that ‘the Father and I are one.’ So will Arius.”
“Then we will do battle with Arius on his own terms, and show that two things can be distinct, yet still share a common nature. When Dionysius was bishop in this city many years ago, he explained it quite well:
‘The plant that springs from the root is something distinct from that whence it grows up; and yet it is of one nature with it. And the river which flows from the fountain is something distinct from the fountain. For we cannot call either the river a fountain, or the fountain a river. Nevertheless we allow that they are both one according to nature, and also one in substance; and we admit that the fountain may be conceived of as father, and that the river is what is begotten of the fountain.’
“That should be enough to expose the fallacy in Arius’s theories.”
The young deacon was unconvinced. “In the case of inanimate objects with no will of their own, one thing emanates from another naturally, and so shares its substance; the source isn’t free not to spawn the emanation. Surely Arius will argue that on a spiritual plane, whatever springs from a separate source is subordinate to its will—as the word which springs from the speaker is freely formed, and of a different nature from and subordinate to the speaker. Arius can use this volitional subordination to distinguish such physical analogies as Dionysius used.”
Alexander was impressed, but not at all surprised, by his student’s perceptiveness. The ability to anticipate and head off an opponent’s arguments is the highest rhetorical skill of the debater, and Athanasius had that talent. “How then do you suggest we combat this virulent heresy, this denigration of Christ, if not in public debate?”
Athanasius did not hesitate. “First, you must get Arius to commit his theology to writing. Command him to submit a written exposition of his theories. That document will provide you with a fixed target, at which you may take aim with care and time for reflection, an advantage not available in the course of an unpredictable and fast-paced public debate that favors the rhetorically skilled.” Unlike you, Alexander, the younger man thought to himself, hoping that the prelate had not taken his comment as a criticism. If you debate him, Arius will tear you apart!
Alexander was too focused on the solution to notice any subtle knock on his abilities. “I think commanding Arius to write out his beliefs would only give him that same time for care and reflection. He is far too clever and diplomatic to expose himself in anything he writes. He will couch his response in as much ambiguity as he needs to protect himself.”
After hearing the passion in Arius’s voice that morning, Athanasius was sure his mentor’s assessment was wrong, but chose his words cautiously so as not to offend. “Perhaps that is likely; but even so, I can see no down side to asking for the written profession of faith. There is at least a chance that he will be unable to restrain himself.”
“Very well,” the bishop yielded after a moment’s reflection. “I will make the request.”
Encouraged by this acceptance of his suggestion, the capable young cleric paused briefly before offering his next one, weighing his words carefully so that Alexander would not think him too bold, nor too timid. “When Arius submits his response, shall I be permitted to review it and give you my comments?”
Alexander smiled at the deacon’s ambition, and was pleased to encourage it. “I will look forward to that,” he replied approvingly. “Indeed, I should like you to draft, for my review, the letter to Arius requesting an exposition of his views. Let us see how he responds. He has acknowledged Christ’s pre-incarnate existence; let us see where, and indeed if, he attempts to draw an earlier line before which he will claim that Christ did not exist.”
Athanasius was thrilled to be called to service in such a fashion, but did his best not to show it. “As you wish; I will start at once.” The younger man kneeled to receive Alexander’s blessing, kissed the extended hand before him, and then left quickly to return to his quarters, a spring of excitement in each step he took, relishing this opportunity to prove himself in the Archbishop’s eyes.
After Athanasius departed, Alexander called to his servants for some wine, and continued to brood over the problem Arius had presented, contemplating how it might be resolved. There was something new in the Libyan’s upstart Christology, something Alexander could not recall encountering in the writings of any church fathers of the past two centuries—yet something vaguely familiar as well. Could there be an element of truth in it? No, how could there be? How could the Wisdom of God ever not have been present with God, at all times? Alexander felt a brief moment of shame in even entertaining the notion that the Son might not have existed before some beginning point in time. Determined to purge himself of the thought, he went immediately to the library and spread out onto the reading table the first scroll of Origen’s De Principiis, scanning it for the argument he dimly recalled being there—and on finding it, delighted in each line as though it were a salve, a balm against the nagging itch of uncertainty:
“And who that is capable of entertaining reverential thoughts or feelings regarding God, can suppose or believe that God the Father ever existed, even for a moment of time, without having generated this Wisdom? For in that case he must say either that God was unable to generate Wisdom before He produced her, so that He afterwards called into being her who formerly did not exist, or that He possessed the power indeed, but— what cannot be said of God without impiety— was unwilling to use it; both of which suppositions, it is patent to all, are alike absurd and impious: for they amount to this, either that God advanced from a condition of inability to one of ability, or that, although possessed of the power, He concealed it, and delayed the generation of Wisdom. Wherefore we have always held that God is the Father of His only-begotten Son, who was born indeed of Him, and derives from Him what He is, but without any beginning, not only such as may be measured by any divisions of time, but even that which the mind alone can contemplate within itself, or behold, so to speak, with the naked powers of the understanding. And therefore we must believe that Wisdom was generated before any beginning that can be either comprehended or expressed.”
Chapter 8
Sitting alone in his sparsely furnished room when the letter arrived, a simple scroll bearing Alexander’s distinctive seal, Arius knew what it contained before opening it. His pulse quickened as he read it and then let it fall from his hands onto his desk. The inevitable confrontation with Alexander that he had instigated with such bravado and aplomb suddenly felt uncomfortably ominous now that it was about to escalate. But this was no time to be timid. Kneeling down, he rested his forearms on the front of the desk and pressed his brow into them, closing his eyes and praying audibly, although there was no one else to hear: Father, you are my God, and there is no god apart from you. Impart to me a measure of your grace, that I may ever proclaim you to be One, indivisible; and against those who would seek to divide you, let me ever proclaim your only-begotten Son as the instrument of your love that divides you not.
Arising and peering out his window at the magnificent lighthouse that dominated the Alexandrian skyline and stood like a sentinel above the busy harbor, Arius realized at once that he would be well-served by garnering as much clerical backing as possible for his response to the Archbishop. There were more than a few presbyters in Alexandria and the surrounding delta region who followed their own counsel rather than Alexander’s, and Arius knew all of them well. Many had expressed agreement or at least sympathy with his theories in the past; surely, he thought, some of them could be persuaded to subscribe to his reply. That would be a start. Beyond Alexandria, particularly in Palestine and Syria where Lucian’s teachings were still recalled and respected, he enjoyed the concurrence of a number of bishops and presbyters with whom he had been corresponding for many months. Now was the time to rally their support, to discover how many of them would actually take a stand in opposition to the Archbishop.
The first one he sought out was his friend Achilles, the respected
