Friendship, Doctrine, and Clerical
Communication, 423–451
It was a moment of complicated emotions as the clerics of Syria remembered their fallen godfather. Acacius, bishop of Beroea for nearly six decades, died in 437.1 Several clerics expressed admiration for the departed.2 Theodoret did so by commemorating him in the History of the Friends of God. Acacius had been a monastic student to great Syrian holy men. When the Nicene church needed him, however, he left his cell for the contentions of the urban clergy. It was then, according to Theodoret, that Acacius shone, revealing his “civic and ascetic virtues.” “By taking the exactness (akribeia) of the latter with the flexibility (oikonomia) of the former, he put the extremes together in one.”3
The memorializing of Acacius provides an entry point into the social world of fifth-century bishops. Theodoret had known Acacius for at least two decades. Like many Syrian prelates he claimed Acacius as a spiritual father, rivaled in memoriam only by Theodore of Mopsuestia.4 While alive, Acacius had often courted controversy.5 After his death, he symbolized brotherhood under consensual leadership.
The most intriguing aspect of this celebration of Acacius, however, has to be Theodoret's choice of words. When he spoke of Acacius's akribeia and oikonomia, it meant more than prudence and discipline. Oikonomia recalled the dispensation of the Lord, the heart of Christological teaching. And akribeia signified doctrinal precision, to which Theodoret and his friends aspired. With these words Theodoret did more than praise a shared hero. He called to mind a shared cultural experience.
Theodoret's praises of Acacius were powerful because they were part of a system of socially resonant communication. In late Roman Syria, as in any social setting, people demarcated relationships by performing certain cultural cues. Theodoret sent cues in published books, like the History of the Friends of God. He sent cues all the more in conciliar statements and letters. Theodoret employed varied signals, tailored to a range of relationships. But some he kept for a special network of doctrinal allies and friends.
This distinct, mostly clerical network represents the focus of part one of this book, for it contended in the Christological dispute as the “Antiochene” party. Subsequent chapters in this book map the Antiochene network and chronicle its development prior to and during the controversy. Before we can trace this network, however, we need to identify it. Thus this chapter scrutinizes the records of clerical communication, in search of relevant cultural practices and an “Antiochene” set of cues.
As we shall see, certain clerics exchanged a key set of phrases and gestures that we can treat as idioms of an Antiochene network. These allies sent signals of emotional attachment and signs of doctrinal harmony. Thus they demonstrated intimate friendship and shared orthodoxy. To reinforce their mutual bonds, the clerics joined in rituals of cooperation. To verify bonds, they collected records and conducted surveillance. All this they did informally without declaring a special identity. All that was needed was regular communication, configured to show special affection and ask it in return.
THE LANGUAGE OF CLERICAL AFFECTION
When ancient Christian leaders imagined the church, they usually envisioned a tight, affectionate community. If clerics hoped to cooperate, they needed to communicate their emotional attachments, great and small. Greek words for attachments varied, from agape (Christian familial love) and adelphotes (brotherhood) to philostorgia (affection), eros (desirous love) and philia (friendship).6 Longer statements of affection also varied, though many Christian letters end with the farewell, “To you and whichever members of the brotherhood are with you, I and those with me send our highest regards.” These words often inspire scholars to seek precise definitions, which have remained elusive.7 The statements raise questions about emotional sincerity, which have proven difficult to resolve.8 Such issues, however, matter less to this study than how clerics used their emotional terms. Every cleric offered certain words for attachment as basic social cues. Theodoret, and other Syrian clerics, employed the full Greek vocabulary to distinguish a variety of meaningful relationships.
The first touchstone of clerical affection in our sources is basic Christian terminology. Christian texts spoke of the love (agape) that united believers as a single body or family (Romans 12:4, 12:9–10, I Corinthians 13:8–14:1, Colossians 3:14–16). The language of “love” pervaded quasi-normative guides, such as the Apostolic Constitutions.9 It also pervaded clerical letters, including Theodoret's.10 It could be expressed directly, or by the corollary of requesting mutual prayer.11 These emotional expressions were common, but it was, in some sense, their commonness that gave them meaning. By declaring love, clerics signaled a shared moral ideal.
Agape, however, could mean something narrower than universal love. Most obviously, the term was reinterpreted to accommodate the high status of the clergy. Such “clericalism” found scriptural support in the “special burdens” noted in I Corinthians 4, or the moral standards listed in the first chapter of the Epistle to Titus. It found expression in the letters carried by traveling clerics to certify their faith.12 Theodoret, for his part, never failed to recognize a cleric as “Your Holiness” (hagiotes), “Your Godliness” (theiotes) or “Your Piety” (eulabeia). Monks were famous for their heightened sense of brotherhood. But it was their duty to shepherd souls that led John Chrysostom to rank clerics above monks as lovers of God and humanity.13 Agape was further modified to fit the clerical hierarchy. The Apostolic Constitutions, for instance, called bishops the new “priests and Levites,” the new “prophets, rulers, governors, and kings,” even “the voice of God.” By contrast, priests were declared stand-ins, and deacons, mere assistants. “Let the bishop be honored among you as God,” the Constitutions read, “and the deacon as his prophet.”14 Christian terms may appear to stand for “universal” love. But with each rank of clergy taking communion separately, all could see that the fabric of agape had seams.
A second touchstone of affection in our sources was the classical vocabulary of friendship. Pre-Christian Greek and Roman writers used philia to signal preferential attachment. Plato celebrated pair-bonding (called both eros and philia) as the keystone of happiness and the focus of personal desire (epithymia).15 Aristotle spoke more of shared goals and morals than desire, but he kept things personal. Philia, in his view, was grounded in intimacy and reciprocity. It reached its pinnacle among pairs of true philoi (friends), ideally those of equal status and virtue.16 Later Greeks and Romans continued to link philia with virtue, reciprocity, and desire. They merely added the medium of letters. Handbooks advised students how to write “Letters for Preserving Philia,” based on philosophic definitions. Pseudo-Demetrius urged correspondents to praise shared virtues, express desire, and avoid extraneous details, in order to reveal true emotions.17 Late Roman elites clung to this philia tradition, especially in letters. Good letters encapsulated character (Greek: ethos), and as Synesius of Cyrene put it, “What possession is more beautiful than a friend who exhibits his pure character?”18
Expressions of philia, however, were not limited to particularist bonding. For fifth-century clerics, the term carried gradations of meaning. From philosophers and sophists, philia acquired a communal aspect. Inspired by the shared imitation of a teacher, philosophic philia was supposed to be as intimate as erotic love—and just as strong.19 Philia acquired another meaning in elite circles, as a euphemism for patronage. Patrons might allow high-placed clients to call their bond a friendship, even though both knew that the implied “equality” was limited or non-existent.20 By the fifth century, Christian leaders spoke of the communal philia of monastic communities.21 They also spoke of their own philia with clerical subordinates (and superiors).22 Yet reciprocal friendship remained an important connotation, especially when bishops wrote one another. Notionally bishops were all men of elite rank, bound by shared morals and learning. Their geographical scattering required letters, which expressed the mutual goodwill central to Christian identity. Most Christians found few problems with the concept of philia. Some even declared philia a divine gift—an image of the ideal relationship between people and God.23 Conceptually, bishops were bound to the notion of philia in every ceremony and every letter—whenever they were called by the title “Most friendly with God” (theophilestatos).
When clerics of the fifth century expressed their social affinities, they used both Christian and classical terminology to craft shades of meaning. Some clerics preferred one set of terms. Firmus of Caesarea used philia almost exclusively.24 Others intermixed philia and agape to create tailored notions of affection. Consider, for example, one of Theodoret's letters to the clergy of neighboring Beroea. “I have come to know that it is with good reason that I am well disposed to Your Reverence,” this letter began, “because the letter of Your Piety has reassured me that I love and am loved in return (agapon antagapomai).” Theodoret then furthered the familial theme, calling their former “father” Acacius his own father and the current bishop “my true soul-sharing brother.” But when he summed up their relations, he shifted terms: “[All] this is sufficient to give birth to friendship (philia) and once it is born, to make it grow.” This he then compared to the bond between teacher and pupils. By the time Theodoret got to his advice, he had cited nearly every aspect of friendship and love.25 The mix of terms signaled overlapping layers of affection, recognizing the complexities of distance and rank. Theodoret mixed terms with fellow bishops, with congregants, with governors and with generals. Each time he crafted a tailored expression that marked the grounds for a particular social bond.
Words of affection thus furnished a variety of cultural cues, which marked relationships. Philia, agape and their derivatives recur frequently in communication. The various terms signaled social position, level of attachment, and the type of affection. Still, these direct expressions were of limited value—widely expected and easily given. When clerics sought lasting bonds, they had to add something more.
SIGNALS OF DOCTRINAL AFFINITY:
TALKING “ANTIOCHENE”
Clerics marked out relationships by describing their mutual affection. They also signaled bonds by indicating their shared theology. When Theodoret conversed with other clerics, the “colophon of unity,” he claimed, was “harmony of faith.”26 But how could clerics know if they shared doctrine? Nothing was automatic; orthodoxy, like affection, had to be performed.27 To signal shared faith, Late Roman clerics turned to doctrinal cues, both theological terms and less obvious turns of phrase. Doctrinal signals were riskier than signals of emotion; they could cause serious offense. But it was these cues that enabled bishops to find kindred spirits in orthodoxy.
It may seem odd to deal with theological doctrine as a matter of verbal cues. Most doctrinal specialists have looked for ancient theological systems, or “schools.” In the case of “Antiochene” doctrine, scholars have noted at least four common markers found in the ancient texts: claims to offer “literal, historical” exegesis,28 disdain for “allegory,”29 efforts to match Old Testament “types” to New Testament “realities,”30 and the recognition of two “voices,” or “natures” (human and divine) in one “person” of Christ.31 Scholars vigorously debate the meaning of these markers and their cultural roots.32 Many have pondered whether these terms accurately describe what the authors were doing—just because a text claims that it interprets Scripture “literally” does not mean modern readers must agree. Some scholars have set Antiochene teachings in a broader context and questioned what, if anything, made them distinctly Antiochene.33 Nearly every scholar in these debates, however, has treated the terminological markers as indicators of deeper religious thinking.
Searching for doctrinal thinking has both advantages and shortcomings. It works best when scholars do close readings of particular works and authors. Scholars have agreed with ancient writers that language could never adequately express theology.34 Successful studies find not just surface words and images but underlying narratives and assumptions. The quest for “doctrinal thought” is less helpful when it comes to communities. Even intimate groups must share thoughts through gesture and language.
For the moment, then, let us set aside debates over the deeper meaning of terms such as “literal, historical” and “natures” (we shall return to them in later chapters). In order to explore the social dynamics of shared faith, let us instead treat doctrine as systems of symbolic communication. Such systems may include explicit verbal tropes, whether theological terms or analogies. They may also include references, watchwords, or generalities, with hidden connotations. Doctrinal meanings can even be encoded in non-verbal cues.35 People may share doctrinal tropes in part, or in full, without sharing the same line of theological thinking. In fact, the more widely a set of terms and images is shared, the more likely interpretations would diverge. Words and symbols may change over time or in different cultural contexts. The main requirement for sharing faith, on a social level, is a consistent call and response of recognized cues.
But what were these doctrinal cues and how could they be used? The sharing of faith was complicated; it was easy for signals to be misread or to reveal too much. Theodoret and his peers acknowledged one Nicene orthodoxy while nurturing various preferences. To bond effectively, clerics had to highlight only their common ground. Thus they conducted a careful ensemble performance. Each cleric read scripts of terms and references—just enough to signal orthodoxy without ruining the image of unity.
One basic source for communicating shared orthodoxy was the agreed set of Nicene terms. By the fifth century all official Eastern Roman clerics professed the Nicene Creed, augmented by the formula “one ousia” and “three hypostases.” They also shared a list of doctrinal heroes, including Basil of Caesarea and Atha-nasius of Alexandria,36 as well as a list of heretics, including Arius, Marcion, and Mani.37 Clerics referred to all of these terms and figures in councils. With hallowed and ambiguous words, they inspired trust, while still allowing for silent interpretation. Clerics also used basic Nicene tropes in letters. For just as excessive details could interfere with true friendship, so they could obscure shared orthodoxy.
Nicene generalities pervaded fifth-century clerical communication. But doctrinal affinity in the midst of controversy often demanded more detail. This study seeks people with “Antiochene” preferences—those who somehow showed the four basic markers noted above (again, whether or not these tropes mark the same line of thought). But what did clerics say in company, or write in letters, to signal Antiochene preferences? As it turns out, we must look beyond the most commonly cited “Antiochene” doctrinal terms.
In fact, use of famous “Antiochene” doctrinal and exegetical markers was limited. Consider the familiar terms of Antiochene exegesis: “literal (kata ten lexin), historical (kata ten historian),” “sequence of thought (akolouthia),” and denunciation of “allegory.” These phrases do appear in Diodore of Tarsus's fragmentary works and Theodore of Mopsuestia's commentaries.38 By the 430s, however, Theodoret and his associates employed these words only rarely. Consider also the matching of biblical “types” and “realities.” Theodoret made use of these tropes in a variety of works. But his choices here were not distinctive—most Christian writers did similarly.39
The technical vocabulary of “Antiochene” dyophysite Christology did find use in doctrinal formulas. But its prevalence in records of the 430s and 440s was sparser than we might expect. In several treatises, Theodoret embraced two “natures” (physeis), in one “person” (prosopon). He also defended some of the formulas credited to Theodore of Mopsuestia. Nor was he alone; we see similar statements in several associates' treatises and sermons.40 In a few letters Theodoret was as explicit, advocating “two natures and a difference between them, and a union without confusion.”41 And yet, more often in correspondence he was reluctant to deploy such specific terms. This reticence seems to have been standard “Antiochene” practice. When one cleric (Nestorius) went public with dyophysite analysis, Theodoret and his allies advised him to retract his public statements, as Theodore had done before.42
Usually, when Theodoret and his allies needed to signal their doctrinal preferences, they turned to watchwords, innocuous to the outsider but meaningful to those in the know. One favorite trope noted the goal of all their doctrinal work: “exactness” (akribeia). This term appears repeatedly in Theodore's treatises and Theodoret's letters.43 It also appears in conciliar acta. When John of Antioch assembled up to fifty-eight mostly Eastern bishops at the first council of Ephesus, he declared it improper to take any action “before the exact (akriben) examination and confirmation of the pious faith of the holy and blessed fathers.”44 Another favorite trope urged tolerance of non-experts' theology. Theodoret and his associates touted their “condescension” (synkatabasis) as they accepted some outsiders' ambiguities.45 Both akribeia and synkatabasis evoked shared doctrinal mastery. Neither risked causing theological offense.
Perhaps the most important Antiochene doctrinal cues were past clerics' names. Most clerics, of course, memorialized doctrinal heroes. Theodoret and his associates praised Diodore of Tarsus and Theodore of Mopsuestia, “the most holy and blessed fathers.”46 When these figures grew controversial, Theodoret took care in public,47 but internally these names still served as a rallying cry. Clerics also remembered skilled orators and accomplished ascetics. Theodoret's group celebrated both John Chrysostom and Acacius of Beroea. They did so despite the fact that these two men fought bitterly, and showed some “doctrinal thinking” which scholars have not always viewed as Antiochene.48 Perhaps most importantly, clerics recalled past enemies. Since the 380s, all Nicenes had officially denounced Arius, Eunomius, and Apollinarius.49 Most fifth-century clerics focused on denouncing the first two. But Theodoret and his allies always included Apollinarius. Sometimes they equated enemies with all three arch-heretics at once.50 In these names, Theodoret and his allies found a simple but effective code. While seeming to affirm the whole Nicene edifice, they could highlight treasured teachings and favorite villains, and thus a more particular “Antiochene” rapport.
Doctrinal language thus provided idioms for meaningful relationships. Some formulas and names served the whole Nicene church. Others served a smaller troupe—some phrases that explicitly marked Antiochene orthodoxy, and many that merely referred to its precision or its favorite heroes and heels. Theodoret and his allies did not keep to one line of thinking. They preferred slightly different Christological formulas and soteriological narratives, as we shall see.51 What they shared, however, was important: an insider lingo of specific theological terms and seemingly innocuous cues.
DOCTRINE AND CLERICAL FRIENDSHIP IN MULTIPLE LANGUAGES
Theodoret's relations with other clerics depended on verbal signals of emotional attachment and shared orthodoxy. The late Roman world, however, spoke more than one language. And despite the presence of bilinguals, linguistic boundaries formed semi-permeable social and cultural barriers. To reach beyond Greek-speakers, Theodoret and his allies made efforts at translation. At some point clerics found equivalents in Aramaic (more precisely, written Syriac), Armenian, and Latin for favored Greek cues. Translations raised the dangers of misunderstanding and hostility, but the promise of more Antiochene allies was apparently worth the risk.
The starting point of cross-linguistic relations was a (partially accepted) linguistic hierarchy. In the fifth-century Roman East, the top spot went to Greek. General councils did business in Greek; regional meetings in Roman Syria did likewise. Syriac/Aramaic, Armenian, and Latin found little use in these settings, despite their centrality to church life elsewhere.52 Syrian letters were written in multiple languages, but only a few non-Greek specimens from the mid-fifth century survive. Many Syrian clerics were bilingual in Greek and Aramaic, including Theodoret.53 But only east of the Euphrates did written Syriac play a prominent role in official church discourse. And only in the Persian-Armenian borderlands did Armenian come to the fore. Such linguistic choices reflected old patterns of elite preference. The surprise is that late Roman elites assigned significant value to any languages besides Greek and Latin.54
And yet, languages other than Greek had an impact. Language inspired no known separatism. Bilinguals served as social and cultural bridges. But the dynamics of contact were complicated. Writings passed from Greek to Syriac, from Syriac to Greek, and from both to Armenian.55 Influences varied depending on proximity to channels of contact. Sometimes, residents of Syria treated language as a marker of identity. To Ephrem, Greek may have represented cultured paganism. To Theodoret, Aramaic may have signified semi-barbarian naivete.56 Displays of shared language could aid social connections. Equally, linguistic difference could become a barrier. But translation was itself a socio-cultural statement, which altered relations.
For Syrian clergymen, translation played a critical role in building doctrinal alliances. Statements of friendship were not as easy to make across linguistic lines. The connotations of philia and agape differed from those of the Syriac rehmatha (“love,” but linked to “compassion” and “mercy”).57 References to classical Greek concepts (or older Aramaic traditions) might go unrecognized. This made cross-linguistic connections more dependent on shared Christian doctrine. But if doctrinal expression already courted danger, translation heightened it. Stray notes of friendship might annoy a correspondent, but stray notes of theology seemed to risk offending God.
To preserve their sense of shared orthodoxy, Antiochene clerics came to rely on one type of translation: terminological equivalence. They offered symbolic phrases in Syriac and Armenian that they equated to cues in Greek. Translators, of course, chose from several approaches. Early translators in Syria preferred paraphrase so as to accurately convey meaning.58 At some point in the fifth century, however, we see a transition, especially in East Syrian (i.e., pro-Antiochene) translations, to the search for a precise match for each word. Sometimes this effort involved claiming an existing term in the target language. Sometimes it demanded a neologism or a borrowing (usually from Greek).59 Either approach raised problems, either stray connotations or unfamiliarity. No equivalence really matched meanings in two languages, and to us, the attempt might seem misguided. But fifth-century clerics judged differently. Even bilingual clerics valued precision, which enabled quick exchanges of social cues. Nicenes not only found Syriac equivalents for ousia, hypostasis and other theological terms.60 They eventually sought “word-for-word” translations of Scripture to replace older, idiomatic renderings.61
The translation technique of equivalence saw use across the Mediterranean, but Antiochenes found it especially helpful for doctrinal formulas. Thus they chose Syriac equivalents for their favorite Greek terms. For physis/”nature“ (or dyo physeis) the Antiochenes settled on kyana (or tren kyane), an existing word connected with notions of instinct. Initially, (hen) prosopon/“(one) person” became qnoma (had), the common word for “(one)self.” At some point, however, the Antiochenes grew dissatisfied with the connotations of qnoma and insisted on an import: part-sopa (had).62 Other phrases (e.g., “historical”) were also rendered into Syriac (in this case, as be-teshayatha).63 Armenian Antiochene works may have featured similar matching, though none have survived.
Again, however, overt doctrinal terms held limited utility. Already risky in Greek, in translation they could be explosive.64 So Antiochenes found equivalents of their symbolic but inoffensive terms and names. In Syriac, akribeia (“exactness’) became hatitutha, a term with the added sense of “sincerity.”65 Oikonomia (“flexibility” or “dispensation”) was usually rendered as mdabranutha (“leadership”).66 Names proved even more useful, since they virtually sidestepped the translation dilemma. Theodoret and his allies celebrated Syriac authors like Ephrem.67 More commonly, they championed familiar Greek teachers. Thus clerics in Edessa declared Theodore “the herald of truth” and Acacius “the noble [ascetic] brother in Christ.”68 Most helpful were condemnations of enemies, including Aramaic-speaking arch-heretics, such as Mani, but mostly Greek-speaking foes—Marcion, Arius, Eunomius, and Apollinarius.69 Long after the Antiochenes' heroes became controversial, hatred of heretics remained.
Thus fifth-century Antiochenes built multilingual relationships via terminological equivalences. The timing and authorship of translated texts is often unclear, but East Syrian records from the 480s show well established matches.70 In any case, cross-linguistic relations remained risky. Channels of communication were narrower between linguistic communities. Certain individuals played outsized roles in translating social cues.71 Limited interaction fostered cultural difference. Idioms that spread readily in one language might diffuse more narrowly in others. Social cues, of course, could fail even in a monolingual setting, but translation sharpened contrasts and raised the chance of conflict. It is no coincidence that Theodore's work first inspired hostility on the Greek-Syriac-Armenian frontiers. Nor is it surprising that prominent translators (Mashdotz, Rabbula, and Hiba) engendered controversy.72 More surprising is the persistence of translators, despite such controversy.
Language differences thus complicated the process of marking friendship and doctrinal alliance, but Antiochene clerics still sought multilingual relations. Linguistic differences also complicate, but do not negate, our attempts to read ancient social cues. Translation required conscious and unconscious choices. In some translated texts, these decisions were made by Antiochene clerics of the mid-fifth century. In others, the choices may have been made by outsiders, and as late as the mid-sixth century.73 Oddly, it is Latin that presents the largest problem. A large fraction of our conciliar records come from a bilingual sixth-century deacon of Rome (Rusticus), who may have missed some connotations.74 Still, sometimes the translation has unexpected value. When Rusticus read about the “exactness” of doctrine, he usually chose to transliterate (Latin: acribia).75 Perhaps he did understand how meaningful such words had become.
THE SHORTHAND OF EPISCOPAL INTIMACY
Thus far, this chapter has focused on words and phrases, the basic cues by which Syrian clerics communicated rapport. Real relationships, however, demanded not just scattered symbols, but intricate rhetorical performances, customized to fit the situation. Letters show us some of the process of performing cues. Authors of letters intermixed terms and references. They told jokes and played off rhetorical formulas. Antiochene clerics used their rhetoric to categorize relationships. Thus they offered basic amity to many contacts but reserved “intimate” bonding for a closer circle of friends.
When a bishop like Theodoret wrote to distant connections, he offered a selfconsciously formulaic performance of friendship and faith. An example can be found in Theodoret's first extant letter to Proclus, bishop of Constantinople from 434 to 446.
Now we, who reside in tiny and quite isolated small towns, often bear with ill grace that [small town] life, wearied as we are by those who approach us and ask us for some “favor” (epikourias). But Your Holiness, who inhabits a city, or rather a whole world that holds an ocean of people and receives flows like rivers from all directions, you exercise your forethought (promethian) not only for them, but also for people throughout our world. And if someone needs a letter for something, you set down to write, not in a simple fashion, as if it were [just one] amidst a mob of tasks, nor in some proper or polished manner, nor too precisely. Nay rather all things run together [naturally] in your letter: the beauty of words, the plethora of thoughts, the harmony of composition, and the honor that nourishes those who receive your letters, as well as the most beautiful of all good things, the modesty that blossoms in your words from prudence. On receiving such letters from Your Holiness, we marvel greatly at your apostolic mindset, and we see fit to apply to you that divine saying: “Our heart has been opened wide, there is no restriction in our affections for you” (II Corinthians 6:ii-12).76
This note was, at base, a standard letter of friendship, following the rhetorical guidelines. Theodoret began with the common experience of patronage. Predictably he praised his correspondent for rhetorical skill. Theodoret wanted cordial relations, he claimed, because of Proclus's “apostolic” values. To prove that he shared such values, he cleverly quoted Paul.77 By rhetorically involved sentences, Theodoret put his relationship within the broad framework of Christian Roman friendship. He featured his adherence to the formulas for friendly letters, exhibiting shared values while avoiding personal details. All he added was a note of Christian humility. He even suggested the ordinariness of his (hoped-for) connection by his scriptural reference. This safe approach made sense for an early contact between the bishops. As Theodoret and Proclus developed a bond, they could have related in more personalized ways. Actually, Theodoret continued to stick to the handbook, through twelve years of letters.78 Theodoret's letter to Proclus reveals one shorthand for episcopal relations, marking an affectionate, but distant, functional rapport.
When Theodoret turned to regional colleagues, however, he gave a different, ostensibly less formulaic performance. An example of this can be found in one of his letters to Basil of Seleucia in Isauria.
While you carry on your tongue fountains of words, o pious one, claiming thirst you have collected some of our raindrops. It is as if someone said that the river of Egypt has need of a small trickle of water. Now, even a thin moisture [from you] brings me much utility, but to others Your Piety offers [whole] springs. Still, I praise your noble insatiability; for it has as its fruit divine blessing: “For blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, since they will have their fill.” [Matthew 5:6] It is not easy to recount how much joy I took from your letter. For first you showed me the characteristics of your piety, and you kindled the flame of love. Then, the company of the one who brought it to me made my good state of mind greater. For the most pious fellow priest Domitianus is capable of scattering every sadness and substituting pleasantness in its stead. For he has a character sweeter than honey, and he carries around in him the wealth of the Holy Scriptures. He does not embellish himself with only the outer casing of your letters but uncovers the pearl hidden within them.79
To Basil, Theodoret fully demonstrated camaraderie, but the formula for friendship was tweaked in several ways. Here Theodoret employed oblique statements of praise. He began with a mocking accusation, followed by (expected) self-deprecation.80 He feigned envy. Only then did he praise a shared value (insatiability) and mark it with a (silly) scriptural quotation. Theodoret next turned to personal emotions, such as the joy of rekindled friendship. He concluded by praising the bishops' envoy, personalizing their sense of affection. Theodoret covered similar ground in each letter. But here he operated less obviously, using jocular lines and rhetorical redirections. Most critically, Theodoret acknowledged a deeper context: a history of attachment and longing. This letter showed expectations not just of mutual aid, but of intimacy as well.
Such displays of intimacy pervade Theodoret's letters to many Syrian clerics. Here he found space to recall a shared experience, to make a joke, to play with expectations—to twist the standard epistolary formulas.81 In context the signal was unmistakable: Theodoret informed some peers that he shared with them a special rapport. This is not a contrast between informal and formal correspondence. All his friendly letters employed templates and selected from the same affectionate terms. Nor is it a difference between reliable and unreliable friendships. While Proclus cooperated with Theodoret despite theological differences, Basil abandoned him in a crisis.82 The distinction, rather, lies between two sorts of formalized friendliness. With most clerics Theodoret made formulaic style a source of rapport. With close colleagues, he accented standard elements to indicate deeper rapport.
Signals of intimacy thus served as a key social cue for Theodoret and certain colleagues. In fact, he set a tight boundary for these intimate relations. Consider Theodoret's letters to Irenaeus, a reliable ally who went from imperial office (to exile) to the bishopric of Tyre. When Irenaeus was a count, Theodoret offered him cautious notes of affection, filled with formal panegyric.83 No letters to Irenaeus remain from his first exile (435-mid-440s). But after Irenaeus's ordination, the letters resume with more intimate cues. The transition was not instantaneous—at first Theodoret still praised Irenaeus's virtues. But later on he evoked brotherhood in passing remarks.84 This transition shows us one key to the signals of intimacy. More than a signal of affection or alliance, Theodoret's relational shorthand distinguished a special fellowship, among some bishops and (as we shall see) a few other people.
In fact, it is this shorthand of intimacy that most reliably marks meaningful bonds among Syrian clergymen. Philia and agape described feelings of affection. “Exactness,” and “flexibility” coded for special orthodoxy. Equivalences carried cues across linguistic bounds. Any of these social idioms could signal a relationship. When a near full set of cues is traded, that indicates an Antiochene connection. But these shorthands go further, by showing how the cues could be combined in tighter, multiplex bonds. Theodoret had a close circle in which he traded signals of intimacy. Here his words stood for everything (friendship, doctrine, religious rank, experience) that the bishops shared. There was nothing particularly Syrian or “Antiochene” about expressing intimate bonds. Theodoret himself had a few intimate friends with different doctrinal preferences, or even non-Christian views.85 But from a subset of bishops from Isauria to the Tigris, we see signals of deeper affection in virtually every mutual letter. Between basic and intimate modes of friendship lay a palpable boundary. When signs of intimacy were replaced with bare formulas, the bishops expressed pain.86 Thus shorthands of intimacy served as a “colophon of unity” for the core Antiochene network.
RITUALS OF HARMONY: EPISCOPAL
VISITS AND COUNCILS
Verbal cues play an essential role in most human relations. They are, however, always enriched by equally symbolic practices. Weekly liturgies, festivals, collections, and distributions all lent context to words of clerical attachment. Two sets of practices require special attention. One concerns the conveyance and reception of letters (see below, this chapter). The other involves visits and councils, for such face-to-face meetings provided visible demonstration of an otherwise virtual community.
For all the interactions among Syrian clerics, nothing matched the intensity of church councils. Metropolitan bishops were supposed to hold provincial synods twice a year—just before Pentecost and in mid-October.87 Regional councils convened less frequently, except during periods of controversy. Thus the years 430–436 featured a full cycle of Syrian synods.88 Councils served doctrinal and administrative purposes. They affirmed orthodoxy and judged clerical improprieties. They also served overt social purposes. Simultaneous expressions of cordiality created a group dynamic that bishops could remember in times of isolation. In both doctrinal and social terms, attendance meant inclusion. It presented delegates with a map of accessible peer relationships. And it enabled them to stand together, before their subordinates.
Councils such as these were ritual performances.89 They followed a standard order of activity. They began with doctrinal agreement, an “exact examination and confirmation of the Apostolic faith,” followed by recognition of past orthodox fathers. Only then would the bishops hear accusations, take testimony, or examine finances.90 Proceedings functioned by set hierarchy. The ranking metropolitan presided (and repeatedly interjected), while a full scoring of primacy determined the order of speaking.91 Councils then pursued clerical harmony. Recent studies of councils have pondered the presence or absence of real debate.92 Syrian records reveal serious deliberations, though not in official session.93 But the goal was not to weigh competing positions. According to the Apostolic Constitutions, bishops were supposed to act “in unanimity, like the heavenly hosts.”94 Bishops might start with disagreements but had to end with acclamations. Judgments were not foreordained; even a suffragan like Theodoret could influence proceedings. But the general storyline was well understood. Those who could not join the acclamations almost always chose not to attend. 95
At the heart of these conciliar performances lay a recitation of accepted doctrine. Councils were a poor setting for detailed expositions of faith. The number of attendees (so close in stature) brought dangers of disagreement. Syrian bishops had differences but were loath to raise them in session, if it would challenge the display of concord.96 What councils provided was affirmation of doctrinal scripting. Key names and phrases, worked out elsewhere, were acclaimed by a council and thus transformed.97 Thereafter the phrases recalled not just theology, but the experience of concord. Disagreeing bishops could skip councils, but then they distanced themselves from the harmonious ensemble.
Councils thus offered bishops a charged experience of contact. So did visits to nearby sees. During active conflicts, doctrinal consultations were often held in person. In calmer times bishops shared preaching, festivities, and administrative advice. Theodoret met regularly with the bishop of Antioch, and he visited Germanicea, Zeugma, and Apamea.98 When his itinerary of travels became evidence of meddling, Theodoret could not deny them; all he could do was call such journeys normal.99
Whatever the main business, visits followed their own performative mode. They began with a ceremonious protocol. One Syriac source describes a welcoming ritual of torchlight parades and acclamations, reminiscent of an imperial adventus.100 From there, bishops shared liturgical duties or even preaching.101 All along they traded traditional gestures of hospitality (e.g., meal sharing).102 Actual consultation required a less public setting, but rituals still framed the social interaction. They enabled bishops to show not just affection but mutual trust, particularly in terms of orthodoxy. They helped each bishop to aggrandize the other, more than each could aggrandize himself.
Both councils and visits contributed to the communication that cemented Theodoret's clerical network. Face-to-face interactions featured non-verbal elements of social performance. They invested linguistic tropes with greater significance, for they bound key phrases to experiences of mutual affirmation. Theodoret so valued face-to-face contact that when he missed a meeting, he expressed anguish. “I had hoped…to give you the thinnest piece of honor that I owe,” he wrote to a neighboring bishop, “to pass a few days [with you] and convey all that is due to you of fatherly affection.” Having failed to connect he was “deprived of everything.”103 Such meetings remained infrequent, but rarity gave these performances their power. Under certain conditions personal contact itself became the definitive symbol of inclusion. As doctrinal tensions cut into relations, nothing marked a breach like the refusal of a visiting colleague, and nothing healed that breach like a personal embrace.104
PORTRAITS OF CAMARADERIE: CLERICAL
PRACTICES OF LETTER WRITING
Visits and councils visibly demonstrated Syrian clerical relations. Most social interaction, though, still relied on written letters. And practices of letter exchange involved more than doctrinal codes and signals of intimacy. Individual letters had a rich symbolic life. Reciprocity guided their production. Stylistic expectations shaped their form. Meanings accrued over time, as letters were collected and reread. Letters not only communicated rapport; thanks to certain practices, they depicted it for ages to come.
All late Roman correspondence was governed by detailed expectations,105 while Antiochenes set some special requirements. Theodoret and his allies were supposed to write several times a year, to keep a connection active. Moreover, in letters to each other, they were supposed to reply, to show friendship as reciprocal. Theodoret could be nonchalant with distant colleagues about frequency of contact; “Even if we have not received letters,” he once wrote, “we still constantly delight in your praises.”106 He was less lenient within his own circle: when monks from a nearby diocese arrived carrying no letter from the bishop, Theodoret gave his colleague a rebuke.107 Often bishops set expectations of contact higher than they could meet. Even in prolific exchanges they lamented not having written more often.108 The sentiment was not mere contrivance. High frequency and higher expectation gave clerical relations a tension, which could only be broken by sending new letters.
Special expectations surrounded correspondence during festivals, particularly Easter. At these times bishops sent clerics and lay patrons short, cordial notes, called “festals.” Scholars have generally ignored Syrian festals, since most follow a basic formula of just a few lines.109 The Syrian notes seem meager compared to the thousand-line festals by bishops of Alexandria. Alexandrian festals provide specific advice for holiday preparation and preaching.110 Syrian festals vaguely muse on seasonal “spiritual blessings” and the promise of salvation.111 This comparison, however, is misleading. Syrian festals constitute a distinct genre. According to Theodoret, they were written to show that “every city, village, field, and frontier is filled with divine grace.”112 More to the point, these notes served specific social purposes.
Syrian festal letters provided tangible mementos of Christian community. Their short form communicated the safest sentiments, which any Christian could share. Their significance rose because of their timing. During Easter (or other major festivals) they showcased the breadth of simultaneous worship. At the same time, festals worked within particular relationships. General sentiments were received as objects, symbolizing the barest connections at the bishops' disposal. Thus the letters had to be short and formulaic. They had to present the author and occasion in a warm light. They had to evoke consensus of faith with no limiting specifics. Alexandrian festals resemble grand homilies from on high. Syrian festals resemble greeting cards.113 But greeting cards were what met the need to demonstrate inclusion.
In addition to festals, clerics of Syria wrote many kinds of letters that served social ends. Several extant letters addressed whole monasteries or congregations. These epistles instructed recipients in doctrine or admonished them for moral failings. Other letters went to individuals, and while some requested practical cooperation, many asked only for friendship. Letters could be traded rapidly. The bishops sometimes wrote about such slight changes that their words only make sense amid a continuous exchange.114 But this does not mean letters were quotidian. Theodoret once called correspondence the “adorable treasure of the fruits of love.”115 Like festals, personal letters gained significance because they displayed camaraderie.
Within particular relationships bishops' letters served as artifacts of emotional bonding. Bishops valued letters as individual objects. Letter exchange faced limitations, such as a shortage of materials or lack of envoys.116 More important, it faced distance. Bishops formed a brotherhood of rank separated for most of the year. Each letter served as a window through that separation. Its arrival released feelings of affinity, which lingered as the object was saved. The bishops valued letters even more for their place in collections. By keeping copies of what was sent and received, they recorded their relations.117 They then arranged archives—a whole social history.118 The basic practices of collection rarely required comment. Only at the peak of doctrinal crisis did a colleague of Theodoret's cite his scrutiny of past letters.119 But expectations shaped each letter. Correspondents wrote not just to send information, but also to create portraits of themselves, their relationships, and their network.
Letters thus led a rich private life within clerical relationships. They also led a public life by reaching secondary audiences. Bishops expected that their letters would be read aloud. Synesius of Cyrene once gave directions on how to read his letter properly.120 Letters also reached new audiences through recopying. Syrian bishops requested copies of letters and sent copies unsolicited.121 Generally the bishops did not regard copying or public reading as a breach of privacy. They assumed such sharing as they composed text. In fact, some letters appear to have grown in value with the number of hands touching them, since they showed broader camaraderie.122
Customs of collection and republication help to explain a puzzling aspect of late Roman letters: the use of handbook formulas. Rhetoricians offered templates for letter writing to fulfill dozens of social functions. Some scholars have treated these templates as limitations, which hindered honest communication.123 But clerics chose to use handbook formulas that fit with their practices and goals. If bishops knew that letters were to be saved, they would tend to select representations of pure “character” over ephemeral details. If they knew they wrote for edited collections, they would work to show the development of rapport. If they anticipated wider audiences, they would exclude damaging intimations. Handbooks helped correspondents to create galleries of social bonds. In some ways letters did this more effectively than visits, since in correspondence the bishops could shed petty concerns and become better selves.
In any case, the rhetorical structure of letters did little to prevent Syrian bishops from trading gossip. The bishops tended to inquire about social shifts obliquely. When one bishop heard rumors of a personal tiff between his colleagues, he claimed that he would have refused to believe it, but for the trustworthiness of his source.124 Sometimes the clerics accused each other directly, but they often refused to mention names.125 This practice of reticence still allowed rumors to spread, but it channeled the rumors to preserve displays of camaraderie. In fact, some gossip mongering could reinforce the picture of cordiality, by reminding the bishops of just how close they stood.
From epistolary practices such as these, letters gained a significance beyond the written words. Letters still enabled necessary communication. If the formulas proved inadequate (such as during doctrinal negotiations) Theodoret and his colleagues set them aside. But even detailed doctrinal letters assumed certain customs of composition, reception, and republication.126 And letters always furnished a basic social cue. Traded papyrus signaled reciprocal friendship; missing papyrus signaled a breach.127
ENVOYS, SURVEILLANCE, AND THE STAGING
OF CLERICAL RELATIONS
Customs of composition and collection thus shaped clerics' practice of letter exchange. So did customs of transmission. One of the most common features of Theodoret's letters was praise for letter bearers. Such recommendations could take just a few words, citing an envoy for his “kindness” and his “good, noble character.”128 Or the references could fill multiple lines. “I acquired an experience of his manners and the congregation had the benefit of his speaking,” Theodoret said of one priest. Even though he “casts off but a few raindrops and leaves us thirsty…it was a joy for me that he could be a procurer of the letters sent by Your Piety.”129 These recommendations are easy to ignore. As Theodoret noted to Proclus, bishops were hounded for a few kind words.130 Envoys, however, contributed heavily to clerical communication. Beyond carrying letters, they served as an extra verbal channel, a responsive audience, an observant eye, and a helping hand. Symbolically, they became extensions of the bishops themselves.
Theodoret's recommendations reveal a functional context for the exchange of letters: the steady stream of traveling personnel. The Apostolic Constitutions demanded that bishops welcome authentic nonlocal clerics.131 Since most envoys were clerical subordinates, recommendations authenticated them. Envoys might stay for several days, until the bishop could pen a reply. Or they might stay longer to assume regular duties.132 Bishops used this exchange of clerics to share labor. Skilled orators and artisans were rare enough to be needed by several dioceses.133 But the trading of personnel also served symbolic ends. Traveling envoys required greetings and farewells—the constant display of Christian hospitality. And a shared labor force reminded bishops of their ecclesiological ideal, the communal Christian life.
Beyond shared labor, the exchange of envoys played an expansive role in communication. Of course, envoys served as postmen. Eloquent letters were useless unless properly delivered. Unreliable couriers might leak information or alter written works. Without trustworthy couriers, bishops might not even read the letters that they received, for nothing differentiated those letters from forgeries.
Trusted envoys, however, did more than deliver letters; they often augmented what was written. For reasons of aesthetics and discretion, bishops preferred to keep certain details out of the text.134 Envoys could then explain points only hinted at in writing. The presence of an envoy corroborating the text and a text backing up the envoy made communication more persuasive. Theodoret ended one letter to an ally with a vague imperative: “Persuade him who is able to give it to grant our request.” If his colleague could not recall previous discussions, a trusted deacon was present to fill in the specifics.135 The more sensitive the matter, the more bishops needed a dependable courier. For doctrinal negotiations, Theodoret and his colleagues relied not on priests, but on imperial tribunes and allied bishops.136 This bathed the enterprise in statements of mutual respect and kept the record free of inconvenient details.
Not every relationship required so much discretion. But even ordinary contacts relied on both writing and oral supplements. Bishops wrote letters in various modes, from detailed appeals to unadorned recommendations. The choice of style was partly a matter of sensibility. As Synesius put it, “lengthiness in a letter argues for a lack of intimacy with the one conveying the letter.” Nevertheless, as he then noted, sometimes this principle had to be set aside.137 Among Syrian clerics, there were conventions. Theodoret once gave a priest this vague primer: “I salute your piety, using as a go-between for written letters the man who had brought us the unwritten words which you expressed concerning us. When you receive the letter, o pious one, send me writing for writing.”138 Some messages, it seems, could be sent orally, but others demanded writing. Most of Theodoret's letters imply some oral exegesis, the type and amount varying with the situation. In any case, both writing and supplementation served as key social signals.
Beyond oral supplements envoys augmented correspondence by setting the scene for the performance of social bonding. Whether or not they added words, envoys took part in letter reception, interacting with doormen, secretaries, and correspondents. Envoys served as authorial stand-ins, reference points for written messages and the emotions they inspired. Theodoret praised couriers as effusively as he praised colleagues. When celebrating these letter bearers, he linked the written words to their persons: “For the way we saw [the envoy Damian] is how you intimated in your letters.”139 Theodoret's praises were more than recommendations. Personal contact, even through a third party, felt closer to the clerics than any written letter.140
Envoys also served a less prestigious role in letter reception: scapegoat. If communication failed or proved offensive, bishops' friendships were at risk. But they could avoid severing contact if they blamed a faulty courier. Scapegoating played an essential role in sensitive doctrinal negotiations. Bishops unhappy at the results of a colloquy blamed envoys before blaming the negotiating leaders.141 But even in lighter matters (like a botched travel schedule) Theodoret sometimes blamed his subordinates.142 Envoys might symbolize the joy of epistolary friendship, but they remained available as instruments of expiation.
While envoys were treated as passive symbols in epistolary relations, they also had active duties, in the form of surveillance. Traveling couriers were able to observe ecclesiastical operations up and down the clerical ladder. Since most couriers worked for individual bishops, they were no doubt expected to report what they had heard and seen. Usually bishops were loath to acknowledge spying, which challenged bishops' traditional local prerogative. But they hinted at the state of mutual observation. Tellingly, Theodoret referred to clerics as proxenoi of other bishops. On the surface this meant “securers of benefit,” but for an educated Roman, it carried classical connotations of “agent for a foreign power.”143 The implied analogy proves apt for periods of controversy, when agents started riots or reported to foes.144 But even in calmer times, the social results were dramatic. Theodoret knew about problems in neighboring sees; so did some of his colleagues. Occasionally they used that knowledge to meddle with subordinates.145 Clerical spying was common enough that it made a certain amount of intimacy involuntary. Acknowledged or not, surveillance actually tightened relations.
Through all their activities, envoys turned clerical communication into staged social performances. When letters arrived the envoys served as script readers and exegetes. They also served as the audience for bishops acting out their affections. For us letter writing may conjure up images of isolation. In the fifth century, the process was thoroughly social. Letters and envoys formed part of a larger theatrical system, where verbal messages were enhanced by observed actions and reported reactions.
ASSUMED AFFECTION: ANTIOCHENE NETWORK AND COMMUNITY
This chapter has focused on the social interactions of the fifth-century Syrian clergy. Letters and conciliar documents feature expressions of affection and signals of shared orthodoxy. These cues served as elements of the rhetorical performances that Theodoret traded with his core allies. Letters and acta also reveal customs of clerical communication. Rituals of assembly and visitation, practices of letter writing and collection, and patterns of personnel exchange facilitated written and oral cues. Taken together these expressions and practices define a social experience that we may label “Antiochene.” But how do we know that these social cues meant something to Theodoret and his associates? From a modern vantage point we cannot be certain. Nevertheless, the combination of practices and cues points toward a distinct network of relationships, and to an informal but palpable Antiochene community.
For starters, the social cues and customs noted in this chapter constitute more than a random set. Other clerics, of course, traded expressions of affection. Distant bishops still might share Nicene formulas, or even dyophysite terms.146 Nothing about conciliar customs or epistolary practices was uniquely Syrian. Yet it is striking how all of these cues and practices run together in the records. We have seen how Theodoret mixed declarations of friendship with exclamations of “harmony of faith.” We have also seen how his signals of intimacy hinted at past cooperation. Several key terms and symbols that appear in letters also arise in statements in the conciliar acta. All these verbal cues were then reinforced by the practices of record keeping and epistolary collection. Singular cues might be used in any clerical relationship. Nevertheless, this precise combination of tropes is unlikely to be found outside the Antiochene fold.
Antiochene social cues thus form a distinctive set. They also appear in a distinctive context: the clergy of one region. Theodoret traded notes of friendship with a range of colleagues. But almost all of his expressions of intimacy went to fellow Syrian clerics. Theodoret and his colleagues did not always employ every cue. But over time, the same set of clergymen employed overlapping subsets.
The set of social signals can thus be taken to indicate a distinguishable, regional network. But did this network form a meaningful community? Here the indications are less conclusive. Not all networks are formalized. Not all groups set clear boundaries. Some networks foster public identities; others remain private or unacknowledged. Theodoret and his peers were proud members of the Nicene clergy but claimed no party label. They only spoke of “like-minded bishops” at the height of controversy.147
And yet, the communication parameters of this network imply some communal sensibility. Even disorganized networks have figures of influence and gradual boundaries. Even unacknowledged networks create a sense of connection—a scene in which mutual affection is assumed. Within our extant records, some clerics were called orthodox based on a few names and coded phrases. Some colleagues were drafted for cooperative tasks with just a few kind words. Social cues went beyond the niceties of Christian brotherhood. And Theodoret expressed pain when these cues were removed. When Theodoret praised Acacius of Beroea in the History of the Friends of God, he was writing for a wide audience. But he knew that his work would be read first by close associates. Therein they would find deeper social messages that only they would understand.