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Defending Constantine

Defending Constantine

Last updated on: October 27, 2026 at 2:05 pm by Jacob Randolph

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Defending Constantine 2026-10-27T14:05:31-04:00 Jacob Randolph

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In the early fourth century, an emperor decided to convert to Christianity. The reasons why he did so are likely many—to establish his legacy as a world leader, to enhance the possibility of trade and patronage, to garner the support of a powerful god when he went into battle. Whatever the reasons, by the middle of the fourth century his initiative to infuse imperial power with a Christian cosmology was well underway. Coins were minted bearing both the emperor’s likeness and the symbols of Christian faith. Houses of worship were erected, being funded by the state. Monuments inscribed the emperor’s victory over the rival pagan rulers through the help of the Christian god. Bishops solemnly recognized the legitimate marriage of their religion, the religion of the crucified Messiah, and the imperial crown, praising the emperor as a servant of God and a protector of the Church.

But that emperor—the one who began the transformation of both empire and Church—was not the Caesar in Rome named Constantine. His name was Ezana (d. 360 CE), and he was the negus in Ethiopia.

Defending Constantine, Against My Better Judgment

I think Constantine gets a bad rap. Even as a I type it, that sentence gets stuck in my throat—or the throat of my brain. See, I’m solidly in the Anabaptist camp, spiritually speaking, when it comes to the marriage of Christianity and state power. I’m firmly anti-imperial in my politics and in my theology. I believe Jesus when he makes the distinction between the rulers of the Gentiles, who dominate and subject people, and his disciples, who live by serving (Matt. 20:25). I think the vision of John in Revelation, of beasts rising from the sea, should send shivers down the spines of any who dream of a military and economic power that would try to coopt the message of the slain Lamb. The Bible says it. I believe it. That settles it.

But I’m also a historian of Christianity. And I try to be a good one, which means I’m also firmly on the side of useful contrarianism. We historians are a lot of fun at parties.

So when I say Constantine gets a bad rap, what I mean is, I think it’s popular to blame Constantine as a uniquely bad actor in the Christian story, and the Church in his time as especially problematic for letting that sneaky empire slip in under the door of the Church. Constantine is the foil for many progressive or peace-tradition Christian metanarratives about everything that’s wrong with modern Christianity, especially on the Christian right. That story goes something like this:

“Prior to Constantine, Christianity was characterized by the radical counterculture of a Christian underclass. Christianity had a variety of theological approaches, and it was focused on social justice and equality, which is why the empire saw it as a threat to be neutralized. Earlier emperors attempted to neutralize the threat via persecution. Constantine decided the neutralize the threat through imperial favor and imposing rigid doctrinal agreement.” (Sometimes the Nicene Creed gets brought in here as the example par excellence of imperial overreach and forced conformity).

We don’t have to go too far to find these kinds of declension narratives. Such opinion was captured poignantly and asserted repeatedly in the work of the brilliant German historian Adolf von Harnack, who sought to distinguish between the simple, monotheistically grounded ethic of love Jesus taught and the later departure of philosophically-minded Christological creeds. For Harnack, Constantine represented the imposition of theological unity at the expense of Christ’s message about the kingdom of God and the brotherhood of man. On the question of why Christianity had not successfully taken up the cause of social reconstruction, Baptist minister and social gospel architect Walter Rauschenbusch wrote that the “dogmatic interest” of historical Christianity became a “deflecting influence.” Recovery of Jesus’s true message was hampered on all sides by this doctrinal obsession. “Since the second century, and especially since the great doctrinal controversies of the fourth century,” Rauschenbusch wrote, “dogma came to be regarded as the essence of Christianity…But when dogmatic and speculative questions absorbed the religious interest, less of it was left for moral and social questions.”

More recently, progressive evangelicals and mainliners have echoed similar thoughts. One United Methodist elder writes, that Constantine and his creed shifted “hope for liberation to life after death, but only if you believe and do what the empire approved church tells you to. In effect, the Nicene Creed functions as an Imperial Creed to further the imperial interest in order and stability based on unity of belief, and order is often in conflict with justice and liberation.” Episcopal priest Matthew Fox called the fourth century a “two-fold detour” from the essence of Christianity. In the first place, the Council of Nicaea called by Constantine moved the religion from persecuted sect to a crusading theo-political movement. Second, the post-Nicene era gave birth to Augustine and his Neo-Platonic dualism.

The most recent iteration of this idea comes from Matthew Taylor in his new book, Defying Tyrants (Broadleaf, 2026). First, a caveat. I think there is a lot of good stuff in Taylor’s book. As I get to the latter sections, I find mysef in agreement on most of Taylor’s prescriptive claims about how best to live the way of Jesus. Yes to mutuality, anti-violence, an economy of sharing, and radical love of enemy. No to corrosive politics, high-control religious environments, glorification of militarism and wealth. I also think Taylor’s guidance that we need to account for the whole witness of the New Testament is so very important, but that sword (forgive me) cuts both ways.

Taylor clearly sees the rise of Constantine to power as a hinge-point in the development of Christianity, largely because Constantine accepted Christianity as a legitimate religion in the empire and adopted Christian symbols as talismans of conquest. All this came to a head with the Arian controversy and the Council of Nicaea. “So at the same moment the bishops and theologians of the early fourth century (the church fathers of that era) were staring down the theological threat posed by Arius, a Christian emperor threw a new possibility, a loaded gun on the debate table. Here, in the midst of a pitched theological skirmish, we are introduced to a powerful weapon in the theological arsenal: imperial enforcement of one orthodoxy. Was it worth going nuclear and ending the Roman toleration of many Christianities in order to rid the empire of Arianism?”

He concludes, “In the early fourth century, the serpent Constantine presented the bishops with a seductive offer: power over your enemies, the imperial vindication of orthodoxy. Like Eve and Adam (and the rest of us), the Nicene bishops fell for the devil’s corrupting promises. We got orthodoxy, but we bound it to empire.”

But it’s not at all clear from the sources that Constantine’s intent was to seduce the bishops with coercive power. That’s a modern interpolation. Taylor’s assessment of the fourth-century story raises a few questions—important questions for telling the story of Christianity aright. Taylor rightly notes that Constantine’s turn to Christianity wasn’t unique but paradigmatic. But if that’s so, it’s worth asking, What did Christianity mean in antiquity that made Constantine’s embrace of the religion make sense to Christians? Why didn’t anyone raise an eyebrow when the emperor started doling out favors? Why wasn’t there a prophetic outcry when the emperor stuck his “grubby hands” in the spiritual business of the church? That is, beyond persecution fatigue or cynical power grabs, was there something intuitive within the Christian religion of the ancient world that found expression in imperial acceptance? I think there was.

Another Perspective

If we begin with a different assumption than the Church’s capitulation to villainy, we can go to some interesting places. Let’s start with, say, the strategies of conversion in the first and second-century Christian contexts. Christianity developed in an ancient world that interpreted life through a network of social relations of power. In that context, many of the conversions we find in the Acts of the Apostles are what we would call “household conversions.” That is, if the householder—typically but not exclusively the *paterfamilias—*were to convert to the faith, it was taken for granted that those under the householder would follow suit. Cornelius the Roman centurion (Acts 10:2; 11:14), Lydia (Acts 16:15), the Philippian jailer (Acts 16:31), Crispus the synogogue official (Acts 18:8)—all instances of the house leader bringing their houses along with them in the act of conversion. So from the very beginning, the idea of inherited religious identity (“forced” conversion, but only anachronistically) was assumed on a small scale. It’s clear that household conversions were the prevailing paradigm, although it’s true many others converted out of their household religions, a potentially precarious situation to be sure.

“In Antiquity social harmony was associated with people worshipping the same gods…There is a basic parallel between the sacra publica and the sacra privata. The fundamental assumption that the household is a city-state in microcosm means that domestic worship is seen in a political perspective. This is common thinking in Antiquity…What happens in the families may safeguard or endanger the harmony and well-being of the wider community. The main religious activity in Antiquity was therefore the family cult.”

The connection between the public and private in ancient religion is the ballgame. It’s one reason why Paul is so concerned about individual holiness. When he writes against the abuses of the Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians 11, he singles out those who are not discerning the body, but his warning is to the collective: “If you (sing.) are hungry, eat at home, so that you (pl.) might not come together for condemnation” (1 Cor. 11:34). The piety of one member can affect the divine standing of the body. This too was built in as a culturally-embedded notion that could scale up from households to churches to cities to—empires?

Because group status could rise and fall with its members, it’s clear that early Christian communities saw some benefit—some social legitimation, even—in aiming for the conversion of socially respectable persons, be it on the private scale, the householder, or the public scale, the centurion or the synagogue official. Converts of high status could help facilitate broader cultural acceptance, as well as providing churches with important patrons who could help advance the work of the churches through social capital and material means. One must wonder if Paul had a bigger strategy than his own vindication in mind when appealing to Caesar in his arrest case, thereby evangelizing Roman Judean governors Antonius Felix and Porcius Festus, as well as Herod Agrippa II.

So too, any simple notions of Christian “anti-hiearchy” are complicated by the realities that a) Christian practices of enculturation meant that Christians were trying to adapt the teachings of Jesus to intricate webs of meaning and social values, and relatedly b) Christians in antiquity were by-and-large amenable to hierarchies of varying sorts, although their hiearchies didn’t map on to modern progressive ideas about race or gender. One need only look at the household codes, or the qualifications for bishops in 1 Tim. 3, to see that while New Testament Christians saw the inherent tensions and sought to reorient structures of authority and submission around a Christian ethic of love, they continued to see the necessity—the value, even—in acknowledging the real-world social distinctions represented in their communities. Heck, the very idea of bishops stands as evidence of this fact. Jesus was against domination. But what domination looks and feels like—what counts as domination as opposed to authority legitimately deployed—is largely negotiated in particular places and spaces according to group values. It’s a contested notion, which is why I think Taylor helpfully points us to those on the underside of power in Christian history, but it’s not settled with universal rubrics.

Praying for the Emperor

The New Testament churches developed in a sometimes-tenuous social situation, but they held out hope that their virtue would become evident in lives well-lived, and they sought the good will of those in authority over them. As such, the earliest Christians were instructed not to resist the emperor, but to pray for him and all other rulers. The letter of 1 Timothy, probably written at the end of the first century, admonished believers to offer “supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made…for kings and all who are in high positions, so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity” (1 Tim. 2:1-2). First Peter tells Christians to accept the authority of the emperor as supreme “for the Lord’s sake” and to “honor the emperor” (1 Pet. 2:13, 17). To sacrifice to the emperor, or to worship the emperor, would be a sin since only God was to be worshipped, but Christians were to pray for the emperor, especially since the earthly authorities were empowered by God to preserve order and justice. Early Christian apologists were clear in this distinction: the emperor is not God, but he is chosen by God to judge and enact laws for the public good. In his Apology, the African theologian Tertullian (d. 240) wrote that Christians prayed “for the safety of our princes to the eternal, the true, the living God, whose favor, beyond all others, [the princes] must themselves desire.” Tertullian wrote that Christians wanted the same things that all good Romans wanted; the only difference was that Christians knew the right direction to address these wants, and who ultimately enabled the emperor to secure such goods: “We pray for life prolonged; for security to the empire; for protection to the imperial house; for brave armies, a faithful senate, a virtuous people, the world at rest, whatever, as man or Caesar, an emperor would wish.”

Even earlier, the bishop of Antioch, Theophilus, wrote against emperor worship, but promoted the notion that the emperor was a divine emissary: “You will say to me, ‘Why do you not worship the emperor?’ Because he was made not to be worshipped but to be honored with legitimate honor. He is not God but a man appointed by God not to be worshipped but to judge justly. For in a certain way he has been entrusted with stewardship from God.”

George Karamanolis summarizes the situation of the first three centuries aptly: Christian intellectuals “accept and largely approve of the current political establishment and the political norms of their society, despite their pagan character…[they are] unanimous in their political integration in pagan society and in their approval of the authority of the Roman emperor and of the political norms of pagan society, such as laws. They justify that approval by claiming that the Roman emperor is appointed by God.” In sum, early Christians argued that 1) they were peresecuted unjustly, since they were virtuous and loyal subjects. Persecution was a miscarriage of justice and brought unnecessary disorder; 2) it was right to appeal to the imperial power, since the emperor was chosen by God to uphold social order and enact justice.

Given these two interlocking notions, it makes perfect sense that Christian bishops in the fourth century saw Constantine as the answer to their centuries-long prayers for an emperor who would rectify these injustices and facilitate a society where Christians could live peacefully. Even more so, these twin concepts help explain why Constantine might have felt it necessary to intercede in the Alexandrian conflicts between Arius and Alexander. Taylor writes that Christian bishops knew Arius’s “ideas were deeply unorthodox and also startlingly popular.” What he doesn’t tell you is that that popularity emerged in a fractious Alexandria, and that social unrest was simmering in the city. It wasn’t at all uncommon for religious disagreements to issue in riots. Such social disorder could create all kinds of problems, not the least of which was mob violence.

Previous emperors might have marched troops into the city to make arrests and quell disorder with a strong hand. But Constantine had already taken persecution off the table. If policing was an unattractive option to Constantine, what other means was there? Constantine tried diplomacy first, writing to both Arius and Alexander that this silly little quibble amounted to a philosophical spat but no true heresy. They should shake hands and agree to disagree. When that failed, a conciliar decision—unprecedented, to be sure—offered an opportunity at resolution through consensus rather than imperial fiat.

Okay. To be sure, the Nicene council had its fair share of political machinations. But were these bishops “getting in bed with the emperor”? Or were they doing what Christians had been praying about for centuries up to that point—honoring and submitting to an emperor who, in their eyes, was doing his God-given duty, aiming not just for religious unity (which is debatable) but for social order so that Christians could live peaceable lives? I think that’s a live debate.

Converting Kings

Beginning in the 3rd century, Christian imaginations were aflutter with the possibility of converting kings. The Syriac text, the Acts of Thomas (c. 210), told the story of Jesus’s disciple, Thomas, being sold into slavery by Jesus to the king, Gudnaphar. According to the legend, Thomas (also called Judas) had been comissioned to take the gospel to India. Thomas was sold to Gudnaphar to build the king a new palace. The king left Thomas with a large sum of money which he (of course) used to feed the poor and heal the sick. This was the “palace” that Thomas built for the king, an eternal, immaterial palace of salvation that king Gudnaphar ultimately receieved through baptism.

Around the time the Acts of Thomas was being written, king Agbar VIII of Edessa converted to Christianity, establishing Christianity as the state religion of the small Roman client-kingdom of Osroene in modern-day Turkey. Just under a century later and to the northeast, in 301, the king of Armenia, Tiradates, established Christianity as the state religion of his kingdom. I’ve already mentioned the Ethiopian king Ezana’s Christianization of the kingdom of Aksum right at the time of Constantine. Clearly, something was in the fourth-century waters.

Now, it’s worth saying that each of these kingdoms likely converted for a complex of reasons personal, social and geopolitical. There were likely more than (or less than?) interior spiritual aims at play. But it would be a mistake to assume purely cynical or nefarious motives in these cases. If we know anything about conversion in antiquity, it’s that individuals convert for all kinds of reasons: miraculous healing, social advantage, the chance to establish new kinship groups, inclusion in a household, the death of a loved one, divine protection, etc. Which is to say, the notion of a pure conversion, in the sense of a religious conversion untouched by material influences or unmediated by one’s social world, is a nonstarter. In the words of Andrew Walls, the “Jesus Act” is part of the drama of human life.

I think Taylor and I would find much to agree on. In fact, we do. My fear is that the real stuff of Christianity is too often blended into an inconspicuous paste, giving us tasty and easily digestible answers to why Christians in the past don’t behave the way we think they should’ve, especially when it can serve as grist for our modern political mill.

Taylor writes that “Constantine exposed our congenital condition as Christians: We are drawn to easy solutions and power over our enemies, even though Jesus explicitly taught us to be patient, to love our enemies, and to give up power.” Indeed. But if the allure of hierarchy is in its power to bring people in line, the allure of idealism lies in its power to ignore or deride people who don’t meet our standards. Fewer solutions are easier than that. I found myself asking, who is this book for? A concern I have is that the history presented in books like Defying Tyrants do little to complicate our preconceived notions of the past. The cast of heroes and villains is familiar—and that’s not always a good thing. Another concern of mine is progressive Christians, my “team,” will eagerly deploy the good warnings here as a way to stir conversations in their own subgroups without turning in love to their church members, community members, and family members. Is Taylor’s notion of Christian antichrists ammunition for further polarization? I hope not, and I don’t think Taylor would want it that way. But moral indignation and self-righteousness feel the same way sometimes. I speak from experience.

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