuteronomy, “No one whose testicles are crushed or whose penis is cut off shall be admitted to the assembly of the Lord.” Yet Isaiah writes: “For thus says the Lord: To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give, in my house and within my walls, a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off.” The two passages seem so inconsistent to me. Could it be that God changed his mind on this? No, no, I refuse to believe such a thing possible; it is written in the twenty-third chapter of Numbers that “God is not a human being, that he should lie, or a mortal, that he should change his mind.” Yes, surely that must be right. It is solely a trait of humans to change their minds—as Origen, they say, changed his. A bit too late.
If celibacy is indeed the noble calling in the service of God that the Apostle Paul claims, castration is actually the coward’s way out, preventing even the spontaneous sexual arousal that sometimes arises without the slightest visual stimulation or indulged fantasy. Many of the deacons have vowed to renounce the pleasures of the flesh—I have myself—but where would be the daily sacrifice, where the glory of resistance to temptation, if the experience of temptation were itself rendered impossible with a single swipe of the blade? A forced virgin is no virgin at all. The young maidens of the city who dedicate themselves to the service of the Lord know this. Their virginity is their glory because it is their constant choice.
It is nothing short of remarkable that so many of these young women—about seven hundred, by some accounts—have made an additional choice; they have attached themselves to the parish of Baucalis, where the Libyan presbyter Arius has thoroughly captivated the minds of the congregation with his sleek oratorical style. To me, Arius is as enigmatic as Origen, if not more so. The man is not overly flamboyant in his preaching, yet his charisma is as undeniable as his teaching is questionable. Alexander does not trust him. I have yet to make up my own mind, and prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt. Unlike some who have adopted an ascetic life style with unabashed fervor in recent years as though it were a surrogate for martyrdom in the new post-persecution era, Arius’s asceticism appears genuine; he makes no great show of it, withdraws when he fasts, shows temperance and moderation in his habits. He is prayerful and serene, at least in public persona. Still, to surround himself with so many virgins carries at least a hint of impropriety, if not scandal. Alexander half-jokingly refers to them as “the harbor harem,” and while his priests and deacons chuckle politely at the joke, no evidence has ever been brought forward to suggest any lack of chastity on Arius’s part. If he has taken a consort from among these women, it has not even reached the rumor stage. Speculation and suspicion provide no basis for official reprobation, and none has been forthcoming. That is as it should be. There is enough in Arius’s teachings to be concerned about without getting worked up over his alluring entourage.
And concern over his teaching is growing. Reports of his preaching hint at unorthodox theological leanings, particularly in regard to the divinity of Christ. He refers to the paradox of simultaneous unity and distinction, the one arising from a communication of divine substance from Father to Son, the other arising from subordination and inferiority of Son to Father. He regularly questions the possibility of an indivisible God generating a perfect image of himself without thereby becoming divisible. His sermons are replete with rationalist arguments rather than faith-based teachings. When he expounds on the Scriptures, it is with a bent toward the literal, which he then presses to the logical limits of textual meaning, cautioning his listeners against expansion beyond those limits. Yet, always, there is ambiguity and uncertainty in his message, particularly at the crucial point of affirming or denying the Son’s full and co-equal divinity with the Father that has long formed part of our tradition. And so his views on the subject remain shrouded in mystery, albeit the subject of considerable speculation here among the catechumens.
Arius does not frequent the School, nor do I venture regularly to the harbor. Those few brief occasions when we have spoken have yielded no theologically intense discussions, yet he impressed me with his keen intelligence and careful choice of words. Though he is a presbyter and I a deacon, and though he is more than twice my age, his melancholy eyes show no trace of condescension or impatience. The man is difficult to read, and even more difficult to draw into debate; he chooses his skilful rhetorical forays carefully. Once, when I sought to engage him by asking his opinion on Origen’s view that Christ’s baptism