All That You Can't Leave Behind

Early medieval historian Chris Wickham wrote against the tendency to study or write history in terms of ‘teleology’. This kind of teleology is defined, according to Wickham, as ‘the reading of history in terms of its (possibly inevitable) consequences, towards whatever is supposed to mark “why we are best”—we English, or French, or (western) Europeans—or at least, for less self-satisfied communities, “why we are different.”’[1] In other words, reading early medieval history as significant only in how we can trace from it the origins of one’s preferred modern nation-state or related ideals.

This is precisely what it means to be doing history ‘backwards’: studying a period from the past in order to justify the present, rather than leaving the present behind as much as possible in order to understand the past on its own terms. This does not imply that we can understand the past ‘as it truly was’ with absolute objectivity. It does mean that we should strive as much as possible to step outside of our modern paradigms and into those of the historical period under examination.

Throughout my recent work trying to understand how and why the Roman emperor Constantine (r. 306-337) involved himself with internal Christian disputes, it remained my goal to do just that. As a modern American, I have a particular set of assumptions in mind when it comes to ‘church and state’. I understand them (notice my use of the plural there) as distinct from one another as concepts of what is ‘religious’ and ‘non-religious’. With this understanding comes a set of related moral values in terms of how I think these different domains ought to relate rightly to one another. But if I did not even try to avoid inserting these perspectives into my interpretation of the early fourth-century Roman Empire, then how could I claim to argue anything with historical integrity?

I do not believe it would be right in any moral, ethical, or legal sense for a U.S. President (whoever he or she may be) to summon an ecumenical church council, participate in its debates, or enforce its decisions. But as a historian, I do not criticise Constantine for having done these things. I am ideologically opposed to the idea that any politician can or should determine the content of my religious beliefs. I did not conclude, as the result of my research, that Constantine was trying to go this far—despite the possibility that he was responsible for adding homoousion to the Nicene Creed of 325. But I was not consciously attempting to absolve the emperor or nearly seventeen centuries of subsequent theological development from what I expect most Christians would resist as undue ‘outside’ influence.

The question I am asked about Constantine most often is usually asked with a tone of skepticism with my answer received as a surprise inviting further elaboration: ‘Do you think that Constantine was truly a Christian, or simply using it for his own political purposes?’ This is not a question I want to attempt to deal with here, but mention as an illustration of my broader point. My answer, when it is given, comes as a surprise partly because those asking frame their enquiry in terms that indicate that they may not have set aside their own assumptions. They may be looking for an answer that lends historical credibility to a pre-existing bias, or at least an explanation that is clear-cut and easily digested.

For instance, Constantine could not be a ‘true’ Christian because there is little to connect his stated views of and involvement with the faith to whatever constitutes ‘authentic’ Christianity for the person asking me the question—usually some form of evangelical piety. But can evangelical piety be used as a yardstick to measure what is or is not true Christianity? Since evangelical piety developed out of the sixteenth century, can it be applied to define what is normative for Christianity in the early fourth century? The answer to both questions is ‘No’. So the possibility must be admitted that Constantine was indeed a 'true' Christian—just not of the variety easily recognisable by your average modern evangelical.

The first question is more generally theological, but the second has a distinctly historical aspect. The morals, values, and beliefs of the twenty-first century cannot be used to critique those of the fourth century: we must work to distance ourselves from our own modern standards and assumptions in order to do the best we can to understand the fourth century on its own terms. We cannot expect a Christian of the fourth century in Rome to be just like a Christian resident of Nashville, Tennessee in the twenty-first century. We cannot expect an emperor of Rome in the fourth century to rule his territory and interact with religious people like a modern President of the United States. These are different times, different cultures, different political systems—all these differences have to be respectfully taken into account. Wickham is right that history cannot be rightly studied or taught with a teleological end in view. We cannot read or discuss the history of Constantine’s reign from the perspective of how we can trace to it what we currently believe about the successes and failures of various ‘church and state’ arrangements.

This is not a new insight for historians, though we can always use the reminder. Instead, I am putting this out there for those in other fields (professionally or otherwise) who would draw from historical events in order to make their claims. Those whose ideological claims rely on historical interpretations must be open to learning from the critique of historians to ensure that their discipline is being used with integrity.

[1] Chris Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome: Illuminating the Dark Ages, 400-1000 (New York: Penguin, 2009), 3.