Thread by @dianabutlerbass

Working on a piece of memoir and my attention wandered back to a moment in graduate school that was very significant to my intellectual life and faith.

At the time, I was a "just holding on evangelical Episcopalian," having graduated from an evangelical college and seminary, and having joined an Episcopal church. Politically pretty conservative, but thoughtful. Worried about the future. Wanting to do well in Ph.D. work.

There were very few women working on doctorates in religious studies then (late 1980s/early 90s).

My study area was church history, with an emphasis on American religious history.

All church history students - from New Testament to modern - had to attend a seminar, led by different members of the history faculty.

The particular seminar of memory was led by Elizabeth Clark, an extraordinary scholar in early Christianity. The field furthest from my own.

Her topic for the day was the formation of the creeds, focussed on 1st Council of Nicaea.

She talked about the shift of the Roman Empire toward Christianity, about Constantine's political and social problems dealing with imperial unity & uniformity. That Christianity seemed an ideal way to consolidate power. But there was a problem: Xianity was theologically divided.

Prof Clark shared how the emperor called the council, ordered bishops from across the empire to attend, paid for the whole thing - travel, lodging, etc - from public funds.

And she went on, cool as anything, talking about deliberations and how Constantine kept a lid on dissent, how the bishops seemed to understand the direction the emperor wanted the discussion to unfold.

Conventional telling, she argued, was the bishops discussed & Constantine listened, deferring to them.

Then she said, "How would this be possible? You are a bishop, w/your presence bought & paid for by Constantine & you objectively discuss doctrine?"

And this line from Prof Clark: "Emperors don't defer to bishops. Power works the other way around."

It was like a dagger through the heart.

I got exactly what she was saying: the business of the Holy Spirit writing the creed, miraculously guiding the church to particular words explaining Christ, was better understood in terms of political consolidation of imperial power.

It wasn't a miracle. It was history.

About people and power and privilege. About controlling outcomes and getting your way. About sin and writing history so that you are the hero.

I was shaking. I didn't know what to say. After the seminar, I ran to the bathroom and promptly threw up.

I mounted every argument I could imagine in my own mind. That she was an angry feminist; that she hated the church; that she wanted to destroy the faith of her students.

That she was a wretched liberal who took pleasure in undoing the hope of others. You name it. I pretty much thought of it.

But there it was: history.

Because who ever thinks an emperor is going to act justly? Against his own interests?

Because politics has been part of the deal since the beginning. Jesus was killed for political reasons. His followers were persecuted for political reasons. Why wouldn't Constantine privilege a particular form of theology for political reasons?

And, of course, in the wake of the council, the state exercises political power to exile and execute anyone who disagrees with Constantine's creed.

The state's political power comes down on those who question. Even if those same people loudly proclaim their love of Jesus, their fidelity to his kingdom.

If you don't agree to the particular way the state interprets Jesus, the emperor can have you killed.

And that was my moment: In the women's room at Duke Divinity School throwing up over the political nature of the First Council of Nicaea.

That was 1989.

And yes, I'm still a Christian.

One who understands questions of historical inquiry, of the complex motives that animate Christians through the ages. If you are church historian, you understand sin and evil, esp how it works in the church itself.

You learn to bear the past as profoundly flawed, tradition as an expression of power, and honestly apologize for every single rotten thing that was ever done in the name of Jesus Christ.

You learn to wear your own certainty lightly, cloaked only in humility and willingness to admit how wrong you can be, and a graciousness to know that in a century or two, you, too, will probably be shown to have contributed to some injustice that was invisible to you.

And that's how I'm still Christian. Bearing a past I wish had been different (and working toward a just future) and wearing the lightest of yokes with gratefulness and joy.

We do the best we can. And then some.

And yes, some years later, I thanked Prof Clark. She was surprised. And gracious.

That's it. A memory of a moment that changed things.

And yes, Jesus. The mystery of it all holds me; for faith is just that, faith. Being beloved of and beloving God.

So much I've learned to live lightly.