A task facing an instructor in Church History is demonstrating how theology and history can complement one another. Although a course in Church History, whether early, medieval, or modern, must necessarily consider a large amount of theology, the instructor needs to avoid turning the course into a History of Theology, which for some students can become a bewildering abstract canvas of –ologies and –isms. So, when lecturing, for instance, on the first four Councils of the Church, the instructor has to find ways to present the theological debates about Christology within the historical context of the Constantinian and Theodosian regimes.

To take one example, when teaching seminarians a course on Church History, it does the students a disservice if they leave their history classroom thinking that theological ideas float through time, transcending the grit and sweat of everyday life. On the contrary, students respond well to presentations of the uncompromising, pugnacious personality of Athanasius and the plausible (yet erroneous) case to be made for the urbane Arius’ subordinationism. Much the same can be said for the vigorous confrontation at the Council of Ephesus between Cyril of Alexandria and Nestorius, or the decisive intervention at the Council of Chalcedon of a letter, called his Tome, from Leo the Great. The seminarians know in their bones that history is made by significant individuals, not by vast impersonal forces.

To present the seminarians with some sense of the challenge facing the bishops at the First Council of Nicaea, it proves useful to tell the students to bring a Bible to class and then to hand out index cards with citations of chapters and verses form Scripture. At random the instructor asks the students to read aloud the Scripture passage cited on their card. “I and the Father are one, John 10:30,” reads one; “The Father is greater than I, John 14:28,” reads another. “Who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, Philippians 2:6,” reads a third, and then a fourth reads the same passage.

That last cited biblical text emerges as a perfect example of the problem at hand: a current English translation renders it, “Though he was in the form of God, he did not deem equality with God something to be grasped at.” Some students miss the nuance that turns that version into a slogan for subordinationism. If one must grasp at something, one does not yet possess it. However, if one grasps something, then one already has it. The Greek verb here is rare and tough to interpret, whether in the twenty-first century or in the fourth.

Suddenly it comes home to the seminarians that Scripture alone cannot solve the problem. Then ask a student, “You are a bishop at the Council, and you need to decide who is right, Arius or Athanasius. Down the corridor the Emperor Constantine awaits your word. What do you say?” Invariably, the answer is, “I’m not sure.” Enter terminology borrowed from Greek philosophy, and for the students the unfolding of the story takes on new life.

Another example of how it is possible to integrate historical material with the seminarians’ formation occurs with the Roman Canon. As lay faithful in the pews the students most likely have heard the Roman Canon during Mass as a priest read aloud the names of those early martyrs. As aspirants to the priesthood, the seminarians hope someday to be standing at the altar and reading those names as well. It is worth taking time to walk them through the list and explain who those people were and why the Church commemorates them in the First Eucharistic Prayer.

A lecture on the Roman Canon can be part of a series of classes on the early martyrs. For a lecture on the martyrs named in the Roman Canon, it is helpful to write the names on the board or project them by Power Point. As one talks about each martyr, it is constructive to make the seminarians aware that whereas the historical accuracy and authenticity of the accounts of the various martyrs may be disputed or even dismissed by modern scholars, it is the legends that have been influential throughout Christian history. Christian patrons of art have always commissioned a fresco or a statue based on the colorful legend, not the drab historical surmise.

Here it would be tedious to review all two dozen martyrs in the Roman Canon, from Linus to Anastasia, so a few examples will suffice. A sketch of the lives of Cornelius and Cyprian leads to mention of Novatian, a rigorist Roman priest. Those martyred bishops disagreed with Novatian’s insistence that Christians who lapsed during a persecution could never be reconciled to full communion. As it happened, Novatian himself fell victim to Roman persecution, and it bears underscoring for the students that just as not all saints are martyrs, not all martyrs become saints.

Mention of Cosmas and Damian, according to legend twin brothers as well as medical doctors, sheds light on the role in the early Church of professional laymen. Likewise, the compelling story of Perpetua and Felicity gives insight into the faith of married women, one a slave, who were also catechumens. Furthermore, the hagiographical tradition that Chrysogonus was a teacher and that Anastasia was his student points out that the Roman Canon’s roll call of martyrs encompasses a wide range of people.

Then there is the matter of the patronages of these saints. Students at once recognize the implications for today that Lucy intercedes for people threatened with blindness, and that Agatha is an intercessor for women afflicted with breast cancer. Here religious art can help underscore the point; for example, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo’s vivid depiction from the eighteenth century of Agatha’s martyrdom.

By the end of the lecture, seminarians usually realize the everyday importance of these hitherto foreign and seemingly random names. The students see, some with obvious “Aha!” moments of epiphany, that these archaic names represent martyrs from all walks of life and all ranks of society. There are bishops and priests, catechumens and deacons, intellectuals and slaves. These martyrs dot the map of the Roman world, from Syria to North Africa, Sicily to Rome itself. So, by the time of Diocletian, around 300, that Roman world was becoming also, “in spite of dungeon, fire, and sword,” a Christian world.