I must begin with the words of the clergyman: ‘My short sermon for today is divided into three parts. One: God. Two: Man. Three: The Universe.’ It will be impossible to do justice to the subject in hand in the short span of one lecture. This is not only because of the vast range of time and space involved in any consideration of the parting of the ways between eastern and western Christianity in the late antique period. To embark on such a theme involves holding up for scrutiny the very nature of ecclesiastical history. For what we have to deal with is not merely what happened in the relations between east and west, but why what happened happened as it did. Once the ecclesiastical historian asks why, he will find himself sooner or later forced to grapple with the whole quality of men’s lives in the past—that is, with how they lived the full twenty-four hours of the day, not only in their books, but in their churches, not only in their churches, but in the most intimate and most monotonous rhythms of their life.

In this paper I wish to deal with a rather specialised topic. But this specialised topic may partly explain what was in fact the official attitude of the Byzantine Church, of its patriarchs, bishops and monks, over the centuries, towards Greek philosophy and science. May I suggest that Greek philosophy and science were, and still are indeed, one of the component factors and inspirations of our renaissance and post-renaissance western civilisation?

In order to avoid misunderstanding, I must explain the title of this paper, so that the limitations or strict boundaries of this paper, and also its precise contents, its scope or design may be fully realised.

On 14 November AD 565, Justinian died and his nephew Justin was raised to the throne in a well managed senatorial coup. He was already of middle age and had spent the latter part of his life building up useful connections at court which served him well when the critical moment came: his rival, cousin and homonym was far more glamorous, being a military man, but he was not on the spot and Justin was easily able to have him removed. We are told that the murder was engineered by Justin’s empress, Sophia, the niece of Theodora, a lady who emerges as a figure as powerful and in many ways more interesting than her aunt. From the first the reign was a partnership; Sophia is shown in a novel way together with her husband on Justin’s coins, and is named with him in the headings to decrees preserved on papyri. So Justin at least acquiesced in her prominence, even if he did not like it, and it was natural for poets and historians to give as much attention to the empress as to the emperor. When the loss of the Mesopotamian border fortress of Dara to the Persians in 573 drove Justin out of his wits Sophia very naturally took control, even though nominally the government had to be put into the hands of a man (Tiberius, appointed caesar in AD 574 and augustus in 578); yet her influence had been strong from the beginning, and we shall see that if it is right to see her driving force behind the harsh persecutions of monophysites in the 570s, we must also seek her initiative in the religious policy of the late 560s.

The Acacian schism which lasted from 484 to 519 has been regarded as a bitter affair, characterised by intransigence on both sides and ending in an unqualified disaster for the Byzantine church. A closer look at the evidence suggests that the rigid attitudes of popes Gelasius (494–8) and Hormisdas (514–23) were far from being reproduced on the Byzantine side even at moments of provocation, and among the populace as a whole its existence was for most of the time a matter of indifference. The eventual ending of the schism through the initiative of the emperor Justin I was not regarded in the east as involving a derogation of the rights of the eastern patriarchates and of the church at Constantinople in particular.

Saint George, it was noted in the epilogue to an eleventh-century collection of his miracles, ‘did not only perform his daily miracles in his own person: his gracious power was extended to those whose life accorded with his, and whose trust in him was beyond doubt or question. Sometimes he rescued them from the perils that oppressed them: sometimes he collaborated with them in the miracles and wonders which they performed. Of this there is ample testimony, but particular reference may be made to that great and famous Theodore, called the Sykeote, whom everybody knows. In all this George followed his master Christ, who gave his disciples power over demons, and sent them out to heal the sick.’ Of the extent of Theodore’s posthumous reputation there can be no question.

Hobsbawm recently reminded young historians prone to methodologising that they would be well advised always to begin with a problem. He meant to imply—and very properly—that experimentation with methods becomes vapid and useless unless it is seen clearly for what it is: a means to an end. I propose to experiment with a method, so I want first to emphasise that I do have a problem. It is this: why, within a common framework of Christian theology, belief and practice, did the rituals for the inauguration of rulers, in early Byzantium on the one hand, and in the early medieval western kingdoms on the other, diverge as they did? What has this divergence to tell us about the differences not just between types of political power but between the two societies? These questions relate, of course, to a mere subsection of the whole vast subject of ‘liturgies eastern and western’ which Brightman long ago promised to survey. Unfortunately, even his work was left only half-complete: the further task of systematic comparative analysis seems hardly to have been begun. But that would surely be a lifetime’s work. In this paper, I confine myself to a small though significant area of the field, a single type of ritual; and I cover a limited time-span, the period down to about 1000 AD.

Two assumptions have been made by generations of scholars, including F. Homes Dudden, Pierre Batiffol, and in more recent times, Pierre Riché; the first is that Gregory the Great, in spite of six years’ residence in Constantinople as apoaisiarius, knew no Greek; the second, that he was totally ignorant of eastern theological thought.

As we shall see later, there are good grounds for challenging both these assumptions, though it will not be possible in this paper to do more than to indicate the lines upon which the second of them may be answered. However, before we examine them, it would be as well to consider how far Greek was known and studied in Rome during the century and a half which preceded Gregory’s birth in about 540, and in his own lifetime.

Anyone who studies the works of those western historians who wrote contemporary chronicles of the first four crusades must surely be struck by one curious fact. Almost without exception, these writings show a complete lack of interest in the teachings and practices of any branch of the Christian church except that of the Roman west. The Nestorians and Jacobites whom the crusaders encountered in Syria aroused in them neither surprise nor interest, nor is there any sign that these people were regarded as more incorrect in their beliefs than were the orthodox Greeks. Although the schism between the eastern and western churches was not yet half a century old when the first crusade reached the walls of Constantinople, and although it was an affair of theological scholarship and high-powered ecclesiastical politics, it seems already to have interposed a complete barrier between the ordinary Frank and his Greek counterpart. The political acrimony displayed a hundred years earlier by Liutprand of Cremona had found a safe anchor in religious prejudice.

The Greek word skandalon means a stumbling-block, an offence. As such it is used frequently in the Septuagint and the new testament. In Byzantine texts at least from the eleventh century the word is employed as a collective noun to denote the many obstacles that stood in the way of union between the Greek and Latin churches. In the thirteenth century, however, it is often qualified by the phrase ‘relating to or concerning the pope’—τò κατά τòν πάπαν σκάνδαλον. It was as if the pope or the papacy had come to be identified as the cause or agent of the stumbling-block that lay in the path of understanding. This is the ‘papal scandal’ that I have in mind.

It has been said that Innocent III shared the popular belief existing at the beginning of the thirteenth century that the world would end in 1284. Perhaps this is the reason why throughout his pontificate he was eager to resolve the divisions facing mankind. These divisions were reflected in the deviations of the heretic, the beliefs of the infidel and the schism of the eastern church. In the first of these Innocent was meeting success, albeit in varying degrees, for example in Languedoc. The second and third needed his further attention. He was of the opinion that a renewed crusading effort in both east and west would be able to achieve mass conversions amongst Jews and Muslims. To this end the fourth crusade of 1204, mounted mainly by the Cistercians, came into being.

For centuries it has been believed that at the famous council of Lyons, held in 1274 to reunite the Latin and Greek churches, the leading role defending Latin theological views in the debates that presumably took place was played by the great Franciscan theologian, Bonaventura. Recently, however, this view has been seriously called into question, and a re-evaluation of his role and that of other leading protagonists would seem to be in order. Far from being the ‘soul of the union,’ and the man who ‘crushed the Greeks in theological debate,’ as has been generally believed, Bonaventura’s part in the union seems to have been very limited. It is the purpose of this paper not only to put in clearer light and in its true context the work of Bonaventura with regard to the Greeks at the council, but also to indicate, if only rather briefly, the parts taken by other mendicants, the Franciscans John Parastron and Jerome of Ascoli, and the Dominicans, Albertus Magnus, William of Moerbeke, and their minister general, Peter of Tarentaise. Our aim, then, is to ascertain the relative importance of their respective roles in the preparations for, and the proclamation of, religious union.

Robert Grosseteste was a scholar of many parts; regarded by contemporaries and later historians alike as the vital figure in the intellectual life of thirteenth-century England, his writings range from the theological and pastoral to philosophical and scientific studies. An important aspect of his scholarship, which provides a link through many of his other fields of study, was his work of translation from Greek texts, and it is with this aspect that this paper will deal. In his early writing Grosseteste’s interest in Greek authors, both classical and patristic is clear; indeed he was almost the first western medieval writer to use Greek sources extensively, but it is equally clear that in his citation of authorities he was not working from original texts, but from collections of quotations or earlier Latin translations. It was no easy matter, however, to acquire a knowledge of Greek in England in the early thirteenth, century; but Grosseteste remedied this situation, learning the language when he was over sixty years old and thus providing a path for others to follow him more easily. He summoned Greek scholars to England, of whom some remained in his household and he collected Greek manuscripts, although this involved sending far afield to Athens or Constantinople, to find and procure them.

The council of Constance, convened by Sigismund, king of the Romans, in 1413 had as its primary aim the reform of the western church in head and members. Its most urgent task, which in fact took almost three years to accomplish, was to end the schism which had divided the western church since 1378; it also took measures to combat the ‘Wycliffite heresy’, which resulted in the condemnation and burning of John Hus, and later of his friend and supporter, Jerome of Prague. However, the problem of relations with the eastern, or Orthodox church was not forgotten, though it played only a marginal role in the council’s activities. This subject was kept before the notice of the council by the presence of delegates from Constantinople, who were among the first to arrive, and by some sermons on the subject. For the Byzantines, some kind of understanding with the western church seemed to offer the only hope of securing effective military aid from the west, which might yet save Constantinople from the Turks; and indeed it was the belief that Sigismund would place this topic on the agenda of the council that induced the emperor Manuel II Palaiologos to send representatives to Constance.

It would be difficult to form an accurate estimate of the extent to which the eastern liturgies were known in the west before the invention of printing. At the time of the council of Florence, the Liturgy of St John Chrysostom was celebrated at Ferrara and at Venice; and someone brought with him what is now the earliest extant manuscript of that liturgy, and left it behind in Florence. In the debates, however, the western delegates professed to have no knowledge of the rite. After the fall of Constantinople, Greek scholars and manuscripts reached the west in much greater numbers than before. In England an important step forward was taken about the year 1510, when Erasmus gave John Fisher, bishop of Rochester, a copy of St Chrysostom in Greek, with a Latin translation made by himself.

Some time before July 1716 bishop Archibald Campbell made the acquaintance of Arsenius, archbishop of Thebais, who was in England on a begging mission on behalf of Samuel, patriarch of Alexandria. The circumstances of this mission are described in a fragmentary manuscript preserved in the Jolly Kist at the Edinburgh episcopal theological college. According to this account Samuel was elected patriarch by the clergy of Grand Cairo, Alexandria and Damiata in 1710. The new patriarch resolved to travel to Constantinople, Moldavia and Wallachia to procure some charitable assistance for the support of his church and was about to embark at Alexandria when he was informed by letters from Constantinople that one Cosmo, formerly archbishop of Mount Sinai had by bribery been invested in the patriarchal throne by the grand visier and would shortly be arriving with commands to the Greek nation to acknowledge him.

This news obliged the patriarch to return to Grand Cairo to consult with his clergy. They strenuously opposed all thoughts of submitting to the intruder and told Samuel that he ought to stand his ground and make the bashaw a sufficient offer to secure his possession against the pretences of his adversary. Cosmo arrived soon afterwards but Samuel had by this time secured the support of the bashaw and the intruder’s designs were defeated. All this was accomplished only at very great expense which had involved the patriarch in borrowing thirty thousand dollars upon high interest from what are described as infidels and foreigners. He was also obliged to sell much of the church plate and to pawn other utensils for the loan and credit of this money. It was therefore decided to send a deputation to several parts of Christendom ‘in order to procure the charity and beg the benevolence of princes and other persons disposed to assist the afflicted’. The persons appointed for this errand were Arsenius, metropolitan of Thebais and Gennadius, archimandrite of Alexandria who set sail for England with the recommendations of their patriarch and the English consuls at Grand Cairo and Tripoli. Along with their attendants they arrived in London in 1712.

In September 1725 archbishop Wake of Canterbury wrote to patriarch Chrysanthos of Jerusalem, warning him that the non-jurors were in schism from the official and established church of England; and so the remarkable correspondence between the non-juring bishops and the patriarchs of the east was suspended without ever coming to any decisive conclusion. Wake’s letter marks in many ways the end of an era. During the previous hundred years, from the reign of king James I onwards, there had been a series of surprisingly positive contacts between England and the Orthodox world. Archbishop Abbot, for example, exchanged letters with Cyril Lukaris (1572–1638), patriarch first of Alexandria and then of Constantinople; and as a result of this Cyril not only sent the Codex Alexandrinus as a gift to king Charles I in 1628, but also despatched his most promising disciple, Mitrophanis Kritopoulos (1589–1639), future patriarch of Alexandria, to study for five years at Balliol College, Oxford (1617–22). Later in the century Orthodoxy was made known in England through a series of books, such as Thomas Smith’s An Account of the Greek Church, published in Latin in 1676 and in English four years later, and Paul Rycaut’s The Present State of the Greek and Armenian Churches, published in 1679. To these should be added John Covel’s magnum opus entitled Some Account of the Present Greek Church, which did not appear until 1722, but which reflects experience gained in the Levant some fifty years before. During 1699-1705 there was even a short-lived Greek College at Gloucester Hall, Oxford. Last but not least, in 1716–25 came the negotiations between the non-jurors and the Orthodox, to which reference has been already made.

Writing in the 1820s, during the Greek war of independence, of his tour of the Peloponnese Sir William Gell noted that there was ‘a saying common among the Greeks, that the country labours under three curses, the priests, the cogia bashis, and the Turks; always placing the plagues in this order’. This kind of sentiment is a commonplace of the sources, both Greek and non-Greek, relating to pre-independence Greece and it is clear that anti-clericalism was deeply rooted, and not only among the intelligentsia, but among virtually all classes of Greek society. The prevalence, and indeed, the virulence of anti-clerical attitudes in Greece during the pre-independence period must call into question the view still advanced by authorities on this period that the church played a central role in the forging of the Greek national movement. Sir Steven Runciman, for instance, has written that ‘Hellenism survived, nurtured by the Church, because the Greeks unceasingly hoped and planned for the day when they would recover their freedom’, while Douglas Dakin has written that ‘so closely knit was the national existence of the Greeks with their Church that in their liberation movement there was no hostility to the Greek patriarchate comparable to that which the Italians displayed towards the Papacy’.2 Views of this kind also constitute the common currency of Greek historiography. D. A. Zakythinos, for instance, has written that ‘it is universally admitted that die Church saved the Greek Nation during the dark years of slavery’. But he goes on to say that earlier and more recent historians, the ‘healthy minded’ among them, as well as those having ‘certain special political tendencies’, do not subscribe to such a view in toto. He quotes the founding father of modern Greek historiography, Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos, to the effect that ‘the ancestral religion did not cease to constitute one of the principal moral mainsprings of Hellenism, but it did not itself alone constitute Hellenism’.