It may be hard for us to believe now, looking from the vantage point of the twenty-first century, but the Church’s belief in Jesus Christ’s divinity has not always been stable. In the fourth century, a powerful heresy called Arianism rocked the Church, and, through deception and political intrigue, nearly toppled our keystone belief in Christ’s full divinity.
Arianism took its name from its early leader, Arius, a clever man with a good personality, polished speech, and a quick smile. He had a distinguished appearance and a manner that charmed the ladies. His personality was so absorbing that the twentieth-century historian Hilaire Belloc attributed Arius’s heretical success to it: Arius “would never have had his success but for something eloquent about him and a driving power.”
He was also a good salesman, devising appealing “jingles” to spread the heresy. At the Council of Nicaea, he and his followers sang his doctrines in response to the tightly-reasoned arguments of their main opponent, St. Athanasius. The different approaches and personalities of Arius and Athanasius (Athanasius was neither charismatic nor attractive — stern, dwarfish, hooked nose, small mouth and eyes, reddish beard against a dark skin, stooped posture) were so pronounced that it seemed the antagonists were speaking different languages from different cultures, though they both hailed from Alexandria, Egypt.
Late in the twelfth century, another man tried to charm his heretical ideas into the Church. Amaury of Bene, a brilliant lecturer in logic and theology at the University of Paris, quietly taught a form of Neo-Platonic pantheism which eventually led to the belief that all things are divine, including sexual license, theft, and other forms of immorality (the immoral upshots of Amaury’s teachings were embraced by a troublesome sect known as the Brethren of the Free Spirit in the late Middle Ages and a group known as the Ranters in seventeenth-century England). Like Arius, Amaury was a popular man. He enjoyed great prestige in Paris and the patronage of the royal court. Many great men, including the Dauphin (the King’s eldest son), were his friends.
One of the Church’s earliest heretics also used a likable disposition — and a huge amount of philanthropy — to try to bring his ideas into the Church. Marcion, the son of a wealthy Christian bishop, went to Rome in the second century to spread his theory that this world is the creation of an inferior and evil god (who is also the God of the Old Testament) and that we ought to worship the real god revealed in the New Testament. He had an impressive personality and tried to win Rome with large donations. When a synod was finally called to examine his theory, he was rebuffed. The Church, in an effort that practicality bankrupted it, repaid his donations and excommunicated him.
Two traits unite Arius, Amaury, and Marcion: (1) They taught heretical ideas while members of the Church; (2) They were charming. It’s a curious combination. Men with heretical ideas, ideas meant to undermine the Church, but friendly men, men who smiled as they sprayed poison.
Their personalities contrast sharply with orthodox clergy and theologians. With exceptions (like Pope John Paul II), orthodoxy generally has presented a parade of stoic theologians, such as St. Athanasius, St. Jerome, and St. Thomas.
Their personalities also contrast with unorthodox men who didn’t pretend to be orthodox or loyal Catholics. No one, for instance, has accused Luther or Calvin of glad-handing their theology. Likewise, secular thinkers such as Marx and Nietzsche didn’t smile their ideas into society, and successful political shakers such as Lenin and Mao didn’t use handshakes to spread their ideology.
The Arius-like combination of charm and poison seems to be especially prevalent in the Church today, with dissident Church leaders exhibiting winning personalities as they stab the Church. I don’t know why heretics within the Church smile so much and show such charm. Maybe they see friendliness as a good sales approach. Maybe natural popularity grows the hubris necessary to dissent. Maybe their heretical ideas make them so smug that they feel threatened by no one — those who agree are with them; those who disagree are beneath them — so they are naturally friendly to everyone.
Whatever the reason, I think these charming heretics teach us a few things: Any strong personality can start a group, religion, movement or cause, but it takes a smiling personality to undermine one. The nicest people are often the most dangerous. And worshippers ought to get nervous when their winsome leader gets innovative.
© Copyright 2005 Catholic Exchange
Eric Scheske is an attorney, the Editor of The Daily Eudemon, a Contributing Editor of Godspy, and the former editor of Gilbert Magazine.
