Those Christians in the generation leading up to Constantine’s ascent appear not to have been strictly pacificist or “Anabaptist” (for lack of a more convenient term) in their politics. At risk of beating the same old drum, bits of information like this consistently underscore for me the value in studying the history of Christianity between the New Testament and, say, Augustine. Especially for modern Christians who feel alarm or simply aporia at the prospect of de-Christianization, there are helpful and sometimes surprising models to be considered in this era.

On a recent re-reading of Eusebius’ writings about the Great Persecution and the subsequent rule of Constantine, I was struck by how he records quite a few Christians working in the army and imperial administration decades before Constantine was running the show. Sometimes, for instance, it is alleged that the pre-Constantinian church flatly opposed participation in the military. That claim (or versions of it) was always oversimplifying matters, and one can spot it right in the sources themselves.
Take Ecclesiastical History 8.4 (and I shall describe, paraphrase, quote lightly from sources in rather than en bloc for brevity in this post). Eusebius suggests that “he who has taken power”—which I take to be the devil rather than the emperor—thought the best starting place to begin an attack on the church would be the army itself, which itself is a telling remark about where Christians were known to exist in the public sphere. “Very many” faithful Christian soldiers lost their status in the process, claims Eusebius, though here and there some were also killed for their constancy. When telling the stories of the martyrs he knew most personally, Eusebius marks out one such soldier named Seleucus, in the Martyrs of Palestine 11.26. Having already accepted punishment and discharge from the army, Seleucus then faced danger again by associating with the Christians of Caesarea, which led to his death. In general, however, this particular stroke against the Christian soldiery was moderate and not especially violent, comments Eusebius dryly.
In Ecclesiastical History 8.6, Eusebius also mentions one Dorotheus and others working in the imperial palace of Nicomedia, who were probably slaves. Further down, in 8.9, he notes the hitherto respected Philoromos, who sat as an imperial judge “with status and Roman honor” in Alexandria daily escorted by soldiers. In recompense for his unyielding Christianity, the empire had Philoromos condemned and beheaded. Likewise in 8.11, Eusebius goes so far as to claim that the complete population of an entire small town in Phrygia suffered burning en masse, including the imperial accountant on site and the local town officials, all of whom were Christians. Here too Eusebius mentions Adauktos, who came from a notable Italian family and had achieved status and served in imperial magistracies; at the time of his martyrdom, he was currently serving as a financial officer or comptroller general.
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The most important thing to say is that anyone who regularly reads the Bible, by the Spirit, sees the lion every day. The word of God is the one inspired, infallible path he has given us for life. “His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence, by which he has granted to us his precious and very great promises” (2 Peter 1:3–4). Google can’t provide answers like these. Artificial intelligence is a shadow of such wisdom. A hundred PhDs would only scratch the surface. We have no idea what we hold in the pages of this Book.

As I get older, decisions in life don’t seem to get smaller and easier, but bigger, harder, and more frequent.
In the moment, we often think the hardest decision we’ll ever face is whichever one we have to make right now. If we look back in ten years, though, this whale of a decision may begin to look a little more like a dolphin or a penguin.
When I was in my early twenties, the most difficult decision I had made was whether to stay near home for college (with my friends) or wander outside the safety of southern Ohio. Tears were shed. By my mid-thirties, however, I had made a dozen decisions bigger than that one. Where will I live? Where will I go to church? What will I do for a living, and who will pay me to do that? Whom will I marry? When will we try to have kids? Will I stay in this job? What school will we send our kids to? How will we pay for that? And those are just the big decisions most people have to make at some point. You have question marks of your own.
This year brought some new whales into our family’s harbor, and so we’ve been in need of fresh wisdom and clarity. As we wrestled through these weighty decisions, I was reading The Chronicles of Narnia with my six-year-old. On one of our hikes through its forests, my son and I came to a crossroads (as one often does in Narnia). And it was one of those crossroads that unveils the magic of Lewis’s world.
While standing there beside a dwarf (Trumpkin) and looking out over a gorge separating the four Pevensie children from Prince Caspian’s army, I suddenly wasn’t looking at a dwarf anymore, or a gorge, or even a book. I was looking at my life, at the hard decisions I needed to make. I was looking at myself. It was as if Lewis himself had decided to stop over from mid-twentieth-century Oxford to help me choose between the paths before me.
A Godless Calculus
Where we were reading, King Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy are hiking with Trumpkin, trying to find the Great River. After arduous days, they’re questioning whether they’ve gone the wrong way when they suddenly come to a gorge. The chasm is too wide to cross, so they must either follow the gorge downstream, hoping it meets the river, or climb upstream, looking for a place to cross. Trumpkin’s convinced that the gorge must fall into the river somewhere below, and Peter quickly approves. “Come on, then. Down this side of the gorge” (Prince Caspian, 131). At that moment, though, young Lucy sees an old, majestic friend.
“Look! Look! Look!” cried Lucy.
“Where? What?” asked everyone.
“The Lion,” said Lucy. “Aslan himself. Didn’t you see?” Her face had changed completely and her eyes shone.
The other children, not able to see Aslan themselves, immediately suspect she’s seeing things. Lucy won’t back down, though. As they search and search and see nothing, they ask where exactly she saw the lion.
Right up there between those mountain ashes. No, this side of the gorge. And up, not down. Just the opposite of the way you want to go. And he wanted us to go where he was — up there. (132)
As Lucy insists, the dwarf resists. “I know nothing about Aslan. But I do know that if we turn left and follow the gorge up, it might lead us all day before we found a place where we could cross it. Whereas if we turn right and go down, we’re bound to reach the Great River in about a couple of hours. And if there are any real lions about, we want to go away from them, not towards them” (133). He’s the voice of conventional wisdom. He can calculate only what he can see.
In this case, his small, narrow eyes win the day, so the company turns right and goes down.
Unconventional Wisdom
First, the way turns out to be not as “conventional” as it had seemed: “To keep along the edge of the gorge was not so easy as it had looked” (135). They fight through dense woods until they can’t anymore and have to back out and go around the trees. When they find the gorge again, the hike down is slower and more treacherous than they expected.
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According to the original documents, called “Lambeth Calls,” marriage is defined as “between a man and a woman,” and the documents go on to say: “It is the mind of the Anglican Communion as a whole that same-gender marriage is not permissible.” The documents also stated that “legitimizing or blessing same-sex unions” cannot be advised. Bishops and laity in favor of same-sex unions were outraged, among them Bishop John Harvey Taylor of Los Angeles, who said the statement “divides, hurts, scapegoats and denies.”

LONDON (RNS) — Anglican bishops from all over the world began the Lambeth Conference this week [07/28/22] amid a furious conflict over same-sex marriage and a scramble by the archbishop of Canterbury and other church leaders to defuse it.
The conference, meeting for the first time in 14 years, was supposed to be an attempt to bring the Anglican Communion together—to pray, listen, and discuss issues that affect the church and the world, such as discipleship, climate change, and poverty. More than 650 bishops registered to attend, including more than 100 from the Episcopal Church. They represent some 85 million Anglicans worldwide.
But outrage erupted in response to documents produced in advance of the conference, which runs through Aug. 8. Some in the liberal wing of the church opposed a reference to the entire Communion being wholly opposed to same-sex marriage.
In response, the Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby revised the statement and made a last-minute U-turn on how the talks will be conducted.
According to the original documents, called “Lambeth Calls,” marriage is defined as “between a man and a woman,” and the documents go on to say: “It is the mind of the Anglican Communion as a whole that same-gender marriage is not permissible.” The documents also stated that “legitimizing or blessing same-sex unions” cannot be advised.
Bishops and laity in favor of same-sex unions were outraged, among them Bishop John Harvey Taylor of Los Angeles, who said the statement “divides, hurts, scapegoats and denies.” Bishops from the Church in Wales said the call “undermines and subverts the dignity of an integral part of our community, rather than affirming them.”
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Another article on this topic: Australian Anglican Church Splits Over Same-Sex Marriage

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