I imagine there are
some Christian supporters of Trump who see him as a new Constantine. They
probably envision him as a champion of their particular brand of American
Christianity, an apostle of the so-called “prosperity gospel,” and a hammer
against heretics and infidels. In the apocalyptic delirium of many Evangelicals
and conservative Catholics, he must seem like a political saviour. Someone who
will bring to an end the “Great Persecution” in which they currently cast
themselves as victims. Forced as they are by their demonic government to sell
wedding cakes to same-sex couples and share bathrooms with transgender people.
Not since the bloody days of Diocletian has the Christian cause been so under
threat…or so they tell themselves.
Unlike Trump, Constantine
was a military man. Trained from a young age to ascend the ranks of Roman
governance and eventually take his place as a member of the Tetrarchy, a
complex system of co-emperorship established by Diocletian in the late 3rd
century CE. Yet, Diocletian’s reforms eventually unravelled into persecution
and social chaos. Christians were scapegoated for society’s ills and a campaign
for their eradication was instigated in 303 CE. In the midst of this violent
upheaval, Constantine successfully manoeuvered himself to pre-eminence by
plugging himself into the Christian cause, embodied by his famous vision of the
cross at the Milvian Bridge—in hoc signo. Eventually, a series of edicts
reversing anti-Christian policies created the conditions for an alliance
between Church and State. Constantine for his part saw Christianity as a
unifying force for a fractured empire, while Christian bishops saw the
soldier-emperor as a vehicle to advance their cause. Was he really a Christian?
It’s hard to know for sure, although he and his Christian supporters certainly
found their arrangement mutually beneficial. Early on, peace and co-existence
between Christians and believers in the old gods were officially promoted, but by the end of the century religious practices were being banned, temples
were being closed, and "pagans" were being invited to choose between the Bible or
the sword.
Not all Christians
were on board with this political alliance. The wealth and opulence of the new
Christian elite was sometimes criticized (Jerome, Life of Paul of Thebes 17),
as was the sycophantic fawning of the clergy who now populated the imperial
court (Sulpicius Severus, Life of Martin of Tours 20). In fact, part of
what may have motivated the first monks to head out into the desert was a
repudiation and protest against the “new normal” of Imperial Christianity.
Christ, once depicted in popular iconography as a shepherd, was now cast as a
Roman soldier.
If there’s one thing
that the history of the church makes clear, it’s that some Christians will do
almost anything to claim the sword of Caesar. No teaching of Jesus is deemed
too essential to be sacrificed on the alter of imperium. Yet rarely is
this sentiment universal throughout the church. There will always be those that
cling to the original vision of a saviour who was not a champion, but rather a
victim of empire.
The 4th
century CE church historian Eusebius of Caesarea recorded a troubled impression
of this new order. One that is read with great ambiguity. Reflecting on the
celebrations around the twentieth year of Constantine’s reign, the church
father recalled:
Not one of the bishops was wanting at the imperial
banquet, the circumstances of which were splendid beyond description.
Detachments of the bodyguard and other troops surrounded the entrance of the
palace with drawn swords, and through the midst of these the men of God
proceeded without fear into the innermost of the imperial apartments, in which
some were the emperor's own companions at table, while others reclined on
couches arranged on either side. One might have thought that a picture of
Christ's kingdom was thus shadowed forth, and a dream rather than reality (Eusebius,
Life of Constantine 15).
The image of bishops
processing through the ranks of imperial storm troopers is certainly an
incongruous one. As is the thought of them reclining with a man who murdered
members of his own family. Kingdom of Christ to some, disturbing dream to
others.
One thing is clear. In
the wake of Trump, Christians of all denominations have a lot of soul-searching
to do. Will some finally and definitively walk away from the gospel in favor of
a narrow desire to impose uniformity of sexual norms, expelling foreigners, and limiting the rights of their neighbours? In that case a new American religion will have been created. Call it
what you want, but don’t call it Christianity. Or will others finally, perhaps
for the first time, start taking the gospel seriously? Christians are often caricatured
as literalists, at least when it suits their social agenda. But rarely do they
take the words of Jesus himself at face value.
Perhaps it’s time for
the Christians of America to ask themselves: “Lord, when was it that we saw
you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not
take care of you?” (Mt 25:44).
A lot depends upon the
answer.
