Bevan continues the narrative past Ephesus, where Cyril's irenicism (though steadfast in his dogma) surprises the reader. According to Bevan, Cyril was very willing to compromise with his erstwhile opponent John of Antioch in 433 (who had, at this point, throne Nestorius to the dogs). Cyril willingly conceded to the concept of "two-natures" (though Bevan faults him for it), in the encyclical "Let the Heavens Rejoice". Eventually, Cyril realized that this agreement basically let Nestorius off the hook, since the more substantive Christological issue remained unsolve (it's helpful to note Theotokos is more about Christ than it is about Mary). In other words, the single subject of Christ was not adequately defended, and this opened the door to Paul of Samosata's two-sons Christology (where Christ had two identities, the Logos and the man Jesus, which seemed to make Jesus simply into a prophet, not the Word made flesh). It was such that Cyril saw in Nestorius, and his Antiochene teachers Diodore and Theodore, which undermined the faith revealed in scripture.
Eventually, Cyril backed away from this formula later, but it was too late. While the Council of Ephesus condemned Nestorius and his "heresy" (it only applied to some of his subordinates, if even them), it did not ratify Cyril's theological platform, written out in his "Twelve Anathemas". Actually, the council's results had condemned both Cyril and Nestorius (a charge Cyril avoided by bribing guards and escaping back to Egypt). Councils were for social stability as much as defending true dogma, and thus the emperor (Theodosius II) had a tough choice. Constantinople was under his grasp, but the situation in Egypt was volatile. If the emperor tried to force Cyril's removal, or arrest the popular patriarch, he might have riots on his hands. In these terms, Cyril remained far more adept at navigating imperial politics from a more parochial situation (something Nestorius was unable to do). So, while Cyril backed away from the 433 concord, that remained the effective peace brokered between the two factions. However, Bevan thinks Cyril was far less astute when it came to philosophy than Nestorius was. It's for this reason why Cyril was willing to compromise, only to realize his mistake later. In moral terms, if true, this state of affairs makes Cyril look much better, a defender of popular piety against a bureaucrat dabbling in metaphysical speculation.
And yet Cyril died, and his disciples pressed his rejection of 433 forward with vigor. After receiving a setback in the condemnation of Eutyches (a Cyrillian archimandrite in Constantinople), the emperor balances their anger with a council of their own. Under Cyril's successor Dioscorus, Ephesus II (as Oriental Orthodox remember it) condemned Nestorius once more, and all those who resembled him (namely Flavian, archbishop of Constantinople, who was trampled to death after the council). Not unlike the politique of John, Dioscorus throws Eutyches under the bus as equally heretical (which Bevan, in a supplemental article, argued was nothing more than a show trial to advance imperial control over the situation). However, Theodosius II died suddenly (falling from his horse and breaking his neck). His sister, Pulcheria (a committed virgin and someone far more favorable to the Antiochene position), takes control of hte situation. She marries Marcion (a powerful general) to garner support, and together they assemble another council to put things right.
Bevan argues that Chalcedon, in one important sense, was a vindication of Nestorius. The council adopts Leo's Tome, a dogmatic statement about Christology from Rome. This work stirred up the Egyptians (who condemned it at Ephesus II), but was well received by Nestorius. The imperial couple invited Nestorius to Chalcedon, but he dies on his way from exile. Bevan argues that if Nestorius made it to the council, it may have reversed its condemnation of him. Instead, a dead heretic is hard to vindicate, and so Chalcedon reasserted Nestorius' condemnation. Leo's Tome, however, becomes the keystone of the council's declaration of faith: one person/hypostasis in two natures (basically what the 433 concord had stated). Moderate allies of Nestorius, such as Theodoret of Cyrrhus and Ibas of Edessa, ratify the council and renounce prior affiliations with Nestorius. Proclaimed as a second Nicaea, Chalcedon was supposed to settle the matters once and for all.
Surprising to me, Bevan documents that Chalcedon was wildly unpopular for the next generation, then rapidly becoming the touchstone of orthodoxy by the sixth century. The council was seen as an imperially imposed compromise, one that many accepted with ambivalence. Cyrillians in Egypt and elsewhere repudiated the council as Nestorius redivivus. Most former allies of Nestorius fell in line, though perhaps some holding their noses. Yet the council failed, in its intent, to settle the matter. The next century would see several other imperial concordats to bring the factions together.
Bevan's work makes sense of subsequent centuries. The Henotikon (482 under emperor Zeno) was seen as a middling way, which found lukewarm support outside of direct imperial underlings. Chalcedon's minutes and debates were the first to be published in extent, with the intent to create a somewhat popular interest through transparency. But, ironically, it only made the terms of debate clearer, which provoked Cyrillians against the imperial party (Melkites, "king's men", as they become known in western Syria). It was not until Constantinople II (553), where Justinian pushed through a substantial revision of Chalcedon, creating, effectively, a conciliar compromise that was Chalcedon-plus-Cyril. The result was rather dirty; not only was Nestorius condemned, but several revered Antiochene figures fell under the ban (Diodore, Theodore of Mopsuestia, et al). The gulf between the Cyrillians (some had become increasingly radical) and imperial orthodoxy remained until the Arab invasion made separation almost impossible to correct. Further east in Persia, the Church of the East (who revered Diodore and Theodore) rejected Justinian's council, and instead ratified Nestorius (though knowing little to nothing about his work) as a saint. The Roman church was split into two, and the Persian church sought greater distance from the west.
As a work of history, Bevan puts up top notch scholarship. It is very attentive to detail and pays close attention to the source material, even making tangents to establish sub-arguments (such as supporting the claim that Nestorius baptized an imperial child who died in infancy, making Nestorius' condemnation a very challenging situation for the emperor to make). Rather than relying on well-worn, and increasingly useless, tropes (such as Alexandria vs. Antioch in terms of sweeping theological concepts), Bevan focuses on the actual historical agents and the networks they operated in. He seemlessly blends a rich understanding of theology with a close attention to imperial politics, geo-social networks, and archaelogical data. Overall, it's a fantastic example of what historical scholarship should be.
From this point on, I want to transition into a reflection on Christology and the question of "nature" that put Cyril and Nestorius at odds.
One thing I've come to like about Cyril, after reading this book, is his straightforward emphasis on practical theology and popular piety. Dogma, it seems for Cyril, is grounded in the life of the Church. As the truth sets free, the truth is proclaimed through liturgical practice and spiritual formation. Cyril wanted no compromise over whether it was the Logos who had taken flesh. There was no other man, which would not only deny the uniqueness of the incarnation (wasn't a close union with the Logos what the prophets experienced?) but it undermined the economy of salvation. If it wasn't God who assumed our failures and faults, then how could we take refuge in God's promise to save? Without compromising the distinction between the divine and the human (a distinction that Cyril is not highly metaphysical about), the bishop wants it to be clear that the one who rose Lazarus from the dead was the same one who wept when he saw his friend's tomb. Again, Cyril did not deny that Christ had a human mind and human soul (which was what the Apollinarians rejected), but he distinguished the 'hypostasis' of Christ, the acting subject, the "I", as single and divine. In this way, Cyril was simply repeating what Athnasius (the great defender of Nicaea) taught:
Whence by the good pleasure of the Father, being true God, and Word and Wisdom of the Father by nature, He became man in the body for our salvation, in order that having somewhat to offer for us He might save us all, ‘as many as through fear of death were all their life-time subject to bondage. ‘ For it was not some man that gave Himself up for us; since every man is under sentence of death, according to what was said to all in Adam, ‘earth you are and unto earth you shall return. ‘ Nor yet was it any other of the creatures, since every creature is liable to change. But the Word Himself offered His own Body on our behalf that our faith and hope might not be in man, but that we might have our faith in God the Word Himself. Why, even now that He is become man we behold His Glory, ‘glory as of one only-begotten of His Father— full of grace and truth. ‘ For what He endured by means of the Body, He magnified as God. And while He hungered in the flesh, as God He fed the hungry. And if anyone is offended by reason of the bodily conditions, let him believe by reason of what God works. For humanly He enquires where Lazarus is laid, but raises him up divinely. Let none then laugh, calling Him a child, and citing His age, His growth, His eating, drinking and suffering, lest while denying what is proper for the body, he deny utterly also His sojourn among us. And just as He has not become Man in consequence of His nature, in like manner it was consistent that when He had taken a body He should exhibit what was proper to it, lest the imaginary theory of Manichæus should prevail. Again it was consistent that when He went about in the body, He should not hide what belonged to the Godhead, lest he of Samosata should find an excuse to call Him man, as distinct in person from God the Word. (Letter 61, To Maximus)Yet, this approach raises certain questions about nature (physis, where we get the term 'physics'). What exactly is a 'hypostasis'? By rejecting the Apollinarian path (identifying it with our consciousness and higher mental functions, the nous), the question still remains. Cyril's method reflects scriptural emphases, which spends less time on whatness (which usually depends upon function; something Cyril also follows) than on 'who'. The 'hypsostasis' is a question of identity, the subject of any given state. Thus to ask 'what' a 'who' is made out of is a category error. And yet what constitutes a who? And if the Christian dies, what does it mean for there to be a continuous 'I' besides an assertion of divine power to make it so?
Additionally, returning to the original point, what is a physis? Is nature a platonic form or something? How does one sketch out what is distinctly human and what is simply an "accident", a superficial difference that doesn't change the "nature". An example would be that whether someone had brown hair or black hair, swarthy or fair complexion, the individual in question is still a human. One answer may simply be DNA, and yet the same questions arrise (Human DNA varies between individuals and is almost nearly exact to other primates). And is nature unchanging? St. Paul, unlike many who talk of 'nature', puts social praxis and culture on the same spectrum. Hence, any hard and fast definition of nature runs up against this:
We who are Jews by nature, and not sinners of the Gentiles, knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law but by faith in Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Christ Jesus, that we might be justified by faith in Christ and not by the works of the law; for by the works of the law no flesh shall be justified. (Galatians 2:15-16)
Here, St. Paul equates Torah obedience (lineage, but also circumcision and being under Torah), a cult and culture in a way of life, with "nature". It's for this reason that he can also say, elsewhere, that some Gentiles follow Torah by nature (Romans 2:14-16). This verse has been used as a prop for "natural law" for centuries, but it doesn't really follow if nature is malleable as in the above. Most proponents of "natural law" wouldn't talk about Jew-nature or Gentile-nature, which predisposes them to certain things. For as much grief as some Christians (particularly Roman and Orthodox) give Evangelicals for talk of a "sin nature", such language coheres far better with the Apostles than their static metaphysics.
Thus, it's not for nothing that Christians like Cyril were ambivalent about the language of "nature" when debating whether Christ had one or two. Again, Cyril is quite clear that there's no fusion or mixture. He puts forward a pretty simple definition of humanity (a rational animal composed of body and soul) to contrast with the divine (which has no category). The point Cyril wants to make is that the Word taking flesh has a oneness in subject, even if in assuming a body He assumes (without confusion) the faculties of the human being. Subsequent theology was about trying to understand what this meant (which, ultimately and fruitfully, resulted in a focus on the question of "energies"). However, lest these questions be scuppered as strictly metaphysical, I would contend that metaphysics and physis are ultimately bound up in each other. The retreat of metaphysics from the dynamics of the world is more of a failure of metaphysics. The fact that Aristotle is no longer the great philosopher of nature (which was one reason he was prized in the Middle Ages) is due to many of his systems being debunked. So, if we're to fruitfully engage in questions of Christology one must not ignore the "science" of physics to clarify our categories. Mindlessly intoning ancient concepts does nothing to help people know what you're talking about. The value of these questions diminishes if ancient systems of thought can't make sense of modern advances in knowledge. Mathematicians and physicists have found the value of neo-platonic metaphysics, translating or adopting their concepts into a contemporary context. Christological inquiries should do the same.
The importance of Cyril over Nestorius is over how the former's "metaphysics" was far more flexible and functional. While Nestorius was concerned about confusing the Creator and the created, in the categories of high philosophy, Cyril was concerned with dogmas that either supported or undermined the creedal statement of scripture. I would argue this led Cyril to be far more flexible in his philosophy than Nestorius, which makes the former more useful than the latter. Why? Because Cyril's faith was more closely tied to scriptural paradigms of function determining form. The unlikeness of God, in scripture, has more to do with His supreme sovereignty and that He alone was Creator. These were primarily relational categories, which distinguished one thing from another. Human nature too was defined in less strict terms, reflecting divinely given vocation and certain powers required of their role. Part of a Christian's investigation of anthropology, the study of what man is (not the academic discipline), requires a far more functional approach. Cyril's talk of "one nature" has to do with the fact that the single Christ, out of His own will and power (His own divine "energies), acted as a single agent. Cyril's support for "two natures" was an acknowledgement of purely mental distinctions. We understand God and man are not the same thing, but in the concrete history of Christ, one has assumed the other. We may not (as scripture does not) speak of God doing x, and the man doing y, in the life of Christ.
And yet, Cyril's approach can sound mythological if not firmly moored in scriptural imagery. An emphasis on flesh can sound like Apollinarian "space suit Christology", where God (imagined as a celestial cloud or something) suits up in a human flesh, where He (like an astronaut) is empirically identified only through the suit. It was precisely this issue that got Antiochenes up in arms. While Cyril (and Athanasius before him) reject an equation of hypostasis with nous, the question of what it means for the divine Word (who is naturally, meaning eternally, so) to be born as a man.
Scripture actually provides the categories to understand. In St. John's gospel, the prologue announces that the Word "was made flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14). The term translated "dwelt" (skenein) is the same word translated for God's presence in the Tabernacle. To be made "flesh" involves God "tabernacling", where His body is the imperfect transport that will, eventually, be glorified in the glorious Temple in Jerusalem. God's presence in the Temple is precisely what defines it as Temple, otherwise it would be a building made up of wood and stones. In functional terms, buildings are defined through a series of relationships. A house is distinctly a house because someone is supposed to live there, and a shop is a shop because goods are sold there, even if the architect designed the buildings identically and made them out of the same "stuff". Ontological questions about "stuff" only seem to matter when it impacts the function of the thing or its history (thus also determining the function through form).
For example: a heart is a heart not so much by the stuff it's made out of, but what the organ does for the body. This approach has sometimes been crudely mechanized, as if the heart is simply a pump (it is that) which could be replaced with a man-made pump. The problem is that the heart also has integral relation with various other organs, it's made out of "stuff" that accomplishes its various operations and maintain the integrity of its relation with other organs and bodily systems. On top of that, if the heart was replaced with, say, a cloned heart or another human heart, the history of this other heart's origin might impact its form (it's not the original, and thus it is something else by its later arrival). It might also raise up ethical questions because the origin of this other heart (perhaps stolen from someone, perhaps cloned through unsavory means) would then dictate how the heart is then related to the individual known as a body. History and composition flow together as part of a single way to identify a thing's "nature". And yet that individuated nature, who then has its own history as a subject, is the 'who' in any subject. Thus, the Temple can be placed in a larger category of 'temple' (which may also be brought together with 'palace' to form a wider concept), while its hypostasis, its individual subjecthood, is defined through its occupant. It is not simply a big home, but the very location of the Creator God and Father of Israel.
Through Temple Christology, some of the questions become clearer. In fact, the Cyrillian emphasis on the Word taking flesh, and the Antiochene emphasis of the Word taking a body, cohere well. Similarly, one may appreciate (but reject as too ambiguous) Theodore of Mopsuestia's formula that the Word assumed a man. What Theodore wants to defend is the wholeness of the Temple (the man) that God dwells in. But "man" sounds like a full person, as if there can be any disjunction between the human being and the Word who dwelt there. Hence Cyril's vigorous opposition: it sounds more like a union between two than the one assuming another. A Temple has no meaning as such until the divine presence arrives; it's only a Temple afterwards. Thus the man is only such when the Logos takes upon Himself body and soul. It's in that way the Word is made flesh. Perhaps the Church of the East could appreciate Theodore's grammar in Syriac, because they tended to promote a similar Temple Christology before Theodore was considered a godly teacher (c.f. the poetry of Ephraim the Syrian). Perhaps they simply didn't come across such ambiguous statements. But the Church of the East, against later monophysite Cyrillians, professed the two natures strongly. They feared any collapse of God, as if God simply was the Temple and could not be distinguished apart from wood and stone (which, in effect, sounded like God was an idol). Some monophysites perhaps sounded like this, though such would be a departure from Cyril himself.
Additionally, an emphasis on the Temple to define our Christology (something not so much foreign to patristics, but to their modern successors) would help solve some Christological impasses. Lutherans mocked the Reformed extra Calvinisticum, the idea that Christ was wholly identified with Christ but exceeded His human body. It derived from the Reformed statement, basically a tautology: finitum non capax infiniti (the finite cannot exhaust the infinite). Lutherans considered this a rejection of Hebrews 1:3 ("in Him [Christ] the fullness of God dwelt bodily"). But the point the Reformed were making was simply that the Logos, being infinite, did not cease to be everywhere even as He was locally present as Jesus, body and soul. The concept of Temple helps cut through this debate, when we look at Solom's dedicatory prayer. Solomon recognized that even as God was totally present in the Temple, that being the Creator God, neither the Earth nor the heavens could fully contain Him (1 Kings 8:27). Thus there was no contradiction in the infinite God being present here (which is more a statement of relation, as most spatial metaphors in the Bible are), even as He was not totally exhausted there. The Reformed were correct, and the Lutherans advancing a bizarre piety (or perhaps not understanding what the Reformed were saying, to be charitable).
Cyrillian emphasis on the one dwelling makes most sense in terms of the Temple, and helps ground the metaphysical grammar we use when talking about Christology. Rather than simply harping about ancient categories, which becomes almost esoteric in how it drives most "uninitiated" out from the conversation, it gets back to the source material. It doesn't deny the ancient debates, but reformats (which involves adopting terms as much as it means translating ancient concepts) within contemporary knowledge. Bevan's history help us know the stakes, but theology must be more than simply history of past events. If theology is to mean anything, it is explaining what it means that the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.
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