Sophie Cartwright - The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch (Oxford Early Christian Studies)

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The Theological Anthropology of

Eustathius of Antioch
SOPHIE CARTWRIGHT
1
3
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Preface
This monograph grew out of my doctoral thesis of the same title, completed at
the University of Edinburgh under the supervision of Sara Parvis.
The theology, politics, and philosophy of early fourth-century Christianity
are marked by great upheaval. As the Constantinian revolution transformed
the way that the church understood the world and itself, a matrix of issues
around the doctrine of God—Christology, cosmology, and soteriology—
exploded in the ‘Arian’ controversy. I first explored the ‘Arian’ controversy
by focusing on Marcellus of Ancyra. I became interested in how anthropology
stood at the heart of ‘Arian’ controversy, and was persuaded that Irenaeus was
important to how anthropology was negotiated within it. Origen’s legacy, of
course, pervades the controversy. So, I sought to understand how these two
traditions were interacting in this context.
Eustathius of Antioch appears as a possible key to many questions—about
the relationship between Christology and anthropology, for example. With the
publication of Declerck’s new edition of his work came a remarkable oppor-
tunity to explore the ‘Arian’ controversy, placed in the context of Constanti-
nian politics, from a fresh angle. I offer here an exploration and analysis of
Eustathius’ thought, through the lens of his theological anthropology, set in
the context of the ‘Arian’ controversy, the Constantinian revolution, and the
philosophical commentary tradition. My hope is that it may encourage further
conversation and scholarship on a thinker both fascinating in his own right
and important in the history of Christian doctrine.
Space will not permit me to mention everyone to whom I owe a debt of
gratitude for helping me to complete this book. In particular, I would like to
thank Sara Parvis, without whose encouragement and many invaluable in-
sights it would not have been possible; Paul Parvis, whose formidable know-
ledge of Greek helped me to detangle Eustathius’ fragments; my examiners,
Lewis Ayres and Oliver O’Donovan, for their very helpful comments on the
thesis and subsequently, Kelley Spoerl, whose own work on Eustathius has
informed my own, and with whom I have had detailed discussions about
Eustathius’ Christology; Michel Barnes, Inna Kupreeva, and Michael Slusser,
all of whom have commented on aspects of this project at different stages;
Emily Cartwright; Nancy Cartwright; Maegan Gilliland; and Rachel Manners,
to whose support this project owes its completion.
Contents
Introduction 1
1. Eustathius’ Life 11
2. The Evidence, Content, and Context of Eustathius’ Writings 33
3. Body and Soul 75
4. The Image of God 141
5. Soteriology: The Tragedy and Potential of Human History 165
6. Eschatology: The Human Kingdom 213
Conclusion 239
Bibliography 245
Index 279
Introduction
In the 320s, the Christian church stood at a crossroads, with regards to both its
theology and its position within the Roman Empire. The increasingly contro-
versial legacy of Origen was rapidly becoming a battleground for contested
theological, Christological, and anthropological issues. However, a defining
aspect of Origen’s theological system—the eternity, in some sense or other,
of the intelligible world—was rejected by everyone partaking in these discus-
sions, raising the question on which the ‘Arian’ controversy turned: was the
Son eternal, or did he have a beginning?1
At the same time the church, having experienced particularly bad persecu-
tion recently, found itself in unprecedented favour with the Roman State. This
not only raised questions of self-understanding and political and ecclesial
theology; it also shaped the context in which the discussion of Origen’s legacy
would be carried out—in ways that would be difficult to predict.
Eustathius is vital to understanding how these problems were negotiated.
In the 320s, he was Bishop of Beroea and then Antioch, one of the largest
and most influential cities in the eastern part of the Empire.2 As a self-
declared anti-Origenist, who nonetheless shared Origen’s unusual belief in
Christ’s human soul, he is important to the history of Origenism in the
fourth century. Despite this, until very recently, he has eluded in-depth
analysis.
That there is remarkably little scholarship on Eustathius is explained partly
by the fact that the sources have been understood to be extremely sparse.
Other than one anti-Origenist treatise, Engastrimytho Contra Origenem [En-
gastrimytho], there were only a handful of fragments preserved by later
writers. However, this has changed with the discovery that Eustathius is the
author of Contra Ariomanitas et de anima [Ariomanitas], previously ascribed
1
See Rebecca Lyman, Christology and Cosmology: Models of Divine Mediation in Origen,
Eusebius, and Athanasius (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), pp. 15–17.
2
For the dates of his accession to both sees, see ‘Life before Antioch’ and ‘Accession to
Antioch’ in Chapter 1.
2 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

to Gregory of Nyssa.3 Though this is preserved as an epitome, the epitomizer is
trying to convey Eustathius’ own arguments, and aims at completeness. This
gives us invaluable new insight into Eustathius’ thought.
Eustathius is known primarily for a highly unified conception of the
Father–Son relationship, and a highly divisive, proto-Nestorian Christology,
often called ‘Antiochene’. Older Germanic scholarship, which was partly
responsible for this depiction of Eustathius, coupled it with the theology of
Irenaeus and an ‘Asia Minor’ (kleinasiatisch or vorderasiatisch) tradition, to
which he was central. This tradition, which was championed first by Theodor
Zahn, ostensibly focused on the historical Christ and took an economic
approach to the Trinity, in contrast to the philosophizing approach of the
‘Alexandrian’ school. Ignatius of Antioch, Irenaeus, and Marcellus of Ancyra
were key figures in Zahn’s reconstruction.4 Friedrich Loofs reworked Zahn’s
thesis, focusing the tradition more specifically on Antioch. He ultimately
concluded that the tradition was better labelled ‘Antiochene’, and added
Eustathius.5 Eustathius, then, has long been associated both with the Christo-
logically divisive theology of Antioch and with a flesh-affirming theological
tradition indebted to Irenaeus, which, in older scholarship, was thought to be
closely related to it, and thus to ‘Antiochene’ theology as it later appeared in
Nestorius.
More recent scholars have often rejected the idea of an ‘Asia Minor’
tradition. However, some more recent work, focusing, in particular, on Mar-
cellus and Eustathius, has sought to revive the idea, in various guises.6 It must
be noted that Irenaeus’ extant writings were produced in the West, and were
probably marked by his time in Rome.7 However, I believe that there is good
evidence for the existence of a flesh-affirming theological tradition, especially
influenced by the theology of Irenaeus and persisting into the fourth century,
3
See José Declerck, ed., Eustathii Antiocheni, patris Nicaeni, opera quae supersunt Omnia
(Turnhout: Brepols, 2002) and ‘Contra Ariomanitas et de anima’ in Chapter 2.
4
Theodor Zahn, Marcellus von Ancyra: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Theologie (Gotha:
F. A. Perthes, 1867).
5
Loofs first addressed the idea of the ‘Asia Minor’ tradition in ‘Die Trinitätslehre Marcell’s
von Ancyra und ihr Verhältnis zur älteren Tradition’ in Patristica, edited by Hans Brennecke
and Jörg Ulrich (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1999), pp. 123–42 (originally published 1902). His
fullest treatment of Eustathius appears with his Paulus von Samosata. Eine Untersuchung zur
altkirchlichen Literatur—und Dogmengeschichte (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1924). Eventually, as he
drafted Eustathius into the tradition, Loofs decided that Marcellus, after all, echoed Origen as
much as he did the Antiochene tradition.
6
Sara Parvis, Marcellus of Ancyra and the Lost Years of the Arian Controversy, 325–45
(Oxford: OUP, 2006), pp. 57–60; Patricio de Navascués, ‘ “Cuerpo” en la tradición antioqena’,
Augustinianum, 51, no. 1 (2011), 21–45; Sophie Cartwright, ‘The Image of God in Irenaeus,
Marcellus of Ancyra and Eustathius of Antioch’ in Irenaeus: Life, Scripture, Legacy, edited by
Paul Foster and Sara Parvis (Augsburg: Fortress Press, 2012), pp. 173–81.
7
For Irenaeus’ time in Rome, see Eric Osborn, Irenaeus of Lyons (Cambridge: CUP, 2001),
pp. 3–5.
Introduction 3
strong in Asia Minor. Its influence can be seen especially in the thought of
Methodius of Olympus, Marcellus, and Eustathius.
‘Asia Minor’ theology, like the sometimes related ‘Antiochene’ school, was
held in contradistinction to Origenism in scholarship of the late nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries.8 Eustathius has, correspondingly, been under-
stood as staunchly opposed to Origen and his legacy. In an article published in
1923, Friedrich Zoepfl suggested that the picture might be a bit more compli-
cated than this—Eustathius clearly held to Irenaeus’ doctrine of recapitulation,
but his doctrine of Christ’s human soul had strong Origenist influences.9 The
connection between Eustathius and Irenaeus has been reaffirmed in recent
scholarship, but not considered in light of the more Origenist aspects of
Eustathius’ Christology.10
I will suggest that Eustathius’ theology is best understood in light of the
interplay between Origenism and the legacy of Irenaeus. This is an interplay
that was of fundamental importance to the theology of Eustathius’ hero,
Methodius of Olympus, as Lloyd Patterson has ably demonstrated.11 Some
recent scholarship has sought to question the opposition between the theology
of Irenaeus and the theology of Origen.12 There are good reasons for doing
this: Origen is heavily indebted to Irenaeus for his Adam–Christ typology,
particularly in his famous Commentaria in Epistulam ad Romanos [Commen-
taria in Romanos]. Relatedly, Origen’s doctrine of IŒÆÆØ—‘final
restoration’—has the same sense of progression-in-restoration that defines
Irenaeus’ doctrine of IÆŒ çÆºÆ
øØ—‘recapitulation’. So, the immediate
differences between these two thinkers appear to have obscured important
continuities. We should not, however, conclude that the immediate differences
are, in the end, superficial differences. Especially in De Principiis, Origen took
Irenaeus’ soteriology and placed it within a radically different cosmological
structure, in which the corporeal aspects of creation are of subsidiary and
teleological importance. He also abandoned Irenaeus’ optimism, seeing the fall
as a catastrophe. The effect was to give a completely different account of both
embodiment and human history in relation to God—that is, a completely
different account of anthropology.
8
See Loofs, Paulus.
9
Friedrich Zoepfl, ‘Die trinitarischen und christologischen Anschauungen des Bischofs
Eustathius von Antiochien’, Theologische Quartalschrift, 104 (1923), 170–201.
10
See Cartwright, ‘The Image of God’.
11
Lloyd Patterson, Methodius of Olympus: Divine Sovereignty, Human Freedom and Life in
Christ (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1997).
12
See Karl Shuve, ‘Irenaeus’s Contribution to Early Christian Interpretation of the Song of
Songs’ in Irenaeus, edited by Foster and Parvis, 81–8, pp. 86–8; Peter Widdicombe, ‘Irenaeus and
the Knowledge of God as Father’ in Irenaeus, edited by Foster and Parvis, 141–9, pp. 146–9;
Mark Edwards, Origen against Plato (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), p. 102.

Correspondingly, Eustathius also shows a keen interest in anthropology. In
Ariomanitas, he lays out an anti-Arian Christology on an anthropological
basis. The extant sources for Eustathius are both most interesting and most
informative for the rest of his theology if approached, in the first instance,
from the perspective of understanding his anthropology. As we shall see, this
in turn gives important further shape to the fourth-century theological
landscape.
We can best appreciate the importance of grappling with fourth-century
anthropology if we appreciate how the changing cosmological landscape
impacts on anthropology. For Origen, embodiment is often a problematic
arena, qualifying, rather than complementing, the soul as it intrinsically is.
Correspondingly, in Origen’s cosmology, the relationship between the soul
and the body is important to the relationship between God and creation. This
is clearest in Origen’s Christology: as the Word mediates between the Father
and the soul, the soul mediates between the Word and the flesh. The God–
creation relationship is connected to the body–soul relationship. The partial
rejection of Origen’s cosmology that gave rise to the ‘Arian’ controversy
therefore also casts pre-existing disagreements about the relationship between
the soul and the body before God in a new light.
Many ways of understanding the ‘Arian’ controversy have been proposed.
Often, they have been framed in terms of an attempt to find the lynchpin of the
controversy. This is pointedly true of the work of Robert Gregg and Denis
Groh, in which the authors argued that the ‘Arian’ view of Christ was driven
by soteriological concerns.13 Rowan Williams depicts the key issues in cosmo-
logical terms, and Sara Parvis has followed him here, though she sees the
participants in the controversy as divided firmly into two camps, while
Williams sees more ambiguity.14 Lewis Ayres has focused primarily on the
doctrine of God itself, and has identified four theological trajectories within
the early ‘Arian’ controversy: ‘theologians of the true wisdom’ who emphasize
the ‘eternal correlative status of Father and Son’; ‘The “Eusebian” theologians
of the “One Unbegotten”’; ‘Theologians of the undivided Monad’; and ‘West-
ern anti-adoptionism: a Son born without division’.15 These provide a useful
hermeneutical key that acknowledges the initially clear dividing line between
supporters and opponents of Arius whilst allowing for the complexity and
variety of theological positions within the early ‘Arian’ controversy.
In my opinion, a cosmological emphasis has much to recommend it as far as
understanding the immediate question of dispute at Nicaea is concerned, but
13
Robert Gregg and Denis Groh, Early Arianism: A View of Salvation (London: SCM, 1981).
14
Rowan Williams, Arius, Heresy and Tradition, 2nd edn (London: SCM, 2001); Parvis,
Marcellus, p. 54.
15
Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology
(Oxford: OUP, 2004), pp. 43–70.
Introduction 5
Gregg and Groh, among others, have identified important strands in the wider
theological context surrounding Nicaea, and this context should not be ig-
nored. The question of the Son’s eternity arose out of particular cosmological
suppositions, but immediately gave rise to a host of Christological, soterio-
logical, and anthropological questions.
What is evident in so many reconstructions of the ‘Arian’ controversy is
that anthropology considerably elucidates the question; soteriology is intrin-
sically anthropocentric, focusing on the gap between human possibility and its
current actualization. Cosmology often starts from the point of trying to
understand the place of human beings in the universe. Christology, the
concept of God becoming human, or taking on humanity is, again, entwined
with anthropology. I am not proposing that anthropology is the, or even a,
defining theological issue in the question of the doctrine of God as played out
at the Council of Nicaea. At least, I do not propose this in the sense that I do
not think that anthropology is ‘what the opposing parties at Nicaea were
arguing over’. However, I believe that anthropology is a thread running
through the various ways in which both pro-Arians and anti-Arians thought
about and articulated the doctrine of God; the question of the Son’s nature, as
it was framed in the early fourth century, was partly cosmological and partly
Christological. How does the Son stand in relation to the world on the one
hand and the Father on the other? Both aspects of this question raise the
further quandaries of how humankind stands in relation to God, and how
Christ affects this relation.
Eustathius’ controversial and genuinely problematic, almost Nestorian,
Christology gives a unique insight into the anthropological issues of the
early fourth century. Unlike Athanasius, Eustathius does not primarily seek
to bridge the gap between humankind and God of which early fourth-century
theologians are so especially aware. Instead, he tries to work out what the
human being looks like on the other side of this gap. In Christological terms,
this means that he must describe Christ’s human experiences in such a way
that they are not, also, divine experiences. The consequence is an anthropol-
ogy that focuses on the interrelation of body and soul. Eustathius agrees with
Irenaeus that the body is integral to human nature and strongly reacts against
what he sees as Origenist and Platonist tendencies to locate human essence in
the soul. He nonetheless utilizes Origenist Christology to develop Irenaeus’
Adam–Christ typology. The soul is key to Christ’s humanity for Eustathius
because he places a great deal of emphasis on the emotional and psychological
aspects of Christ’s embodied experiences.
In the ‘Arian’ controversy, Eustathius’ primary antagonist is Eusebius of
Caesarea, whom, I will argue, he engages in Contra Ariomanitas. Eustathius
already shared Origen’s belief in Christ’s human soul prior to the ‘Arian’
controversy. During the controversy, Eustathius deploys his Origenist Christ-
ology in opposition to an anthropology that he attributes to Plato, that he

associates, in different ways, with Eusebius and Origen, and that underlies a
pro-Arian Christology in which the Word of God was united simply with a
human body.
Another respect in which Origen departs from Irenaeus is in seeing human
history as fundamentally a result of tragedy. Here he has kept many of the
structures that enable Irenaeus to speak positively about history in the face of
tragedy—history is an aid to improvement, and will result in a glorious
progression beyond the original created state—but holds this together with a
sense of catastrophe. For Origen, this idea is bound up with his speculations
about the fall of souls and related theology of embodiment, but it was in fact to
have a much more widespread legacy. Rejecting Origen’s theology of embodi-
ment but accepting his belief that the fall was catastrophic requires a renego-
tiation of our understanding of the relationship between history and
eschatology. In Origen, eschatology is often depicted as the negation of
history. Eustathius, along with most of his contemporaries, shares Origen’s
sense that history began with a tragedy. However, because he rejects Origen’s
cosmology—and especially the place of embodiment in that cosmology—he
both has a stronger sense that history itself is tragic, and feels that this is a
tragedy to be redeemed, rather than negated.16 The Constantinian Revolution
had thrown these questions into a new light by apparently opening up new
possibilities for human society within the current world order. However, for
Eustathius, Constantine’s involvement in the church ended up proving less of
a blessing than expected when the emperor intervened in the ‘Arian’ contro-
versy, derailing the anti-Arian attempt to exclude the pro-Arian sympathizers.
As he considers a future existence that will do justice both to his picture of
embodiment and to his picture of restoration of human freedom and power,
Eustathius depicts the kingship of Christ in such a way as to raise a question
over the authority of the emperor.
A word needs to be said about the manner of categorizing various theo-
logical and ecclesial groups in the ‘Arian’ controversy. The term ‘Arian’ has
been widely criticized as a descriptor of subordinationist theology within the
fourth-century disputes about the doctrine of God, often because it seems to
exaggerate the significance of both the person and the theology of Arius within
these disputes.17 These criticisms have much to recommend them and I have
here opted instead for the term ‘pro-Arian’. It could be argued that this fails to
address the problem of the undue centralization of Arius himself, and this
might indeed be the case if some of Eustathius’ anti-subordinationist writings
16
Origen tends to suggest that history helps to undo the primeval tragedy, and is then itself
discarded, so it is better to speak of history resulting from tragedy than being tragic in Origen’s
thought. See ‘Suffering and the Tragedy of History’ in Chapter 5.
17
For example, this view is expressed by Richard Hanson who dubs the term ‘the Arian
controversy’ ‘a serious misnomer’ in The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God (Edinburgh:
T and T Clark, 1988), pp. xvii–xviii, quote p. xvii.
Introduction 7
hailed from the later fourth century. However, (as I will argue) all of Eu-
stathius’ anti-subordinationist polemic can be dated to the 320s and was
almost certainly written between 323 and the end of 327. In this context,
Arius is neither the main protagonist nor, in real terms, the main issue.
However, the participants at Nicaea itself and in the discourse immediately
surrounding it can meaningfully be placed in two camps: ‘for’ and ‘against’
Arius. One’s position on Arius is, for this brief period, a focus of group unity.
The subordinationist theologians justifiably identified by Ayres as ‘Eusebian’
are, at this point, also specifically pro-Arian. ‘Pro-Arian’ is as meaningful a
term as we are likely to find for subordinationist theology immediately
surrounding Nicaea. ‘Anti-Arian’ expresses, similarly, the position of Alexan-
der and his allies around the time of Nicaea. Neither term should be taken to
designate theological homogeneity within these groups.
I use the term ‘Origenist’ to refer to readings and echoes of Origen in later
thinkers, despite its connotations of heresiological categories constructed in
the later fourth-century controversy.18 This is determined by my focus on
Origen’s legacy and no value-judgement is intended; it has proved otherwise
impossible to convey how ideas justifiably and unjustifiably attributed to
Origen contributed to one discussion and could be bound together in new
or reworked systems and doctrines.
Chapter 1 sets Eustathius in historical context, focusing especially on his
time at Antioch, and the controversial events surrounding his accession to and
deposition from the See of Antioch, and bringing together the many scholarly
discussions on this subject. Drawing on recent scholarship, it demonstrates
that he was dissatisfied with Constantine’s involvement at Nicaea and suggests
that he may well have been deposed as a consequence of a conspiracy by the
pro-Arian faction.
Chapter 2 reviews the sources for Eustathius, including those that have
emerged from Declerck’s recent work, and sets Eustathius’ writings in context.
It examines the evidence, nature, and context of his writings, in light of
Declerck’s work.
Chapter 3 examines the relationship between the body and the soul in
Eustathius. There we see that he promotes an anthropology heavily indebted
to Irenaeus, in opposition to what he perceives as the Origenist and Platonist
anthropology of Eusebius of Caesarea, and on the basis of an Origenist
Christology. Eustathius gives an account of human identity and experience
that is psychophysical, in a strict sense, whilst giving an account of the soul’s
existence apart from the body that owes much to Origen. Held together, this
suggests a body–soul dualism in which the soul actualizes the body. Such a
view resembles certain strands of eclectic Platonism, but underlying
18
See Elizabeth Clark, The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural Construction of an Early
Christian Debate (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992).

Eustathius’ particular emphasis on the interrelation of body and soul are also
some Peripatetic sources. Eustathius’ psychophysical account of the body–soul
relationship also falls within a specifically Christian tradition of deploying
Aristotelian strands within Hellenic discourse to find a positive space for
embodiment. This tradition can be found frequently in Irenaeus and Metho-
dius and occasionally in Origen. Eustathius emphasizes the passibility of the
soul, explaining human emotional experience in terms of his integrated
anthropological ontology, and depicting sorrow as a proper aspect of human
experience.
Chapter 4 examines the image of God in Eustathius’ thought, and identifies
three main strands. First, echoing Origen, Eustathius clearly distinguishes
between humanity, including Christ’s humanity, qua image and the eternal
Son qua image, maintaining a sharp disjunction between God and humanity
within the cosmological framework of the ‘Arian’ controversy. Second, Eu-
stathius’ image theology has an important soteriological dimension that
invokes a parallel between Adam and Christ, and sees eschatological humanity
as conformed to Christ—this is indebted to Irenaeus and Origen, in different
ways. Third, in locating the image of God at least partly in the human body,
Eustathius emphasizes the physical nature of human beings. There is also a
suggestion that the image is visible, but incomplete, without the soul, echoing
the idea that the soul actualizes the body, identified in the previous chapter.
Chapter 5 examines Eustathius’ soteriology, partly drawing on the discus-
sion about Adam–Christ typology in Chapter 4. Eustathius retells a common
soteriological narrative that centralizes the devil’s power over humankind and
Christ’s defeat of him, again drawing heavily on both Irenaeus and Origen. In
Eustathius’ retelling of this narrative, there is a particularly strong tension
between human guilt and human victimhood that has important implications
for the nature of human freedom and power. This chapter explores the way
that Eustathius’ account of the devil’s power, and the freedom that Christ
brings in overthrowing the devil, operate on both a micro-level—in the
individual—and a macro-level—in the human race. Eustathius’ emphasis
on Christ’s humanity allows his Christology to operate as a model of how
God fulfils human agency.
Chapter 6 examines Eustathius’ eschatology, drawing together various
strands from previous chapters. It demonstrates that Eustathius believed
that Christ would reign in a world order that is in important respects com-
mensurable to the current one, over a kingdom that is vastly superior. This
locates ultimate human identity in current identity and emphasizes the im-
portance of the current life. It also acts as a challenge and a foil to the current
life, and reveals present manifestations of human society and government to
be deficient. This chapter further posits that, in his anti-Arian writings,
Eustathius depicted Christ’s authority as human authority, and as incommen-
surable to any human authority in the lapsed world order. It suggests that this
Introduction 9
may be intended to place a question mark over the nature of Constantine’s
authority.
Eustathius of Antioch’s theological anthropology draws on eclectic sources
in seeking to offer a vision of humankind in history that does justice to the
tragedy of history whilst rooting human nature and identity in its current,
historical, manifestation. In doing so, it provides a window into the tumultu-
ous theological, philosophical, and political environment of the early fourth-
century Roman Empire and gives new shape to the theological context of the
‘Arian’ controversy.
Eustathius’ Life
LIFE BEFORE ANTIOCH
Eustathius’ life prior to the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy is shrouded in

mystery. A handful of facts can be pieced together from various ancient
sources, chief among which are the writings of Athanasius, Jerome, and
Theodoret of Cyrus.1 Eustathius was from Side, a harbour town in Pamphylia,
and his parents’ religious affiliation is unknown.2 He was evidently highly
educated; he shows the signs of a classical education, including rhetorical
training and significant familiarity with Greek philosophy and medicine.3
The church’s status within the Roman Empire underwent huge fluctu-
ations during Eustathius’ lifetime. Following the legalization of Christianity
in the third quarter of the third century, the opening decades of the fourth
century saw peculiarly bad persecution of the church, particularly in the
East, under Galerius, Maximinus, and Diocletian.4 The church of Eustathius’
youth had enjoyed a new freedom, but had probably remained wary of
the state. Then, at the beginning of the fourth century, the fragile truce
between the church and the empire had come crashing down. However,
following the persecution under Diocletian and his successors, the
church under Constantine enjoyed not only regained freedom, but also,
1
See Athanasius, Hist. Ar., 4 and Apologia de fuga sua [Apologia], 3; Jerome, De Viris
Illustribus, [De Viris]. Theodoret, who preserves many fragments from Eustathius, often refers
to him in his Eranistes and includes a section on him in his H.E., 1.22.
2
Jerome, De Viris, 85.
3
Margaret Mitchell, ‘Rhetorical Handbooks in Service of Biblical Exegesis: Eustathius of
Antioch Takes Origen Back to School’ in The New Testament and Early Christian Literature in
Greco–Roman Context, edited by John Fotopoulos (Brill: Leiden, 2006), pp. 349–67 has demon-
strated Eustathius’ Greek education.
4
Timothy Barnes and David Potter both argue, persuasively, that Christianity was legalized
by the emperor Gallienus in 260: Barnes, Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), p. 97 and Potter, The Roman Empire at Bay AD 180–395
(London: Routledge, 2004), pp. 85–172 and pp. 217–62. See Stephen Mitchell, A History of the
Later Roman Empire, AD 284–261: The Transformation of the Ancient World (Oxford: Blackwell
Publishing, 2007) for a recent alternative perspective.

increasingly, unprecedented favour. This was a church torn between giddy
excitement and considerable trepidation, but also, quite simply, unsure of
how to handle its new role and influence.
Eustathius himself was probably a confessor under either Diocletian or his
successors, or, at any rate, was at some point arrested—Athanasius and
Theodoret both label him a ‘confessor’.5 Admittedly, Theodoret’s source
may have been Athanasius; when introducing fragments from Eustathius, he
writes that they are ›ºªÅF, but he never discusses the status he accords to
Eustathius, so there is little from which to address his sources. Jerome never
writes that Eustathius is a confessor, which seems an odd omission given that
he writes relatively extensively, and always positively, of Eustathius. However,
Athanasius’ testimony is in this case relatively reliable, despite his wanting to
present Eustathius positively. Well into the fourth century, the Christian
community remained keenly conscious of the persecutions, and less than
exemplary behaviour during the persecutions was often dredged up to dis-
credit one’s opponents.6 Even in a work as late as Historia Arianorum, it
would be a high-risk strategy to refer to Eustathius as a confessor if there were
no truth in it. In any case, as we shall see, the concept of persecution was
important to Eustathius.
In either 321 or 322, Alexander of Alexandria wrote He Philarchos, a letter
about Arius sent to a number of prominent bishops.7 Eustathius received this
5
Athanasius, Hist. Ar., 4 and Apologia, 3, and Theodoret, e.g. Eranistes, 1.33, respectively.
6
For example, in De Decretis Nicaeanae Synodi in Athanasius Werke II.2, edited by Hans-
Georg Opitz (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1935) [De Decretis], 8, Athanasius rather cruelly refers
to ‘Asterius the sacrificer’, because Asterius sacrificed to the pagan gods during the
persecution.
7
There has been much disagreement about the date of He Philarchos, which is closely
connected to the debate about exactly when the ‘Arian’ controversy broke out, and a corres-
ponding disagreement about its nature. Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 68–75, provides the most recent
summary of the historiography of the outbreak, and the relevant evidence: Hans-Georg Opitz
claimed that the argument began in 318, and started suddenly but developed slowly [‘Die
Zeitfolge des arianischen Streits von den Anfängen bis zum Jahre 328’, ZNW, 33 (1934),
131–59]. Schwartz subsequently argued that the outbreak, which took some building up to,
did not take place until 324 and that the disagreement then progressed very quickly [‘Die
Dokumente des arianischen Streites bis 325’, pp. 296–9, reprinted in GS, III, pp. 165–8].
Schwartz’s argument relies on his belief that Constantine defeated Licinius in 323; he thought
that the entire controversy must have occurred after Licinius’ ban on the meeting of synods had
been lifted. In placing Licinius’ defeat in 323, he allowed the maximum time for the necessary
events predating Nicaea to have occurred within these parameters. Later, Schwartz decided that
Licinius must have been defeated in 324, after all [‘Von Nicaea bis zu Konstantins Tod’, p. 370
reprinted in GS, III, p. 191, note 1]. The year 323, in any case, does not allow enough time for all
the relevant letters to be circulated, as Parvis has argued. Rowan Williams has posited 321 [Arius,
pp. 48–61]. Parvis, whilst acknowledging that Williams’ suggestion is reasonable, argues for 322,
following Schwartz’s assumption that one must allot the shortest time possible to the events
between the outbreak of the controversy and the Council of Nicaea. She then argues that He
Philarchos and Alexander’s other letter to all bishops, Henos Somatos, were written and dis-
patched simultaneously, and were versions of the same letter (one need not, in that case, allow
time for both of them). It seems to me that Schwartz, Williams, and Parvis are right to suppose
Eustathius’ Life 13
letter whilst Bishop of Beroea, so his accession to Beroea must predate
321–2.8 His career was apparently soaring when he was bishop there. Joseph
Trigg has described him as a ‘rising star’ in the decade after the end of the
‘Great Persecution’, and the little available evidence commends this picture.9
Eustathius received He Philarchos despite Alexander’s very different theo-
logical leanings, and Alexander also requested that he write to him on the
subject of Melchizedek. We shall see that this had a lot to do with the fact
that Alexander was forming an alliance to deal with Arius and his sup-
porters; Eustathius was a natural ally in this context, and clearly a man he
wanted onside.
Eustathius’ theological context prior to the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ contro-
versy bears the marks of Asia Minor and Antioch, and declared anti-Origenism
(though, as we shall see, this does not involve a straightforward rejection
of Origen’s theology). Eustathius was evidently a great admirer of the some-
time critic of Origen, Methodius of Olympus, to whom he refers in glowing
terms in Engastrimytho.10 This indicates a pre-existing disagreement with
Eusebius of Caesarea, who wrote warmly of Origen, omitted any mention of
Methodius from his Historia Ecclesiastica, and was to be one of Eustathius’
particular antagonists during the ‘Arian’ controversy.11
A prior connection with key members of what was to become the anti-
Arian alliance at Nicaea is also evident. Eustathius was clearly on good
terms, and in anti-Origenist cahoots, with Eutropius of Adrianople, at
whose request he wrote Engastrimytho. Eutropius had complained that he
found Origen’s interpretation of the witch of Endor narrative inadequate.12
Athanasius writes that Eutropius was deposed because he disagreed with
Eusebius of Nicomedia.13 Furthermore, in his attachment to theologians
from Asia Minor, Eustathius apparently follows earlier bishops of Antioch.
For example, Vitalis, Philogonius’ predecessor at Antioch, attended the
Council of Ancyra in 314, and was the only bishop outside of Asia Minor
to do so.14
that things must have moved fairly quickly, at least once He Philarchos was written, and that,
therefore, it must have been written in either 321 or 322, though there is evidence that the anti-
and pro-Arian alliances have a prehistory within which certain theological disagreements had
begun to fester earlier.
8
Theodoret, H.E., 1.3.
9
Joseph Trigg, ‘Eustathius of Antioch’s Attack on Origen: What is at Issue In an Ancient
Controversy?’, The Journal of Religion, 75, no. 2 (1995), 219–38, p. 220, <http://www.jstor.org/
stable/1205319>.
10
Engastrimytho, 22.5.
11
See ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works: Engastrimytho’ in Chapter 2.
12
See Engastrimytho, 1:1–2.
13 14
Athanasius, Hist. Ar., 5. Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 13–14.
ACCESSION TO ANTIOC H
It has become conventional to date Eustathius’ accession to the See of

Antioch to the Council of Antioch in 324/5.15 However, Paul Parvis has
recently questioned this thesis, arguing that Eustathius was one of two rival
bishops of Antioch from the death of Philogonius in 323.16 Parvis’ claim is
persuasive.
Paul Parvis’ argument is closely connected to a wider uncertainty surround-
ing the episcopal succession in Antioch. The chronology of the bishops of
Antioch in the 320s has long been confused, principally because the ancient
sources disagree as to whether Paulinus of Tyre was Eustathius’ predecessor
or his successor:17 Jerome, Theophanes, and Nicetas name Paulinus as Eu-
stathius’ predecessor.18 However, Philostorgius writes that Paulinus was the
predecessor of Eulalius, who was bishop after Eustathius, thereby suggesting
that Paulinus succeeded Eustathius.19 Theodoret and Eusebius also order the
bishops of Antioch Eustathius–Paulinus–Eulalius.20
It is known that Philogonius Antioch—the predecessor of either Eustathius
or Paulinus—died on 20 December, because this is his feast day. Much
scholarship has assumed that this was December 324. However, Burgess places
Philogonius’ death on 20 December 323, a year earlier than the conventional
date.21 Consequently, whilst most scholars see Philogonius as Eustathius’
immediate predecessor, Burgess argues that Paulinus was bishop in between
Philogonius and Eustathius. He has argued this partly because he believes that
there would not have been time for Paulinus’ episcopate if he had succeeded
15
See Williams, Arius, p. 58. For the conciliar letter, see Schwartz, ‘Zur Geschichte des
Athanasius, VI: Die Dokumente des arianischen Streites bis 325’, Nachrichten von der Königli-
chen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen (1905), 257–99 reprinted in GS, III,
pp. 117–68. All the extant documents for the Council of Antioch are listed at CPG, 8509–10.
16
Paul Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter to Arius and Alexander?’, SP, 39 (2006), 89–95.
17
Richard Burgess, Studies in Eusebian and post-Eusebian Chronography (Stuttgart: Franz
Steiner Verlag, 1999), pp. 184–91, discusses the evidence in detail and I draw here on his analysis.
18
Jerome, Chronicon [Eusebius of Caesarea–Jerome, Chronicon, edited by Rudolph Helm
(Berlin: Akademie–Verlag, 1956)], p. 232, entry c; Theophanes, Chronographia, edited by Carl de
Boor, vol. 1 (Hildesheim: Olms, 1963), 11.30, 13.27, 15.17; Nicetas, Thesaurus Orthodoxae Fidei,
5.6. A few of the sources placing Paulinus directly before Eustathius are somewhat confused
about Paulinus’ name because of transcriptional error. For example, Chronicle 724 refers to
‘Flavianus’, but this clearly leads us back to Paulinus when one considers the similarity of the
names ‘Paulinus’ and ‘Flavianius’ in Syriac.
19
Philostorgius, H.E., 2.7b, 3.15, and 15b. Jacob of Edessa also says that Paulinus succeeded
Eustathius, but sees him as a rival ‘orthodox’ bishop to the pro-Arian Eulalius. Burgess, Studies,
pp. 184–91, convincingly argues that Jacob has confused Paulinus I with Paulinus II, who was
Bishop of Antioch from 362 to 380 and whose title, according to Socrates (H.E., 5.5.4.), was
contested by Meletius.
20
Eusebius, Contra Marcellum, 1.4.2; Theodoret, H.E., 1.22.
21
Burgess, Studies, pp. 186–7. Robert Sellers, Eustathius of Antioch and his Place in the Early
History of Christian Doctrine (Cambridge: CUP, 1928), pp. 21–2, had earlier suggested this
reconstruction.
Eustathius. I believe that Burgess is right to date Philogonius’ death to 323,
rather than 324, but that his proposed chronology of the bishops of Antioch is,
nonetheless, incorrect. Paul Parvis has offered a more persuasive alternative in
arguing that Eustathius and Paulinus were simultaneous, rival bishops.
Parvis’ argument is based on Constantine’s so-called letter to Arius and
Alexander, in which the emperor appeals for reconciliation in the church.
Parvis thinks that this letter suggests that there were two rival bishops of
Antioch at the time of writing, and that this remained the case;22 this is why
Constantine cancelled his tour of the East, and later sent his mother instead.
So, in Parvis’ view, Eustathius was a bishop of Antioch from the death of
Philogonius in 323, and the (strongly anti-Arian) Council of Antioch asserted
his legitimacy over that of Paulinus. Paulinus was later recognized as Bishop of
Antioch by the emperor, in Eustathius’ place, after Eustathius’ deposition.
Parvis’ argument has three main strands. First, he follows Stuart Hall
in arguing that Constantine’s letter was written to the Antiochene Synod of
324/5, not to Arius and Alexander personally.23 To this end, he notes that
Eusebius says that Constantine KØŁÅØ the letter to Alexander and Arius,
and that Eusebius only uses this term when he is introducing excerpts in the
Vita Constantini, and that here it means that Constantine ‘presented’ the letter
in question.24 Eusebius does not say, therefore, that the letter was ‘written’ to
Alexander and Arius.
Second, Parvis argues that the text of Constantine’s letter refers to a
disputed succession.
, he claims, should be read as ‘corporate body’
when singular.25 He further suggests that Constantine’s lament that ‘the
honour of the synod be removed by impious dissension’ should be rendered
as continuing ‘from the congregations’, i.e., ø
, rather than either
Ø’H
—‘through you’, after Hans-Georg Opitz—or Ø’H
—‘through us’,
after Ivar Heikel and Friedrich Winkelmann.26 Third, he argues that Con-
stantine’s admonition to his readers to ‘open to me the road to the east’
22
Loofs, Paulus, pp. 186–7, had earlier suggested that the confusion over episcopal succession
at Antioch lay in the existence of simultaneous, rival bishops, arguing that there had been a long-
standing schism at Antioch since the time of Paul of Samosata. He suggested that Paulinus was a
‘Paulianische’ bishop of Antioch, following Paul of Samosata’s tradition, whilst Philogonius was
the ‘katholischen’ bishop, and that Eustathius was sole bishop, being intended to unite the two
factions.
23
Stuart Hall, ‘Some Constantinian Documents in the Vita Constantini’ in Constantine:
History, Historiography and Legend, edited by Samuel Lieu and Dominic Montserrat (London:
Routledge, 1998), pp. 86–103, esp. p. 87.
24
Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter’, pp. 91–2; Eusebius, V.C., 2.63, and 4.34, respectively.
25
Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter’, p. 93, refers us to a discussion about property belonging to
Christians in the so-called Edict of Milan. Eusebius renders this by writing that it belonged to the
Christians, F’ Ø
fiH ÆØ ŒÆd ı
ø fi .
26
Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter’, p. 93. See Eusebius, Vita Constantini, edited by Ivar Heikel
(Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1902), p. 70, line 6; Eusebius, Vita Constantini, edited by Friedrich
Winkelmann (Berlin: Akademie–Verlag, 1975), p. 77, line 11; and Epistula ad Alexandrum et

indicates that he was prevented from making an imperial visit east because ‘an
emperor could not be received by rival bishops. His adventus could not be
marred by tumult’.27 Parvis notes the importance of the fact that Licinius’ ban
on synods would only just have been lifted in 324—while the ban was in place,
it would be difficult to consecrate a new bishop. So, following the death of
Philogonius, there would have been only an acting bishop. Among the earliest
petitions Constantine would have received as sole emperor would have been
requests for permission to appoint a new bishop of Antioch.28
Paul Parvis’ argument about episcopal succession at Antioch is persuasive,
as it accounts for the chronological confusion of the bishops, explaining
why Paulinus is sometimes listed as Eustathius’ successor, sometimes as his
predecessor. In the eyes of the pro-Arian faction at Antioch, Paulinus had
been bishop there since Philogonius’ death, but, in the eyes of the anti-Arian
faction and the imperial administration, he was not Bishop of Antioch until
Eustathius’ deposition. The See of Antioch was clearly already pitted against
the pro-Arian cause prior to Eustathius’ accession, as Arius names Philogo-
nius of Antioch as one of his opponents, despite claiming widespread support
from Eastern bishops.29 However, the city of Antioch evidently hosted theo-
logical diversity on this point; Eustathius acceded to Antioch as the intended
champion of anti-Arian theology.
THE COUNCIL OF ANTIOCH 324
The creed produced at Antioch was strongly anti-subordinationist and, as Sara

Parvis has argued, is in many ways closer to He Philarchos than the Creed of
Nicaea 325.30 Some features that distinguish both it and He Philarchos from
the Creed of Nicaea can be found in Eustathius’ anti-Arian writings; for
example, the appeal to the idea that the Son is the image of the Father to
establish continuity between Father and Son, and the use of Hebrews 1.3 in
this context.31 It also anathematizes those who declare the Son to be immutable
by his will, rather than by his nature. Karl-Heinz Uthemann has picked up
on this as important to Eustathius’ Contra Ariomanitas, and we shall see that
Arium, in Athanasius Werke, III: Urkunden zur Geschichte des arianischen Streites, edited by
Hans-Georg Opitz (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1934), 17.10, p. 34, line 16.
27
Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter’, p. 94.
28
On Licinius’ ban on synods, see Williams, Arius, pp. 49–50.
29
In a letter to Eusebius of Nicomedia, for which, see Theodoret, H.E., 1.4.
30
Parvis, Marcellus, p. 78.
31
Alexander of Alexandria, He Philarchos, in Urkunden zur Geschichte des arianischen
Streites, edited by Hans-Georg Opitz (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1934), 14, document 17.
this is true.32 All the evidence suggests that the Council of Antioch is important
to understanding Eustathius’ engagement with pro-Arian theology.
Eustathius’ involvement in this Council shows him to have been highly
important on the anti-Arian side of the controversy from a relatively early
stage. Antioch also marks an important moment in the relationship between
Eustathius and Eusebius of Caesarea, whose theology was condemned at this
Council, and who was placed under a provisional ban of the empire, pending a
larger council, to be held in Ancyra.33 This Council of Ancyra 325, however,
never took place. In its stead was the Council of Nicaea.
THE COUNCIL OF NICA EA
At Nicaea, Eustathius was a crucial figure in Alexander’s anti-Arian alliance

and, although there is little evidence that Eustathius was the source for the
Nicene Formula’s key theological terms, he was evidently very happy to
support them. However, from Eustathius’ point of view, the Council of Nicaea
failed, and this was Constantine’s fault; its intention had been to exclude the
pro-Arians, but Constantine had hijacked the Council and pressed for
compromise.
Sara Parvis identifies a Eustathian fragment as containing a description of
Nicaea. The fragment in question is from Eustathius’ In Proverbia 8.22 and is
preserved in Theodoret’s Historia Ecclesiastica [D79]. It is, unfortunately,
extremely ambiguous, and Hanson has read it as referring to anti-‘Nicene’
intrigue several years after Nicaea. Here is the Greek text:
[ ] b KÇÅE B ø › æ, K
Ææªc b
ºªå e ªæÆ B
¯Pı æPºº ºÆçÅÆ. ’¯d
ø
b I
Æª
øŁ
, ÆPŒÆ
ıçæa
b
IŁÅ
B KŒæB
ŒÆ E ÆPÅŒØ æı
Ø, ÆNå
Å
’ I
Œ
fiH ªæłÆ
Ø ÆæEå
. ’¯Øc b e KæªÆ æØ
H
Içd e
¯PØ
ÆçH ºø, F ÆæÆ
ı ªæÆ ØÆææÆª
’ ZłØ
ø
,
›F Ø
b KŒ ıŒıB,
Æ æÆºº
Ø B Næ
Å, ŒÆªÆÆ
b
–Æ
Æ f ¼æØÆ ºªØ
NøŁÆ. ˇƒ ’æØÆ
EÆØ, Æ
Å ¼æÆ
Æ Å K
ÆPfiH ı
ı ıªŒŒæÅ
Å KæÆŒØŁE
, I
ÆŁÆÇıØ
b
æÅ Æ
e IÅªæı

ªÆ, ıç
Ø ªæÆØ
ªæłÆ
ÆPåØæ, H
b ææØH
Øa ºÅ ‹Å æØæB
ŒæÆ Æ
,
ÆPf øØ
ºÆ
Ø
, b
ººÅŁø, b
æçÆ
H a IłÅçØŁÆ æ ıØ Æ, ØÆçæØ KØıº

32
Karl-Heinz Uthemann, ‘Eustathios von Antiochien wider den seelenlosen Christus der
Arianer. Zu neu entdeckten Fragmenten eines Traktats des Eustathios’, ZAC, 10, no. 3 (2007),
472–521, see esp. pp. 479, 493, doi: 10.1515/ZAC.2006.036.
33
On the original intention of holding the Council in Ancyra, see Parvis, Marcellus, p. 50.

E KºªåØ. Bıº
Ø b c ÆªØHÆØ a ÇØÇÆ
ØÅ çııæª ÆÆ, ŒÆØ
f KØª

Æ, KŒŒº
ıØ f Kçæı, ŒÆd Æ fiÅ f B PÆ Œ æıŒÆ
KŒºFØ
.34
I translate this passage as follows, though this is, we shall see, only one of
several possible renderings:
As the manner of the faith was sought, the writing, a manifest proof of Eusebius’
blasphemy, was brought forward. And, when it had been read aloud to everyone,
immediately it gave ever-growing grief to those who had heard it because of its
heresy, and it inflicted irredeemable shame on the writer. After the gang of those
around Eusebius was clearly convicted, the heretical writing having been torn
asunder before everyone’s eyes, some men from the plot, putting forward the
name of peace, silenced those who used to speak best. But those stirring up war
around Arius feared lest they should be banished, given that so great a council
had come together. On one hand, they rush forward to anathematize the con-
demned doctrine, subscribing with their own hands to a common written state-
ment. On the other, once they had held onto their seats through the greatest
possible deviousness, when they should have fallen, sometimes covertly and
sometimes openly, they are ambassadors for the rejected opinions, plotting
against diverse refutations of them. And, being determined to establish the
tares they have planted, they fear the learned, pervert the authorities and in this
way attack the preachers of godliness.
Hanson argues that Eustathius wrote this after the start of the ‘Arian purge’
but whilst he was still in his see. This reading relies on rendering the phrase
ææØH
. . . ŒæÆ Æ
as ‘now that they have gained control of the leading
position’.35 Sara Parvis, however, reads it as referring back to Nicaea: ‘having
held onto their seats’. She sees this as evidence that Eustathius was disap-
pointed with the outcome of Nicaea.36
Parvis’ reading of this fragment is more probable than Hanson’s, though a
great number of phrases in the fragment could plausibly be rendered in very
different ways. Although Hanson’s translation of ŒæÆø as ‘to gain control’ is
perfectly plausible, ŒæÆø can also mean ‘hold onto’ in the sense of ‘retain’.
Whilst ææÆ can refer to a privileged position, it can also refer to a leading
ecclesiastical office. Given that the context in this fragment is an ecclesiastical
council, the latter does seem somewhat more likely. It is therefore equally
possible to translate the phrase as Parvis does.37 That Eustathius was less than
34
D79:6–24. 35
Hanson, ‘Fate’, pp. 171–4.
36
Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 81–2.
37
Parvis, Marcellus, p. 82. It would also be possible to translate the phrase as ‘having held
onto the leading position’, which would suggest an even greater degree of frustration with Nicaea
than Parvis argues for. However, given that Arius was exiled at Nicaea and Eusebius of
Nicomedia shortly afterwards, and Eusebius of Caesarea was, at least, forced to sign up to
Nicaea, this is not as plausible. Timothy Barnes opts for the translation ‘having gained their
position as bishops’ whilst noting as possible the rendering which Parvis was later to choose in
happy about Constantine’s new role in the church at the time of writing D79 is
further implied by the claim that his opponents KŒŒº
ıØ f Kçæı.
Timothy Barnes renders this phrase ‘they corrupt the secular rulers’, arguing
that KŒŒº
ıØ cannot plausibly mean ‘to avoid’.38 This seems to me most
probably correct; otherwise, the text suggests that the secular rulers are trying
to get the bishops, and failing, and it is not clear how this could be the case.
I also follow this reading in part because I believe that Eustathius’ deposition
must be seen as a trigger for Constantine’s change of mind, rather than a
consequence of it, as I argue shortly.
Furthermore, Eustathius elsewhere expresses frustration at what he per-
ceives as his opponents’ duplicity in signing up to Nicaea and then teaching
against its theology: in Ariomanitas, he writes that ‘[i]f [they say that the
Word] . . . is susceptible to passions, they anathematize themselves, because
they have denied his immutability in writing, in public and also in private,
after having agreed to it in the assembly’.39 In this passage, Eustathius seems to
have the impression that Nicaea failed to bring the pro-Arians in line, very
much cohering with a sense that they kept hold of their seats when they should
have lost them. The evidence suggests that Eustathius was frustrated with the
pro-Arians’ continued place in the church, and that he blamed the attempt to
compromise at Nicaea for this.
Eustathius’ contribution to the formulation of the Nicene Creed is un-
certain, but there is no good evidence that he suggested the key terms.
Hanson argues that Eustathius was responsible for the inclusion of the
term ›ıØ in the creed, and that he pressured the reluctant Alexander
on this point.40 Parvis notes the absence of the term ›ıØ in the creed
produced at the Council of Antioch, and argues that this undermines
Hanson’s suggestion.41 It remains possible that Eustathius conceived of the
usefulness of the term ›ıØ between Antioch and Nicaea. However,
there is no mention of it in his anti-Arian writings, which would be surpris-
ing if he were its champion, particularly because he does refer to his oppon-
ents’ failure to adhere to Nicaea.42 It is therefore unlikely that ›ıØ was
Eustathius’ idea.
his article, ‘Emperor and Bishops: A.D. 324–344: Some Problems’, American Journal of Ancient
History 3 (1978), 53–75 reprinted in Early Christianity and the Roman Empire (London:
Variorum, 1984), Paper XVIII, p. 58.
38
Barnes, ‘Emperor and Bishops’, p. 58, text and note 40. 39
D6:3–5 [Ariomanitas].
40 41
Hanson, The Search, pp. 171–2. Parvis, Marcellus, p. 80.
42
D6:3–5 [Ariomanitas]. Notoriously, ›ıØ is not mentioned in the extant sources
between the Council of Nicaea and Athanasius’ writing of the Orationes Contra Arianos (see
C. Ar., I.3.9).
EUSTATHIUS ’ DEPOSITION
Eustathius was one of the bishops deposed from his see when Constantine
came to favour the pro-Arian faction.43 The last sixty years have seen signifi-
cant discussion of Eustathius’ deposition. Estimates of the date range from
326 to 331.44 Pro-Arian conspiracies, Eustathius’ involvement in sex scandals,
his political or social ineptitude, and his apparent Sabellianism all appear, in
various combinations, as reasons for his deposition in the ancient literature.
I am going to argue that Eustathius was deposed in 327 as a consequence of the
machinations of Eusebius of Caesarea and his allies, who took advantage of his
failure to properly receive the Empress Helena on her journey east. It is first
necessary to survey recent discussions.
Eustathius’ Deposition: the Scholarship and Evidence
The discussions about Eustathius’ accession have tended to feed into discus-
sions about his deposition, largely because of the close interrelation of the
evidence.
Asclepas of Gaza and the Evidence of Serdica

A central consideration in dating Eustathius’ deposition is the deposition of
Asclepas of Gaza, Eustathius’ ally. The conciliar letter of the Eastern Council
of Serdica declares that Asclepas was deposed seventeen years beforehand.45
The Western Council of Serdica says that he was deposed at Antioch ‘prae-
sentibus adversariis et Eusebio ex Caesarea’.46 It is widely, and correctly,
thought that Asclepas would not have been deposed at Antioch under Eu-
stathius, and that therefore, seventeen years prior to Serdica is the latest
possible date for Eustathius’ deposition. Henry Chadwick assumed that this
phrase implied Eusebius’ presidency at the synod that deposed Asclepas,
whilst Hanson noted that it could refer simply to Eusebius’ presence there.47
43
See Athanasius, Hist. Ar., 1.4.
44
Henry Chadwick, ‘The Fall of Eustathius of Antioch’, JTS, old system 49, (1948), 27–35,
doi: 10.1093/jts/os-XLIX.193–194.27, and Hanson, The Search, p. 210, respectively.
45
Hilary, Fragmenta Historica, Series A, IV 1, 11, edited by Alfred Feder (Vienna:
F. Tempsky, 1916), p. 56, lines 19–20.
46
Hilary, Fragmenta Historica, Series B, II 1.6, edited by Feder, p. 118, lines 3–5.
47
Chadwick, ‘Fall’, p. 31, Hanson, ‘The Fate of Eustathius of Antioch’, ZKG, 95 (1984), 171–9,
p. 176. Schwartz assumes that Eusebius took a leading role, but regards it as uncertain that he was
the chief presiding figure. He argues, however, that the See of Antioch must at this time have
been vacant in his ‘Geschichte des Athanasius: Von Nicaea bis zu Konstantins Tod’, pp. 395–6
= GS, III, p. 224.
Burgess allows Hanson’s point, but thinks that the phrase probably did imply
presidency.48
Socrates’ 347 used to be the most reliable date for Serdica, so Eustathius’
deposition was placed in 330–331.49 However, since the discovery of the Festal
Index in 1848, it has become clear that the Council of Serdica took place in
either 342 or 343.50 Counting inclusively, this places Eustathius’ deposition at
the latest between 326 and 327. Chadwick’s 326 date for Eustathius’ depos-
ition is partly dependent on his dating Serdica to 342. Hanson conversely
argued that Asclepas may have been deposed on non-theological grounds and,
therefore, under Eustathius.51 Thus, he placed Eustathius’ deposition later,
initially in 328–329 and then in 330–331. Burgess, arguing for 328, suggests
that those at Serdica miscounted, but Parvis argues that this is unlikely,
especially as they were probably using a fifteen-year cycle.52
Chadwick and Timothy Barnes have both argued that Eustathius and
Asclepas were deposed simultaneously.53 Burgess conversely suggests that
there were two separate councils at Antioch quite close together, and that
the first deposed Eustathius and the second deposed Asclepas.54
Eusebius of Caesarea’s Chronici Canones

Several documents potentially connected to Eusebius of Caesarea’s Chronici
Canones make references that point to 328 as the date of Eustathius’ depos-
ition. Burgess correspondingly favours 328, largely because of a particular
understanding of the interrelation and reliability of these documents.
First, the accession of Eulalius is entered in the Chronicon miscellaneum ad
annum Domini 724 pertinens (Chron. 724) in the Syriac epitome of Eusebius
of Caesarea’s Chronici Canones. Eusebius of Caesarea, Philostorgius, and
Theodoret, writing that Paulinus of Tyre succeeded Eustathius and was
himself succeeded by Eulalius, give Paulinus a six-month episcopate. In
Chron. 724, Eulalius’ accession is the first entry after Athanasius’ 328 ordin-
ation as bishop and the second before the Dedication of Constantinople, May
330.55 Burgess argues that this suggests that it occurred between the two,
allowing for another, interceding event, and therefore probably during 328 or
possibly 329. Jerome’s Latin translation and continuation of Chronici Canones
says that Eustathius was deposed in the year 22–23 ‘Constantine’, which
would, again, be 328–329.
48
Richard Burgess, ‘The Date of the Deposition of Eustathius of Antioch’, JTS, 51, no. 1
(2000), 150–60, p. 157, doi: 10.1093/jts/51.1.150.
49
Socrates, H.E., 2.19.
50
Parvis examines the evidence extensively, and argues for 343, in her Marcellus, pp. 210–17.
51
Hanson, ‘Fate’, pp. 176–7. 52
Burgess, ‘Date’, p. 159, Parvis, Marcellus, p. 102.
53
Barnes, ‘Emperor and Bishops’, p. 60, Chadwick, ‘Fall’, p. 35.
54
Burgess, ‘Date’, p. 158. 55
Burgess, ‘Date’, p. 154.

Burgess was also the first to note that the Syriac Chron. 724 states that
Eustathius was bishop for four years. He argues that both Jerome’s Latin
translation and the Syriac epitome in Chron. 724 are drawing on a now-lost
Greek continuation of Eusebius’ Chronici Canones, completed in Antioch in
circa 350. He dubs this Continuatio Antiochensis and considers it reliable.56
Parvis seems dubious about the relationship of such a continuation to Jerome
or the Syriac epitome and argues that, in any case, it would be less reliable than
Serdica’s references to the deposition of Asclepas.57 Anyway, Burgess believes
there is good evidence that Eustathius’ episcopate lasted four years, so, dating
Eustathius’ accession to 325, places his deposition in late 328.
Asterius’ Defence of Eusebius of Nicomedia

Schwartz argued for a 326 deposition on the basis of Asterius’ letter in
defence of Eusebius of Nicomedia. He argued that Asterius must have written
this letter during Eusebius’ exile, which he thinks took place through 325–327.
He then noted that this letter refers to Paulinus of Tyre as ÆŒæØ, suggesting
that he is dead.58 Schwartz believed that Paulinus succeeded Eustathius, and
argued that Eustathius must have been deposed in time to allow for Paulinus’
brief episcopate and, therefore, in 326.59 Hanson objected on two grounds:
ÆŒæØ is not exclusively applied to the deceased, and Asterius probably
wrote in defence of Eusebius of Nicomedia after he returned from exile. He
argues that Asterius, who sacrificed during the Diocletian persecution, was too
cowardly to defend Eusebius whilst Constantine disfavoured Eusebius.60
Hanson believes that the previously quoted D79 refers to Eusebius of Nico-
media, and implies that both Eusebius and Eustathius were the incumbents
of their respective sees at the time of writing. He therefore assumes that
Eustathius must have been deposed after the return of Eusebius from exile
in 328, and consequently dates Eustathius’ deposition, first to 328 and then to
330–331, though suggesting that we should lean towards the earlier part of
that timeframe.61
The Empress Helena

The Empress Helena’s journey into the eastern empire has also been import-
ant in the discussion of Eustathius’ deposition.62 Helena went to Jerusalem,
56
Burgess, ‘Date’, p. 154. 57
58
Eusebius of Caesarea, Contra Marcellum, I.4.17.
59
Schwartz, Geschichte des Athanasius, IX: Von Konstantins Tod bis Sardika 342, (1911),
p. 403, footnote 1, reprinted in GS, III, pp. 233–4, footnote 6. See also Chadwick ‘Fall’, pp. 30–1.
60
Hanson, ‘Fate’, pp. 174–5. 61
Hanson, The Search, p. 210.
62
Helena’s journey is generally described as a pilgrimage, though Drijvers argues otherwise in
his Helena Augusta (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992), pp. 55–72.
passing through Antioch, between the deaths of Fausta and Crispus (Con-
stantine’s wife and one of his sons) in the first half of 326 and her own death,
in Constantine’s presence, sometime in 327.63 Athanasius claims that Eu-
stathius was putatively deposed for insulting Helena.64 Chadwick believed
that Helena went on a pilgrimage in a show of sorrow for the deaths of Crispus
and Fausta and, therefore, in 326.65 Hanson argued that Constantine would
not have permitted his mother to make such a pilgrimage, as it would have
looked like a pilgrimage of reparation and consequently caused him further
embarrassment over the deaths he was trying to downplay.66 He therefore
concluded that Helena’s pilgrimage must have been rather later, in 327.
Conversely, Sara Parvis has argued that, in order for Helena to have returned
to Constantinople to die in Constantine’s presence even at the very end of 327,
she must have started her journey in July or August 326.67
Eustathius’ Deposition or the Return of Pro-Arian Exiles:

Which Came First?
The relative order of Eustathius’ deposition and the return of the handful of
pro-Arians exiled by Constantine at and shortly after Nicaea has been perhaps
the most significant point of disagreement within the wider discussion of the
deposition.
Hanson argues that Eusebius’ return predated Eustathius’ deposition on the
basis of fragment D79 (already quoted) because he reads it as complaining
about the Eusebians having recently gained powerful sees. He also claims that
the tone suggests that it was not written by a bishop in exile.68 The text
mentions a Eusebius, and Hanson’s thesis is dependent upon the belief that
it refers to Eusebius of Nicomedia and not Eusebius of Caesarea.69 This is
bound up with Hanson’s belief that Eustathius was deposed after Constantine
allowed Arius, and subsequently Eusebius of Nicomedia, to return from exile.
Sara Parvis, conversely, sees Eustathius’ deposition as a trigger for Con-
stantine’s newly pro-Arian policies. Her argument is primarily based on
Constantine’s letter to Arius, dated 27 November but of uncertain year. The
letter asks why Arius has not yet appeared at court as requested. Parvis argues
that Constantine must have written a previous letter summoning Arius suffi-
ciently prior to 27 November that he could have expected Arius to have
63
For the dating of the deaths of Crispus and Fausta to 326, see Barnes, Early Christian
Hagiography, p. 226.
64
Hist. Ar., 4. 65
Chadwick, ‘Fall’, p. 33.
66
Hanson, ‘Fate’, p. 177.
67
Parvis, Marcellus, p. 102. Parvis particularly notes that, due to Helena’s age, she and her
entourage would have been travelling slowly.
68
Hanson, ‘Fate’, p. 171 and Hanson, Search, pp. 209–10, respectively.
69
Barnes, ‘Emperor and Bishops’, joins him in this opinion.

received it and made his way to court by then. Considering the time it would
probably have taken for Arius to receive the letter and travel to court, she
surmises that Constantine summoned Arius from exile in September of the
same year. She notes that Theognis and Eusebius of Nicomedia petitioned to
be allowed to return from exile after Arius had already been readmitted and,
arguing that Eusebius was in exile for three years, she concludes that he and
Theognis returned in 328. Parvis therefore argues that Constantine corres-
ponded with Arius in 327.70
The Reasons for Eustathius’ Deposition

A number of different reasons have been given for Eustathius’ deposition.
Some scholars argue that Eustathius was deposed as a consequence of a pro-
Arian conspiracy, others reject this thesis. Hanson argued, following a
report relayed by Socrates, that he was deposed for Sabellianism, whilst
Williams accepted Athanasius’ claim that he lost his see for ‘insulting
Helena’.71 Sara Parvis rejected these explanations, instead picking up Phi-
lostorgius’ and Theodoret’s claim that he was deposed on trumped-up
charges of sexual misconduct—more specifically, for impregnating a
young woman, perhaps a prostitute.72 Chadwick and Hanson had previous-
ly both roundly rejected this account as too typical of a hagiographical
fabrication.73 Parvis, conversely, claims that it would be congruent with
Constantine’s dramatic but frequently ill-informed behaviour towards the
church. She also notes that it would explain the mysterious and sudden
nature of Eustathius’ deposition.
Rowan Williams and Sara Parvis both argue that Eustathius’ deposition
was part of a chain of events that caused Constantine to change his mind in
favour of the Eusebians, rather than a consequence of Constantine’s change of
mind.74 This was to develop into a highly significant contour in the histori-
ography: first, a position on whether Eustathius’ deposition helped to trigger,
or resulted from, Constantine’s change of mind is mutually determining with
the interpretation of several other key pieces of evidence about Eustathius’
deposition. Second, it has sometimes corresponded to a wider division in
scholarly views on the ‘Arian’ controversy. Whilst Hanson does not believe
that there was a conspiracy against Eustathius and Alexander’s other allies,
Parvis does.
70
71
Williams, Arius, p. 74; Hanson, ‘Fate’. See Socrates, 1.24.
72
Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 105–6. Theodoret, H.E., 1.22, Philostorgius, H.E., 2.7. Sozomen, H.E.,
2.19, alludes to such a report in saying that Eustathius was deposed for bringing the priesthood
into disrepute through ‘unholy deeds’.
73
Chadwick, ‘Fall’, p. 28; Hanson, ‘Fate’, p. 178. 74
Williams, Arius, p. 74.
Eustathius’ Deposition: Analysis
I argue that Eustathius was deposed in 327 and follow Paul Parvis in asserting
that Eustathius’ deposition was closely connected to a fracas during Helena’s
visit to Antioch. I suggest the Helena’s pro-Arian theological leanings may
have had a part to play in the events at Antioch during her visit.
It is clear that seventeen years prior to Serdica is, indeed, the latest possible
date for Eustathius’ deposition. Any date later than 328 can be easily ruled
out. Hanson’s claim that Asclepas was deposed under Eustathius is very
unlikely. In his Historia Arianorum, Athanasius lists Asclepas among those
deposed by pro-Arian intrigue.75 It would be unproblematic, in itself, to
dismiss Athanasius’ claim, since he was keen to construct a narrative of
persecuted orthodoxy.76 Nonetheless, as a Eustathian ally during the ‘Arian’
crisis, it is very unlikely that Asclepas would have been deposed at Antioch
whilst Eustathius was bishop. Considering Western Serdica’s claim that Ascle-
pas was deposed praesentibus adversaries et Eusebio ex Caesarea, it is clear that
Eusebius of Caesarea would not have presided over a synod there whilst
Eustathius was bishop. The two men were fierce rivals, engaged in a pamphlet
war;77 anyway, why would the resident Bishop of Antioch not preside over a
synod at Antioch? Whether Eusebius presided at Asclepas’ deposition or not,
we can assume that Eustathius was deposed either at the same time as or
before Asclepas and, therefore, that seventeen years prior to Serdica is the
latest possible date for his deposition. Hanson’s earlier 329, and later 330–331,
are both clearly too late.78 Chadwick dates Eustathius’ deposition to 326
partly because he dates Serdica to 342. However, Sara Parvis has persuasively
demonstrated that synods of Serdica occurred in 343.79
Counting inclusively, seventeen years before Serdica is therefore 327. Eu-
stathius was almost certainly deposed before Asclepas. Burgess’ argument that
Eustathius and Asclepas were deposed in two successive synods is convincing:
Athanasius mentions both Eustathius and Asclepas as victims of the ‘Arian
purge’, but he names Eustathius as one of the first to fall whilst referring to
Asclepas separately later in the narrative.80 Athanasius was in a good position
to know about the relative order of these depositions, and had little motive to
misrepresent it. According to Philostorgius, Eustathius was deposed by a
75
Athanasius, Hist. Ar., 4–5.
76
For an account of Athanasius’ narrative construction of ‘Arianism’, see David Gwynn, The
Eusebians (Oxford: OUP, 2006), pp. 51–99.
77
Socrates, H.E., 1.23.6–8; Sozomen, H.E., 2.18.3–4.
78
Theodoret, H.E., 2.31, claims that Meletius’ exile occurred thirty years after Eustathius’
deposition. Meletius’ exile was conventionally dated to 361, but 360 is now the accepted date, so
this implies a date of 330. Theodoret’s claim is insufficient to outweigh the evidence of Serdica
and Burgess, ‘Date’, p. 157, plausibly supposes that thirty was simply a ‘round figure’.
79 80
Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 210–17. Athanasius, Hist. Ar., 4.4 and 5.

synod at Nicomedia.81 This is unlikely, as all the other church historians
more plausibly report that he was deposed at Antioch.82 However, it does
further undermine the connection between Eustathius’ deposition and
Asclepas’. As Williams notes, twice-yearly provincial synods were by then
prescribed, so it is not necessary to seek out large-scale councils as possible
occasions for each deposition.83 Plausibly, Eustathius, a ring-leader and
therefore de facto protector of the politically weaker Asclepas, was removed,
leaving Asclepas vulnerable. If the two were deposed at separate synods,
Eustathius was deposed more than seventeen years before Serdica, which
suggests he was deposed in either 326 or 327, but, as I argue shortly, 326 is
too early for a number of other reasons. Burgess’ belief that those at Serdica
miscounted is, indeed, unlikely. He believes this partly because he thinks
there is other, strong evidence for a 328 date. However, his reading of this
evidence is dependent on his dating Eustathius’ accession to 325, which
I believe is inaccurate.
Chron. 724, though cited by Burgess as evidence that Eustathius was
deposed in 328, in fact rather more suggests that he was deposed in 327 if
one works on the basis that Eustathius became bishop in early 324 and that
Paulinus was recognized as Bishop of Antioch for the period between Eu-
stathius’ deposition and Eulalius’ succession. Even in this case, though, early
328 remains a possibility.
As we have seen, the author of Chron. 724 enters Eulalius’ accession
directly after Athanasius’ 328 ordination to the episcopate. Burgess thinks
that this suggests 328 because he believes that Paulinus preceded Eustathius,
and therefore does not allow time for Paulinus’ episcopate before Eulalius’
succession (Burgess takes Paulinus to have been bishop for six or seven
months, following Chron. 724). However, if Paulinus was, in fact, a rival
bishop alongside Eustathius, and then officially and widely recognized on
Eustathius’ deposition, we must allow time for his ‘official’ episcopate in
between Eustathius and Eulalius, which takes us more plausibly to 327 than
328 for Eustathius’ deposition.
Chron. 724’s claim that Eustathius was bishop for four years is, as Burgess
asserts, a valuable piece of evidence, but its signification is determined by the
date of Eustathius’ accession. It is certain that Eustathius was appointed to
Antioch shortly before Nicaea, and therefore, a four-year occupancy places his
deposition at 327–329. It immediately rules out Henry Chadwick’s very early
date of 326 and the once-conventional 330–331 supported (for reasons other
81
Philostorgius, H.E., 2.7.
82
Socrates, H.E., 1.24.1, Sozomen, H.E., 2.19.1, Theodoret, H.E., 1.21.3.
83
Williams, Arius, p. 73.
than the conventional ones) by Richard Hanson. More specifically, if we place
Eustathius’ accession at 324, it leaves us with 327.84
So, the evidence of Serdica points to 327, whilst most of the manuscripts
surrounding Chronici Canones suggest 327 but also permit early 328.
Burgess offers another reference in support of 328–329: pseudo-Dionysius
of Tel-Mahre, which may or may not have been dependent on Continuatio
Antiochensis, dates Eustathius’ deposition to 640 of the Seleucid era. This
would be 24 ‘Constantine’, or 1 October 328 to 30 September 329. Rubric 7 of
Chron. 724 gives the same date. However, the list containing this date
confuses Eustathius of Sebaste with Eustathius of Antioch. Burgess, bizarre-
ly, sees this as improving the reliability of its evidence because it shows that
the given date does not derive from a chronicle.85 Unfortunately, it also
shows that whatever source the date did derive from is unreliable. Serdica is a
more reliable witness.
Athanasius’ claim that Eustathius was deposed for insulting Helena suggests
at least a temporal connection between her journey east and his deposition. It
is a rather specific claim, and therefore Athanasius’ reference implies that
it was at least plausible; Helena almost certainly met Eustathius, and he was
most probably deposed shortly afterwards. Sara Parvis is right to note that
Helena must have started her journey in July or August 326 in order to be back
with Constantine, to die in his presence, even by the end of 327.
Seeing Eustathius’ deposition as a trigger for Constantine’s change of
mind, as Parvis does, becomes problematic if we accept that Eustathius was
still bishop when Eusebius of Nicomedia returned. Sozomen, Socrates, and
Theodoret all do place Eusebius’ return before Eustathius’ deposition.86
However, Parvis offers persuasive arguments against their reliability. She
notes that Socrates confesses that his claim is based on inference from
Eusebius’ Vita Constantini on which, she argues, Sozomen also relies.87 She
further argues that Theodoret’s chronology of these events is evidently con-
fused, as he refers to Eusebius as Bishop of Constantinople at the time of
Eustathius’ deposition, despite the fact that Eusebius did not become Bishop
of Constantinople until Constantine’s death.88
Hanson’s argument that Eusebius’ return predated Eustathius’ deposition is
bound up with his interpretation of the Eustathian fragment D79, partly
because he reads it as complaining about the Eusebians having recently gained
powerful sees, and claims that the tone suggests that it was not written by a
84
Correspondingly, Sara Parvis, dating Eustathius’ accession to early 324 and counting
inclusively, sees a four-year episcopate as suggesting a deposition in early 327–328 in Marcellus,
p. 103.
85
Burgess, ‘Date’, p. 155.
86
Socrates, H.E., 1.24.1–9, Sozomen, H.E., 2.19.1, Theodoret, H.E. 1.19.
87 88
Parvis, Marcellus, p. 103. Parvis, Marcellus, p. 103.

bishop in exile.89 Eustathius must, then, have written it before being deposed,
but after the pro-Arians had begun to take the upper hand.
Some of Hanson’s arguments for his claim that D79 refers to Eusebius of
Nicomedia, not Caesarea, are weak. In particular, he gives a lot of weight to
Eusebius of Caesarea’s claim that his own statement of faith was well received
at Nicaea.90 As Hanson argues, we know that Eusebius of Nicomedia did
produce a controversial statement of faith at Nicaea;91 the passage could refer
to either Eusebius. The next stage in Hanson’s argument is, however, deeply
problematic. He argues that we cannot simultaneously hold that Eusebius of
Nicomedia is the ‘Eusebius’ of D79 and that he was in exile while it was
written; why, Hanson asks, would an exiled bishop be a target? This argument
extrapolates too much about the content of In Proverbia 8.22 from the
fragments available, and consequently concludes that it was directed primarily
against the Eusebius referred to in this passage. Perhaps it would be odd for
Eustathius to have written a work primarily aimed at Eusebius of Nicomedia
were he still in exile, and looking likely to remain there. However, there is no
reason to think that the target of D79 is the main target of In Proverbia 8.22; it
is perfectly plausible that Eustathius attacked the exiled Eusebius of Nicome-
dia as part of a wider anti-Arian polemic. Whichever Eusebius D79 refers to,
the reference does not elucidate the date of Eustathius’ deposition.
Williams’ and Parvis’ causal chain most convincingly explains the return of
Arius before Eusebius. It is not, otherwise, clear why the man who (for
whatever reasons) ended up at the centre of the storm is allowed to return
from exile, while those who took up his cause are not. It also coheres with
Athanasius’ claim that Eustathius was an early ‘victim’ of the ‘Arian purge’.
The length of Eusebius of Nicomedia’s exile is therefore germane to the date of
Eustathius’ deposition. We know he was exiled in 325, shortly after Nicaea.
According to Philostorgius, he was in exile a æE ‹ºı K
ØÆı .92 Bruno
Bleckmann reads this as ‘three whole years’, whilst Barnes reads it as ‘two and
a bit years’, their disagreement deriving from divergent views of idiomatic
usage.93 According to Philostorgius, Eusebius was exiled three months after
Nicaea.94 Parvis plausibly suggests that ‘three whole years’, which she con-
siders the most appropriate rendering, could date either from Nicaea—July/
August 325—or from the exile—September/October 325. Barnes’ reading
89
Hanson, ‘Fate’, p. 171 and Hanson, The Search, pp. 209–10, respectively. See also the earlier
discussion on Nicaea.
90
Hanson, ‘Fate’, p. 172. 91
Hanson cites Ambrose, De Fide, 3.15.
92
93
Bruno Bleckmann, ‘Ein Kaiser als Prediger Zur Datierung der konstantinischen “Rede an
die Versammlung der Heiligen” ’, Hermes, 125 (1997), 183–202, pp. 197–200, <http://www.jstor.
org/stable/4477189>; Timothy Barnes, ‘Constantine’s Speech to the Assembly of the Saints: Place
and Date of Delivery’, JTS, NS. 52 (2001) 26–36, pp. 32–3, doi: 10.1093/jts/52.1.26.
94
correspondingly suggests 328. Given that Arius was readmitted before Euse-
bius of Nicomedia, if we follow Barnes, we may either place Eusebius’ return in
327, the latest point it allows—as Barnes himself does—or we must conclude
that Arius corresponded with Constantine, and was readmitted, in 326.95 The
latter possibility seems problematically early—it would hardly allow time for
Eustathius to have engaged in a polemical writing match with Eusebius of
Caesarea, and particularly to have produced so substantial a work as Arioma-
nitas, which certainly postdates Nicaea.96 Eusebius, then, must have been
readmitted in 328, suggesting that Arius corresponded with Constantine in
September 327.
It was very probably an event related to Helena’s visit to Antioch that
changed Constantine’s mind in Arius’ favour in September 327. George of
Laodicea claims that Eustathius was formally charged with Sabellianism.97
Sabellianism is a plausible pro-Arian attack on Eustathius but, for that reason,
is an insufficient explanation for his deposition. It relates closely to the
theological dispute in which Constantine had, albeit lukewarmly, sided with
the anti-Arians. The pro-Arians would need something else to depose the
bishop of one of the most important cities in the eastern part of the Empire. If,
further, one should wish to downplay the degree of pro-Arian intrigue against
Eustathius, it is hard to imagine how Sabellianism came into the question. The
claim that Eustathius was deposed for impregnating a prostitute does, as
Hanson and Chadwick argue, bear an uncomfortable resemblance to a hagio-
graphical fabrication. Sara Parvis’ suggestion that reports of such behaviour
would have enraged Constantine admittedly puts it in a more plausible light,
because such a cataclysmic reaction is necessary to explain Eustathius’ depos-
ition. However, Paul Parvis’ reconstruction of the disputed succession at
Antioch offers a more convincing explanation.
Although the idea that Eustathius ‘insulted’ Helena seems a little implaus-
ible as cast by Chadwick, it is rendered intelligible when placed in the
framework of events suggested by Paul Parvis. As already noted, he believes
that Constantine was prevented from travelling to the east because there were
two rival bishops at Antioch. Helena, he suggests, was sent in lieu of her son,
and then conferred some degree of recognition upon Eustathius’ rival. Eu-
stathius responded inappropriately during some part of the ceremonial activ-
ities associated with the imperial visit and its attentions to the Antiochene
church, thus insulting Helena, and was consequently deposed.98
This picture is likely in light of the unprecedented nature of Helena’s visit.
Imperial visits to bishops had never taken place before. In a societal setting
95
Barnes, ‘Emperor and Bishops’, p. 61.
96
See ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works—Ariomanitas—Date of the Original
Work’ in Chapter 2.
97
Socrates, H.E., 1.24. 98
Parvis, ‘Constantine’s Letter’.

obsessed by etiquette, no one could be quite clear what the etiquette was. Rival
bishops and attendant congregations, both of whom wish to be recognized by
the imperial administration, and neither of whom wish to worship with each
other, could easily be disastrous. Eustathius may have tried to ensure that
Paulinus was excluded, but he may, just as plausibly, simply have been unsure
what was expected of him. He may, for example, have been expected to receive
Paulinus at a mass and refused to do so. He might even have considered this
expectation a polite suggestion from Helena, rather expecting that she would
accept his position and disinvite Paulinus, because Eustathius was, after all, the
officially recognized bishop. It is also possible that he was more deliberately
belligerent, particularly given his irritation at Constantine’s pacifying tactics at
Nicaea. If, however, this looks foolhardy to the point of improbable, there is no
need to invoke it to explain Helena’s part in Eustathius’ deposition.
The possibility that Helena’s own theological leanings were pro-Arian may
help to elucidate her relationship with the two bishops.99 Helena may well
have made some attempt to include, or make dialogue with, Paulinus and his
pro-Arian congregation in line with her own beliefs. It is just possible that she
even favoured Paulinus in deliberate disregard for Constantine’s recognition
of Eustathius, though this is very unlikely. If so, her actions certainly had the
effect of turning Constantine in favour of the pro-Arian faction, and perhaps
this was her intention. However, if it was, this was a remarkably high-risk
strategy: ecclesiastical politics were uncertain, as was the outcome of any
deliberate attempt to disrupt the situation in Antioch further.
We should also not assume, with the false clarity of hindsight, that the
church’s position as favoured by the Roman State was absolutely secure.
Constantine’s motives in favouring Christianity are a subject of considerable
contention and far beyond this book’s scope. Suffice to note that, immediately
after Nicaea, Constantine’s approval of Christianity probably still seemed
somewhat conditional on its success, or at least on it not proving to be an
outright liability. If we suppose that Helena had become sufficiently commit-
ted to and involved in Christianity to actively promote her own theological
viewpoint within the church, we must also assume that she would not have
wanted to render it such a liability.100 A little belligerence on Helena’s part,
adding to the belligerence of Eustathius, is, however, plausible. If Helena
issued invitations to both bishops to meet with her and Eustathius declined
to attend if Paulinus were also present, she might have called Eustathius’ bluff
and refused to disinvite the bishop whom she, anyway, preferred. Paulinus and
99
See Philostorgius, H.E., 2.12 and Drijvers, Helena, p. 71. Admittedly, Drijvers appeals to
her involvement in Eustathius’ deposition.
100
The relationship between Helena’s Christianity and Constantine’s is disputed. Remi
Couzard, Saint Hélène d’après l’histoire et la tradition (Paris: Bloud, 1911), pp. 11–12, argues
that she was sympathetic to Christianity early in life, whilst Drijvers, Helena, pp. 35–8, argues
that she was converted by Constantine shortly after 312.
the pro-Arians would then be afforded a golden opportunity to take the upper
hand. Paulinus would probably have been very willing to attend with Eu-
stathius, as he was on a weaker footing anyway. This would have been the best
offer he was likely to get. Constantine badly wanted an end to strife in Antioch,
and it looked as though Paulinus was willing to compromise for the sake of
peace, but Eustathius was not. It would then be a small jump to the suggestion
that Eustathius had insulted Helena by refusing to cooperate.
In conclusion, it seems to me by far most likely that Eustathius was deposed
in late 327, though it should be admitted that the evidence of Chronici
Canones would also permit early 328. I believe that Paul Parvis’ reading of
Constantine’s so-called Letter to Arius and Alexander is correct, and that
therefore, we must suppose that Paulinus was a rival, pro-Arian bishop at
Antioch during Eustathius’ episcopacy there, and that Helena’s journey was at
least partly intended to take the place of Constantine’s thwarted imperial visit
to the east, in which the major city of Antioch would have been extremely
important. This also explains how it is that Helena became connected with
Eustathius’ deposition: she had to negotiate the rift in Antioch in the unpre-
cedented situation of an imperial visit involving the Christian church.
Her theological leanings, Eustathius’ belligerence, and the opportunism of
the pro-Arian faction combined to result in Eustathius’ deposition, and the
subsequent deposition of other anti-Arian bishops.
The other reasons floated for Eustathius’ deposition—impregnating a pros-
titute, and Sabellianism—are both accusations that could either have been
made at the time, as codicils to the main event, or arisen later.
EUSTATHIUS ’ DEATH
Eustathius must have died in exile, probably before 337 and certainly before
the councils of Serdica. This is evident primarily because he did not try to
return to his see with the other exiles from Constantine’s late 320s purge, who
returned in 337. The Eastern Council of Serdica also refers to him as exitus,
which may denote his death (though Scheidweiler believes it does not, and he
is justified in noting that the term is ambiguous).101 Eustathius’ death in exile
would explain the silence following his deposition.102 Socrates produces
an unsubstantiated report that Eustathius ordained Evagrius as Bishop of
101
Hilary, Fragmenta Historica, Series A, IV 1, 27, edited by Feder, p. 66, lines 25–7;
Scheidweiler, ‘Glaubensbekenntnis des Eustathius’, p. 242.
102
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCI. Some later works are attributed to him, but these attributions
are false, as I argue in ‘False Attributions’ in Chapter 2.

Constantinople, which would mean he was alive in the 370s.103 Sozomen also
says that Eustathius ordained Evagrius and adds that ‘having been recalled from
exile by Jovian, he lived privately at Constantinople, and devoted himself to
instructing those who agreed with him, urging them to persevere in their view of
God’s being’.104 However, most modern scholarship has concluded that these
much later reports are a less reliable indicator of the date of Eustathius’ death
than his total silence following his deposition. This seems to me persuasive.
Eustathius may have entered the 320s optimistic about Christianity’s
chances under Constantine and looking forward to being a bishop in this
brave new world. However, the ‘Arian’ controversy was to interrupt this state
of affairs. On the death of Philostorgius, the pro-Arian faction at Antioch
wanted Paulinus, a pro-Arian theologian, as bishop, and Eustathius was called
on as an anti-Arian alternative. He was evidently popular with many at
Antioch, where a community of ‘continuing Eustathians’ existed long after
his departure. However, he was unable to unite the church there. Faced with
an intransigent opponent, he responded, perhaps uncharitably, with equal
intransigence. Constantine’s intervention, based on what Eustathius viewed as
a failure to understand the situation, would have severely tempered the
optimism he may initially have felt about the church’s new situation. Not
only Eustathius’ church but also Eustathius himself were now in a very
precarious position. In the summer of 327, he was sent in to exile. One
wonders how the future of the eastern church must have looked to Eustathius,
and how far he blamed himself.
103 104
Socrates, H.E., 4.14. Sozomen, H.E., 6.13.
The Evidence, Content, and Context

of Eustathius’ Writings
Although Eustathius wrote extensively, only one work, his exegetical treatise
Engastrimytho, survives in full. His other works survive in fragments cited in a
wide variety of works across several centuries, but primarily in the writings of
Theodoret of Cyrus. Jerome spent time in the Eustathian library at Antioch
in the late fourth century and his discussions of Eustathius’ writings are
important in reconstructing the Eustathian corpus.1 Nearly all of Eustathius’
fragments can be found in Michel Spanneut’s critical edition of his work,
published in 1948.2 As already mentioned, José Declerck’s edition of Eu-
stathius’ work, published in 2002, includes a newly attributed epitome of a
work entitled Contra Ariomanitas et de anima, fragments of which exist
elsewhere and were already known of.
On the basis of the extant fragments and one full work, Declerck lists the
following fifteen works as Eustathian: 1) Engastrimytho; 2) Ariomanitas; 3) In
Inscriptiones Titulorum; 4) In Illud: ‘Dominus creavit me initium viarum
suarum’ (In Proverbia 8.22); 5) In Inscriptiones Psalmorum Graduum;
6) Commentarius in Psalmum 92; 7) Contra Arianos; 8) De Fide Contra
Arianos; 9) Epistula ad Alexandrum Alexandrium (De Melchisedech); 10) De
Tentationibus; 11) Secunda oratio coram tota Ecclesia; 12) Oratio coram tota
Ecclesia, in ‘Verbum caro factum est’; 13) De Hebraismo; 14) In Joseph; and
15) In Samaritanam. He also notes some miscellaneous fragments.
I generally follow Declerck’s reconstruction, but suggest that there are
rather fewer works than he proposes. De Fide, Contra Arianos, and In Pro-
verbia 8.22 are likely to be one work, as are In Psalmum 92 and In Inscriptiones
Psalmorum graduum. Consequently, I will argue that in total we have twelve
Eustathian works at least partially extant: eight probably dating from before
the ‘Arian’ controversy: Engastrimytho; Melchisedech; De tentationibus;
1
See Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCLXVIII–CCCLXX.
2
Michel Spanneut, Recherches sur les écrits d’Eustathe d’Antioche (Lille: Facultés Catholiques,
1948).

Secunda oratio coram tota Ecclesia; Oratio coram tota Ecclesia, in ‘Verbum
caro factum est’; De Hebraismo; In Joseph; and In Samaritanam. One of
these—Melchisedek—was probably written as the controversy was about to
break out; we then have four anti-Arian works; two on the Psalms from
c 320–325—In inscriptiones Titulorum and In Psalmum 92—In Inscriptiones
Psalmorum graduum; and two works, Contra Arianos—De Fide—Proverbia
8.22 (Arianos) and Ariomanitas, written between c 325 and 327. I believe that
some of the fragments that Declerck lists as miscellaneous are placeable within
the corpus outlined, but some miscellany remain. It is very unlikely that any of
the surviving writings were written after Eustathius left Antioch in 327.
EDITIONS AND CRITICAL NOTES
Several editions and critical notes of Eustathius’ works were produced in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.3 In 1905 the French scholar Ferdinand
Cavallera published an edition of Homilia in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham
[Homilia in Lazarum], which he attributed—mistakenly—to Eustathius.4 To
the Homilia in Lazarum, Cavallera attached most of the extant fragments,
though he did not reproduce in full those that were available in print else-
where. In 1928 Robert Sellers produced what remained until now the only
monograph on Eustathius’ theology in English.5 It is important for the
present purpose because it contains a substantial discussion of Eustathian
fragments, and Sellers often questions the authenticity of Cavallera’s attribu-
tions. The next major contribution was Spanneut’s edition, with an extensive
introduction, in 1948.6 This was to remain the principal edition for Eustathius
until Declerck’s publication in 2002. In a critical note in 1955, Felix Scheid-
weiler proposed several emendations to Spanneut’s edition.7
Discussions about the authenticity of ostensibly Eustathian fragments have
inevitably been concerned to establish their coherence with Eustathian the-
ology. This methodology has sometimes become problematically circular,
which is especially clear in Sellers’ work; Sellers defined Eustathius as an
3
For a discussion of the editions of Eustathius’ work, see Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CIII–
CXLV. All editions and critical notes of Eustathius’ work are listed in the Bibliography.
4
Ferdinand Cavallera, Saint Eustathii Episcopi Antiocheni in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham
homilia christologica. Nunc primum e codice groviano edita cum commentario de fragmentis
eustathianis; accesserunt fragmenta Flaviani I Antiocheni (Paris: Picard, 1905).
5
Sellers, Eustathius.
6
Spanneut, Recherches.
7
Felix Scheidweiler, ‘Die Fragmente des Eustathios von Antiocheia’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift
48 (1955) 73–85, doi: 10.1515/byzs.1955.48.1.73.
Eustathius’ Writings 35
‘Antiochene’ theologian, and correspondingly saw his theology as character-
ized by ‘literalist’ exegesis and highly divisive Christology. He therefore reject-
ed a number of fragments on the grounds that they contain allegorical exegesis
or apparently monistic Christology. For example, he rejected the authenticity
of a section of a putatively Eustathian fragment on Melchizedek, on the basis
that it ‘confuses the natures of Christ’, thus making divisive Christology an a
priori requirement for Eustathian authorship.8 It is more likely that Eu-
stathius’ Christology changed over the course of his life. Drawing on the
fragments rejected by Sellers, Aloys Grillmeier argued that Eustathius’ early
Christology had been fairly monistic.9 Eustathius’ Christology did become
divisive, he claims, in response to ‘Arianism’: Eustathius noticed that logos–
sarx Christology, favoured by the ‘Arians’, required the Son to be the subject of
Christ’s passions, and therefore undermined the Son’s divinity. Eustathius
talked about Christ’s human soul to guard against this ‘Arian’ position.10 It
seems to me clear that a significant shift took place in Eustathius’ Christology;
in Engastrimytho, we see a less divisive Christology than in Eustathius’ anti-
Arian works, though, importantly, there is still a highly developed discourse
on Christ’s human soul. The development of Eustathius’ Christology shall be
surveyed towards the end of the chapter. For now, suffice to note that an
apparently monistic Christology is not a reason to reject the Eustathian
authorship of a fragment.
THE TRANSMISSION OF THE F RAGMENTS
Most of the extant Eustathian fragments11 have been selected from Eustathius’
work by thinkers engaged in discourses different to his own. Because his belief
in Christ’s human soul provided a valuable precedent to later Antiochene
Christology, his work was a fruitful resource for those engaged in the Christo-
logical controversies of the fifth and sixth centuries. Most fragments from
Eustathius’ anti-Arian works are preserved by thinkers promoting dyohypo-
static Christology; Theodoret of Cyrus preserves more fragments than anyone
else. However, a few fragments are also preserved by miaphysite thinkers—
such as Severus of Antioch—sometimes claiming Eustathius’ Christology as a
precedent to their own, sometimes appealing to his divisive Christology in
8
Sellers, Eustathius, p. 69.
9
Aloys Grillmeier, Christ in the Christian Tradition, vol. 1, 2nd edn (London: Mowbray,
1975), translated by John Bowden, pp. 296–301.
10
Grillmeier, Christ in the Christian Tradition, pp. 299–300.
11
A comprehensive survey of the transmission of the Eustathian fragments can be found in
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CLI–CCCLXVIII.

disputes with other miaphysite thinkers, to establish some degree of distinction
between Christ’s humanity and his divinity.
The circumstances in which the Eustathian fragments were selected have
two interrelated consequences: later thinkers have placed his writings within
disparate systems of meaning, vesting words and phrases with anachronistic
significance.12 The themes and arguments that later authors considered sig-
nificant in Eustathius are not necessarily what he had considered to be the
central portions of his discourse. Furthermore, those citing Eustathius have
often deliberately aligned his thought to theirs. Consequently, where we see an
apparently coherent system emerging, it is not necessarily Eustathius’ system.
Because Theodoret contributes so much to our collection of Eustathian
fragments, a particular note about him is necessary. There is very wide
consensus on the authenticity of Theodoret’s citations.13 This is corroborated
by the fact that much of what he quotes appears elsewhere. The oft-noted
exception is D133, which is preserved in Theodoret’s Eranistes: it is identical to
a writing by Didymus of Alexandria.14 Declerck argues that this false attribu-
tion was certainly accidental on Theodoret’s part: Didymus’ name would have
been more impressive to Theodoret’s opponents than Eustathius’ was.15
Marcel Richard suggests that this mistake could have occurred because ‘Eu-
stathians’ were interested in Didymus’ piece on the soul and so attached it to
Eustathius’ work.16 It remains possible that Theodoret knew that the work was
not Eustathian but did not know that it was by Didymus, in which case he
would have had motive to lie in order to present Eustathius as author and,
therefore, as favourable to his own Christology, being unaware that the true
author of the work would, in fact, be more impressive. However, this is highly
speculative. The picture painted by Richard and Declerck is more probable
and a single false attribution is, in any case, insufficient to undermine Theo-
doret’s reliability substantially. Theodoret evidently had direct access to many
Eustathian works, and often provides us with titles that help to shape the
Eustathian corpus.
We now turn to the sources for Eustathius’ extant work.
12
See discussion on Theotokos in ‘The Sources for Eustathius’ Extant Works—De
Tentationibus’.
13
See Schwartz, ‘Die Dokumente des arianischen Streits bis 325’, pp. 258–9 reprinted in GS,
III, pp. 119–20. To my knowledge, every scholar to write on Eustathius in either the twentieth or
the twenty-first century has accepted the authenticity of the overwhelming majority of Theodor-
et’s fragments.
14
Noted by Eduard Weigl in his Christologie vom Tode des Athanasius bis zum Ausbruch des
nestorianischen Streites (373–429) (Munich: J. Kösel & F. Pustet, komm.-ges., 1925), p. 101,
note 3.
15
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CLXXXVIII–CLXXXIX.
16
Marcel Richard, ‘Notes sur les floriléges dogmatiques du V et du VI siècle’, Actes due VI
Congrès international d’Études Byzantines (Paris, 1948), pp. 311–12.
T H E SO U R C E S F O R EU S T A T H I U S ’ EXTANT WORK
De Engastrimytho Contra Origenem
Engastrimytho is an exegetical treatise on 1 Samuel 28:3–25 (LXX 1 King-

doms)—the story in which Saul visits a necromancer at Endor and she
purports to recall Samuel from the dead. Eustathius attacks Origen’s inter-
pretation of the passage and proposes an alternative. He wrote Engastrimytho
at the request of Eutropius of Adrianopolis.17 In its current form, it is
comprised of a reproduction of Origen’s otherwise lost exegetical treatise on
1 Samuel 28:3–25, probably altered, and Eustathius’ exegesis of the same
passage.18
Contra Ariomanitas et de Anima [D1–D61]
This work is preserved largely in the aforementioned epitome, found in codex

Athonesis Vatopedinus, 236 and previously ascribed to Gregory of Nyssa.19 It
consists of a series of fragments [D1–D55]. There are additionally many other
fragments:
• D14b, D16b, D19b, D56, and D57 found in Theodoret’s Eranistes.
• D8b, D31b, and D59–D61 found in John of Damascus’ Sacra Parallela.
D8b and D31b are identical with D8a and D31a of the epitome,
respectively.
• D22b and D58 found in Eustratius of Constantinople’s De statu anima-
rum post-mortem. D22b is identical with D22a, preserved in the epitome.
• D31c is preserved in an anonymous tract, Ad eos qui dicunt humanis
corporibus animas praeexistere, in codex Athonesis Vatopedinus, 237.
John of Damascus, Eustratius of Constantinople, and the unknown author
of Ad eos qui dicunt humanis corporibus animas praeexistere all offer frag-
ments that are identical with the epitome; Theodoret’s are often very different.
This might suggest that they are copying from the epitome. Eustratius and
John, however, both evidently have access to some other version of this work,
or fragments of it from sources now lost, because they also quote passages that
do not survive in the epitome.
The nature of this work was contested among earlier scholars, who had only
the fragments, and not the epitome, on which to base their conclusions.
17 18
Declerck, Eustathii, p. LVII. Origen, Homilia in 1 Regum 28.
19
On this codex, see Otero de Santos, ‘Der Codex Vatopedi 236’, ˚ºÅæÆ 5, (1973),
315–26.

Cavallera argued that it was a single work divided into two parts, the first
addressing the relationship between the body and the soul and the second
refuting ‘Arian’ logos–sarx Christology.20 Both Sellers and Spanneut posited
two separate works, De anima contra philosophos and De anima contra
Arianos. In this case, the former would have been written before the ‘Arian’
controversy began.21 These arguments are interesting in themselves, but have
been superseded by Declerck. He has established that the pseudo-Nyssene
KØc F ŒÆa æ ØÆØH
Ø
ºı ŒÆd æd łıåB—‘epitome of the book
against the Ariomanitas and on the soul’—is in fact a compilation of extracts
from the Eustathian Contra Ariomanitas, thereby demonstrating that it is a
single work.22 This discovery is incontrovertible because, as we have seen, the
epitome contains many fragments attested elsewhere and generally accepted
as part of the de anima collection of fragments, including many preserved by
Theodoret.
D151 is preserved in Sacra Parallela, where it is attributed to Eustathius,
without mention of a particular work. Cavallera suggested that it may come
from the de anima contra philosophos section of the work, which would make
it part of Ariomanitas.23 Declerck rejects the Eustathian authorship of D151,
acknowledging that its contents would fit but arguing that the language and
style are untypical of Eustathius. He allows an exception to this in the phrase
ŒÆa B F ˜ÆıU ºªÆ.24 Though the syntax of this fragment is
unusually simple for Eustathius, in a relatively short extract, a few surprisingly
banal phrases are insufficient to establish that it is apocryphal. D151 could be
Eustathian, but, even if it is, any connection with Ariomanitas must remain
speculative.
In Psalmum 92—In Inscriptiones Psalmorum Graduum
There are a handful of anti-Arian fragments focusing on the Psalms. They are
generally ascribed to two works: a work on Psalm 92 [In Psalmum 92, D85–
D88]; and a work on ‘the Psalms of Ascents’ (LXX Ps. 119–33)—[In inscrip-
tiones Psalmorum graduum, D82–D84]. I will suggest that these fragments
probably derive from one anti-Arian work on the Psalms.
20
Cavallera, Homilia, pp. 86–7.
21
Sellers, Eustathius, pp. 72–3, Spanneut, Recherches, pp. 63–4, 67–8. Scheidweiler noted
both possibilities in ‘Fragmente’, p. 73.
22
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CLIV–CLXXXI.
23
Cavallera, Homilia, p. 87. D151 is preserved in Sacra Parallela.
24
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCXXXVI.
In Psalmum 92 [D85–D88]
• D85–87 are found in Eranistes, described as being from the æÅ Æ—
‘interpretation’—of Psalm 92.
• D88 is preserved in a letter from Severus of Antioch to Sergius the
Grammarian. Severus attributes the fragment to Eustathius, without
mentioning the work it comes from. He offers the fragment in support
of the belief that there is only one ÆØ in the Trinity.
In Inscriptiones Psalmorum graduum [D82–D84]
• D82 and D83 are preserved in Eranistes. D82 follows D15b, which is
ascribed to Eustathius. Referring back to this ascription, the epigram for
D82 reads ‘from the same, from the work [ºªı] on the Psalms of
ascent’. D83 follows directly and its epigram reads ‘of the same, from
the same’.
• D84 was discovered by Luise Abramowski in a Syriac dyophysite florilegium
containing some works by Gregory of Nazianzus—the Gregor–Scholien
florilegium.25 Its epigram reads: ‘Of Eustathius, bishop of Antioch,
about the Psalms.’ It is found with four other Eustathian fragments.26
There are good reasons for trusting the compiler of Gregor–Scholien
about Eustathius: two other Eustathian fragments preserved here (D81,
D124) are attested as Eustathian in another dyophysite Syriac manu-
script: Anonymi auctoris Refutatio xii Capitulorum Cyrilli. This contains
several other Eustathian fragments.27
In Inscriptiones Titulorum [D62–64, D129?]
• D62 is preserved in Theodoret’s Eranistes. Theodoret introduces it as ‘Of

the holy Eustathius, bishop of Antioch and confessor, from the work on
the memorial Psalms [KŒ F ºªı F N a KØªæÆça B
ÅºªæÆçÆ].’28
25
Luise Abramowski and Albert van Roey ‘Florileg mit den Gregor–Scholien’, Orientalia
Lovaniensia Periodica, 1 (1970), 131–80 p. 166, fn. 28. Modern scholarship has so named the
florilegium in light of its contents and I retain the name for convenience.
26
The other fragments in Gregor–Scholien are D80, D81b, D124b, and D126.
27
Abramowski, ‘Gregor–Scholien’, p. 134. Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCX–XII. On Anonymi
auctoris Refutatio xii Capitulorum Cyrilli, see Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCIII–CCX.
28
In the Septuagint, the term ÅºªæÆçÆ—memorial—forms part of the epigram for a
handful of Davidic Psalms, Ps. 15 and 55–9.

• D63a, D63b, and D64c are all preserved in Collectio Coisliniana in Genesim.
D63a is described as ‘Of Eustathius of Antioch, from the writings on the
memorial [KŒ H N c ÅºªæÆçÆ].’ D63b is a shorter version of
D63a and is simply described as ‘of Eustathius’. D64c is described as ‘of
Eustathius of Antioch, from the work on the memorial Psalms’ (the de-
scription of the work is exactly the same as in Theodoret’s epigram to D62).
• D64 is also reproduced in two separate ninth-century iconodule works by
Nicephorus of Constantinople:29 D64a, in Sanctorum Patrum testimonia
octoginta, carries the epigram: ‘From Eustathius, Bishop of Antioch’ and
continues ‘from the work on the memorial Psalms, the writing concern-
ing where the law of Moses is accomplished [KŒ F æd ÅºªæÆçÆ
ºªı, ŁÆ æd F Łı øø e ºª Ø EÆØ]’. D64b is
from Refutatio et eversion definitionis synodalis anni 815 and carries the
epigram: ‘The great Eustathius, who was bishop of Antioch long ago, in
his writing that was inscribed, for its contents, “on the inscription of the
memorial”, that is to say, the work concerning the fulfilment of the law of
Moses [K fiH KØª ªæÆø fi ÆPF ºªø fi Ł øæÅÆØŒH < N e
KªæÆÆ B ÅºªæÆçÆ > ø ºªø, æd F Łı
øø e ºª Ø ].’
The Eustathian authorship of these fragments is fairly certain, as both Spanneut
and Declerck have observed many Eustathian characteristics in them. For
example, Declerck observes that, in D64, the incarnation is described as
ÆıæªÆ, as in D85.30 These fragments all carry attributions to Eustathius and
there is strong evidence that they all come from the same work, as their epigrams
all include the claim that the fragment in question is taken from a writing B
ÅºªæÆçÆ (a reference to the ‘memorial’ Psalms, Ps. 15 and Ps. 55–9).
Declerck has noted a previously unattested fragment on Psalm 55 [D129]
attributed to Eustathius in an eighth-century work.31 He observes that fragment
D129 could come from Inscriptiones Titulorum, but seems dubious.32 We
must be aware of this possibility.
In Proverbia 8.22—Contra Arianos—De Fide
We apparently have fragments from a further three anti-Arian works. I will

suggest that these actually derive from one work.
29
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCXLVI–CCCLII.
30
Spanneut, Recherces, pp. 66–7; Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCXXXV. Compare D64:25 with
D85:4 [Ps. 92]. Sellers, Eustathius, p. 68, rejected the authenticity of the Collectio fragments on
the basis that their exegesis was allegorical; not only does this rely on an oversimplified
understanding of allegory, but is also not borne out by safely Eustathian works. See ‘The Nature
and Context of Eustathius’ works—Engastrimytho—Engastrimytho and Eustathian exegesis’.
31 32
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCXXVI. Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCXXVI.
In Proverbia 8.22 [D65–D81, D124, D126]

• Fragments D65–D78 are preserved in Eranistes and all carry epigrams
saying that they are by Eustathius and from the work (ºª) on the verse
‘the Lord created me in the beginning of his ways’.
• D79 is preserved in Theodoret’s Historia Ecclesiastica. It is the fragment
describing events at Nicaea, which we came across in Chapter 1. Theo-
doret brings it up when telling the story of Nicaea. He introduces it:
‘Eustathius, that bishop of Antioch who has already been mentioned,
wrote these things concerning them [the pro-Arian bishops], explaining
what happened and refuting their blasphemy, when explaining the text in
Proverbs “the Lord created me in the beginning of his ways”.’
• Another version of D70 is preserved in a twelfth-century chain on Luke’s
Gospel, as noticed by Spanneut. The chain’s author wrongly ascribes it to
Hippolytus, but this is clearly less reliable than Theodoret’s attribution.33
• D80, a version of D81 [D81b], and another version of D65 [D65b] are
preserved in Syriac in Gregor–Scholien. D80 carries the epigram ‘Of
Eustathius, bishop of Antioch, from the work “The Lord created me”.’34
D81 follows directly and carries the epigram ‘Of the same, from the same
work’. These two fragments are therefore clearly ascribed to Eustathius’
work on Proverbs 8.22, attested by Theodoret. The next two Eustathian
fragments in Gregor–Scholien [D124, D126] follow directly, noting only
‘from the same’.35 Declerck wonders whether the latter two are also from
In Proverbia 8.22, but believes there is no real evidence that they are.36
The compiler of Gregor–Scholien does, indeed, leave this unclear; ‘From
the same’, in the case of D81b, clearly means ‘from the same author’,
because the compiler of the florilegium immediately adds that it is also
from the same work. So, with reference to D124 and D126, it could refer
again simply to Eustathius and not the work of origin. However, the
contents of these fragments suggest that they are, indeed, part of In
Proverbia 8:22. D126 contains an exegesis of Romans 8.29—‘conformed
to the image of his Son’—that is very close to Eustathius’ treatment of the
passage in D68, and may well be carrying on the same argument.
• Another version of D81 [D81a] is preserved in Syriac, in the dyophysite
Refutatio xii Capitulorum Cyrilli, which contains many other Eustathian
fragments. It is mistakenly ascribed ‘Of blessed Athanasius, on the soul’.
33
Spanneut, ‘Hippolyte ou Eustathe? Autour de la Chaîne de Nicétas sur l’Évangile selon
saint Luc’, Mélanges de science religieuse, 9 (1952), 215–16. The chain is listed at CPG, C 135.
34
The quotation conforms to the Peshitta’s rendering of the phrase from Proverbs 8.22.
35
Compare Abramawoksi’s text, pp. 145–6 [Syriac], p. 166 [Latin translation].
36
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCXII.
Contra Arianos [D89–D108, D125]

The authorship of these fragments is virtually uncontested.
• Theodoret cites nine fragments, D89–D93 and D95–D98, in his Pentalo-
gos, the Greek original of which is now lost. Pentalogos is preserved in
Latin, appended to Pope Gelasius’ De duabus in Christo naturis.37 These
are quoted one after another. D89 carries the epigram ‘Of Eustathius
bishop of Antioch and confessor, against the Arians’. Each subsequent
fragment refers back to the first, sometimes with the phrase ‘from the
same, a little later, he says’ and sometimes just with the phrase ‘a little
later’. D98 is ascribed simply ‘from the same’, but, as it is the last in a long
list, Theodoret presumably meant to ascribe it to Contra Arianos as well.
• D99–D103 appear in Latin in Facundus of Hermione’s, Pro defensione
Trium Capitulorum libri xii, a dyophysite work from c 547.38 D99 is
introduced with the phrase ‘for example the blessed Eustathius, bishop of
Antioch, who was foremost at the Council of Nicaea, in the sixth book
against the Arians, about that which the Lord said, “No one knows that
day”, says’. D100 and D101 are both said to be from the same book. D102
is said to be from the eighth book (presumably the eighth book ‘Against
the Arians’ or, the eighth book of ‘Against the Arians’) and D103 is said to
be from the same book. So, Facundus believes there to be at least eight
books, or sections of a work, against the Arians, and gives us three
fragments from the sixth book, and two from the eighth. The sixth
book apparently addresses eschatology.
• D104–D106, three short fragments, were quoted by Eulogius of Alexan-
dria and preserved, in turn, by Photius. D104 carries the epigram: ‘For
Eustathius, the bishop of the Antiochenes, in the six books against the
Arians, that is, the books on Proverbs, says’. D105 refers back to D104,
and D106, following directly from D105, carries the epigram, ‘And then
the reckoning under the law’, which is the subject of the fragment. This
seems to mark it out as part of the same work, on this particular topic.
Photius reports that he found these fragments in a work divided into two
parts; the first half was a defence of the Tome of Leo, the second half a
critique of what Severus of Antioch and Timothy Aelurus had said about
the Tome.39
• D107 is preserved in Greek in Doctrina Patrum de Incarnatione Verbi, a
late seventh-century heresiological catalogue with a strong dyophysite
37
On which see Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCXXIV–CCXXVII.
38
For Facundus’ Pro defensione Trium Capitulorum libri xii (CPL 866), see Declerck,
Eustathii, pp. CCLXX–CCLXXV.
39
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCLXXX–CCLXXXI.
thrust.40 It is ascribed to Eustathius of Antioch ‘from the first book [book
alpha] against the Arians’.
• D108, a single sentence, is preserved in John of Damascus’ Sacra
Parallela.
• D94 and D125 are preserved in Syriac in Refutatio xii Capitulorum
Cyrilli. Declerck notes that D125 may be an abridged version of D91.
This is probable, as they cover the same content:41 D125 reads: ‘If “in
Christ dwells all the fullness of the godhead”, there is one who dwells, and
another who is inhabited, and it is not right that we should attribute
suffering and death to the divine nature, but these suit the one who was
assumed.’42 D91 reads:
If indeed ‘the fullness of divinity’ dwells in Christ, it is one thing that dwells, and
in truth another that is dwelt in. If they truly differ in nature from each other,
neither passion of death nor desire for food nor desire for drinks, not sleep, not
sorrow, not tiredness, not crying of tears, [and] no other change, however much,
is allowed to coexist with fullness of divinity, since it is immutable in nature, but
these are fit to be applied appropriately to the human being, who consists of a soul
and a body. It is suited indeed to demonstrate from the human affairs and
innocuous motions themselves, that not imaginarily and putatively, but actually,
God has been clothed in a complete human being, assuming it perfectly.
The middle portion of the fragment may have been removed in the Syriac
version.
Most of these fragments have been chosen by people wishing to emphasize
divisive Christology. Loofs speculated that In Proverbia 8.22 may form part of
Contra Arianos.43
De Fide [D109–D112, D128]

In a Syriac tract against John the Grammarian, Severus of Antioch preserved
these four relatively short fragments from an anti-Arian writing. He intro-
duces D109 as an extract from the work that Eustathius wrote, ‘against
the Arians on the faith’ and each successive fragment he introduces with
the phrase ‘from the same’, making a further reference to writing ‘against
the Arians’ before D110. Severus argues that Eustathius’ apparently very
divisive Christology is the consequence of his anti-Arian context.44 These
fragments are uncontested.
40 41
CPG 7781. Declerck, Eustathii, note 3 to D125.
42
Slightly amended from Abramowski and Goodman, A Nestorian Collection of Christologic-
al Texts, vol. 2 (Cambridge: CUP, 1972), p. 85, lines 19–22.
43
Loofs, ‘Eustathius’, p. 627. 44
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCLXIII.

Cavallera and Spanneut argue that the otherwise unplaceable D128, pre-
served in The Chain of Polychronius on Proverbs, is part of the same work
because D110 appears to be a slightly different version of the opening lines of
the longer D128.45 Declerck is unconvinced, arguing that only the first phrase
resembles an exact translation. D110 does indeed seem to be at least a very
close paraphrase of D128. The argument produced by amalgamating D128
and D110 is also typical of Eustathius’ anti-Arian theology. Having quoted
Proverbs 8.22 and applied it to Christ’s humanity, D128 focuses on the
soteriological value of Christ’s humanity. As Scheidweiler notes, this soterio-
logical overtone is typical of Eustathius’ use of the phrase › ¼Łæø F
æØF—‘the human being of Christ’—which is used in the Syriac frag-
ment.46 D128 is therefore probably part of the same work as D109–D112.
Cavallera argued that the fragments ostensibly from De Fide Contra
Arianos were part of In Proverbia 8.22 on the basis of their concern with
this passage.47 Spanneut reserves judgement on this point, but considers that
De Fide Contra Arianos and Contra Arianos may be the same work.48
Cavallera is unaware of D109, and its introductory note ‘on the faith’,
which has been seen as providing a title distinct from either In Proverbia
8.22 or Contra Arianos; Declerck seems to regard this introductory note as
proof that they come from a work entitled De Fide Contra Arianos.49 The
reference to ‘the faith’ is not as conclusive as Declerck suggests, as it could as
plausibly be a description as a title, and it would perfectly describe either In
Proverbia 8.22 or Contra Arianos.
In Melchisedech [D113–D116]
Whilst Bishop of Beroea, Eustathius wrote to Alexander of Alexandria, at his

behest, about Melchizedek.
• D113 is preserved in Syriac in the anonymous Florilegium Edessenum, a
miaphysite work written before c 562 (this florilegium contains three
other Eustathian fragments [D117, D118, D119b], D119 being attested
and ascribed to Eustathius elsewhere).50 D113 is described as deriving
from Eustathius’ letter to Alexander, Archbishop of Alexandria, on
Melchizedek.
45
Spanneut, Recherches, p. 51; Cavallera, Homilia, pp. 77–8.
46
Scheidweiler, ‘Die Fragmente des Eustathios’, p. 76.
47
Cavallera, Homilia, p. 77.
48
Spanneut, Recherches, p. 75 and Spanneut, ‘Eustathe d’Antioche’, col. 20 respectively.
49
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCCXI.
50
For the date, see Ignaz Rucker, Florilegium Edessenum anonymum (Munich: Sitzungsber-
ichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1933), pp. xviii–xix.
• D114, D115a, D116a, and D116b (two different versions of the same
fragment) are preserved in Greek in a fifth-century chain on Genesis.51
D114 is ascribed to Eustathius, and D115a and D116a are said to come
from a little further along, presumably in the same discussion. D116b,
elsewhere in the chain, is ascribed to Eustathius.
Fragment D115 is attested in four additional places, two carrying attribu-
tions to Eustathius:
• D115b overlaps with D115a, and the portion of it that covers the same
material is identical with D115a. D115b is preserved in Florilegium
Coislianum secundum alphabeti litteras dispositum [Coislianum], where
it carries an epigram reading ‘of bishop Eustathius’. Part of D115 is found
in a homily on Melchizedek attributed to John Chrysostom, in exactly the
same form as in Coislianum.52 Its Eustathian authorship has consequent-
ly often been rejected, including by Sellers.53 However, a discovery by
Berthold Altaner changed things. Altaner found, elsewhere in Coislianum,
the entire fragment of which D115b forms a part. Here only the portion
additional to D115a is attributed to Chrysostom.54 Therefore, as Declerck
argues, the connection with the homily by pseudo-Chrysostom is no reason
for rejecting the Eustathian authorship of D115.
• D115c is preserved in George the monk’s Universal Chronicle, and was
first noticed there by Declerck.55 It was here wrongly attributed to Cyril of
Alexandria, possibly because of its monistic Christology.
• D115d is preserved, without an ascription, in an encyclopaedia composed
around 1000 CE, the Suidae lexicon.56 D115d is slightly shorter than
D115c, but is otherwise identical. This version of the fragment is cata-
logued among Eustathius’ works for the first time by Declerck.
• Another version of D115, not appearing in Declerck’s edition, was dis-
covered by Theodora Antonopoulou. It had previously been ascribed to
the ninth-century Photius of Constantinople.57
Jerome testifies to the existence of Eustathius’ letter to Alexander on
Melchizedek, so the epigram on D113, ascribing it to this work, is plausible.58
Though the grounds for ascribing the other fragments to this work are
51
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCXXVII.
52
Chrysostome Baur, note on Cavallera, Homilia, RHE 8 (1907), 330–1.
53
Sellers, Eustathius, pp. 69–70.
54
Berthold Altaner, ‘Die Schrift — æd F ºåØ bŒ des Eustathios von Antiocheia’, BZ, 40
(1940), p. 33.
55 56
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCLIII. Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCLXII.
57
Theodora Antonopoulou, ‘Eustathius of Antioch and a Fragment Attributed to Patriarch
Photius’, JTS, 57, no. 2 (2006), 546–50, doi: 10.1093/jts/flj113.
58
Jerome, Epistula ad Evangelum, letter 73.

internal, they are very strong: all four fragments form part of the same
discussion, in which Melchizedek is described as prefiguring Christ. It is
therefore fairly certain that this is, indeed, the origin of these fragments.
Sellers has objected to the authenticity of most of these fragments on several
dogmatic grounds. D113, he says, confuses the nature of Christ, which is at
odds with Eustathius’ divisive Christology. In D113, ‘The Word, who became
flesh’ is said to descend into the water at Christ’s baptism.59 Sellers allows that
the first half of the fragment may be Eustathian, but the second half is certainly
not.60 He then objects that fragments D114 and D116b present Melchizedek as
a ‘supernatural being’, which was ‘surely not the opinion of Eustathius’.61
Sellers supports his incredulity with Jerome’s testimony.62 An examination of
the extant fragments, including D115, vindicates Jerome. In D115, Eustathius
claims that Melchizedek was, in fact, of Canaanite descent, but that scripture
does not so refer to him so as not to associate him with the immorality of the
Canaanites: ‘it was most unsuitable to force together the man who had
achieved the peak of righteousness with the people who had achieved the
peak of unrighteousness’.63 In D114, Eustathius notes what the epistle to the
Hebrews says about Melchizedek; this he could hardly contradict. He then
explains precisely how it does not mean that Melchizedek had no parents.
A key argument in the extant fragments is that Melchizedek was not a
supernatural entity, but rather a flesh and blood human. Sellers, it turns out,
is right to trust Jerome, but wrong to allow this to lead him to reject the
authenticity of D114; had he been aware of the authenticity of the other
Melchizedek fragments, he would have been able to reconcile his view of
Eustathius’ theology with the contents of D114. We may, then, safely assume
that all three fragments are Eustathian, and from the letter on Melchizedek to
Alexander.
De Tentationibus [D117]
D117 is preserved in Syriac in the miaphysite Florilegium Edessenum and is

described as ‘Of Eustathius, bishop of Antioch, from the work on temptations’.
It contains the word Theotokos and Sellers consequently rejects it.64 This not
only relies on a circular methodology that does not allow for development in
Eustathius’ ideas, but also reads into the term Theotokos the ‘miaphysite’
intention that the Syriac author presents it as carrying, risking anachronism.
59
This may not so much confuse the natures of Christ as ascribe an earthly role to Christ’s
divine nature, as I argue in ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works—Oratio Coram tota
Ecclesia and Secunda oratio coram tota Ecclesia—Date and Nature of the Works’.
60
Sellers, Eustathius, p. 69, esp. note 4.
61 62
Sellers, Eustathius, p. 69. Sellers, Eustathius, p. 69.
63 64
D115ab:16–18. Sellers, Eustathius, p. 67.
Admittedly, even in his own fourth-century context, Theotokos would have
jarred with Eustathius’ sometime outright insistence that Mary was the
mother of Christ’s humanity, rather than the mother of the Word.65 None-
theless, there are several reasons to think that Eustathius’ pre-controversy
Christology had room for the term. It coheres with his Christology in Engas-
trimytho, where, as we shall see, he often refers to the actions and experiences
of Christ as those of God. Theotokos even appears in the creed of Antioch 324,
suggesting that Eustathius could stomach it well into the early phase of the
controversy.66 In any case, the presence of the term Theotokos is not a reason
for rejecting the Eustathian authorship of the fragment.
Oratio coram tota Ecclesia [D119] and Secunda oratio

coram tota Ecclesia [D118]
• D119a is attested in Greek in the thirteenth-century codex Florilegium

Achridense.67 It carries the epigram ‘Of the holy Eustathius, bishop of
Antioch, from the work on the whole church’. This version of the
fragment does not appear in editions prior to Declerck’s.
• D119b is attested in Syriac in Florilegium Edessenum. It is ascribed to
Eustathius (by the phrase ‘from the same’, referencing back to the epi-
gram on D117) and then the epigram continues ‘Of the discourse in the
presence of the church, on the subject, “the Word became flesh”’.
Sellers objects to D119 on the basis that, in it, God suffers. God the Word, in
fact, is killed, so he also presumably dies. However, I will argue that Sellers
neglects a development in Eustathius’ Christology towards a more divisive
approach.
• D118 is also preserved in Florilegium Edessenum and ascribed to Eu-
stathius. It is described as ‘from the second discourse in the presence of
the church’.
De Hebraismo [D120]
Only one fragment from the exegetical work designated De Hebraismo sur-
vives, preserved in John of Damascus’ Sacra Parallela, in which many Eu-
stathian fragments are cited, so its authorship is fairly secure. The derivation of
the phrase De Hebraisimo is unclear. The title refers to the subject of the
65 66
D65a:7–8 [In Proverbia 8.22]. See Parvis, Marcellus, p. 79.
67
See Marcel Richard, ‘Le traité de Georges hiéronymonie sur les hérésies’, RHE, 28 (1970),
240–2 = Opera Minora, III, 62 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1977).

fragment, so, if John of Damascus were unsure of its derivation, this would be
a natural title to add.
In Joseph [D121, D122]
D121 and D122 are found in the same fifth-century chain on Genesis that
contains D114, D115a, and D116ab, each of them in two different versions
[D121a, D121b, D122a, D122b]. Again, Joseph is mentioned in the fragment,
so ‘On Joseph’ may be simply a description. In particular, within a chain on
Genesis, the phrase ‘on Joseph’ could plausibly be added as a further detail
after ‘Eustathius’.
In Samaritanam [D123ab]
Two identical fragments, preserved in iconodule florilegia, carry the same

epigram:68 ‘Of Eustathius, the holy bishop of Antioch, from the writing on
the Samaritan woman.’ This work is otherwise unattested.69 It is possible that
the compilers were drawing on a single source, so the identical title does not
confirm its authenticity. However, the passage quoted does not address the
Gospel narrative about the Samaritan woman, lending some weight to the title.
Sellers argues that the phrase F Œıæı ÆÆªÆ æŒÆ, which is found in
D123, is not Eustathian.70 Spanneut allows that the phrase is found nowhere
else but does not find it surprising, as Eustathius does use the term ÆÆª in
a different context, and refers to Christ’s body as Æª. Furthermore, Span-
neut argues that the ‘appropriation of the body by the Word’ is common in
Eustathius’ writings.71 Spanneut does, however, suggest that the Christology is
insufficiently divisive for the period after the outbreak of the controversy.72
Declerck counters that the image theology of D123 is similar to that in the
Council of Antioch 324.73
In his analysis, Spanneut, not unreasonably, considers this phrase with
regards to its Christology. If one is considering Christology from a purely
68
D123a is preserved in the tenth-century codex Ven. Marc. gr.573. D123b is preserved in the
eighth-century codex Par. Gr. 1115. See J. A. Munitiz, ‘Le Parisinus Graecus 1115. Description et
arrière-plan historique’, Scriptorium, 36 (1982), 51–67; Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCXL–
CCCXLI and pp. CCCXXXVII–CCCXL, respectively.
69 70
Spanneut, Recherches, p. 80. Sellers, Eustathius, p. 67.
71
‘appropriation du corps par le Verbe’.
72
Spanneut, Recherches, p. 80. For ÆÆª& Engastrimytho, 26.9 Eustathius describes Christ’s
risen body as Æª in both Ariomanitas [D22ab:26–7] and In Proverbia 8.22 [D71:2–3], in the
latter case referring specifically to Christ’s ‘limbs’.
73
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCCXV.
mechanical standpoint, his claim that the theology implied in the phrase
ÆÆªÆ æŒÆ echoes Eustathius is reasonable. Eustathius very often refers
to the Word taking up the human body. However, Eustathius often refers to
Christ assuming not æ but HÆ and, in the later writings especially, tends
to couple this with łıå: ‘Christ did not take up a body alone, but also a
soul.’74 Despite a frequent emphasis on Christ’s assumption of the human
body, it is only twice signified by the term æ in the extant writings, in the
form of quotes from John 6.63: ‘the flesh profits nothing’, and John 1.14 ‘the
Word became flesh’.75 Declerck, in turn, fails to fully appreciate the strange-
ness of the phrase in Eustathius when he does not adequately address Span-
neut’s discomfiture with fragment D123’s unitive phraseology when compared
with his anti-Arian terminology.
Despite this, this phrase may well be Eustathian because the emphasis in
referring to Christ’s flesh is here ecclesiological, and specifically Eucharistic,
more than Christological: most of the instances in which Eustathius refers to
Christ’s body are explicitly Christological, and often intended to give an
accurate description of the incarnation. Eustathius only uses the word ÆÆªÆ
in one other place; it is in Engastrimytho, and he writes about the ‘ÆÆªÆ
utterances’ of the law, the prophets, and all the rest of scripture. It has a sense
of the sanctity and unity of scripture, which plausibly coheres with its use in
Samaritanam, if the Eucharistic context is taken to have an ecclesiological
dimension. Furthermore, the Eucharistic context of Eustathius’ writing in
Samaritanam is also a liturgical context. This is plausibly a liturgical context
in which sarx is used to refer to Christ’s body. Eustathius’ use of the word here
would be almost expected, even though he does not use it in other contexts.
Miscellany
• In Proverbia? [D127, D137? D138?]. Spanneut speculatively places three

Eustathian fragments, which are preserved in The Chain of Polychronius
on Proverbs (in which D128 is also preserved), in a single, otherwise
unattested work ‘On Proverbs’ [D127, D137, D138].76 All are attributed
74
D16a:11–12 [Ariomanitas].
75
D20:28–32 [Ariomanitas] and D113, respectively. Additionally, the Syriac D119a refer-
ences and quotes John 1.14 ‘and the Word became flesh’ as a subject. Eustathius also writes that
Christ is descended from Jesse ‘according to flesh’. [D115ab:8], referencing Hebrews 7.3. Here,
flesh, if it does not refer to sexual intercourse, seems to refer to either the entire humanity of
Christ, or to Christ qua human, rather than qua God. Citing Luke 24.39, Eustathius also refers to
the Christ’s and the martyrs’ ‘flesh . . . and bones’ at different points [D16a:4, D16b:5–6; D44:46,
Ariomanitas], but here ‘flesh’ clearly refers to a specific part of the corporeal portion of the
person, not the whole of it.
76
Spanneut, Recherches, p. 63.

to Eustathius, but no mention is made of a work. These fragments have
generally been considered authentic, but Declerck accepts only D127.
Declerck has noted a jarring lack of Eustathian vocabulary in D137 and,
to a lesser extent, in D138 which, given that they are otherwise unattested
and of uncertain derivation, seems sufficient to designate them as apoc-
ryphal.77 D127 is probably Eustathian, but is not really evidence of a work
‘On Proverbs’.
• D130, a fragment of a single line, is preserved in an anonymous iconodule
work dating from around the time of the Second Council of Nicaea.78 It is
attributed to Eustathius. Though the fragment is very short, it echoes
Eustathius in several respects. It reads: ‘Through the wine and the bread it
proclaims the prototypes of the bodily limbs of Christ.’ Declerck com-
pares it to D32:28–30: ‘Christ . . . gives to us the antitype of his body’ and
notes that the expression ‘bodily limbs’ is frequently attested in Eu-
stathius.79 The fragment also calls to mind D123, where the Eucharistic
bread is described as the image of the ‘archetype’ and ‘prototype’.
FALSE ATTRIBUTI ONS
There are several works that have been previously attributed to Eustathius the
misattribution of which is now fairly clear, and I will not discuss these texts in
detail. I now summarize the reasons for rejecting these writings.
Homilia in Lazarum: Cavallera attributed this work to Eustathius, acknow-
ledging that there were some later interpolations. However, Louis Saltet
subsequently noted that its Trinitarian theology and Christology were ana-
chronistic to the fourth century.80 A Georgian version of the homily came to
light in 1930, and in 1975 Michel van Esbroeck reopened the debate about the
Eustathian authorship of Homilia in Lazarum in a monograph, in which he
examined six patristic homilies in Georgian.81 He published a further article
77
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCLII. Declerck also rejects D138 on the basis that its especially
allegorical exegesis is unique in the Eustathian corpus.
78
Anonymi refutation eius quae resarcinata et fallaciter nominate est definition a cogregata
turba eorum qui Christianos accusant (in Actis Concilii Nicaeni II). The text can be found in
J. D. Mansi, ed., Sacrorum Conciliorum nova et amplissima collection (Florence, 1759–67, Venice
1769–98), t. XIII, col. 265A–364D and is discussed by Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCXLI–
CCCXLVI.
79
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCXLVI. For reference to bodily limbs, see D4:3–4 [Ariomanitas].
80
Louis Saltet, ‘Le schisme d’Antioch’, Bulletin de littérature ecclésiastique (1906), 120–5.
81
Michel van Esbroeck, Les plus anciens homéliares georgiens. Étude descriptive et historique
(Louvain: Publications de l’Institut Orientaliste de Louvain, 1975). For Esbroeck’s case for the
Eustathian authorship of the homily, see pp. 285–92.
on the subject in 1982.82 He believed that the Georgian version of the text was
closer to an original Greek version than was the extant Greek and argued that
the Georgian version of the homily showed that the original was, after all,
Eustathian. However, Declerck has convincingly established that many ana-
chronisms remain.83 The arguments against the Eustathian authorship of
Homilia are persuasive: it is written in extremely simple prose, in contrast to
every known extant work of Eustathius. Esbroeck suggested that this was
because it was aimed at a less elitist audience. Though this is not impossible,
the huge difference in style must be considered to weigh against Eustathian
authorship. There is very little in it that actually echoes Eustathius, and much
more that seems surprising. For instance, it is Christ’s divinity that is said to
vanquish death in Hades, in stark contrast to Eustathius’ very developed
theology on the subject in both Engastrimytho and Ariomanitas; in these
works, it is emphatically the human soul of Christ, by virtue of its humanity,
that vanquishes death.84 The Georgian homily is at best a text that could be
contemporaneous with Eustathius and that he would not have found posi-
tively objectionable.
Attributions of Commentaria in Hexameron and Contra Photinum both
presume an improbably late date of death for Eustathius. Friedrich Zoepfl has
demonstrated the extensive influence of late fourth-century sources on Hex-
ameron, notably Basil of Caesarea’s Homilia in Heaxameron. It therefore must
be dated to the third quarter of the fourth century, as Zoepfl argues.85
Photinus did not come to prominence until 343, so if one accepts that
Eustathius wrote against him, it must be despite the improbability that
Eustathius was still alive when Serdica took place. It is immensely implausible,
both theologically and politically, that Eustathius would have written a work
against Photinus, the avid disciple of his ally Marcellus of Ancyra, and can
therefore hardly be used as proof that Eustathius lived into the 340s.
Three pseudo-Athanasian works have been attributed to Eustathius, and the
cases for and against them are connected: Sermo Major de Fide, Expositio
Fidei, and Contra Theopaschita. Both Sermo Major de Fide and Expositio Fidei
were attributed to Eustathius by Schwartz, who supposed that they were both
contained within a collection of writing that Jerome picked up at the Eu-
stathian library.86 Spanneut argued persuasively that both works were
82
Esbroeck, ‘L’homélie d’Eustathe d’Antioche en géorgien’, Oriens Christianus, 66 (1982),
189–214.
83
See his extended discussion, Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCCXX–CCCCLIII.
84
Homilia, Paragraph 20. References to the Georgian text are according to Esbroeck. See
Engastrimytho, 17.9–10 and D28:56–7.
85
Friedrich Zoepfl, Der Kommentar des Pseudo-Eustathios zum Hexaëmeron (Munich:
Aschendorf, 1927), pp. 28–34.
86
Schwartz, Der s.g. Sermo major de fide des Athanasius (Munich: Sitzungsberichte, 1924),
pp. 56–8.

attributed to Eustathius because of Jerome’s misattribution to Athanasius.87
Felix Scheidweiler initially accepted the Eustathian authorship of Expositio
Fidei and Sermo Major, and introduced the argument that Eustathius was the
author of Contra Theopaschita, found in the same dossier as the other pseudo-
Athanasian works.88 He based his claim very largely on the similarity between
it and the other two works. Accepting Eustathian authorship of these works
supposes that Eustathius was still alive after the Council of Serdica, which
Scheidweiler argues on the basis that he wrote Contra Photinum, which also
clearly post-dates Serdica.89 However, given that the Eustathian authorship of
Contra Photinum is so dubious, quite irrespective of its lateness, this argument
holds no water. Scheidweiler anyway later attributed all three works to Mar-
cellus of Ancyra.90
Allocutio ad imperatorem Constantinium was attributed to Eustathius in the
eighth century, but in the early eighteenth century Johannes Albert Fabricius
convincingly argued that it was by Gregory of Neocaesarea and this has been
widely accepted.91
Liturgia: though putatively Eustathian, there is little mark of Eustathian
dogma or style and this work has been very widely rejected.92
We have already come across the falsely attributed fragments D133, D137,
and D138. Two other miscellaneous fragments attributed to Eustathius
[D139b, D140] appear in Chain of Polychronius on Ecclesiastes. D139a appears
in a work on Ecclesiastes by Evagrius of Pontus.93
We know from the fragments on Proverbs that Polychronius clearly did
have some access to Eustathian writings, but his attributions to Eustathius
have proved unreliable. These fragments are controverted in modern schol-
arship. Sellers is dubious about them because they appear in the frequently
unreliable catenae.94 Spanneut saw insufficient reason to reject them whilst
Declerck, though eschewing Sellers’ method, agrees with him on this
point.95 Declerck’s argument is convincing: in the considerable manuscript
evidence for these fragments, D139 is rarely attributed to Eustathius, and
D140 is in fact an amalgamation of two phrases from Gregory of Nyssa.96
87
Spanneut, Recherches, pp. 87–9.
88
Scheidweiler, ‘Ein Glaubensbekenntnis des Eustathius von Antiochien?’ Zeitschrift für die
neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 44 (1952/3), 237–49, doi: 10.1515/zntw.1953.44.1.237.
89
Scheidweiler, ‘Glaubensbekenntnis’, p. 242.
90
Scheidweiler, ‘Wer ist der Verfasser des sog. Sermo Maior de Fide’, BZ, 47, no. 2 (1954),
333–57, doi: 10.1515/byzs.1954.47.2.333.
91
Loofs, ‘Eustathius’, Realencyklopädie für protestantische Theologie und Kirche, 5 (1898),
p. 627; Spanneut, Recherches, p. 83; Declerck, p. CCCCXVIII.
92
See Spanneut, Recherches, p. 85; Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCCXVIII.
93
Evagrius of Pontus, Scholia in Ecclesiasten, edited by Paul Géhin (Paris: Cerf, 1993).
94
Sellers, Eustathius, pp. 70–1.
95
Spanneut, Recherches, p. 51, p. 81; Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCLIV.
96
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCLIV.
As many Eustathian works have been confused with Gregory’s works,
further misattributions become more probable. Declerck’s observation
about D140 thus gives a plausible explanation for how the fragment came
to be attributed to Eustathius. Neither of these fragments is likely to be
Eustathian.
THE NATURE AND CONTEXT OF

EUSTA THIUS ’ WORKS
Engastrimytho
The Context: Methodius, Origen, and Eutropius

In this work, Eustathius explicitly states that he is picking up on the
arguments of Methodius of Olympus against Origen. He refers to the
arguments of De Resurrectione, which focus on Origen’s putative denial of
the resurrection and related denigration of embodiment. De Resurrectione, at
least in its final form, represents a movement away from a positive, though
critical, engagement with Origen’s work.97 Eustathius therefore places him-
self in a strongly anti-Origenist tradition. As we saw in the last chapter, this
work is evidence of an anti-Origenist alliance with Eutropius, later to be a
fellow anti-Arian.
In citing Methodius’ De Resurrectione, Eustathius indicates that he is
especially concerned with Origen’s view of embodiment. This was an im-
portant topic in Pamphilus’ Apologia pro Origene, written with the collab-
oration of Eusebius of Caesarea, before Pamphilus’ death in 310, and
partly in response to Methodius’ De Resurrectione.98 In Engastrimytho,
Eustathius is taking Methodius’ part against both Origen himself and Ori-
gen’s defenders, Pamphilus and Eusebius, in an argument that is largely
anthropological.
97
Lloyd Patterson, Methodius, pp. 123–45, has demonstrated considerable Origenist influ-
ence on Methodius’ Convivium and suggests that Methodius may not originally have intended
for De Resurrectione to focus on Origen, but nonetheless allows that Methodius’ eventual attack
on Origen was very influential for later anti-Origenism, including in Eustathius (Methodius,
pp. 3–7).
98
Jerome, De Viris Illustribus, 75.4, tells us that Pamphilus wrote Apologia in prison, where
Eusebius, H.E., 7.32.25, tells us he was executed, under Maximinus Daia. See Thomas Scheck,
Introduction to St Pamphilus, Apology for Origen (Washington, DC: Catholic University of
America Press, 2010), pp. 4–5.
Date
Engastrimytho was written sometime between 311 and c 321. It evidently
postdates Methodius’ death in 311, as it refers to him as ‘one worthy of blessed
memory’.99
Engastrimytho contains a highly developed discourse on Christ’s human soul.
However, it does not display the infamously divisive Christology of Eustathius’
anti-Arian tracts; Eustathius often refers to the Word as the acting subject in
Christ whereas, in the anti-Arian works, the human being, strengthened by the
Word, is invariably the acting subject. Eustathius also sometimes describes
Christ as ‘God’ in this work. For example, when referring to Christ’s temptation
in the wilderness, he writes that Satan tempted Christ, but that › ŒæØ
responded Ł æ H.100 Elsewhere in Engastrimytho, Eustathius does refer to
Christ’s human soul in contradistinction to the Word and it here forms part of
an argument for Christ’s divinity, broadly speaking. This occurs in the context
of Eustathius’ objection to Origen’s comparison between Samuel’s putative
descent into Hades and Christ’s. Here, Eustathius claims, Origen speaks of
Christ ‘as though speaking of a mere human being, and no longer having any
regard for his divine nature’.101 Eustathius goes on to give Christ’s human soul a
central role in the salvation of the souls in Hades. Christ’s human soul is able to
save because it is ‘strengthened by divine power because of the constant
association (ııÆ) of God the Word’.102 Eustathius’ willingness to refer
to the Word as the acting subject in Christ’s earthly actions is at odds with the
Christology of his anti-Arian works, and strongly suggests that Engastrimytho
pre-dates the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy.
Engastrimytho and Eustathian Exegesis

The understanding of this work as an example of Antiochene opposition to
Alexandrian allegory has survived a radical—and badly needed—transformation
of the way in which the differences between Antiochene and Alexandrian
exegesis are understood.103 In her seminal work on patristic exegesis, in which
she questions the understanding of Antiochene typology as concerned with
history, Frances Young describes Engastrimytho as ‘the first anti-allegorical
treatise’ in ‘the Antiochene reaction against Alexandrian allegory’.104
99 100
Engastrimytho, 22.5. Engastrimytho, 10:15–16.
101 102
Engastrimytho, 17:5. Engastrimytho, 17:10.
103
Margaret Mitchell summarizes these developments at the beginning of her ‘Patristic
Rhetoric on allegory’ in The Belly-Myther of Endor: Interpretations of 1 Kingdoms 28 in the
Early Church, edited by Rowan Greer and Margaret Mitchell (Atlanta: Society of Biblical
Literature, 2006), pp. lxxxv–lxxxvi.
104
Frances Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture (Cambridge:
CUP, 1997), p. 163 and p. 161, respectively. This claim appears in a chapter reworked and
Engastrimytho is rather awkward as an emblem of this Antiochene reaction.
Eustathius does attack Origen for ‘allegorising’ in Engastrimytho.105 However,
his attack is complicated by the fact that Origen’s treatise on the Witch of
Endor is hardly a very good example of Origenian allegory. As numerous
scholars have observed, Origen’s reading is actually more literalist than Eu-
stathius’ here—Origen thinks that Samuel really was summoned—and
Eustathius’ objection is that, of all the times not to allegorize, this seems like
an odd one.106 Young acknowledges this, and further claims that Engastrimytho
does not allow us to reconstruct Eustathius’ own exegetical method. She
argues that what we can see in Eustathius’ attack on Origen is a frustration
with Origen’s perceived tendency to employ ‘methods which fastened on
words and ignored the sequence of the story and the coherence of the
narrative, both with itself and with the rest of scripture’.107 Eustathius objects
that Origen ignores the unity and coherence of scripture. For example,
Eustathius appeals to the fact that, actually, Saul does not die when the
necromancer predicts that he will.108 This paradigm is borne out by some
exegesis that we find in the fragments.
As has often been observed, Eustathius’ exegesis is very far from the
‘literalism’ and ‘historicity’ attributed to him by earlier Protestant scholarship.
A wide variety of typological and allegorical readings are found within his
writings. Particularly dominant is a belief that Old Testament events are
prophetic of New Testament events. Drawing on the letter to the Hebrews,
he claims that Melchizedek is a type of Christ. Elsewhere, he argues that the
beetle calling out from the walls of the house in Habakkuk is a type of the
penitent thief.109 In these instances, the text acts as a mirror for the events it
foretells. It is, to use Young’s distinction, ‘iconic’ rather than ‘symbolic’.110
Eustathius’ concern with the coherence of scripture often, in fact, echoes
Origen. In Ariomanitas, Eustathius shows himself to be very concerned with
the reconciliation of apparently divergent scriptural passages. So, he sets out to
published as an article, ‘The Fourth-Century Reaction against Allegory’, SP, 30 (1997), 120–5,
reprinted in Young, Exegesis and Theology in Early Christianity (Ashgate: Variorum, 2012), V.
105
106
Patricia Cox, ‘Origen and the Witch of Endor: Toward an Iconoclastic Typology’, Angli-
can Theological Review 66 (1984), pp. 137–47; Young, Biblical Exegesis, pp. 163–4; David
Wallace-Hadrill, Christian Antioch: A Study of Early Christian Thought in the East (Cambridge:
CUP, 1982), pp. 31–2, and Margaret Mitchell, ‘Patristic Rhetoric on Allegory’ in Belly-Myther,
p. cxxii, who refers to Origen’s treatise as ‘a rare instance of Origenic “literal” interpretation’.
107
Young, Biblical Exegesis, p. 164.
108
Engastrimytho, 12.10–13.3. The necromancer says that Saul will die ‘tomorrow’. Eu-
stathius argues that this cannot have been the case because Saul remains, fasting, with the
necromancer for a further day, and then departed, to fight the following day, in the night
(1 Kingdoms 28:20–5).
109
See D113 and D27, respectively.
110
Young, ‘The Fourth-Century Reaction against Allegory’, p. 123. In ‘symbolic’ exegesis,
Young argues, the text is a code; when cracked, the narrative coherence is destroyed.

reconcile the evangelists’ divergent accounts of the thieves crucified next to
Christ and descriptions of heaven in the singular and plural respectively.111
This involves a belief that scripture does not in fact contradict itself. It also,
however, involves a recognition that scripture is sometimes, on the face of it,
baldly contradictory. The most obvious meaning is then set aside: ‘Everything
that is demonstrated from the body of the text, one must take as a concrete
reality. However, whatever things receive referents to a more mysterious
design, to these rightly allot their own manner.’112 Importantly, scripture is
supposed to point to its ‘more mysterious’ meaning itself—one cannot infer it
from external principles, and it is integral to the coherent message of scripture.
This sounds not dissimilar to Origen’s idea that God places ‘stumbling blocks’
in scripture, to point us to higher levels of the text.113 Trigg argues that
Eustathius’ principal issue with Origen in Engastrimytho is Origen’s willing-
ness to see Scripture as ambiguous.114 This may be so, but it must be noted
that Eustathius revels in apparent contradictions in scripture, seeing them as
productive—they help us to understand the whole better and they inform each
other. Where scripture is apparently contradictory, Eustathius deploys alle-
gory and typology in aid of its overall coherence, and this is something he
shares with Origen. In Engastrimytho, fairly or otherwise, he has the sense that
Origen is not doing this very well.
The coherence of scripture is not, of course, an a priori that can be discon-
nected from other concerns. As we shall see in the following chapters, certain
texts particularly shape Eustathius’ theology and his approach to the rest of
scripture; the Psalms are particularly important to him, and he enters into a
conversation about Pauline texts that can be found in both Irenaeus and Origen.
Both in Engastrimytho and in his anti-Arian works, Eustathius is primarily
concerned with theological conclusions, rather than exegetical method. With
reference to Engastrimytho, Margaret Mitchell has demonstrated that both
Eustathius’ attacks on allegory and those aspects of his exegesis that seem to
problematize these attacks employ methods for undermining one’s opponent
found in rhetorical handbooks.115 Exegesis is, among other things, a game, and
Eustathius is trying to win. Correspondingly, he treats exegetical tools some-
what elastically. He is very aware of the category ‘allegory’—he uses it as a term
of abuse—but he is conscious of when he might seem to stray near it—he has a
111
In Matthew and Mark, both thieves blaspheme Christ. In Luke, one thief attacks him
whilst the other rebukes the first for blasphemy and asks Christ to remember him ‘when he
comes into his kingdom’, and Christ promises that this second thief will be with him that day in
paradise (Matt. 27:38–44; Mk. 15:27–32; Luke 23:23–43).
112
D26:26–9.
113
Origen, De Princ., 4.15. Where not otherwise stated, citations and translations of De Princ.
follow Rufinus’ translation.
114
Trigg, ‘Eustathius’ attack on Origen’, pp. 236–7.
115
Mitchell, ‘Patristic Rhetoric on Allegory’ in Belly-Myther, edited by Greer and Mitchell.
slightly defensive tone as he approaches the ‘more mysterious’ meaning of
scripture.
It seems to me that Eustathius’ dispute with Origen in Engastrimytho is not
primarily about exegesis. Young is right that Eustathius ‘does not provide an
alternative dogmatic, moral or spiritual exegesis’ to Origen’s in Engastri-
mytho.116 Mitchell’s observation rather brings the discussion away from
Eustathius’ adherence to a particular exegetical method towards the conse-
quences of his exegesis, applied to the text in hand. This text might be best
understood primarily as a reaction against Origen’s view of the soul and
necromancy; this is not to deny that Eustathius’ theology, and Origen’s, are
bound up with their own different approaches to scripture, but only to suggest
that Eustathius’ primary motivation in writing against Origen does not appear
to be Origen’s exegetical method. The probability that Eustathius builds on, as
well as departs from, Origen’s exegetical method is comprehensible if the text
is understood in this way.
Ariomanitas
Date of the Original Work

Ariomanitas clearly post-dates Nicaea: Eustathius accuses his opponents of
anathematizing themselves because they are denying doctrines which they had
‘agreed to in the assembly’.117 Eustathius refers on two other occasions to the
doctrines enshrined in the Creed of Nicaea. The word ‘Ariomanitas’ is, as Parvis
has argued, a pun on Aries, the god of war: in using it, Eustathius dubs his
opponents as ‘those stirring up war around Arius’.118 The implication that the
pro-Arians are causing war in the church immediately after the Council of Nicaea
supports Parvis’ thesis that Eustathius felt that Alexander’s cohort had failed to
control the pro-Arian party at the council.119 Apparently, Eustathius began to see
the Eusebian alliance as a serious threat. This attitude could plausibly accompany
either Eustathius’ attack on pro-Arians in his see directly after Nicaea or the
machinations of the pro-Arian party that led to Eustathius’ deposition.
The Epitome
Stuart Hall plausibly suggests that the epitome was comprised in an anti-
Apollinarian context.120 However, this is a text coming from the Eustathian
116 117 118

Young, Biblical Exegesis, p. 164. D6:5. Parvis, Marcellus, p. 180.
119
See ‘In Proverbia 8.22’.
120
Stuart Hall, ‘The Nicene Creed as a Symbol of Unity in Christology’ in Jesus Christ Today:
Studies of Christology in Various Contexts, edited by Stuart Hall (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter,
2009), pp. 89–104, p. 101.

community, suggesting that the epitomizer also genuinely wished to convey
Eustathian ideas. Declerck argues that a Eustathian follower added Gregory’s
name to the text because he was a less controversial figure but had good
relations with the Eustathian community in Antioch and was a sufficiently
noteworthy name to draw attention to the text.121 This seems a reasonable
suggestion. The work’s title, as attached to the epitome—ŒÆa æ ØÆØH
Ø
ºı ŒÆd æd łıåB—is fairly likely to be Eustathius’ own, because the term
‘Ariomanitas’ probably is; it makes most sense to see ‘Ariomanitas’ as an
earlier designation than ‘Arianism’, which in some ways it resembles. It refers
to ‘those stirring up war around Arius’ rather than ‘followers of Arius’. The
conception of the Eusebian alliance as ‘followers of Arius’ is made typical by
Athanasius’ deliberate construction of the heresy of ‘Arianism’ in his Ora-
tiones contra Arianos.122 ‘Ariomanitas’ is a criticism that does not give Arius
himself the same status.
Anti-Arianism and Opposition to ‘Logos–Sarx’ Christology

This work aims not simply at pro-Arianism, but, more specifically, at a
Christology that Eustathius attributes to his pro-Arian opponents, in which
Christ has no human soul. He insists that Christ took up both a body and a
soul—a whole human being; hence, the phrase, ‘the human being of Christ’ is
prevalent in his anti-Arian writings. Eustathius, then, might be said to be
positing a logos–anthropos Christology against logos–sarx Christology; the
former term certainly captures Eustathius’ Christology. In one sense, logos–
sarx also gets at the target of Ariomanitas. However, Eustathius will not allow
any dangerous ambiguity as to whether or not Christ has a human soul. ‘Does
he or doesn’t he?’ he demands. Furthermore, we shall see that Eustathius’
primary opponent(s) in Ariomanitas very probably did explicitly deny the
Christ possessed a human soul, at least when confronting Eustathius. The term
æ, and its Latin equivalent carnis, applied to Christ’s humanity, could
encompass a belief in Christ’s human soul, and often left the issue ambigu-
ous.123 For these reasons, the phrase ‘logos–sarx Christology’ does not quite
121
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CLXXIII—CLXXIV.
122
123
Maurice Wiles valuably highlighted the ambiguity of the term ‘flesh’ with reference to
Christ’s humanity in his article, ‘The Nature of the Early Debate about Christ’s Human Soul’, The
Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 16, no 2. (1965), 139–51, doi: 10.1017/S0022046900053975. In
particular, he points to Tertullian, who refers both to Christ’s human soul and to Christ taking
up flesh (p. 141. See, for example, Tertullian, De Resurrectione Carnis, 34). As Wiles points out,
the same ambiguity might apply to talk of the Word taking up, or becoming, ¼Łæø.
I nonetheless believe that the expression ‘logos–anthropos’ is useful for describing Eustathius’
Christology because it gets at exactly what he believed his Christology to be.
describe Eustathius’ target, which he constructs as much more specific:
literally, it is ‘soulless’ Christology.
Eustathius, in fact, is rather unusual in having a clear and highly developed
discourse on Christ’s human soul in the early fourth century. So, what
connection does Eustathius make between ‘soulless’ Christology and subordi-
nationist theology?
Hanson argued that the reason that Eustathius focuses on ‘soulless’ Christ-
ology in this work was to be found in fragment D19b:124
Why do they consider it so important to show that Christ took up a soulless body,
forming old wives deceptions? In order that, if they may be able to gradually
corrupt some people, decreeing that these things are so, in this case having
attached the alterations involved in passions to the divine Spirit, they might easily
persuade them, as the mutable is not begotten from the nature of the immutable.
If the Word is the subject of passion in Christ, the Word is not really God. This
argument is certainly found in D19, and is echoed in numerous fragments
from Eustathius’ other anti-Arian works, especially the fragments on the
Psalms, which, as we shall see, are particularly concerned with Christ’s
suffering.125 However, Eustathius’ issue with ‘soulless’ Christology must be
rather more complex than Hanson allows.
Hanson’s reconstruction of pro-Arian theology as one based on the suffer-
ing of the Word centralizes one aspect of pro-Arianism over others which
were, in fact, of at least equal importance. His view of pro-Arian theology is
one he shares with Maurice Wiles. The accusation that pro-Arian theology
teaches that the Word is passible, and, specifically, suffers, can be found
in several other anti-Arian documents. Perhaps most interestingly, it is one
of many subordinationist doctrines condemned by the Western Council of
Serdica, 343: ‘two sand-vipers have been born from the Egyptian cobra, Arius:
Valens and Ursacius, who boast and do not doubt, saying that . . . the Word,
even the Spirit, was wounded and killed and died and rose’.126 However, a
concern with the Word’s suffering is only sparsely evidenced in what remains
of the pro-Arian writings themselves. For example, it is mentioned nowhere in
Arius’ Thalia, which is primarily concerned with the relationship between the
Son and the Father, and the cosmological questions pertaining to that rela-
tionship (rather than the soteriological ones).127 One of the key pieces of
evidence cited by Hanson is the Homiliae in Psalmos, which first Marcel
Richard, and subsequently Wiles and Robert Gregg, had attributed to Asterius
124 125
Hanson, The Search, p. 212. For example, D87.
126
Western Creed 3, translated by Sara Parvis, Marcellus, p. 241. The accusation that pro-
Arians believe in a passible Logos also appears in He Philarchos, and Athanasius later lists it as a
characteristic of ‘Arianism’ in his C. Ar., III.26.
127
A portion of Arius’ Thalia is preserved (perhaps inaccurately) in Athanasius, De Synodis,
2.15.

the Sophist, the opponent of Marcellus of Ancyra.128 These homilies are,
admittedly, concerned with the suffering of God. However, Wolfram Kinzig
argued persuasively against the thesis that their author was coming from a
subordinationist position.129 The Homiliae, if anything, rather undermine the
Hanson–Wiles thesis, in that they are theopaschite writings probably dating
from the fourth century, but do not seem amenable to a pro-Arian theological
position.
A well-known example of an explicit connection between pro-Arianism and
the Word’s suffering is the creed generally attributed to Eudoxius (c 300–370),
Bishop of Antioch and then Constantinople (this creed must substantially
post-date Ariomanitas):130
the whole person was one, composite nature. He was passible through the
economy, for, if only soul and body had suffered, he could not have saved the
world. Let them answer, then, how this passible and mortal person could be of
one substance with God who is beyond these things: suffering and death.131
Hanson and Wiles have magnified the importance of a suffering God to
pro-Arian Christology, but they have not invented it. Eustathius clearly refers
to the idea of a suffering Word of God as an aspect of pro-Arian theology. In
conjunction with Eustathius’ testimony, the existence of the Eudoxian Creed
renders it perfectly plausible that a similar take on strongly subordinationist
theology existed in the earlier phases of the ‘Arian’ controversy, when Eu-
stathius was writing (though the Eudoxian Creed cannot be representative of
Eustathius’ opponents’ theology, because it does explicitly state that Christ
had a soul). In taking this to be the overriding focus of Ariomanitas, Hanson
has made a reasonable supposition on the basis of the available evidence;
looking at the other Eustathian fragments, he has picked out that aspect of
Eustathius’ argumentation that would pertain to ‘soulless’ Christology—
theopaschitism—and finds it in one of the available fragments from
128
Marcel Richard, ‘Les Homélies d’Astérius sur les Psaumes IV–VII’, Révue Biblique, 44
(1935), 548–58 reprinted in Marcel Richard, Opera Minora, vol. 2 (Brepols: Leuven University
Press, 1977), 27; ‘Une ancienne collection d’Homélies grecques sur les Psaumes I–XV’, Symbolae
Osloenses, 25 (1947), 54–73 reprinted in Richard, Opera Minora, vol. 2, 28; ‘Le Recueil d’Ho-
mélies d’Astérius le Sophiste’, Symbolae Osloenses, 29 (1952), 24–33 reprinted in Richard, Opera
Minora, vol. 2, 29. Maurice Wiles and Robert Gregg, ‘Asterius: A New Chapter in the History of
Arianism?’ in Arianism: Historical and Theological Reassessments, edited by Robert Gregg
(Philadelphia: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1985), pp. 11–152.
129
Wolfram Kinzig, In Search of Asterius: Studies on the Authorship of the Homilies on the
Psalms (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990). Gavrilyuk has also more recently sum-
marized the arguments against their Asterian authorship in his The Suffering of the Impassible
God: The Dialectics of Patristic Thought (Oxford: OUP, 2004), pp. 121–3.
130
On the date, see Manilo Simonetti, La Crisi ariana nel IV secolo (Rome: Institutum
Patristicum ‘Augustinianum’, 1975), p. 469 and p. 470, note 3.
131
The text can be found in Bibliothek der Symbole und Glaubensregeln der alten Kirche,
edited by August Hahn (Breslau: E. Morgenstern, 1897), pp. 261, 262.
Ariomanitas. However, the epitome of Ariomanitas shows another, at least
equally dominant concern: Docetism.132
Eustathius lays out the possible ways of explaining the biblical passages
referring to Christ’s suffering and other passions as follows:
What . . . is a better explanation? To say that the body suffers apart from the soul,
whilst it is not able to obtain for itself, according to itself, one sensible perception?
Or that a mutable thing and the divine Spirit are constrained to be in harmony?
Or that a soul is joined together with the body? Or he suffered in seeming and not
in truth all the things at the time of suffering, and before the cross the lord did not
receive the passions that are natural and unexceptionable?133
First, we could say that the body undergoes Ł on its own—this, Eustathius
argues, is impossible. So we are left with three options: 1) the Word was
subject to Ł; 2) Christ had a human soul; 3) Christ’s Łı were illusory.
Anyone who denies a human soul in Christ must choose between theopaschit-
ism (the first option) and Docetism (the third option).
Karl-Heinz Uthemann has recently offered an alternative explanation for
Eustathius’ concern with ‘soulless’ Christology in Ariomanitas which takes
account of this: pro-Arian theology posited a Word who was immutable and
sinless, but by self-direction rather than intrinsically.134 The pro-Arians, Uthe-
mann argues, thus give the Word the function that Origen had given Christ’s
human soul.135 In addition to his analysis of the text, Uthemann cites as
evidence for this pro-Arian position one of the anathema of the Council of
Antioch: that the Son is ‘immutable by his self-directed will [ŁºÅØ] . . . and
not by his nature as the Father is’.136
In Eustathius’ view, by arguing that the Word is not intrinsically immutable,
the pro-Arians have denied his divinity. By denying Christ a human soul
whilst maintaining that the Word is immutable, they have denied the reality of
Christ’s suffering and other human experiences. There is also good evidence
that Eustathius shares his opponents’ concern that Christ’s goodness be willing
and contingent, and denies that a soulless Christology is capable of answering
this concern. Implying that his opponents deny the reality of the crucifixion,
Eustathius argues that, in that case, Christ did not ‘give up his own body
willingly [Œıø]’.137 In some respects, he allots to Christ’s human soul the
132
I am indebted to Kelley Spoerl, ‘Eustathius of Antioch on Jesus’ Digestion’, Studia
Patristica, forthcoming, for drawing my attention to Eustathius’ attack on Docetism in this text.
133
D9:5–12. This fragment is discussed by Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’, p. 507, and Navascués,
‘ “Cuerpo” ’, pp. 39–40, doi: 10.5840/agstm20115112.
134
Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’. This finds parallels in the thesis of Gregg and Groh, Early
Arianism, esp. p. 45, that early ‘Arians’ were concerned to safeguard Christ’s moral agency.
135
For the chosen immutability of Christ’s human soul in Origen, see De Princ., 2.6.5.
136
Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’, p. 479. 137
D15a:1–2.

soteriological function that the pro-Arians gave to the Word. His own doc-
trine of Christ’s human soul thus owes much to Origen’s.
Of the two dangers Ariomanitas addresses—theopaschitism and Docet-
ism—Docetism may be the more important. However, Uthemann has not
quite sufficiently accounted for the concern with Christ’s suffering in text. The
fragment cited by Hanson does give us evidence that Eustathius is concerned
about a theopaschite strand of pro-Arian theology—he has not invented it, but
brings it up in order to chide his opponents, who, as Uthemann suggests, want
the Word to be immutable, though only contingently so. Perhaps we would do
well not to seek a single key to pro-Arian theology, but to address it as a
complex and multifaceted phenomenon; as the Western Council of Serdica
suggests, the suffering of the Son was one of many ideas advocated within the
ranks of Arius’ sometime defenders. Eustathius evidently addresses this doc-
trine, both in Ariomanitas and in his anti-Arian work on the Psalms. Though
Docetism is his main target in Ariomanitas, we should not conclude that his
attention to theopaschite theology is purely rhetorical.
Eustathius’ Opponents in Ariomanitas

Eustathius never names a particular opponent in the extant text. I hope to
demonstrate that Eusebius of Caesarea is Eustathius’ main antagonist in this
work (though not necessarily his only one).
Eustathius’ designation of his antagonists as ‘those stirring up war around
Arius’ (insofar as it can inform us as to specifics at all), suggests that he is not
chiefly concerned with Arius himself, but rather with other churchman—
perhaps more senior and better able to create war—who build an agenda
around Arius. As we saw in Chapter 1, Eustathius also tells us that his
opponents signed up to the Nicene formula.138 Eusebius of Caesarea imme-
diately looks like a good candidate, as we know that he was Eustathius’
particular adversary in a pamphlet war, and perhaps his main theological
opponent.
Uthemann’s argument about the Christology of Eustathius’ opponents also
points us towards Eusebius of Caesarea. Uthemann himself tentatively sug-
gests that Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theognis could be Eustathius’ targets in
Ariomanitas.139 This is largely on the basis that they had signed the Nicene
formula but later fallen foul of the emperor for pro-Arianism. Like his
namesake of Nicomedia, Eusebius of Caesarea had signed the Nicene formula,
and he was specifically condemned at Antioch; furthermore, his Christology
fits very well the profile of pro-Arian theology that Uthemann finds implied in
Ariomanitas. Accepting Uthemann’s argument, it is necessary to look for
138
D6:3–5 [Ariomanitas]. 139
Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’, pp. 508–9.
someone with a subordinationist theology who also sees the Son as protected
from suffering in the incarnation, and who denies the existence of a human
soul in Christ, distinct from the Son/Word.
In his anti-Marcellan Ecclesiastica Theologica, Eusebius explicitly denies
that Christ has a human soul.140 The passage in which Eusebius most explicitly
rejects a human soul in Christ bears a striking resemblance to Eustathius’
defence of a human soul in Christ, quoted earlier:
he said ‘as the Father has taught me, so I speak. And the one who sent me is with
me. He has not left me alone, since I do the best for him always.’ . . . And if the
Word, dwelling in the body, existed outside of God, but was united to and dwelt
with God, as if one and the same with him, it will follow from necessity, either
that the Father himself was in the flesh, or that the Son stands according to
himself, and acts in the body, or the soul of a human being [does this], or if
neither of these things, the flesh is moved on its own, being ¼łıå and ¼ºª. If
indeed he should say the Father, the Father himself will be the one begotten, and
submitting to passions and each work of human suffering [Ł] . . . [this is
Sabellian] . . . And if he [Marcellus] rightly says that the Father did not become
human, necessarily the son must be the pupil to him, the teacher. And if
Marcellus refuses to accept this, he has it that Christ was a mere human being,
put together from body and soul.141
The inverted symmetry of this passage with Eustathius’ is conspicuous. This
could easily be a version of an argument first deployed against Eustathius, the
other side of which we have in Ariomanitas.
Furthermore, Eusebius both subordinates the Word to the Father and sees the
Word as impassible, arguing that the Word was unconstrained in the incarna-
tion. For example, he writes that the Word ‘shared what belonged to him, but
did not receive what belonged to others’.142 In De Theophania, also written after
the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy, he writes that the Word left Christ’s
body during the crucifixion.143 This clearly shows the connection between
Docetism and ‘soulless’ Christology that Eustathius is concerned about.
It should be acknowledged that Christ’s impassibility is a complex topic in
Eusebius, who does talk about Christ’s weakness;144 it would be unfair to
140
As Spoerl notes in ‘Eustathius of Antioch on Jesus’ digestion’, SP (2013), forthcoming. See
also Eusebius, Demonstratio Evangelica, D.E., 7.1.24 for an implied ‘soulless’ Christology.
141
Eusebius, De Ecclesiastica Theologica, I.20.41–43. Joseph Lienhard offers a useful discus-
sion of this passage in his Contra Marcellum: Marcellus of Ancyra and Fourth-Century Theology
(Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1999), pp. 124–5.
142
Eusebius, D.E., 7.1.23.
143
Eusebius, Theophania, 3.61. See Christopher Beeley, The Unity of Christ: Continuity and
Conflict in the Patristic Tradition (London: Yale University Press, 2012), p. 94. Timothy Barnes
tentatively dates this text to 325–6, though much later dates have been suggested: Barnes,
‘Eusebius of Caesarea’, Expository Times, 121, no. 1 (2009), 1–14, pp. 8–9, doi: 10.1177/
0014524609107031.
144
Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos, PG, 23:260.

suggest that the merits of a suffering Christ had never occurred to him.
Nonetheless, he typically wants to hold this together with Christ’s impassibil-
ity. A passage from Demonstratio Evangelica is especially revealing: Eusebius is
reflecting on Psalm 22.1/Matthew 27.45: ‘My God, my God, why have you
forsaken me?’ and several other verses, applied to Christ, that appear to
emphasize his abjection.145 Having quoted these, Eusebius defends their
attribution to Christ by asking ‘Who . . . has reached such heights of virtue
and power, as to receive the knowledge of God with a steady [ŒÆŁ HØ]
reason, an unconfused soul, and a sober mind, and to fasten all his hope on God,
so as to say “you are the one who took me out of my mother’s womb”?’.146
Immediately following the passages about Christ’s abjection and suffering,
Eusebius suggests that Christ was impassible through virtue. Christ the Word
has exactly the kind of contingent immutability—immutability by an act of
will—that was condemned qua attribute of the Word at the Council of
Antioch.147 In some instances, Eusebius flatly denies the Word’s passibility
in the incarnation. In others, he tries to walk a tightrope between the Word’s
impassibility and his suffering.
Additionally, Eusebius clearly has a strong sense that the Word must fulfil a
soteriological requirement for contingent, willing goodness, as Christ’s human
soul does for Origen and Eustathius. The importance of the Son’s obedience to
Eusebius is evident in a passage from Demonstratio Evangelica, in which
Eusebius speaks in the person of Christ: ‘in submission to you, my Father,
by my own choice and willingly [ÆPŁÆæ ŒÆd Œg], “I became a worm and
no human being”.’148 It also appears in his anti-Marcellan Ecclesiastica Theo-
logica, where Eusebius asks how Christ could be obedient to God in emptying
himself and giving up equality with God, if he had not existed, distinct from
God, prior to the incarnation.149 This indicates that the idea was important to
his engagement in the ‘Arian’ controversy. The sense of Christ’s willed abjec-
tion in Demonstratio Evangelica is telling; Eusebius hopes to combine obedient
submission in Christ with Christ’s impassibility. I have suggested that Eu-
stathius is refusing to allow for ambiguity about Christ’s human soul. Plaus-
ibly, he makes a related argument for the incoherence of Eusebius’ balancing
act between impassibility and willed subjection (cum abjection?).
145 146
Eusebius, D.E., 10.8. Eusebius, D.E., 10.8.12.
147
Compare Origen, Commentaria in Mattheum, 38.205, who claims that Christ was tempted
to grieve, but resisted. This echoes a Stoic ethical ideal of apatheia, which I discuss in ‘The
Passionate Soul and the Passionate Self ’ in Chapter 3.
148
Eusebius, D.E., 10.8.61. For Eusebius, this emphasis on Christ’s contingent goodness
corresponds to a wider emphasis on the importance of human self-direction, which he shares
with Origen. I draw on Lyman, Christology, pp. 74–7, 100–6, 119–20.
149
Ecclesiastica Theologia, I.20.9 (Eusebius is arguing against Marcellus’ doctrine that the Son
originally existed potentially within God). See Marcellus, fragments of Contra Asterium, edited
by Erich Klostermann, Gegen Marcell, Über die Kirchliche theologie, Die fragmente Marcells
(Berlin: Akademie-Verlag 1972) [K], fragments K70 and K110).
A large portion of Ariomanitas is concerned with what Eustathius regards
as Platonic and Origenist anthropology. On close inspection, it is evident
that Eustathius is often responding to Eusebius’ treatment of Platonism in
his earlier Praeparatio Evangelica. The theological implications of this dis-
agreement will be discussed in the next chapter. A brief sketch suffices to
show that Eustathius engaged Eusebius in Ariomanitas. Eustathius attacks
Plato both for his belief in the transmigration of souls and for his belief in the
unoriginated nature of souls. Both of these criticisms were made by Eusebius
in Praeparatio Evangelica, as a codicil to his generally positive attitude to
Plato. Furthermore, Eustathius follows Eusebius in saying that the idea of
transmigration comes from Egyptian thought.150 There are several reasons
to think that Eustathius got this directly from Eusebius: first, Eustathius
incorporates the claim about Egyptian derivation into a passage that para-
phrases Irenaeus, who himself does not mention it;151 second, in Eusebius,
the Egyptian origin of belief in transmigration acts as an excuse for Plato
because it suggests that it is alien to his mode of thought. This function is
redundant in Eustathius, who never claims to like Plato. He does not want to
excuse Plato. Eustathius brings up the Egyptian myths because he is quoting
Eusebius’ own words back at him and arguing that Eusebius’ theology in fact
does imply Platonism.
Kelley Spoerl has recently argued that Ariomanitas is aimed at both Euse-
bius and Theodotus of Laodicea, who were close associates during the early
‘Arian’ controversy.152 She notes Eusebius’ eventual denial of a soul in Christ,
and reasonably supposes that he and Theodotus were likely to have similar
theology. She also observes that several passages in Ariomanitas draw heavily,
and in detail, on ancient physiology and medicine, and notes that Theodotus
was a doctor.153 These passages make most sense, she argues, if aimed at
someone with a medical background. This is a plausible explanation for
Eustathius’ focus on physiology, and complements the evidence pointing
towards Eusebius of Caesarea as the prime target in this work. Furthermore,
Theodotus was also provisionally condemned at the Council of Antioch
324.154 Eustathius is probably responding to lost works from Eusebius and
Theodotus.
150
Eustathius, D31:17–18; Eusebius, P.E., 13.16. I made this argument in my ‘So-called
Platonism, the Soul, and the Humanity of Christ in Eustathius of Antioch’, SP, 66 (2013),
237–46. Portions of the subsequent discussion are taken from this paper.
151
See Irenaeus, A.H., 2.33.1–3. 152
Spoerl, ‘Jesus’ Digestion’.
153
As reported by Eusebius, who was in a good position to know, in H.E., 7.32.23 (Spoerl
cites this claim). For Eustathius’ concern with medicine and physiology, see D4 and D8
[Ariomanitas].
154
Ariomanitas and the Construction of ‘Arianism’

Eustathius’ coining of the term ‘Ariomanitas’ may be important in the
development of a narrative about ‘Arianism’. Lewis Ayres plausibly suggests
that the ‘construction of Arianism’ began with Eustathius and Marcellus, and
that they influenced Athanasius.155 There was opportunity for this to occur,
as all three were present at Nicaea. This would also cohere with a thesis
proposed by Sara Parvis—that Marcellus and Athanasius constructed
‘Arianism’ together whilst in Rome.156 Fought over as it was in heresiological
disputes, one would expect references to ‘Arianism’ as a clearly defined
school to be well represented by all those selecting the fragments, so we
can, for once, trust the sources available to us in their relative scarcity of
references to ‘Arianism’. ‘Those stirring up war around Arius’—an earlier
designation—does, however, contain many of the elements of Athanasius’
narrative of ‘Arianism’.
Within Ariomanitas, Eustathius clearly constructs a narrative in which a
particular, coherent group of people promote subordinationism, trying to
advance it within the church. According to Ariomanitas, these people have
not only a unified aim, but also a unified strategy. This is evident in fragment
D19. A relatively short version of this fragment [D19b] is preserved by
Theodoret, and hints at a sense of deliberate intrigue (this fragment was also
quoted earlier):
Why do they consider it so important to show that Christ took up a soulless
body, forming old wives deceptions? In order that, if they may be able to
gradually corrupt some people, decreeing that these things are so, in this case
having attached the alterations involved in passions to the divine Spirit, they
might easily persuade them, as the mutable is not begotten from the nature of
the immutable.
We have a unified, self-aware, calculating, and duplicitous ecclesial–political
faction promoting subordinationism and trying to lure the wider church away
from ‘orthodoxy’. However, certain aspects of Athanasius’ narrative, as it
appears in Orationes Contra Arianos, are missing: Arius is not mentioned in
Ariomanitas, and the word ‘Ariomanitas’ only appears there four times—the
group noun is of secondary importance.157 Eustathius probably did influence
the Athanasian conception of ‘Arianism’, but it looks as though Athanasius
and Marcellus developed it further.
155
Ayres, Nicaea, pp. 107–8. See also Michel Barnes, ‘The Fourth Century as Trinitarian
Canon’ in Christian Origins: Theology, Rhetoric and Community, edited by Lewis Ayres and
Gareth Jones (London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 47–67, 53.
156 157
Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 180–92. D1:1. D19:8–9, D50:1, D55:1.
Psalmorum Graduum—In Psalmum 92
A Single Anti-Arian Work on the Psalms?

Theodoret’s introduction to Psalmum 92—‘from the interpretation of Psalm
92’—seems to suggest that the fragments are from a discussion on this topic, in
a work with a wider scope. Psalmorum Graduum may well be the work from
which the Psalmum 92 fragments are derived. The same line of argument can
be traced in both sets of fragments. Any conclusions drawn must be acknow-
ledged to be tentative, but these fragments make most sense if we consider
them together. The focus of both of these works appears to be Christ’s
suffering, which Eustathius applies to ‘the human being of Christ’—
Eustathius’ preferred way of referring to Christ’s humanity in his anti-Arian
works—in contradistinction to the Word.
In the fragments from Psalmum 92 and Psalmorum Graduum, Eustathius is
exegeting passages taken to refer, prophetically, to Christ’s suffering and
ultimate glorification. He contrasts the eternal Word, who is immutable,
impassible, and not in need of glory, with the human being of Christ, who is
passible and not yet glorified. He applies these passages to the human being of
Christ. Eustathius also refers to the Word as ‘God begotten from God’ in both
D82 (In inscriptiones Psalmorum graduum) and D85 (In Psalmum 92).
Purpose and Date of the Work

The application of passages that subordinate Christ to the human being, in
contradistinction to the Son of God, is an anti-Arian exegetical manoeuvre.
This line of argument appears again in the Contra Arianos and In Proverbia
8.22 groups of fragments; there are also several specific phrases that point to an
anti-Arian context. In D88, Eustathius insists upon ‘one hypostasis’ in God,
which suggests that he is probably writing after the outbreak of the ‘Arian’
controversy. It is plausible that Eustathius is specifically writing in response to
Alexander’s letter, He Philarchos. Here, Alexander claimed that Arius taught
that the Son was not the Son of God ‘by nature’.158 In D85, Eustathius insists
that the Son ‘is God by nature, having been begotten from God’, which could
well be a response to Arius’ claim.159 It is noteworthy that the assertion that
the Son is Ł e KŒ Ł F is also found in the creed of Nicaea 325, and that
Eustathius seems to echo this here. However, X from X language is used so
diversely in the ‘Arian’ controversy that this cannot help us to place the
fragments in relation to Nicaea.160 In light of the possible reference to He
Philarchos, I tentatively suggest that these fragments date from before Nicaea.
158 159
See He Philarchos, 13. D85:2.
160
On X from X language, see Michel Barnes, The Power of God: ˜ıÆØ in Gregory of Nyssa’s
Trinitarian Theology (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2001), p. 119.
Selection of the Fragments

Theodoret is interested in Eustathius for his divisive Christology, and all of his
fragments therefore suggest that this is primarily a Christological text. Theo-
doret’s presentation of Eustathius’ Christology in this work is likely to be
accurate, because Severus, a miaphyiste writer, gives a similar impression
when quoting D88. Severus has selected a passage on the unity of God in
order to persuade Sergius the grammarian that there must be some plurality of
properties in Christ.161 Severus’ quotation is intended to emphasize division in
Christ at least relative to his reader, and is also partly defiant in insisting that a
passage, and even an interpretation of it, that lends itself to divisive Christ-
ology actually fits within a ‘miaphysite’ framework. Severus’ use of these
fragments confirms the impression that Theodoret would give us, that the
work they derive from was basically dyohypostatic Christologically.
In Inscriptiones Titulorum
Connection with In Inscriptiones Psalmorum Graduum?

Robert Devreesse argued that In Inscriptiones Psalmorum graduum and In
Inscriptiones Titulorum were in fact the same work.162 Declerck has objected
to this, arguing that Theodoret clearly means to distinguish the works.163
Declerck is probably right: we saw that Theodoret describes In Inscriptiones
Psalmorum graduum and Inscriptiones Titulorum as ºªı-works. Further-
more, Theodoret’s title is confirmed by all other attestations of these fragments.
The only similarity with the anti-Arian fragments on the Psalms is found in
D62, which refers to Christ ruling eternally because of God dwelling in him.
This might be an attempt to emphasize a distinction between the one dwelt
in—Christ, the human being—and the one dwelling in him—the Word. If so,
this would fit just as well with Contra Arianos—De Fide—In Proverbia 8.22, as
with Psalmorum graduum—In Psalmum 92. As I have noted, it is common in
Eustathius’ anti-Arian writings.
Date
The similarity between D62 and Eustathius’ anti-Arian Christological argu-
ments suggests that this work post-dates the outbreak of the ‘Arian’
161
D88. See Pauline Allen and Robert Hayward, Severus of Antioch (London: Routledge,
2004), pp. 42–4.
162
Robert Devreesse, Les anciens commentateurs grecs de l’Octateuque et des Rois (Vatican:
Bibl Apostolica, 1959), p. 55, note 3.
163
Declerck, Eustathii, p. CCCCI.
controversy. There is some doubt on this question; only D62, the fragment
preserved by Theodoret, echoes the clearly anti-Arian works, and even in this
case, where Theodoret’s selection might be expected to accentuate divisive
Christology, it is not very pronounced.
Nature of the Work

The fragment preserved by Theodoret and the fragments in Collectio Coislini-
ana in Genesim suggest different possibilities about the nature of this work
(which urges caution in extrapolating too much from fragments about the
nature of the whole). I have noted that this may be an anti-Arian tract. It may,
alternatively, focus on the relationship between the Old and New Testaments.
D63 refers to ‘Hebrews and Christians’ being born of Rebecca. Also, the
ascriptions on D64a and D64b say that they are from a work about the
fulfilment of the law of Moses. If it is an anti-Arian tract, the relationship
between the two Testaments was probably a theme within it.
Contra Arianos—De Fide—In Proverbia 8.22
All of these fragments have a metaphysical and cosmological focus and are
concerned especially with the eternity of the Word. Eschatology is also a recurring
theme in them. There are very good reasons for thinking that we have only one
work here. As we have seen, it is not clear that the term ‘on the faith’, found in
Severus, is intended to designate a title. Although In Proverbia 8.22 is described as
a ‘work’, we saw that several of the ascriptions of the Contra Arianos fragments
refer to several books. It therefore seems plausible that we should have several
different groups of fragments, labelled in slightly different ways.
These fragments, in common with all of Eustathius’ anti-Arian writings,
repeatedly contrast ‘the human being of Christ’ with the Word. Eustathius
employs the same exegetical method as in his anti-Arian writings on the Psalms,
applying passages that subordinate Christ to the human being, rather than the
Word. However, these fragments show a particular concern with the Word’s
eternity as contrasted with the human being’s creation in time. This coheres well
with an especial concern with Proverbs 8.22, which Eustathius refers to, not only
in D65 (ostensibly from In Proverbia 8.22), but also in D110 (ostensibly from De
Fide). These fragments could all come from a single work, with a particularly
strong cosmological thrust, focusing on the exegesis of Proverbs 8.22.
Date
This work was certainly written after Nicaea, because, as I argued in Chapter 1,
fragment D79 complains about the pro-Arians’ duplicity there.
The Interpretation of Proverbs 8.22

Proverbs 8.22 was to become very important in the ‘Arian’ controversy.
Athanasius, similarly to Eustathius, would apply the ‘create’ of Proverbs 8.22
to the incarnation.164 Manilo Simonetti notes the novelty of this move and
suggests that Athanasius was borrowing from Marcellus of Ancyra.165 Eu-
stathius offers us an earlier written source for this exegesis, although it is quite
possible that he developed it under Marcellus’ influence.
In Melchisedech
Date and Purpose of the Work

I have already noted that Eustathius’ letter to Alexander shows good relations
between Eustathius and Alexander of Alexandria before the ‘Arian’ contro-
versy was in full swing. Aside from the controversy, these rosy relations
between the Origenist Alexander and the putatively anti-Origenist Eustathius
are a little surprising. Might they suggest that, at the time that Eustathius wrote
this letter, alliances were already forming? I have noted the probability of a
long-standing alliance between Eustathius and his predecessors at Antioch,
Vitalis, and Philogonius, respectively. Perhaps Alexander, becoming increas-
ingly uncomfortable with the possibility of a fight in which the Eusebian party
would be his opponents, decided to make overtures to the Antiochenes.
Asking Eustathius, who apparently already had a reputation as a formidable
exegete, for his opinion on a difficult collection of scriptural passages would be
a good way to do this. This might place the date of this letter in the early 320s,
or possibly just before. D113 does, it is true, contain Christology that would be
surprising in Eustathius, were he keenly aware of the pro-Arian challenge: it is
the Word become flesh who descended into the water (presumably at baptism).
Here, the Word is the active agent, whereas, in Eustathius’ anti-subordina-
tionist work, the Word almost exclusively bolsters and enables the human
being’s agency. It is tempting to suppose that this marks Melchisedech as a
relatively early writing and set it against Alexander’s apparent offer of friend-
ship to Eustathius, which suggests a slightly later date. However, the Christ-
ology in Melchisedech closely echoes Engastrimytho, which was also probably
written shortly before the outbreak of the controversy. Furthermore, the
brevity of the fragment makes it impossible to discern whether Eustathius
qualified his remarks. Therefore, I think we should take this work’s willingness
to refer to the Word as the subject of Christ’s action as a reflection on the
164
Athanasius, De Decretis, 14.
165
Simonetti, Studi sull’ Arianesimo (Rome: Editrice Studium, 1965), chapter 1. See Marcel-
lus, Contra Asterium, fragment K9.
lateness of his strongly divisive Christology, rather than the earliness of the
work itself.
Context of Exegesis in Melchisedech

Eustathius’ argument against the interpretation that Melchizedek actually had
no parents may well be anti-Origenist. It is relatively unremarkable.166 How-
ever, Jerome claims that Origen and his assistant, Didymus, believed that
Melchizedek was a heavenly creature.167 Though we may suspect Jerome of
being unfair on Origen, he could well have been drawing on a reading of
Origen with which Eustathius was also familiar. It is therefore possible that
Eustathius’ letter to Alexander contains a veiled attack on Origen. More clearly,
in arguing against a Docetic understanding of Melchizedek, Eustathius argues
against a Docetic understanding of Christ. As we have seen, he was later to
attribute such a Docetic Christology to his pro-Arian opponents. This may well
be an indication of the fact that, in the correspondence between Eustathius and
Alexander, the battle-lines of the ‘Arian’ controversy were already being drawn.
Tentationibus
Not much can be established about this work. The term Theotokos suggests
that Tentationibus ought to be dated relatively early, probably before the
outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy and certainly before the writing of Contra
Arianos—De Fide—In Proverbia 8.22, where Eustathius writes that Mary is the
mother of the human being, rather than the Word.
Oratio Coram tota Ecclesia and Secunda oratio

coram tota Ecclesia
Date and Nature of the Works

These works both very probably pre-date the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ contro-
versy. Grillmeier and Declerck have both supposed this on the basis that their
Christology is not strongly divisive as it is in Eustathius’ anti-‘Arian’ tracts.168
166
Fred L. Horton surveys the treatment of Melchizedek in patristic sources in The Melchiz-
edek Tradition: A Critical Examination of the Sources to the Fifth Century A.D. and in the Epistle
to the Hebrews (Cambridge: CUP, 1976), pp. 87–130.
167
Jerome, Epistulae, edited by Isidorus Hilberg, Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae (Vienna:
Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1996), pp. 11, 13–23.
168
Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, p. 244; Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCCXIII–
CCCCXIV.

This is largely persuasive. Admittedly, the problems of circular methodology
apply in a particular way to writings that are not overtly polemical; as most
Eustathian tracts that can be assessed on non-theological grounds as dating
post-Nicaea are overtly anti-Arian, it is not clear how far Eustathius’ Christ-
ology changed as a result of the controversy and how much, alternatively, he
had a different emphasis when engaging directly with pro-Arian opponents.
Nonetheless, the contrast between the attitude to divine suffering in D119 and
in Eustathius’ later work does suggest that this devotional tone had not yet
been forced to be reflective about its implications for the unity of God or
divinity of the Word. Declerck has noted that the Syriac introductions to these
works suggest that they are part of a series of works.169 This is plausible.
Christology
Sellers’ discomfiture with the Eustathian authorship of D119—on the basis
that it ascribes suffering and death to the Word—raises an interesting question
about Eustathius’ Christology. As observed at the beginning of this chapter,
Grillmeier supposed that Eustathius’ Christology underwent a radical alter-
ation with the ‘Arian’ controversy.170 Should we allow the early fragments, and
particularly D119, to cast the Christology of Eustathius’ anti-Arian works in
an entirely defensive mould? Certainly, a significant shift in Eustathius’
Christology is very clear. However, we should not suppose a total discontinu-
ity. As we have seen, Engastrimytho offers a Christology that talks about
Christ’s human soul, sometimes in implied contradistinction to the Word,
but also sometimes presents the Word as the subject of Christ’s actions. The
Origenist doctrine of Christ’s human soul, so important to Ariomanitas, is
fully developed already in Engastrimytho. Although the Christology in Engas-
trimytho is less divisive than in the anti-Arian works, it is divisive, in the sense
that Eustathius often distinguishes between the Word and the human being
qua acting subjects in Christ. For example, as noted, it is the ‘human soul’ that
throws open the gates of Hades.171 The most significant change in Christology
between Engastrimytho and the anti-Arian works is that, in the latter, the
Word is not the acting subject in any of Christ’s earthly acts. Eustathius has
homed in on the divisive elements in his earlier Christology to protect the
Word from mutability, passion, and all things that might undermine his
divinity.
This has important implications for the claim that the Word was ‘killed’,
because it suggests that Eustathius was not unreflective about the Word’s
agency in Christ in his pre-Arian works. If we suppose that Oratio coram
169
Declerck, Eustathii, pp. CCCCXIII.
170
Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, pp. 296–301.
171
tota Ecclesia boasts a Christology similar to Engastrimytho, we may also
suppose that Eustathius intends to ascribe vulnerability to the incarnate Word.
In Joseph and De Hebraismo
These are apparently exegetical works, but otherwise neither the ascriptions
nor the surviving fragments can tell us much about either work as a whole.
Samaritanam
If the ascription on the remaining fragments is to be trusted, this is an

exegetical work. Its surviving fragment shows a concern with Eucharistic
theology, and, specifically, the theological context surrounding the veneration
of the Eucharist. Spanneut’s suggestion that the fragment’s Christology is too
monistic to post-date the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy is plausible.
S U M MARY
We have in Eustathius of Antioch a prolific and eclectic writer. Declerck’s

recent work gives us valuable new access to Eustathius. We must be aware that
the epitome still offers an incomplete and often restructured picture of his
theology. However, it nonetheless enables a much richer appreciation of his
anti-Arian theology and, in particular, its connection to his earlier thought.
Perhaps the most striking finding of this survey is the clear evidence of both
development and continuity within Eustathius’ Christology. Despite the
availability of Engastrimytho, earlier scholarship tended to view Eustathius
through the lens of the fragments, and thus either saw him as a proto-
Nestorian figure (Sellers) or, considering the handful of early fragments that
did not support this view, interpreted his divisive Christology entirely as an
anti-Arian reaction (Grillmeier). A fuller consideration of Engastrimytho, held
together with the new epitome, gives us a rather more complex picture—a
highly developed doctrine of Christ’s human soul clearly pre-dated the ‘Arian’
controversy, and initially had little to do with protecting the Word from
earthly and human experiences. Eustathius then deployed this doctrine within
a divisive, anti-Arian Christology, but within this Christology, the anthropo-
logical and soteriological concerns of his earlier Christology remain
prominent—so, Uthemann’s recent work, based on the epitome, has estab-
lished that, in Ariomanitas, Eustathius is profoundly concerned with Christ’s
full humanity.

This is a moment at which a great deal of further research on Eustathius is
both needed and enabled. I cannot hope, in the following pages, to avail myself
of all the fresh opportunities that Declerck’s work, together with a proper
appreciation of Engastrimytho, offer. However, in addressing myself to Eu-
stathius’ anthropology, I believe that I am addressing a subject that provides a
unifying theme across Engastrimytho and his anti-Arian works. Anthropology
was of abiding importance to Eustathius, as it was to the wider ‘Arian’
controversy.
Body and Soul
In Eustathius’ anthropology, body and soul are mutually defining entities

integral to human nature, and are correspondingly interdependent in human
action and experience. An important thread running through both Engastri-
mytho and Ariomanitas articulates and defends this psychophysical holism in
opposition to an anthropology that associates the self with the soul and locates
human nature and destiny outside of current earthly, embodied existence. In
Engastrimytho, Eustathius connects such a disembodied anthropology primarily
with Origen whilst also deploying aspects of his thought. In Ariomanitas, he
attributes it to Plato, but argues that it is implied in the theology (especially the
Christology) of Eusebius of Caesarea. Though he continues to react against
Origen’s legacy in this work, Eustathius’ approach to him has shifted: he attacks
Origen less directly, and he is more willing to take on and develop his ideas.
In Chapter 2, we saw that the dispute between Methodius and Origen was the
declared intellectual context of Engastrimytho. Although Methodius was sub-
stantially influenced by Origen, especially in Convivium, he later attacked him in
De Resurrectione. Eustathius refers to Methodius’ attack on Origen as a basis
for his own work: ‘Methodius . . . has written enough about Origen’s doctrine [of
the resurrection] and has clearly demonstrated to everyone that Origen unwisely
gave an opening to the heretics by defining the resurrection as one of form, but
not of the body itself.’1 De Resurrectione was more significant in determining
Eustathius’ treatment of both Origen and Methodius in Engastrimytho than was
Methodius’ earlier, somewhat Origenist, work.
Eustathius’ attack on Origen was part of a wider argument surrounding
Origen’s legacy—after all, Eustathius was writing in response to Eutropius’
dissatisfaction with Origen’s interpretation of the Witch of Endor text. Even in
Engastrimytho, there are certain points on which Eustathius is closer to Origen
than to Methodius, and these are points at which Origen himself suggests an
intrinsic connection between soul and body. We have seen that, in Arioma-
nitas, Eustathius is attacking pro-Arian, ‘soulless’ Christology, primarily
1

aiming at Eusebius. One of his arguments is that pro-Arian Christology
implies an Origenist and Platonist anthropology.
At first glance, Ariomanitas might reasonably look like a centrepiece in a
showdown between Eustathius, the Methodian, and Eusebius, the Origenist.
Certainly, in important respects, Eustathius does uphold Irenaean and Metho-
dian anthropology in opposition to Origenist anthropology. However, there is
another thread running through both Engastrimytho and Ariomanitas, chiefly
concerned with the disembodied experience of Christ’s human soul—both with
its out-of-body experiences during Christ’s earthly life, and with its experiences
in Hades and paradise while Christ is dead; here Eustathius is very close to
Origen. In Engastrimytho, the doctrine of Christ’s human soul constitutes
shared ground from which to argue. In Ariomanitas, Eustathius uses his shared
ground with Origen as a stick with which to beat Eusebius. In significant ways,
Eusebius gives the Word the mediatorial role that Origen had given to Christ’s
human soul.2 Eustathius responds by giving to Christ’s human soul the position
that it had for Origen.3 Eustathius’ theology of embodiment stands in a
tradition heavily shaped by Irenaeus and, though his debt to Origen is often
in tension with this tradition, it also crops up where Origen’s thought is closest
to Irenaeus’, and can be deployed in defence of a holistic anthropology.
My discussion of Origen is primarily concerned with Eustathius’ reading of
him. At times, understanding this reading involves drawing out ways in which
Origen is similar to Irenaeus and Methodius, or is otherwise concerned to value
the body. At others, it involves taking an extremely ungenerous and often unfair
reading of him at face value. I do on occasion register my own perspective on
Origen’s theology, but I do not purport to advance the discussion about the
justice of the fourth-century reaction against Origen, nor should my citation of
Origen’s works to explain a particular interpretation of him be taken as a
statement about Origen’s own beliefs unless I indicate otherwise.
PHILO SOPHY IN THE THEOLOGICAL

DEBATE ABOUT E MBODIMENT
The theological discourse in which Eustathius engaged was indebted to philo-

sophical discourse. The nature of this debt is hard to pin down. Sometimes
2
Eusebius’ distance from Origen on the subject of Christ’s soul may well have been a sore
point for him: in the Apologia pro Origene, Pamphilus does not really defend the doctrine, merely
remarking cautiously that ‘nothing else needs to be said’ than that scripture says so too [121],
though Origen’s belief that Christ took up a soul is reiterated, without further development,
elsewhere in the text [33].
3
As argued by Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’.
Body and Soul 77

Christian thinkers explicitly aligned themselves with or attacked a particular
philosophical school.4 However, the influence of philosophy on theology is
both more pervasive and more elastic than the sum of theologians’ explicit
claims about philosophy. First, the language and grammar in which Christians
spoke could not be divorced from the language and grammar of the philoso-
phy that shaped their intellectual context; second, ideas from philosophical
discourse were taken up and deployed in new, distinctively Christian direc-
tions, so even a close reliance on certain philosophical sources does not
necessarily suggest a deliberate affirmation of them. Furthermore, where a
Christian thinker was dependent on a pagan philosopher, he or she might not
admit it. Eustathius never explicitly advocates any pagan philosopher or
philosophical school when arguing about anthropology. His debts to pagan
philosophical anthropology are all implicit, his departures often trumpeted.
A note on the terminology that I use to talk about philosophical traditions is
necessary. The label ‘Platonist’ and the related terms ‘Middle Platonist’ and
‘Neoplatonist’ have been valuably problematized by various scholars.5 The
problems of categorization are exacerbated by an ongoing disagreement about
the relationship of Aristotle to Plato, and, relatedly, the place of Aristotle’s
thought within the commentators. Lloyd Gerson has recently argued that
Aristotle can most meaningfully be understood as a Platonist, and that he
was very widely read as such by Platonists.6 George Karamanolis subsequently
argued that commentators following Plato used Aristotle to bolster and defend
Plato’s ideas, rather than synthesizing the two thinkers.7 It has been necessary
to retain some common terms for convenience. Here, ‘Middle Platonism’
refers to the thought of the commentators drawing on Plato before Plotinus,
and ‘Neoplatonism’ to the thought of Plotinus and his successors. The broader
term ‘Platonism’ is nonetheless sometimes useful when referring to concepts
common to both of these traditions, but particularly associated with them.
None of these three terms is taken to exclude the thought of Aristotle, or to
involve a statement about Plato’s own intended meaning. The term ‘Peripat-
etic’ is used to refer to thinkers, such as Alexander of Aphrodisias, who self-
consciously aligned themselves with Aristotle, in contradistinction to Plato.
To describe the soul and the body, Eustathius uses cosmological categories
indebted to Platonism and very widely adopted by Greek-speaking Christian
intellectuals (who were not necessarily declared Platonists): the body is cor-
poreal and perceptible whilst the soul is incorporeal and intelligible. For
Eustathius, the soul gives the body life and, therefore, makes it human. The
4
As in Eusebius’ P.E.
5
See Mark Edwards, Culture and Philosophy in the Age of Plotinus (London: Duckworth,
2006), pp. 7–22.
6
Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists (London: Cornell University Press, 2005).
7
George Karamanolis, Plato and Aristotle in Agreement? Platonists on Aristotle from Antio-
chus to Porphyry (Oxford: OUP, 2006).

soul actualizes the body. Eustathius also suggests that the soul is the body’s
form. This account of the body–soul relationship is, of course, associated with
Aristotle for whom it is an instance of the relationship between matter and
form. So, Aristotle begins his description of the soul by referring to his
distinction between form and matter: ‘Matter exists potentially, whilst form
is its actuality.’8 The idea that the soul is the body’s form can be found, in
different ways, in many Neoplatonic commentators as well as in Peripatetic
thinkers.
As Eustathius not only, unremarkably, deploys Platonic cosmological cat-
egories, but also draws on Origen’s broadly Platonist concept of the soul, we
might suppose that his philosophical sources are overwhelmingly the writings
of eclectic Neoplatonists, such as Porphyry and Iamblichus. Embodiment had
often proved a problematic area for Christian Platonists, and it is unsurprising
that Eustathius should either emphasize those aspects of Platonism that
allowed a positive space to embodiment, or diverge from Platonism altogether.
However, it will become clear that Eustathius was also engaging with Peripat-
etic ideas; where he offers a technical definition of the soul, it includes
phraseology only clearly evidenced in self-consciously Peripatetic authors
and descriptions of Peripatetic doctrine.9 As I noted in Chapter 2, he also
draws on medical treatises which, we shall see, tended to be sympathetic to
Peripatetic readings of the body–soul relationship. Eustathius finds in Aris-
totle’s legacy a resource for articulating and shaping a psychophysical anthro-
pology consonant with his theological precepts. Specifically, he deploys this
legacy to interpret embodiment as a positive and integral part of humanness.
As well as drawing directly on Peripatetic accounts of embodiment, Eu-
stathius deploys ideas found in the writings of eclectic Platonic commentators
where they aid his view of embodiment. Interestingly, these are ideas that can
generally be traced back to Aristotle more clearly than to Plato. This relation-
ship to the commentators is found in Origen, and Eustathius probably adopts
it via taking on some of Origen’s ideas. However, he is also indebted to
Origen’s psychology where it presents the soul as most disconnected from
the body—as a mediator between the Word and the flesh, transcending its
bodily existence. This, in turn, has resonance with Middle and Neoplatonism
at their least eclectic.
Despite the complexities of his engagement with Origen’s Platonism,
Eustathius is extremely critical of Plato himself, whom he caricatures as
denying both any intrinsic connection between the soul and the body and
8
Aristotle, De Anima, II.1 412a1–15.
9
It is possible that Eustathius was partly drawing directly on Aristotle; Declerck, Eustathii,
notes the probable influence of Aristotle’s Poetica on Engastrimytho, 27 in his footnotes on
the text.
Body and Soul 79

any importance to the earthly life in human identity.10 Eusebius’ treatment
of pagan philosophy is important to Eustathius. In his Preparatio Evangelica,
Eusebius argues that Plato largely agreed with Moses, though he also criti-
cizes Plato on certain points (as we saw in the last chapter). Eusebius devotes
book 15 to the philosophy of Aristotle, of which he is extremely critical,
and he cites passages from the commentators in which Aristotle is contrasted
with Plato. As I shall demonstrate shortly, among them are certain
passages from Plotinus’ Enneads, critiquing Aristotle’s view of the soul and
embodiment.
The ‘Platonism’ that Eustathius attacks is arguably closer to the thought of
Plotinus than that of Plato himself. Plotinus, crudely, tends to be less
accommodating towards the body, earthly life, and emotional experience
than most other Platonic commentators, or than Plato himself. A strand of
Plotinus’ anthropology therefore represents all that Eustathius dislikes about
Platonism and he finds this strand in Eusebius. I suggest that this helped to
shape Eustathius’ discourse on Platonism in Ariomanitas. Apparently with-
out acknowledging them, Eustathius actively deploys Peripatetic sources to
write about the soul in an argument with Eusebius over anthropology;
Eusebius had already defined his own thought in opposition to Peripatetic
philosophy.
EUSTATHIUS ’ ATTACK ON ‘ PLATO’: S OUL I S

CONNECTED TO BODY
We saw in the last chapter that Eustathius explicitly attacks belief both in the
transmigration of souls and in the unoriginated nature of souls, and that the
perceived Platonism of Eusebius is his target.11 Eustathius, then, is concerned
about what he perceives as Platonizing tendencies in Christianity. Origen’s
account of embodiment is in the background here, and Eustathius is con-
cerned that it disconnects the soul from the body. Eustathius’ attack on
Plato’s psychology occurs in several different fragments in Ariomanitas, and
I believe that we can see the argument developing as follows.
10
In Engastrimytho, 28–9, he refers more positively to Plato, appealing to his discussion of
myth in Respublica, 377, to argue that the words of the necromancer should be rejected (Plato
advises that we distinguish between good and bad myths, and reject the latter). Eustathius is
appealing to an authority which, he implies, Origen ought to accept, so his own attitude is a little
unclear.
11
See ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works—Ariomanitas—Eustathius’ Opponents
in Ariomanitas’ in Chapter 2.
Transmigration
First, Eustathius attacks the doctrine of transmigration on the basis that the
souls of human beings are of a specifically human kind. This conviction is
fundamental to Eustathius’ rejection of ‘soulless’ Christology because it im-
plies that, if the Word acted in place of the soul in Christ, Christ simply was
not human. Eustathius attacks Platonism for failing to appreciate this point.
So, he writes that ‘[t]here are different and manifold kinds of souls, just as of
bodies. Because of this, whilst the small ones die easily, the large ones are
resistant, as they have stubbornly undergone trials’.12 A human body has to
have a specifically human soul to go with it, Eustathius argues, because kinds
of soul, just like kinds of body, are particular to kinds of being. The adjective
‘human’—¼ŁæØ—is an ontological rather than a situational descriptor
(it is noteworthy that, even whilst defending the distinctiveness of the human
soul, Eustathius assumes some similarity between human souls and animal
souls—otherwise, his comparison between the souls of small and large animals
would be irrelevant to his argument).
Here, Eustathius is reminiscent of Aristotle and Galen, in slightly different
ways. The connection between types of soul and types of animal finds a
parallel in a passage from Galen’s De Usu Partium (which is not in reference
to transmigration): ‘the body is the soul’s instrument, and because of this, the
parts of living things differ greatly from each other, as well as the souls’.13 The
critique of transmigration echoes Aristotle, who disparages those who
only undertake to explain what sort of thing the soul is, without postulating
anything about the nature of the body receiving it, as if it were true, as the
Pythagorean myths suggest, that any soul can find its way into any body . . . Each
craft must employ its own tools, and each soul its own body.14
Like Aristotle, Eustathius asserts that a human soul must have a human body
and not a body of any other kind. In doing so, he grounds the whole person in
his or her current context in the sense that he sees the human body as the
natural environment for the soul of a human being. His stance also involves
the proposition that the human soul, qua soul, is a peculiarly human thing.15
12
D53, entire fragment [Ariomanitas]. The fragment does not mention Plato, but seems very
naturally to follow from D52, which does.
13
Galen, De Usu Partium, I.2 (Declerck observes this parallel in a textual note).
14
De anima, 407b20–27, edited by Walter Hett (London: Heinemann, 1935), translation
slightly emended.
15
Similarly, Gregory of Nyssa argues that we have specifically human souls, accompanied by
complementarily specifically human bodies, in De Opificio Hominis, 4.1 and attacks transmigra-
tion at De Opificio Hominis, 28. Gregory was clearly aware of Eustathius’ work, and probably had
substantial contact with the continuing Eustathian community at Antioch. See Declerck, Eu-
stathii, pp. LVI–LVII, who notes Gregory’s participation in the Council of Antioch 379.
Body and Soul 81

Scholars are divided over whether Aristotle meant to claim that a particular
human soul requires a particular human body, or simply that human souls
require human bodies.16 If the latter, his view was apparently taken up by
eclectic Platonists. For example, Nemesius attributes to Iamblichus the view
that souls cannot transmigrate between species.17 This portion of Eustathius’
own attack on transmigration only explicitly asserts this view, as it focuses on
categories of body and soul—referring to large and small animals, for example.
Taking this text by itself, there is nothing to suggest that he does not believe
that souls cannot transmigrate between species but can transmigrate between
different bodies within one species. We shall see in a moment that this is not
his position. He focuses on kinds of soul in this passage in order to draw a
particular parallel between ‘soulless’ Christology and the doctrine of transmi-
gration; both ignore the specifically human character of a human being’s soul.
Not only is Eustathius aware that Eusebius does not believe in transmigration—
nor could he seriously have hoped to persuade anyone else that Eusebius,
or other pro-Arians, believed in transmigration. The point is that ‘soulless’
Christology falls into the same trap.
Both Origen and Eusebius reject transmigration, which they attribute to
Plato.18 In Origen’s case, it is specifically transmigration between species that
is explicitly rejected. Eustathius was probably aware of Origen’s argument
against transmigration between species, which might seem to affirm transmi-
gration within species by implication. If he is quoting Origen back at Eusebius,
this has two effects: first, to embarrass Eusebius, the Origenist, by hinting
obliquely at Origen’s—supposed—belief in transmigration; second, to high-
light a trap into which Eusebius has fallen by failing to take on Origen’s
doctrine of Christ’s human soul. Origen’s Christology was perfectly consistent
with his asserting the distinctiveness of human souls in that, for Origen, the
Word does not act qua soul; Origen, Eustathius implies, did appreciate
Christ’s full humanity insofar as he appreciated humanity at all; Origen’s
problem was with the anthropology that underlay his Christology. Eusebius,
however, had failed not only anthropologically, but also Christologically.
16
Hubertus Busche, Die Seele als System. Aristoteles Wissenschaft von der Psyche (Hamburg:
Meiner, 2001), p. 9, argues that Aristotle attaches a particular soul to a particular body and
therefore believes that the soul ceases to exist at bodily death but Abraham P. Bos, ‘ “Aristotelian”
and “Platonic” dualism in Hellenistic and early Christian philosophy and in Gnosticism’, VC, 56,
no. 3 (August, 2002), 273–91, <http://www.jstor.org/stable/1584656>, argues that Aristotle and,
initially, his followers, attacked transmigration on the grounds that particular kinds of souls
needed particular kinds of bodies, but not on the grounds that a particular soul needed a
particular body.
17
Nemesius, De Natura Hominis, edited by Moreno Morani (Leipzig: Teubner, 1987),
2.20–25.
18
Origen, Contra Celsum, 4.8.3; Eusebius, P.E., 13.15.
Judgement of the Soul Between Lives
Eustathius cites and ridicules Plato’s description of souls being judged in

Hades and then reincarnated,19 and we shall examine this passage further
when considering Eustathius’ view of the resurrection. For the moment, we
should note that key to his argument here is that souls would remember if they
had previously been in other bodies. This assumes that embodied experiences
are important in the life of the soul, and does connect a particular human soul
to a particular human body.
Unoriginated Souls
Also, we have Eustathius’ attack on the unoriginated nature of souls. Here,

Eustathius inaccurately quotes Plato as claiming that ‘[e]very soul is unbegot-
ten [IªÅ ]. For what is unbegotten is also immortal’.20 He says that this
passage is from the Phaedo. In fact, this passage is from the Phaedrus and, in
the extant text at least, reads, IªÅ .21 This apparent discrepancy may be
due to textual variation, or Eustathius may simply be portraying this doctrine
in the most outlandish light possible. This would clearly resonate in the ‘Arian’
controversy, in which everyone agreed that only the Father was unbegotten.
Interestingly, however, Eustathius’ remaining attack on this position focuses
not on the metaphysical question—that ‘unbegotten’ is a category only ap-
plicable to the Father—but on anthropology. So, Eustathius deploys the
ignorance of the young to argue more explicitly against a previous existence
of any kind, and to argue, positively, that the soul develops along with its body:
Souls are not, indeed, unbegotten. The youthfulness of new-born babies shows
this clearly. For if at the time that the children were born, [the soul] had clung to
perfect consciousness, it would be possible for some people to reasonably feign
ignorance. If, however, [a soul] is left without thought and speech and conscious-
ness, the souls are not in a state of unbegottenness by nature. Therefore,
altogether, we see that the soul has been lastingly stretched out with the bodies’
materials, not only with respect to greatness or shortness of limbs, but also with
respect to other proportions—those of the [power of] judgement. All new-born
babies entirely lack intent and will. Then, advancing gently little by little, [a baby]
receives mind and consciousness and reason. And if on one hand these [proper-
ties] are proper to the soul, on the other souls also take on the best supplements
from circumstance. Therefore, it is clear that a soul does indeed grow up together
with the body. And just as if it has forgotten this, the soul gradually acquires the
capacities and, proceeding, the mind.22
19 20 21 22
D31 [Ariomanitas]. D52. Plato, Phaedrus, 245c–246a. D60.
Body and Soul 83

In this case, Eustathius does not simply argue that, in the event of having been
embodied, a soul would remember it. Rather, he argues explicitly that a soul
does not come to exist apart from a particular body, and is only able to reach
maturity in a body, and notes that this is why it might look as if the soul has
forgotten things. Again, he takes up an argument of Aristotle’s to argue, as
Aristotle did, that a soul is dependent on and defined by a particular body.23
To do so, he probably draws on Galen, and either on Aristotle or the
commentary tradition reflecting on him.
I favour ordering the arguments in this way because then the argument is
seen to develop from general claims, directed against the most controversial
ideas associated with transmigration, towards very specific claims about the
relationship between the soul and body. Whether Eustathius attributed to
Origen a belief in transmigration or, rather, conceded that he did not hold it,
Origen’s purported doctrine of the pre-existence and fall of souls must be in
the background here. We shall see that Eustathius repeatedly reacts against
what he perceives as Origen’s neglect of the properly embodied nature of the
human being.
T H E SE L F : S O UL AND BOD Y
The positive thesis correlative to Eustathius’ attack on Origenism is that

human identity is located in the union of body and soul. In Engastrimytho,
Eustathius writes that a human being ‘has a proportionate mixture (ŒæA
Ø
Iºª) of both [body and soul]’.24 This formula recurs twice in Ariomani-
tas: ‘[T]he soul does not gush forth tears apart from a body, and nor will a
body cry joylessly asunder from a soul, but [the one who cries is] the one who
has a proportionate mixture from both’; ‘the one who has been proportion-
ately mixed with a soul and body is “soul-like (łıåØŒe)”.’25 In the second
instance, Eustathius is putatively reporting a pro-Arian argument in favour of
‘soulless’ Christology: Adam is soul-like, Christ is spiritual—so where Adam
had a soul, Christ had the divine spirit. However, the close similarity with the
other passages cited indicates that the wording is his own. Eustathius does not
object that Adam was not ‘one who has been mixed proportionately from body
and soul’, but insists that Christ was also such a one. His respective arguments
in Engastrimytho and Ariomanitas are mirror images of each other. In En-
gastrimytho, Eustathius defends the necessity of the body to human nature,
23
Aristotle, Metaphysica, 980a29–b13.
24
Engastrimytho, 5.3. On the use of the term ŒæA
Ø to describe the relationship between the
body and the soul see ‘The Soul as the Body’s Form in the Commentary Tradition’.
25
D7:6–8 and D44:6–7, respectively.

and in Ariomanitas, he defends the necessity of the soul. He appeals to the
same anthropological principles in both instances.
In the first instance, Eustathius rejects the possibility of referring to a
disembodied human soul as ¼Łæø: he is concerned to show that the
‘necromancer’ of Endor could not have called up Samuel or any part of him;
the ‘necromancer’ could not have summoned Samuel per se, because Saul did
not see whatever she claimed to see, and he would have seen it if whatever it
was had a body. If it was without a body ‘it was not Samuel that she raised up,
but the form of a spirit. For Samuel is a being composed of soul and body,
since a human being is a proportionate mixture of both’.26 Eustathius is
arguing not just that a human being is body and soul, but that Samuel, who
is a human being, is body and soul. He locates the self in the human being.27
This is a subsidiary argument as far as his attack on Origen’s exegesis of the
Witch of Endor passage is concerned: Origen appealed to the claim that the
necromancer ‘saw that it was Samuel’ to demonstrate that she had, in fact, seen
Samuel.28 Eustathius responds to this by claiming that it is the voice of the
necromancer, not the Holy Spirit, who claims to have seen Samuel.29 Eu-
stathius’ turn to an anthropological argument here is an indication that
anthropological questions are woven throughout the text.
In Ariomanitas, Eustathius applies an identical exegetical move in reverse.
Throughout this work, the assumption that a human being is body and soul is
central to Eustathius’ argument that the Word took up a human soul: ‘The
lord did not take up a half complete [ Ø ºB] human being.’30 Citing John
8.40, he argues that Christ must have had a soul since he referred to himself as
¼Łæø. Eustathius demands: ‘if he did not take up a soul, how is he an
¼Łæø?’ Eustathius’ focus on the meaning of the term ‘¼Łæø’ may be
directly engaging Eusebius’ own use of the term in exegesis, though it could be
26
Engastrimytho, 5.3.
27
There is a live debate about the concept of the self in Greco–Roman antiquity, partly
concerned with how far and in what sense there was a concept of the self as an individual. See in
particular Christopher Gill, ‘The Ancient Self: Issues and Approaches’ in Ancient Philosophy of
the Self, edited by Paulina Remes and Juha Sihvola (London: Springer, 2008), pp. 35–56 (Gill is
dubious about there being an individualistic concept of the self in ancient sources) and Richard
Sorabji, ‘Graeco-Roman Varieties of Self ’ in Ancient Philosophy, edited by Remes and Sihvola,
pp. 13–34 (Sorabji argues that, particularly in later antiquity, there is a growing idea of the
individual self in the sense of an owner of consciousness). I am sympathetic to Sorabji’s thesis
but, in any case, the discourse in which Eustathius is directly engaged is primarily concerned
with carrying through the implications of what Gill describes as ‘psychological (or psychophys-
ical) structure, or of what is essential or fundamental to our nature as human beings or persons’:
Christopher Gill, The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought (Oxford: OUP, 2007),
p. xiv. To that extent, we need not settle the wider question of self in order to observe Eustathius’
argument, and that of his opponents.
28 29
Origen, Homilia in 1 Regum 28, 4.2–7. Engastrimytho, 15–16.
30
D11:1–2 [Ariomanitas] with a pun on ‘half a perfect human being’.
Body and Soul 85

the other way around.31 In any case, in a ‘soulless’ Christology, it is the
centrality of the soul to human nature that Eustathius sees as at risk.
In both Arianos and Ariomanitas, Eustathius refers to Christ’s limbs
as typically human. In this he is probably drawing on Methodius.32
However, his treatment of Christ’s limbs in Ariomanitas, when compared
with Arianos, shows Ariomanitas’ particular concern with Christ’s soul. In
Ariomanitas, he insists that Christ is ‘from soul and body, not one who
has been limb-formed, with only a soulless body’ (redeploying the term
ºıæªÅŁ—‘harmonized’—in a novel direction).33 In Arianos, he refers
to Christ as ‘the human being arranged [æ ºªÅ ] from all limbs’.34
His sarcasm about being ‘limb-formed’ arises in Ariomanitas, because he is
specifically concerned with Christ’s soul; even here, he is sufficiently occupied
with Christ’s body to refer repeatedly to his limbs.35 A serious treatment of
the soul requires a close consideration of the body.
Origen, conversely, often writes as if equating the soul with the self. For
example, he wonders whether Genesis 2.7 ‘and ¼Łæø became a living
łıå’ means that ¼Łæø was a łıå.36 In any case, this is a clear impli-
cation of his supposed doctrine of the resurrection, as not being ‘of the body
itself ’. In Engastrimytho, Eustathius takes up Methodius’ part in insisting
on the location of human identity in body and soul. He carries this over into
Ariomanitas where his focus is what he regards as the Platonism of Eusebius.
Plotinus’ treatment of the soul, which Eusebius advocates, is important
here. Plotinus writes both that the łıå is the ‘true ¼Łæø’ and also that
the łıå is ÆP —‘the self ’.37 Eusebius had reproduced this Plotinian
claim, approvingly, in his Preparatio Evangelica.38 Eustathius, therefore, has
reasons to associate the equation of soul and self with Platonism, Origen, and
Eusebius.
It is noteworthy that, in Apologia pro Origene, Origen is said to
have declared that Christ took up humanity, ‘that is, a soul and earthly
31
See Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos (PG 23:1148): ˚Æd Kd e ¼Łæø b F æØ
F
±æ
Ł
ÆØ a ºª Æ ‘And these sayings will be attached to the human being of Christ’.
32
Compare D3:8–9 and Methodius, De Res., II.18.7.
33 34
D19a:17–18. D71:10.
35 36
See D9:13, D11:10, D27:95, D40:15, D44:11. De Princ., 2.8.1.
37
Plotinus, Enneads, 1.1.10 and 4.7.1, respectively. See Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists,
pp. 135–6. Pauliina Remes, Plotinus on Self: the Philosophy of the We (Cambridge: CUP, 2007)
argues that for Plotinus, each person has two selves: the composite of body and soul, and the soul
without reference to the body: ‘Plotinus is pushed towards a theory of two selves . . . that residing
in the composite, and . . . the primary pure and rational self . . . a composite and a real self, the
self ’ (p. 30). She cites Enneads, 2.3.9.30–1: ‘on one hand, the composite thing, on the other, the
self ’. She is right to note that Plotinus sees human identity as torn between an embodied and
disembodied state, but also that the soul as understood without reference to the body takes
precedence in the self ’s identity. This idea has a backstory in Plato; see for example Protagoras,
313AI–C3.
38
Eusebius, P.E., 15.22.

body’.39 This is one of several instances in which Pamphilus defends Origen
against just the charges that Eustathius lays at his door (hardly surprising, as
he was defending Origen partly against Methodius).40 Perhaps Eustathius
simply disregards the Apologia. However, it is also possible that he is referring
to it: in Engastrimytho, Eustathius quotes this back at Origen, rather implying
that he fails to follow through on the positive anthropological implications of
his own Christology. In Ariomanitas, he may again have the passage in
mind—but here, he is accusing Eusebius of being a bad Origenist, and also
of denying what he himself had purported to be orthodox.
THE S OUL GIVES FORM TO THE BODY
In Ariomanitas, Eustathius offers a technical definition of the soul:

Aæ Ç K
Ø Ø’Oºªø KØ
ŒłÆ
ŁÆØ ‹ºø K
d łıå. O Ø b
IæÆ K
Ø F Æ, A
Ø æÅº. KŒ H ÆN
ŁÅ H Oæªø Æı
NŒÇØ ŒÅ
Ø, NØF
Æ Æ KæªÆ, ›æÆ a E A
Ø ÆæåØ
ªøæ
Æ Æ.
I translate this passage as follows:
It is fitting to cover in a few words what the soul actually is. On one hand, that it is
invisible spirit is evident to everyone. On the other, the motion makes an image of
itself from the perceptible organs and, giving form to the active functions, it
furnishes everything with visible marks.41
The passage does not exactly fit with what follows, and has probably been
lifted from some other part of the text. In what follows, I offer the following
possible interpretations: 1) the soul imprints an image of itself on the body; 2)
the soul makes an image of itself from the body, and thus enables sense
perception. I believe that the former is more likely. Under either interpret-
ation, the soul actualizes the body’s capacities. Eustathius has the sense that
this actualizing of the body’s capacities is form-giving: the soul gives form to
the body.42 He further thinks of the soul as incorporeal. He blends Neopla-
tonic, Peripatetic, Galenic, and Stoic ideas and terminology to formulate this
39
Pamphilus, Apologia pro Origene, 33, translated by Thomas Scheck (Washington, DC:
Catholic University of America Press, 2010).
40
See this chapter: ‘The Resurrection of the Body’. 41
42
I avoid the modern term ‘hylomorphic’; Eustathius does show awareness of the wider
metaphysical context of the idea of soul as form (see ‘The Disembodied Soul’), but the term
oºÅ—‘matter’ is nowhere evidenced in his work and a clear, consistent use of Aristotle’s
metaphysics to ground his psychology is absent. For these reasons, the term might cloud the
present study as much as enlighten it.
Body and Soul 87

definition. The definition also finds close parallels with passages from Gregory
of Nyssa and Athanasius.
Soul Actualizing Bodily Capacities
The reference to movement reflects a wider association between the soul and
movement in Ariomanitas. According to Eustathius, the soul imparts move-
ment to the body.43 Eustathius also, more specifically, associates the soul’s
activity, or connection with the body, with movement. So, he refers to ‘the
movements of two spirits’ as something that his opponents claim cannot dwell
in one body.44 He goes on to argue that it is possible for Christ to have a soul
whilst united with the Spirit. However, he does not object to the connection
between movement [ŒÅ
Ø] and the action or presence of the soul (or
another intelligible partner to the body—here, the Spirit). It is either his
concept or a concept that he shares with his opponents.
Elsewhere in Ariomanitas, Eustathius refers to the devil ÆæåØ ªæØ
Æ
E ººE by getting the thieves crucified with Christ to blaspheme.45 This
does not tell us much about his meaning here, other than to increase the
probability that the phrase is his own. There, as here, it has a sense of invisible
realities imprinting themselves on visible realities.
I have found no exact parallel to the phrase KŒ H ÆN
ŁÅ H Oæªø
Æı NŒÇØ ŒÅ
Ø in the literature catalogued on the Thesaurus
Linguae Graecae. A close parallel is found in Gregory of Nyssa’s Contra
Eunomian. Gregory is differentiating various types of ‘begetting’. He has just
described physical things begetting other physical things. Then he tells us
about another type of begetting: ‘where the cause is immaterial and incorpor-
eal, but the begetting is perceptible and through a body. I am talking about the
word begotten from (KŒ) the mind: for the mind, being incorporeal according
to itself, produces the word through the perceptible organs [Øa H ÆN
ŁÅ H
Oæªø]’. The invisible, intelligible aspect of the human being is producing
something perceptible via H ÆN
ŁÅ H Oæªø. Gregory is talking about
speech, not sense perception, so the ÆN
ŁÅ H Oæªø here are the ‘percep-
tible organs’ in the sense of ‘bodily organs’ rather than in the sense of ‘organs
of perception’. We should read Eustathius’ phrase accordingly, as meaning
‘from the bodily organs’.
Both Gregory and Eustathius have the idea that the invisible soul is mani-
festing itself in the perceptible realm via the body. For Gregory, the mind does
so by begetting something perceptible—in this case audible—through the
bodily organs. Initially, this suggests that, for Eustathius, the soul produces
43
See ‘Genesis 2: The Soul Vivifies the Body’. 44
45
D27:34.

something visible via the body; a painting, for example. However, this reading
does not allow us to explain how the soul ‘furnishes everything with visible
marks’. The parallel with Gregory is not exact.
The reference to KæªÆ implies physiological function. I will expand on
this momentarily. For now, I suggest that we should expect that Eustathius’
passage focuses more on the operation of the bodily organs than Gregory’s
does. He is writing of the body–soul relationship.
This passage could refer to the mechanism of sight. The soul furnishes
everything—the world—with visible marks for the human being of whom the
soul is a part. The idea that the soul makes an image of itself, and thus enables
the body to see, is reminiscent of Plotinus in some respects. Plotinus writes
that the soul’s image is generated from its movement.46 In a separate discus-
sion, he claims that the soul makes a succession of images of itself and, by these
images, acts in the body.47 The first of these images is sense perception.
Eustathius’ terminology also echoes Plotinus: the term NŒÇø is evidently
Eustathian, as it is comparatively rare, but appears twice in Engastrimytho and
once in Inscriptiones Titulorum.48 Plotinus uses the term to refer to the cosmos
as ‘an image being perpetually imaged’.49 This might well explain the reference
to image if we take it that sense perception is central to Eustathius’ discussion.
However, for Plotinus, the image of the soul acts as a mediator between body
and soul. For Eustathius, the soul makes an image of itself either via the bodily
parts or actually out of bodily parts. It is hard to see how it could act as a
middleman between soul and body in quite the same way. So, perhaps we have
a description of the soul enabling sense perception, in a kind of modified
Neoplatonist sense.
Alternatively, Eustathius describes the soul imprinting itself upon the body.
The term ªøæ
Æ Æ is suggestive of a mark on the human being. In De
Opificio Hominis, Gregory uses the term ªøæ
Æ Æ to refer to the marks
of individual identity that will be recovered in the resurrection, and he
identifies these with the ‘form’ of the body.50 A passage from Athanasius’ Contra
Gentes gives a similar sense. Athanasius writes that idols cannot move, nor do
they have sense perception, since they do not have the active function [ c
KæªØÆ] of their various organs. He then notes that they ‘furnish [Ææåø]’
46 47
Plotinus, Enneads, 5.2.1. Plotinus, Enneads, 1.1.8.
48
Engastrimytho, 27.3 and 27.6, admittedly part of the same discussion and D64:31. It does
not appear in Plato, Aristotle, Numenius, Albinus, Galen, Alexander of Aphrodisias, Irenaeus,
Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Methodius, or Athanasius.
49
Plotinus, Enneads, 2.3.18.
50
Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis, 27.4. Though I have used the PG edition, for
convenience, I reference according to the sections in Georges Forbes’ edition (Burntisland:
Pitsligo Press, 1855), also used in H. A. Wilson’s English translation (Buffalo, NY: Christian
Literature Publishing Co., 1983).
Body and Soul 89

no ªæØ
Æ of God, and are in fact ¼łıåØ.51 Athanasius thus makes a
connection between ‘furnishing marks’ and the vivification of bodies;
ªøæ
Æ Æ are given to living bodies by their souls.
If we take it that, for Eustathius also, ªøæ
Æ Æ are given to living bodies
by their souls, the fact that these are visible [›æÆ a] ªøæ
Æ Æ might imply
that the soul makes an image of itself out of bodily organs. Again, there is a
parallel in Gregory of Nyssa, for whom the body is the image of the soul.52
This does diverge significantly from Gregory’s sense of Øa H ÆN
ŁÅ H
Oæªø in Contra Eunomian, but makes better sense of Eustathius’ KŒ
where Gregory uses Øa. Allowing Athanasius’ and Gregory’s passages to
jointly elucidate Eustathius’, it seems probable that the ‘visible marks’ that
the soul furnishes are those on the body. There is some sense of the soul
individuating the body. Elsewhere in Ariomanitas, Eustathius writes of the
soul as giving åÆæÆŒ Bæ to the body.53 This passage shall be discussed in detail
shortly. Now, I note that this is very closely related to the suggestion that the
soul gives ªøæ
Æ Æ to the body. For this reason, and on account of the
parallels in Athanasius and Gregory, I believe this to be the most likely
interpretation.
Now let us examine the phrase NØF
Æ . . . Æ KæªÆ. I have sug-
gested that Æ KæªÆ should be understood as physiological function. We
have seen that Athanasius uses c KæªØÆ to mean active physiological
function in a passage probably related to Eustathius’. Mindful of this context
and Eustathius’ use of medical texts, it is useful to turn to Galen, whom he cites
elsewhere. Galen, drawing on Aristotle, pairs Æ Ø and KæªÆ, and for
him they denote physiological capacity and active function, respectively.54
Might we suspect that the soul’s movement gives form to the functions of
the perceptible organs—that it actualizes them? This would cohere with the
‘visible marks’ being on the body, but ÆY
ŁÅ
Ø is also central to Galen’s
discussions of the soul-enabling capacities.55 It would, then, also work if the
passage refers to the mechanism of sight.
Though Galen is a likely source for Eustathius’ use of KæªÆ, he does not
use the term NØø with reference to them. Eustathius’ terminology
points us towards a Peripatetic source for his definition. The association
between KæªÆ and N is reminiscent of Aristotle’s identification of the
giving of form with actuality: ‘[T]he soul must be substance as the form [N]
of a natural body potentially possessing life. And substance in this sense is
51
Athanasius, C.G., 15.
52
Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis, 12.9–11.
53
D4:27 [Ariomanitas].
54
See for example Galen, Quod animi mores, 4.769K; De facultatibus naturalibus, I.2. Eustace
Phillips, Aspects of Greek Medicine (Philadelphia: The Charles Press, 1987), p. 176, argues that
the sense of Æ Ø and KæªÆ in De facultatibus naturalibus follows Aristotle.
55
See Galen, De Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis, 7.3.30.

actuality [K ºåØÆ].’56 Aristotle links actuality [K ºåØÆ] with activity
[KæªÆ] without identifying them, and claims that KæªÆ and K ºåØÆ
‘are placed together’.57
The pairing of the terms NØø and KæªÆ with reference to the
soul–body relationship becomes very common in the fifth century and
beyond, but is not widely evidenced before that.58 Aristotle himself does
not refer to movement, or the soul, as NØF
Æ KæªÆ. Alexander of
Aphrodisias writes that, before the matter is NØÅŁBÆØ it exists ‘poten-
tially’, not KæªÆfi, ‘in actuality’.59 Here, NØÅŁBÆØ clearly refers to the
giving of form and the consequent actualization of the matter’s potential.
This pairing is also found in a fragment attributed to Arius Didymus,
preserved by John Stobaeus, in which the author is explaining Aristotle’s
view of the relationship between form and matter. Here, the parallel with
Eustathius is closer: KæªØÆ b KŒº
‹ Ø H Z ø PŁb i KæªE
KÆ c æ æ NØÅŁ: ‘he called it [form] activity because none of
the beings could be active without having first been given form’.60 Form
actualizes in that it enables activity. We cannot be certain whether Arius is
really the author of this fragment;61 if so, it is very plausible that Eustathius
had access to it because Eusebius of Caesarea quotes other sections of Arius
Didymus’ work.62 The phrase NØF
Æ . . . Æ KæªÆ, then, plausibly
develops a Galenic sense of function—itself rooted in Peripateticism—along
Peripatetic lines. The soul is form-giving in actualizing bodily capacities. The
notion that the soul gives form would also complement the idea that it
imprints itself onto the body, and lends weight to this reading of the phrase
ÆæåØ ªøæ
Æ Æ.
Eustathius several times uses the phrase łıåB N, ‘a form soul’, or e B
łıåB N, ‘the form of the soul’ apparently to refer, simply, to the soul.63 It
is worth considering whether this relates to his description of the soul as
form-giving. Navascués believes that it does: by this phrase, Eustathius thus
56
De Anima, II.1, 412a20–3.
57
Aristotle Metaphysica, 1047a30. At De Anima, 412a, he argues that the soul is not actuality
in the sense of KæªÆ—an implication being that KæªÆ is a consequence of actualization.
See also De Anima, 430a20, where Aristotle contrasts actual with potential knowledge.
58
See Damascius, De Principiis, edited by Leendert Westerink and Joseph Combés, vol. 2
(Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1991), p. 82 and Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, edited by
E. Deihl, vol. 3 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1906), p. 249.
59
Alexander of Aphrodisias, Commentaria in Aristotelis Metaphysica, 69:20–1.
60
(Pseudo?) Arius Didymus, fragment 3, line 16, translated by Robert Sharples, Peripatetic
Philosophy, 200 BC to 200 AD: an Introduction and Collection of Sources in Translation (Cam-
bridge: CUP, 2010).
61
Tryggve Göransson, Albinus, Alcinous, Arius Didymus (Gothenburg: Acta Universitatis
Gothoburgensis, 1995), pp. 182–96, has questioned the attribution of Stobaeus’ fragments to the
Stoic Arius Didymus identified by Eusebius.
62 63
Eusebius, P.E., 15.15. D1:4, D2:4, D50:15, and D20:17–18, respectively.
Body and Soul 91

identifies the soul as the form of the body.64 Eustathius’ use of this phrase
seems to me ambiguous. His argument in Ariomanitas repeatedly focuses on
the kind of thing that the soul is. The term N might simply refer to the
category ‘soul’. Hence, Plotinus uses the phrase łıåB N in the sense of ‘a
kind of soul’.65 Nonetheless, we should be mindful of the possibility that he
deploys the term in a technical sense, in which case he might refer to the ‘soul–
form’.
Several aspects of Eustathius’ definition are reminiscent of discussions of
the world-soul. I have noted that Eustathius deploys the unusual term
NŒÇø used by Plotinus to talk about the cosmos being imaged. Plotinus
also refers to the soul making an Yøº of itself—matter.66 The idea of the
ªøæ
Æ Æ as individuating similarly brings to mind the idea that soul
individuates matter, found in the Timaeus.67 Also in the Timaeus, there is a
contrast and interplay between the invisible soul and the visible world on
which it impresses itself.68 Might Eustathius have these passages in mind? The
relationship between form and matter, in connection with creation, would
have been likely to occur to Eustathius, because it is important to Methodius’
attack on the Origenist notion of an eternal creation.69
Eustathius could plausibly have addressed the ‘world-soul’ in Ariomanitas.
The argument of Ariomanitas revolves around the specificity of the human
soul. In excoriating Eusebius for disregarding this specificity, Eustathius
frequently accuses him of taking on a Platonist doctrine of the soul. He also
discusses other senses of the term ‘soul’, and he goes on to do this through the
rest of fragment D51. Also, Origen compares the Logos [ratione dei] to a soul
of the world in De Principiis;70 Eusebius refers positively to Plato’s triad of
One, Intellect, and ‘Soul of the world’ in Preparatio Evangelica as adumbrat-
ing, albeit imperfectly, the Christian doctrine of the Trinity;71 Plotinus talks
about a world-soul and, for him, other souls are begotten from this soul.72
Plausibly, Eustathius accused Eusebius of thinking that the Word was the
world-soul. Eustathius’ rhetoric might run something like this: Eusebius
thinks, absurdly, that the Word can act for a soul, because his doctrine of
God, like his anthropology, is infected by pagan philosophy. The unusual
phrase ‘from the perceptible organs’, and its unambiguously anthropological
parallel in Gregory, tells us that this is an anthropological rather than a
cosmological passage. However, it is possible that Eustathius is mindful of
64
Patricio de Navascués, ‘El sustrato filosófico de la obra de Eustacio de Antioquia’, Teologia
y Vida, 48, nos. 2–3 (2007), 149–66, doi: 10.4067/S0049-34492007000200004, pp. 160–1.
65 66
67 68
See Plato, Timaeus, 30a–c. Plato, Timaeus, 36e.
69
Williams, Arius, pp. 185–8. See ‘Eustathius the Origenist: the Disembodied Soul—The
Disembodied Form of the Body: Eustathius between Methodius and Origen’.
70 71 72
Origen, De Princ., 2.1.3. Eusebius, P.E., 11.22. Plotinus, Enneads, 4.9.1.

the world-soul in formulating his description, and redeploys and reworks
ideas about the world-soul into his anthropology.
Invisible πνε͂υμα
What are we to make of the first part of the definition of soul, as ‘invisible
F Æ’? Navascués has argued that Eustathius uses F Æ in a Stoic, materi-
alistic sense.73 The term itself is ambiguous because, in Jewish and Christian
usage, F Æ very often has an incorporeal sense. Notably the use of the term
F Æ to refer to the divine Spirit in the Septuagint and New Testament was
important in defining later Christian usage.74 Eustathius is presumably draw-
ing on Stoic terminology. However, there seems to me to be little basis for
reading F Æ as implying an ethereal kind of body. Eustathius elsewhere
explicitly declares that ‘human nature is cut into two parts, the perceptible
[ÆN
ŁÅ e] and the intelligible [Å ]’.75 This unremarkable distinction
manifests itself in various ways. Souls are naturally invisible since Samuel’s
soul, if it had indeed been summoned, would not have been visible—Saul
would have seen whatever was summoned if it had had a body. Eustathius
sometimes groups spirits and souls together: ‘demons do not have authority
over spirits and souls [ı ø ŒÆd łıåH]’.76 Eustathius clearly rejects a
materialist view of the soul and understands the distinction between the soul
and the body within a wider distinction between the perceptible and intelli-
gible worlds, broadly resonant of Platonic metaphysics.77 This distinction is
itself reflected in his definition of the soul, in the contrast between the invisible
soul and the perceptible body and visible marks.
Corresponding to the distinction between perceptible and intelligible
things, there is a sense that the soul has more in common with God, onto-
logically, than the body does. Eustathius does sometimes refer to God’s
incorporeality as if it were a unique attribute of God: ‘God dwelling in . . .
[Christ], who is invisible [IæÆ ] in nature, was not led like a lamb to death
and slaughtered like a sheep.’78 He uses the categories ‘perceptible’ and
73
Navascués, ‘El sustrato filosófico’, p. 163.
74
See Gen. 1.2; Mk. 3.29; Athanasius, C.G., 7.29. Philo, Questions on Genesis II.59, declaring
that the soul is F Æ, apparently offers both an incorporeal and a corporeal sense of F Æ—
the incorporeal corresponding to the rational part of the soul and the corporeal to the nutritive
and sense-perceptive parts of the soul. However, his sense that the lower parts of the soul are
corporeal is connected to a closer connection between soul and blood than Eustathius makes. See
‘Physiology’. In De Princ., 1.1.2., Origen notes that some people think that referring to God as
F Æ/spiritus implies God is corporeal, and rejects this idea.
75 76
D20:21 [Ariomanitas]. Engastrimytho, 3.3.
77
See Tuominen, Ancient Commentators on Plato and Aristotle (Stocksfield: Acumen, 2009),
p. 201.
78
D87:3–5 [In Ps. 92].
Body and Soul 93

‘intelligible’ to describe a general metaphysical distinction, but also occasion-
ally has a sense that God belongs more securely in the intelligible or invisible
realm than other intelligible, invisible things. This ambiguous attitude to the
God–intelligibility nexus is common in patristic thought. So, Origen insists
that the human mind is bodiless, but can also assert that existing without any
kind of body is ‘proper solely to God’s divine nature’.79
Thinking that Eustathius is using the term F Æ in a materialistic sense,
Navascués concludes that Eustathius is drawing on a kind of Stoic Aristote-
lianism criticized by Alexander of Aphrodisias.80 Here is the passage from
Alexander:
There are some theorists who grant that the soul is indeed form of the body, but
identify it with fire or air or one of the other [simple] bodies which underlie the
animate organism. But this explanation is absurd, since it rests on the false
assumption that part of the material element [in a composite] can serve as
form to the remaining matter. In fact, however, form and matter are two distinct
natures: matter . . . is the substrate which receives form, as form is the principle
through whose agency matter takes on a specific shape.81
Shortly before this passage, Alexander states that the soul cannot exist inde-
pendently from the body.82 In fact, Eustathius agrees with neither Alexander
nor his Stoicizing opponents—Eustathius believes that the soul is immaterial,
like Alexander. However, we shall see towards the end of the chapter that
Eustathius does believe that the soul can exist apart from the body—like nearly
all Christians in the Greco–Roman world, he believes that it is separate from
the body between death and resurrection, despite giving it form. I now situate
this stance within the commentary tradition.
SOUL A S BO DY’S F ORM I N THE

COMMENTARY TRADITION
Like many of Aristotle’s ideas, the idea that the soul gave form to or actualized the
body was taken up and modified by both Platonists and Peripatetics in various
ways. The variety in interpretations of Aristotle’s soul–body theory among the
79
Origen, De Princ., 1.6.4. See, similarly, Homilia in Exodum, 6.5. Origen describes the mind
as incorporeal in De Princ., 1.1.5–7. Lawrence Hennessey offers a useful discussion of the various
senses of incorporeality in Origen in his ‘A Philosophical Issue in Origen’s Eschatology: the
Three Senses of Incorporeality’, Origeniana Quinta (1992), 373–80.
80
Navascués, ‘El sustrato filosófico’, p. 163.
81
Alexander, De Anima, 1.39 [19:20–4]. Iamblichus (De Anima, 9) very similarly writes that
‘[s]ome Aristotelians cast the soul as an ethereal body’.
82
Alexander, De Anima, 1.33.

commentators hinges partly on the question of whether the soul is a property
(this belief may be termed ‘attributivist’), or a thing (this belief may be termed
‘substantialist’) and, if it is a thing, whether it is separable from the body.83
Three main trajectories can be identified:
1) An interpretation of Aristotle or ‘Aristotelians’ as denying a separate
existence to the soul and a corresponding rejection of his idea that the soul is
the actuality, or form, of the body.
So, Plotinus, in the earlier Enneads, interprets Aristotle’s idea that the soul is
the ‘actuality’ [K ºåØÆ] of the body as implying that it cannot exist apart
from the body, and therefore rejects it. When Eusebius reproduces Plotinus’
attack on Aristotle, he also accepts Plotinus’ interpretation.84 Iamblichus
apparently attributes the denial of a separate existence to the soul to some
Peripatetics, and rejects this Peripatetic view (he does not attribute it to
Aristotle himself).85 Nemesius of Emesa similarly interprets Aristotle as deny-
ing a separate existence to the soul.86
2) An approving interpretation of Aristotle or ‘Aristotelians’ as denying that
the soul can exist apart from the body. We came across such a stance in
Alexander. Despite the decline of Peripateticism in the third century CE,
there is good evidence that it featured heavily in medical texts being read
throughout the fourth century. Galen writes approvingly of what he describes
as the ‘Peripatetic’ doctrine that the soul is a ‘blend’ [ŒæA
Ø] of the body, and
less approvingly of the idea that it is a ‘power’ [Æ Ø] of the body.87 He also,
in the same work, writes that the soul’s capacities follow [
ŁÆØ] the body’s
ŒæA
Ø.88 Many different ideas on the soul are found in Galen.89 It is not my
83
This discussion goes back to an unclarity in Aristotle’s own writing, which is far beyond the
scope of this book. See Herbert Granger, Aristotle’s Idea of the Soul, Philosophical Studies Series
68 (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1996), pp. 1–14. For a ‘substantialist’ view, see
William Charlton, Aristotle: Physics I and II, rev. edn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), pp. 70–9
and Howard Robinson, ‘Aristotelian Dualism’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 1 (1983),
123–44. For an ‘attributivist’ position, see Julian Barnes, ‘Aristotle’s Concept of Mind’, Proceed-
ings of the Aristotelian Society, 72 (1971/2), 101–14. Lloyd Gerson has recently argued that
Aristotle’s theory of the soul was very largely Platonist in his broader study of Aristotle’s
Platonism, Aristotle and Other Platonists, esp. pp. 282–7.
84 85
Eusebius, P.E., 10.15. Iamblichus, De Anima, 3.
86 87
Nemesius, De Natura Hominis, 2. Galen, Quod Animi Mores, 44.12–20.
88
Galen, Quod Animi Mores, 32.1–13. See Sorabji, ed., The Philosophy of the Commentators,
vol. 1 (London: Duckworth, 2004), pp. 187–90 for Galen’s sense that the soul follows the body.
89
Galen has been credited with moving towards a materialist view of the soul over the course
of his career, on which see Paul Mouraux, ‘Galen and Aristotle’s de Partibus Animalium’ in
Aristotle on Nature and Living Things, edited by Allan Gotthelf (Bristol: Bristol Classical Press,
1985), pp. 327–44; conversely, Luis García–Ballester, ‘Soul and Body, Disease of the Soul and
Disease of the Body in Galen’s Medical Thought’, Le opera psicologiche di Galeno. Atti del terzo
colloquio galenico internazionale. Pavia, 10–12 settembre 1986, a cura di Paola Manuli e Mario
Vegetti (Napoli: Bibliopolis, 1988), pp. 117–52, 119, argues that Galen was ‘vague’ and ‘agnostic’
on the subject of the soul.
Body and Soul 95

intention to argue that Galen’s psychology was Peripatetic. However, it is
significant that he refers positively to an attributivist interpretation of the soul
as the body’s actuality, and labels this Peripatetic. John Philoponus corres-
pondingly reports that the idea that the soul ‘follows’ [
ŁÆØ] the bodily
ŒæA
Ø is common among physicians.90
There are very significant differences amongst those who regard the soul as
an inseparable actualization of the body: where Galen adopts a Peripatetic
psychology, his remarks are largely compatible with an attributivist position
whereas, for Alexander, the soul is an intelligible entity distinct from the
body.91 Like Galen and the Peripatetic physicians mentioned by Philoponus,
he writes that the soul follows the body’s ŒæA
Ø, but he also writes that the
soul KØª
ŁÆØ—follows and fulfils—the bodily ŒæA
Ø.92 There is a stronger
sense, for Alexander, of the soul completing the body, whilst Peripateticism in
medicine focused more on the soul’s dependence on the body.
Iamblichus, who himself holds neither view (and attributes neither to
Aristotle), can shed further light. He refers to two distinct views held by
‘Aristotelians’:93 ‘Some of the Aristotelians teach that soul is form around
bodies, or a simple incorporeal quality, or a complete, essential quality’.
Iamblichus groups these interpretations together, and the later two can plaus-
ibly be seen as glosses on the first.94 He then continues, ‘[t]here is a closely
connected view, not orthodox, but plausibly to be inferred from the orthodox
view, that the soul is a combination of all [the body’s] qualities, and the sum
total [ŒçºÆØ] of them’. With respect to the soul’s dependence on the body,
Alexander’s view seems closest to the first collection of ‘Aristotelian’ ideas,
Galen’s to the second, ‘not orthodox’ idea.
This discussion is complicated by the ambiguous position of F, which is
often held to be related to the human soul, but not partaking in its union with
the body.95
3) An approving interpretation of Aristotle as allowing the soul to exist apart
from the body, and a corresponding substantialist view of the soul as the
actualization of the body, which is typically qualified by a distinction between
90
John Philoponus, In de anima, 51, 13–52, 1.
91
Alexander, De Anima, 1.33 [17:9–10]. See, ‘The Soul as the Form of the Body: Invisible
F Æ’.
92
Alexander, De Anima, 26.20–22. (Pseudo?) Alexander, Mantissa, 104.28–34, also argues
that the soul follows the body’s ŒæA
Ø.
93
Iamblichus, De Anima, 3. At De Anima, 6, Iamblichus attributes a very different idea to
Aristotle himself, grouping him together with Pythagoras and Plato as holding that the soul
‘proceeds from the intelligible realm’.
94
On the second and third ideas as a gloss or development of the first, see John Finamore and
John Dillon, ‘Commentary to the De Anima’ in Iamblichus, De Anima, edited by John Finamore
and John Dillon (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002), pp. 78–9.
95
See Aristotle, De Anima 429a:24–5; compare (Pseudo?) Alexander, Mantissa, 133.18–24.
Nemesius surveys a number of views on the relationship between soul and F at De Natura
Hominis, 1.

transcendent and embodied soul. This tends to occur in ‘eclectic’ thinkers
synthesizing Plato’s thought with Aristotle’s, and can be found, for example,
in Neoplatonists after Plotinus, such as Porphyry, and arguably also in Plo-
tinus’ later work.96
I have observed that Plotinus writes of the soul making an image of itself.
This image acts for the soul in the body, whilst the soul itself remains
transcendent. Christopher Noble argues persuasively that, in Enneads 4, he
develops this idea so that the image—or trace—of the soul acts as the form of
the body.97 Noble argues on the basis that the soul trace is ‘something of the
body’ that makes the body alive, and the soul trace, like a perceptible form, is
said to relate to the body as warmth relates to heated air.98
Porphyry distinguishes between the soul ‘according to itself ’ and the soul
‘according to relation [
å
Ø]’;99 he also terms the union of embodied soul
and body a ‘composite [
ıÆ ç æ]’ of form and matter.100 Plotinus and
Porphyry share the notion that soul, qua soul, is neither the form of the body
nor directly involved in bodily processes, but that the soul must still provide
the body’s form and enable bodily processes. Plotinus’ solution is mediation: it
is not the soul at all that enforms and enlivens the body, but something else,
produced by the soul.101 Porphyry prefers instead to think in terms of roles, or
modes, in which the soul is acting.102
This can help us to see that Eustathius’ definition of the soul in fragment
D51 places some Peripatetic and Galenic ideas and terms within a
96
Robert Wisnovsky argues that Neoplatonists after Plotinus tended to combine the idea
that the soul was an actualization with the idea that it was separable from the body, drawing on
the use of ºØ Å to mean K ºåØÆ in Alexander of Aphrodisias and Themistius (see
Alexander, De Anima, 16 and 52; Themistius, Aristotelis de anima paraphrasis in Commentaria
in Aristotelem Graeca, 5.3, p. 26); as a ºØ Å, the soul could be connected to a final cause,
which could then be separate from the body. See Wisnovsky, Avicenna’s Metaphysics in Context
(London: Duckworth, 2003), pp. 79–98 and Sorabji, ed., The Philosophy of the Commentators,
vol. 1 (London: Duckworth, 2004), p. 246.
97
Plotinus, Enneads, 4.4.18. Christopher Noble, ‘How Plotinus’ Soul Animates his Body: the
Argument for the Soul-Trace at Ennead 4.4.18.1–9’, Phronesis, 58 (2013), 249–79, doi: 10.1163/
15685284-12341251.
98
Noble, ‘Plotinus’ Soul’, esp. p. 273. See Plotinus, Enneads, 4.7.8 and 4.3.20. This interpret-
ation corresponds to Plotinus’ belief that form, in any context, cannot exist without its corres-
ponding matter. On which, see Williams, Arius, p. 186.
99
Porphyry, On the Faculties of the Soul in Porphyry, Fragmenta, edited by Andrew Smith
and David Wasserstein (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1993), fragments (according to Stobaeus, Anthol-
ogia), P 33, fragment 253.110–17.
100
Porphyry, Sententiae, 21.
101
This finds a parallel in Iamblichus, who thinks that the disembodied and embodied souls
are of different substances (De Anima, I.7). However, as he does not make this argument with
reference to the body’s form, I defer discussion of his view until the section on ‘The Disembodied
Soul’.
102
See Karamanolis, Plato and Aristotle in Agreement?, pp. 288–92 for a discussion of the
different ways in which Porphyry and the later Plotinus consider the soul to be the form of
the body.
Body and Soul 97

framework determined by eclectic Platonism: the soul is intelligible and
separable from the body and gives the body form, actualizing the body’s
functions. In what I consider to be the most likely reading, it also imprints
itself on the body.
In what follows, I will build on this observation by demonstrating that
Eustathius regards the soul as integral to bodily processes, apparently without
any qualification as to what part of the soul acts in this regard: also, that he
emphatically believes that the soul can exist apart from the body—and much
of what he says on this topic echoes Middle and Neoplatonic sources. The
former aspect of his thought has most in common with the Peripatetic
thinkers, though there is no evidence that he conceives of a F, more separate
from the body than the soul. In this respect, he apparently goes further than
Peripatetic thinkers in refusing to qualify the interrelation of the intelligible
and perceptible parts of the human being. The belief that the soul can exist
apart from the body edges him very much closer to Porphyry’s distinction
between the soul ‘according to relation’ and ‘according to itself ’. Insofar as his
doctrine of the soul is specifically Peripatetic, it falls within a tradition better
represented by Alexander of Aphrodisias than the physicians mentioned by
Philoponus or the ‘not orthodox’ Aristotelians mentioned by Iamblichus (and
it is more than coincidental that Alexander has more in common with eclectic
Platonism than they do): for both Alexander and Porphyry, the soul is distinct
from the body. We have already seen that, in his definition of the soul as form-
giving, Eustathius blends Peripatetic with Galenic, medical terminology. This
reflects a particular concern with physiology, and a sense that Peripateticism
answers it well.103
The flexibility of Eustathius’ engagement with the commentary tradition
may well stem from the fact that his concerns are decidedly different from
those of the commentators. He sees Aristotle’s view of the body–soul rela-
tionship as a positive alternative to the caricatured Platonism that he attri-
butes to both Origen and Eusebius, and one which Eusebius had
emphatically rejected. Eustathius evidently felt that Aristotle’s approach
had much to recommend it. He does not set out to defend Aristotle—as
Eusebius does Plato—but simply to deploy his thought in aid of a theological
account of the body–soul relationship. He can therefore treat Peripatetic
doctrines lightly. His belief that the soul can exist apart from the body is
probably largely determined by the overwhelming prevalence of this belief in
Greco–Roman Christianity more than a direct debt to the commentators
(though this is not to deny that Christianity was partly indebted to Platonism
for this belief).
103
See ‘Physiology’.
THE S OUL AS THE ``˚˙ O F THE HUMAN BEING
Eustathius uses the motif of a statue to describe a body that has no soul
(though not a body whose soul is not currently attached to it). This gives the
impression that a soulless body is not so much half a human being—as he
does, sarcastically, assert elsewhere—as not a human being. Adam’s body,
before it has received a soul, is described as a ‘prototypical statue of God’.104
According to Eustathius, in the pro-Arian picture of a soulless Christ the
‘innermost stamp [åÆæÆŒ Bæ]’ has fled.105 The pro-Arians’ Christ, therefore, is
‘a statue of a human being and not a human being’.106 This bold statement
concludes an argument in which Eustathius claims that, if his opponents want
to deny the existence of Christ’s human soul, they must also deny the existence
of his internal organs. Unfortunately, the passages to which Eustathius is
responding apparently do not survive, but he is evidently picking up on a
particular pro-Arian exegesis of passages referring to God’s soul (in this case,
as he bases his argument on physiology, it may well be Theodotus of Laodi-
cea’s).107 I quote the relevant fragment (D4) in full:108
Since God declared in many places in scripture that a heart together with the soul
existed with him [ŒÆæÆ › ı fiB łıåfiB
ııæåØ ÆP fiH ººÆåF B ªæÆçB
æºª › Ł&], it is necessary to confess that it is a kind of intelligible heart—
for the bodiless is not able to have a bodily part. Going along these lines, he will
not need to say that Christ took up and bore a heartless body, will he? For if he did
not need a soul, as the opponents say, neither did he need a heart, nor any of the
internal organs, since each of these had been created for the sake of dealing with
food, in order that he might digest and manage the materials being brought in,
and send them in the right direction. Then, when these things are delivered into
humours and guts, some things are sifted and delivered to the bodily mass. Others
are turned into blood, and flow into the blood vessels; others change into bile and
phlegm; the rough things and the excrement are passed in clots into the large
intestine and are secreted into the outermost places109 through it. And if he was
provided with the entrails and throat and belly and the other such receptacles for
the sake of food, and through these, for living—for this is germane to the
question—well then, logically, as they have already said, he needed neither
these, nor a soul that could move and revolve the bodily instrument. For he
104
D61:4–5 [Ariomanitas]. Compare. D11:1–2 [Ariomanitas]: ‘The lord did not take up half
of a complete human being, having mutilated the better part.’
105
106
D4:25–6.
107
See ‘The Nature of Context of Eustathius’ Works—Ariomanitas—Eustathius’ Opponents
in Ariomanitas’ in Chapter 2.
108
I am very grateful to Dr Kelley Spoerl for her many insights during an extensive discussion
of this passage, which have greatly enhanced my understanding of it.
109
This could simply mean ‘outside the body’, though Spoerl, ‘Jesus’ Digestion’, plausibly
suggests ‘latrines’.
Body and Soul 99

entirely bore imperishable life itself, and he by no means needed the ripe things
delivered from the earth, because he was nourished from heaven and so lacked
nothing. So therefore, according to these men, Christ received the soulless bulk of
a body, it was free from natural desire, without bowels, heartless and liverless,110
and, overall, a statue and not a human being, the shape having been cast on from
the beginning, and the innermost stamp [K Æ åÆæÆŒ BæÆ] having fled.
Attention to passages referring to God’s soul may be indebted to Origen, who
had distinguished between passages that refer metaphorically to God’s soul
and those that refer to Christ’s soul, prophesying the incarnation.111 Eu-
stathius is specifically opposing the idea that, when the voice of God in
scripture refers to God’s soul, it is referring to the entity that acted qua soul
in Christ.112 Epiphanius testifies that this idea was in parlance, writing that the
Arians allegorized references to Christ’s soul on the analogy of the ‘soul of
God’.113 Eustathius responds that God also refers to his heart—is that the
heart that acted as a heart in Christ?114 Eustathius argues that when the voice
of God refers to God’s ‘heart’ in scripture, this must be ‘a kind of intelligible
heart’, that is, whatever God referred to when he referred to his ‘heart’ could in
no way resemble a human heart. Neither Eustathius nor his pro-Arian op-
ponents want to say that this is the heart in Christ. It leads to the suggestion
that Christ’s body, like Christ’s soul, was not really human. Apparently, his
opponents had supported their exegesis by claiming that Christ did not need a
human soul. Eustathius alludes to this elsewhere in Ariomanitas, reporting his
opponents to be scandalized by the idea that ‘the Spirit [is] not able . . . to be in
place of the soul’.115 Eustathius responds that, in the sense that Christ did not
need a soul, he did not need organs either.
The point is partly that the exegesis on which ‘soulless’ Christology relies
would require one to claim that Christ also had no heart, and, therefore, no
human body. However, the sentence at the end of the fragment is not simply
an extension of Eustathius’ claims about the removal of internal organs.
Eustathius must intend to bring the argument back to the soul, because the
110
IÆ , which can also mean ‘passionless’. I suspect that Eustathius intends both
meanings here.
111
Origen, De Princ., 2.8.
112
For instance, Lev. 6.11: ‘my soul shall not abhor you’. On the probable exegesis of
Eustathius’ opponents, see Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’, pp. 497–503.
113
Epiphanius, Ancoratus, xxxv.
114
For instance, see III Kingdoms, 9:3: ‘And the Lord said to him [Solomon], “ . . . my heart
shall be there for ever.” ’ Compare Epiphanius, Panarion, 5.50.4 and Gregory of Nyssa’s exegesis
in De Opificio Hominis, 12.7; Gregory responds to claims that God’s voice in scripture centralizes
the heart, and that the soul’s ‘leading principle’ can therefore be located in the heart. Gregory
replies, with reference to LXX Ps. 26.2, that scripture couples reins with the heart—so is the
leading principle located in reins? Gregory’s discussion also has a similarly physiological context,
and it is possible that he is indebted to Eustathius (though also departing from him, as we
shall see).
115

K Æ åÆæÆŒ BæÆ can hardly be the internal organs—it is the soul. Or, at
the very least, it is the internal organs as shaped by the soul.116 The soul
provides the body with an K Æ åÆæÆŒ Bæ and, in so doing, makes the
body human. If Eustathius’ exegesis in this passage left any doubt as to
whether he intended to describe a soulless body rather than an organless
body, this doubt is resolved by his description of Adam’s pre-ensouled body
as a ‘statue’ of God. Nonetheless, Eustathius does envisage a kind of domino
effect connecting the soul to the organs: if Christ has no soul, he has no heart,
and then no other organs. Whilst maintaining that the soul is the ‘innermost
stamp’, he portrays this stamp as inextricably bound up with the body. This
passage dovetails well with Eustathius’ definition of the soul in D51: the soul
imprints the body and thus enables it to function physiologically.
There are parallels to these ideas in other thinkers from Asia Minor, and
also in Origen and Athanasius. The picture of the body as a statue is also found
in Marcellus of Ancyra, who calls the human being an ‘ensouled statue
[IæØÆ]’.117 We are reminded, again, of Athanasius’ remarks on idols as
¼łıåØ.118 The idea that the soul is åÆæÆŒ Bæ given to the body is found in
earlier Christian writers from Asia Minor, in different ways.119 Eustathius’
terminology may be lifted from Irenaeus, who writes that God gives each body
its own soul, just as he gives it its YØ åÆæÆŒ BæÆ.120 Methodius seems to
similarly connect the soul’s characterization of the human being with the term
åÆæÆŒ Bæ: he claims the soul is the Iªº Æ—divinity, or image—of the body.
Further, he frequently uses the term åÆæÆŒ Bæ when referring to human
beings as in the image of God.121 In these respects, he appears to be drawing
on Origen, who writes that our particular identity is maintained between our
present body and our resurrection body because ‘the form characterising [ e
åÆæÆŒ ÅæÇ] the body is the same’.122 This passage is preserved by Metho-
dius in De Resurrectione.123 He certainly is not likely to misrepresent Origen’s
thought as closer to his own than it actually is. He might, however, be citing a
passage he had earlier seen in another light. Had he taken a more
116
See ‘The Soul as the Form of the Body’.
117 118
Marcellus, fragment 58. Athanasius, C.G., 15.
119
There are good reasons for suspecting that the term itself is Eustathian; the word
K Æ is relatively rare, appearing only thirty-six times in total in the extant corpus of
Greek literature, but Theodoret of Cyrus, who was very familiar with Eustathius’ vocabulary,
writes that David hid from Saul K Ø . . . åøæ. The late fourth-century Expositiones in
Psalmos (CPG, 2140) attributed, probably pseudonymously, to Athanasius, refers to ‘the inner-
most [K Æ ], intelligible treasury of the heart’ (PG 27:193:7–8), which similarly conveys a
sense of the innermost, and therefore most essential, aspect of the person.
120
Irenaeus, A.H., 2.33.5.
121
Methodius, Convivium, 1.1 and 6.2, respectively.
122
Origen, Selecta in Psalmos, 11. Hennessey, ‘Incorporeality in Origen’, notes that, for
Origen, ‘eidos “characterizes”: it imprints the characteristics of the personality into the body,
be it earthly or spiritual’, p. 378. See also Patterson, Methodius, p. 127.
123
Methodius, De Res., 1.22.3.
Body and Soul 101

sympathetic—though admittedly loose—approach to this passage, before he
saw in it problematic implications for the resurrection of the body?
I will explore Eustathius’ image theology with reference to all of these
thinkers further in the next chapter. Suffice, for the moment, to note that
Eustathius’ idea that the soul provides the human being’s åÆæÆŒ Bæ is part of a
patristic discourse strong in Asia Minor which had already come into conver-
sation with Origen.
Eustathius, then, suggests that the soul gives åÆæÆŒ Bæ to the body—and
the tradition in which he is standing suggests that, in so doing, the soul
provides the human being’s particularity. Similar ideas are found in Plotinus,
who was vexed by the role of the soul in distinguishing the person. On one
hand, he suggests that soul, qua soul, is a unity, and only becomes individu-
ated as it descends.124 The association between particularity and embodi-
ment is reversed, relative to Eustathius and the earlier thinkers whom he
echoes—the body apparently gives the soul individuality. Nonetheless,
Plotinus asks whether there are ideal forms of each individual associated
with the soul, and notes that transmigration problematizes this theory.125
Eustathius’ use of åÆæÆŒ Bæ is unlikely to be engaging directly with Plotinus’
discussion; though Plotinus uses åÆæÆŒ Bæ as a kind of non-technical gloss
on Ø Å (quality), he never uses the term in an anthropological context.126
Nonetheless, it forms a backdrop to the Christian tradition in which
Eustathius stood.
Eustathius’ picture of a soulless body as a statue is highly suggestive of
Aristotle’s metaphor of a bronze statue, in which the body is the bronze from
which a statue is made, and the soul is the statue shape.127 Has he again cast
the soul’s actualization of the body in Peripatetic terms? Aristotle’s metaphor
is cited by Plotinus, who is then cited by Eusebius, so it is very likely that
Eustathius was aware of it.128 However, it does not really fit with Eustathius’
statue metaphor. It seems to me that Aristotle’s metaphor is an instance in
which he talks about the soul as if it is a property, rather than a thing, and this
is certainly how Plotinus interprets him. In Eustathius’ metaphor the soul is
clearly depicted as a thing (though he does not make clear, in this instance,
what is abundantly clear elsewhere in his writings—that the soul can exist
apart from the body). His engagement with Peripateticism is, once again,
somewhat elastic.
124 125
Plotinus, Enneads, 4.2. See also 4.9.1. Plotinus, Enneads, 5.7.1.
126
Plotinus, Enneads, 2.6.3, 6.1.10, 6.3.16.
127
So Navascués, ‘El sustrato filosófico’, p. 161, argues that this passage gives a ‘hylomorphic’
picture of relationship between the body and the soul.
128
Aristotle, Physica, 195a6–8, edited by Philip Wicksteed and Francis Cornford (London:
Heinemann, 1929–34); Plotinus, Enneads, 4.7; Eusebius, P.E., 10.15 respectively.
G EN E SI S 2 : TH E SO UL V IV I F I E S T HE BODY
Eustathius, unremarkably, interprets Genesis 2.7 as a description of God

breathing a soul into Adam. Eustathius refers to Genesis 2.7 in two separate
passages from Ariomanitas. The first is putatively an account of his opponents’
position; the second is intended as a description of what really happened. The
point at issue is whether the Spirit could have stood in place of the soul in
Christ. In the earlier fragment, Eustathius quotes his opponents as describing
the ensoulment of all bodies and then, specifically, Adam’s ensoulment. They
ostensibly list the functions that he received with the soul, and then demand
why the divine Spirit could not have done all of these things in Christ.
Eustathius attributes to his opponents broad agreement with him on many
points regarding what the soul does to the body, which is evident because the
two accounts are very similar. In both instances, the body is inert before it
receives the soul and active afterwards. The functions that Adam subsequently
possesses are again virtually identical: movement, breath, thought, and agency.
In the first passage, Eustathius tells us that souls ‘breathe life-giving power’
into bodies.129 In the second, he describes the inert, pre-ensouled body, then
proceeds: ‘And as God creatively breathed into his face, he received move-
ment; and from this he walks, he breathes and thinks, he rules, he reasons, he
acts, he has control [‰ b N e æ
ø ÆP F Å ØıæªØŒH Kç
Å
›
ë, ÆP ŒÆ c ŒÅ
Ø YºÅç· K KŒı b ÆÇØ ŒÆd IÆE ŒÆd
çŁªª ÆØ, ¼æåØ ºªÇ ÆØ æ Ø ØØŒE].’130 Eustathius falls within a trad-
ition that takes this reading of Genesis 2.7 to imply that the potential to be
human is actualized by the union of the soul and body. The body enters the
narrative prior to the soul, and, when the soul is imparted, a living, thinking
being is the result.
Without the soul, the body ‘lies dead, unbreathing, unmoving’, but when
the body receives the soul, Adam becomes active. The extant text is unclear as
to whether it is Adam’s body or Adam that becomes active.131 This might be
partly because the distinction is not very important to Eustathius in this
particular context; when the body receives the soul, the body becomes the
human being. This idea can be found in various earlier writers. So Athena-
goras writes that ‘it is the human being, not the soul by itself, who has received
both understanding and reason’, and Tertullian believes that the body itself
became the ‘living soul’ of Genesis 2.7.132 This idea is also pointedly found in
129 130
D1:8–9 [Ariomanitas]. D61:6–9.
131
No noun is given as a subject in the sentence that describes the human’s/body’s acts, and
they are referred to with third-person singular indicative verbs.
132
Athenagoras, De Resurrectione, 15; Tertullian, De Resurrectione Carnis, 8. Tertullian
probably drew on Aristotle, which may be reflected here. See Jan Waszink, ‘Traces of Aristotle’s
Lost Dialogues in Tertullian’, VC, 1, no. 3 (1947), 137–49, <http://www.jstor.org/stable/
1582419>.
Body and Soul 103

Irenaeus for whom the body is ‘vivified, inspired, increased, and held together’
by the soul.133 Eustathius describes the creation of Adam in similar terms to
Irenaeus: they both call Adam the æø ºÆ
—‘first-formed’—when con-
ceptualizing him just before receiving the soul.134 Both of them also focus on
God’s life-giving breath.135 Compare Irenaeus: ‘the prophetic word says about
the first-formed “he became a living soul”’ with Eustathius: ‘once the unfeeling
body of the first-formed was moulded, it received movement from the rational
soul’.136 For both of them, the lifeless, first-formed body is vivified by the
breath of God, resulting in a unified psychophysical being. Matthew Steenberg
thus suggests that Irenaeus thinks of the soul as ‘actuality’ (though he does not
draw a parallel between Irenaeus and Aristotle): for Irenaeus, he argues, the
soul is ‘an actualizing (Irenaeus’ preferred term is “vivifying”) power’.137 These
examples can elucidate how a definition of soul found in Peripatetic discourse
resonated, for Eustathius, with a particular Christian account of embodiment.
Origen also focuses on the term º
ø in reference to the creation of

Adam’s body: whilst God moulded (º
ø) the body, God created (Øø)

the soul.138 This feeds into a distinction between the inner and outer human
being (discussed further in the next section). Origen and Eustathius, then,
share a sense that two very different things come together in the human being,
but Eustathius tries to avoid the divisive anthropology that Origen sometimes
infers from this.
Corresponding to his account of embodiment, Eustathius generally does
not conceive of separate pursuits proper to the body and the soul. The body is
involved in mental processes, for example; once Adam’s body has received a
soul, Adam ‘reasons’.139 It is Adam, the being who is actualized when he
receives a soul, who thinks. Although it is the human being—body and soul—
133
Irenaeus, A.H. 2.33.4.
134
After Wisdom, 7.2. Compare also, Methodius, Convivium, 3.1; 3.8; 3.10; Clement of
Alexandria, Stromata, 3.17.102; 3.14.94; 5.14.94; Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos, PG
23:1256 and PG 23:1017 and P.E., 11.25.5 and 13.13.13, in both of which he quotes Clement.
135
The idea that the soul vivifies the body is, of course, very widely echoed by classical as well
as Christian authors. See Porphyry, On the Faculties of the Soul, 253F.100–9.
136
Irenaeus, A.H., 2.34.4. Compare Demonstration, 11; Eustathius Ariomanitas, D1:11–13.
Eusebius quotes Irenaeus’ use of the term ‘first-formed’ at H.E., 4.29. Irenaeus also suggests that
‘life’ is not intrinsic to soul, but is given to soul and so was given to Adam’s soul in Genesis 2.7: A.
H., 2.34.4. This idea is not evidenced in Eustathius—and it loosely corresponds to Irenaeus’
tripartite anthropology, which Eustathius does not share, as I discuss in ‘Adam and Christ’ in
Chapter 4.
137
Matthew Steenberg, Of God and Man: Theology as Anthropology from Irenaeus to Atha-
nasius (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 2009), p. 39.
138
Origen, Homiliae in Jeremiam, 8.28–9.25. See Anders Jacobsen, ‘Genesis 1–3 as a Source
for the Anthropology of Origen’, VC, 62, no. 3 (2008), 213–32, <http://www.jstor.org/stable/
20474864>. Origen occasionally refers to the ‘first-formed’ though without a clear reference to
the moulding of Adam or to God’s breath [Fragmenta in Lucam, 95; Commentaria in Evange-
lium Joannis, 20.3; Fragmenta ex commentariis in epistulam i ad Corinthios, section 35].
139

who acts, body and soul contribute different things to a given action. Eu-
stathius’ description of how a person cries offers a good example: ‘applying
fire, [the soul] heats the water, and when this is burning, it comes up through
the eyes’.140 The soul provides the heat that begins the process, and the eyes—
bodily organs—provide a conduit through which the heated water can travel.
In that sense, different functions internal to the human being are proper to
each. However, as the description of Adam’s ensoulment and subsequent
activity shows, the human being is the agent of any given act externally, that
is, as it can be observed in the world. Anything that a person can be said to do,
such as eat, move, or think, is equally the province of the body and the soul.
PHYSIOLOGY
Eustathius is concerned to explain the relationship between the body and the
soul within a physiological framework. He was clearly familiar with some
medical treatises.141 A physiological model for describing the relationship
between body and soul particularly emphasizes the soul’s necessary, and
proper, involvement in bodily functions. Eustathius wants to connect the
soul with bodily processes because he wants to demonstrate that humans
need a soul and therefore, like a physician, starts from the soul’s role in
observable human experience. Correspondingly, Eustathius’ examples are
calculated to evoke a sense of the soul’s involvement in the grittier parts of
corporeal existence. We should remember his detailed description of the
workings of the digestive system as part of an argument for the necessity of
the soul:
when these things are delivered into humours and guts, some things, being sifted,
are delivered to the bodily mass. Others are turned into blood, and flow into
the blood vessels; others change into bile and phlegm; the rough things and the
excrement are passed in clots into the large intestine and are secreted into the
outermost places through it.142
This is why Christ needed a soul.
In this fragment, Eustathius refers to the soul ‘revolving the bodily instru-
ment [ e
ø Æ ØŒe ZæªÆ]’.143 This, apparently, is how the soul orches-
trates digestion and other bodily functions. The claim that the body is the
soul’s instrument is very common in the commentary tradition and amongst
140
141
See especially D8, and D4. In particular, as Declerck has noted in his annotations of the
text, he alludes to Galen’s De Usu Partium. See D53:1.
142 143
D4:12–16 [Ariomanitas]. D4:19–20 [Ariomanitas].
Body and Soul 105

patristic writers. For example, it is made by Plotinus, Irenaeus, and Gregory of
Nyssa.144 It is also used by Galen, including in a passage that Eustathius may
have drawn on (as we saw in the discussion about transmigration), and this is
especially significant in light of the medical context.145
Galen, Plotinus, and Eustathius can agree on much with regards to the body
as instrument. Where they differ, Eustathius’ usage is closer to Galen’s than
Plotinus’. In the passage from De Usu Partium that finds a parallel in Eustathius,
Galen writes: ‘The use of everything is by the soul. For the body is the soul’s
instrument and because of this, the parts of living things differ greatly from each
other, as well as the souls.’146 Galen takes the fact that the body is the soul’s
instrument to have two implications: the soul is vital to every bodily activity, and
the body is defined by and reflects the soul. The soul has agency in every bodily
activity. Eustathius similarly uses the language of instrumentality to argue that
the soul is inextricably bound to the activity performed with the instrument: he
refers to the soul as the instrument in the passage arguing for the necessity of
Christ’s soul to Christ’s bowel movements(!).
By contrast, Plotinus wonders how the soul can be mixed with the body
without being a subject of bodily experiences. Then, deploying a passage from
Aristotle, he argues that, because the body is the soul’s instrument, the union
of body and soul experiences passion, or is the agent of a given action, rather
than the soul itself (although perhaps with a slightly defensive awareness that
one might rather think the one using the instrument was the agent): ‘we shall
attribute common passions to the body, but to a particular kind of body . . . an
instrumental body . . . [Aristotle] says that “it is absurd to suppose that the soul
weaves”; it is just as absurd to suppose it desires and grieves. Rather, this is e
ÇfiH.’147
Importantly, the notion that e ÇfiH is the agent coheres perfectly with a
Galenic and Eustathian psychophysical holism—I have argued that, for Eu-
stathius, the human being, rather than the body or soul, is the agent of a given
action. Where Galen and Eustathius stand together, and apart from Plotinus,
is in how its union with the body reflects on the soul; for both of them, in
contrast to Plotinus, the soul is intimately connected with the body. Rather
than contrasting body, qua body, or soul, qua soul, with the human being,
144
Plotinus, Enneads, 1.1.4; Irenaeus, A.H., 2.33.4; Gregory, De Opificio Hominis, 8.8.
145
See ‘Eustathius’ attack on “Plato”: soul is connected to body—transmigration’. This idea—
found in De Usu Partium—perhaps has rather a different emphasis from Quod Animi Mores; the
idea that the body is the soul’s instrument suggests that the body follows the soul, rather than
vice versa, though the two notions are not mutually exclusive, as noted by Pierlugi Donini,
‘Psychology’ in Cambridge Companion to Galen (Cambridge: CUP, 2008), pp. 184–209, 184–5.
146
Galen, De Usu Partium, I.2.
147
Plotinus, Enneads, 1.1.4. Plotinus sees the idea of the soul as instrument and the idea of the
soul as form as alternative theses in Aristotle. Gerson, Aristotle and Other Platonists, pp. 135–7,
argues that, for Aristotle, they are in fact compatible, and that Plotinus actually agrees with him.

Eustathius contrasts the body or soul on their own with the whole human
being. For example, he writes that the body cannot feel sensation ‘on its own’,
but needs the soul;148 Plotinus, by contrast, argues that sensation ‘does not
concern the soul’.149 He still allows that the body needs the soul for sensation,
and much of his discussion is devoted to explaining how this is so, given that
the soul does not feel sensation. This question does not arise for Eustathius; if
it did, it might substantially weaken his argument for distinguishing Christ’s
soul from the Word. Physiological processes, Eustathius argues, are native to
the soul.
I now attempt to sketch Eustathius’ physiology in a little more detail. All of
Eustathius’ extant discussions about physiology appear in the epitome, in
especially confused passages, and the epitomizer does not seem to have been
especially concerned with laying out Eustathius’ physiology in its entirety.150 It
is therefore difficult both to trace Eustathius’ medical terminology, and to
reconstruct his physiology. It can be determined that Eustathius envisages one,
unified, anatomical system.
Kelley Spoerl suggests that Eustathius’ physiology is cardio-centric.151 Her
arguments are based on fragment D4 of Ariomanitas, which was quoted
earlier in full. She claims that, in this passage, Eustathius links the heart with
digestion.152 She then notes a connection between the soul and blood made in
this passage, and elsewhere.153 Spoerl further suggests that Eustathius’ physi-
ology is also cardio-centric in the sense that he adheres to cardio-centric
consciousness. For both types of cardio-centricity, she posits a (possibly me-
diated) debt to Aristotle: ‘Aristotle not only proposed a link between the soul,
the heart, the digestion, and the blood; as a result of this link, he saw the heart
as the center of consciousness, of sensation, motion, and emotion.’154
148 149
D9:7 [Ariomanitas]. Plotinus, Enneads, 1.1.2.
150
D8 also appears in John of Damascus’ Sacra Parallela, but the version here is identical with
the one in the epitome, so John has presumably copied it. See ‘The Evidence for Eustathius’
Extant Works: Contra Ariomanitas et de Anima’ in Chapter 2.
151
Spoerl, ‘Jesus’ Digestion’, forthcoming.
152
See especially: ‘For if he did not need a soul, as those opposing say, neither did he need a
heart, nor any of the internal organs, since each of these provisions has been created for the sake of
the stewardship of eating, in order that the body should ripen and feed and send the materials
being brought in in the right direction.’
153
See D51:5–12 [Ariomanitas].
154
She cites Aristotle, De partibus animalium ii.i.647a 25–32; De Somno et Vigilia, ii.456a1–6,
in which Aristotle claims that in human beings, ‘sense-perception originates in the same part of
the body as movement . . . the heart’. Whether and in what sense Aristotle held a cardio-centric
view of consciousness is unclear; Philip van der Eijk, Medicine and Philosophy in Classical
Antiquity (Cambridge: CUP, 2005), p. 122, observes that Aristotle’s view of the mind as entirely
separate from the body makes it impossible for him to have located the mind, the soul’s ‘leading
principle’, in the heart (on Aristotle on the mind see ‘Soul as the Body’s Form in the Commen-
tary Tradition: Three Trajectories’). However, this does not exclude the location of the rest of the
soul in the heart.
Body and Soul 107

It seems to me that Eustathius does indeed link the heart with digestion and
that some degree of cardio-centricity indebted (perhaps via an intermediate
source) to certain strands of Aristotle’s thought is plausible. It should be noted
that Eustathius’ close connection between the soul and blood is typical of the
medical writing available to him, and does not necessarily go hand in hand
with cardio-centrism; for example, it is found in Galen. Origen also alludes to
it (as we shall see, the question of the soul–blood relationship was already
interwoven with exegetical discussions).155 However, the argument in D4 does
lend itself to Spoerl’s picture in important respects. Eustathius’ thesis is that, if
one were to remove the heart, one may as well remove the whole cohort of
organs, and specifically digestive organs.156 Admittedly, the logic of this
argument only strictly requires that all the organs are interdependent—
remove any one of them, and you may as well remove the rest—but it is likely
to be significant that the heart is Eustathius’ starting point. I have suggested
that Eustathius seems to have in mind a kind of domino effect: if you remove
the heart, you must remove this organ, then this organ, and so on. The heart
might plausibly be seen as the first organ to be a domino in this chain, which
does point to cardio-centric physiology. What is clearer is that Eustathius
thinks that all organs in the human body are integrally connected. This places
him with Aristotle and certain Stoic writers, over against Plato and Galen, in at
least one important respect: for Aristotle and many Stoic writers, there is one
system in the human body—with the heart at its centre—whereas, for Plato
and Galen, there are three, based on the heart, the liver, and the brain,
respectively.157
It is possible that Eustathius’ view of consciousness is also cardio-centric;
this need not entail a materialist view of the soul, so his clear assertion that the
soul is intelligible does not pose a problem here, and such a view would explain
the close connection between soul and blood. Furthermore, the idea that the
soul is located in the heart was probably current in the fourth century, and
known to Christian authors, as Gregory of Nyssa refers to it, in condemning
it.158 It is possible that Eustathius was one of the authors against whom
155
See Galen, De Symptomatum causis, edited by Karl Kühn, rev. edn (Hildesheim: Georg
Olms Verlag, 1997), VII.191; Origen, De Princ., 3.4.2.
156
A related argument is found in Nemesius, De Natura Hominis, 2; Nemesius reports that
some people identify the soul with blood on the basis that people die when the blood leaves the
body; he then responds that you might, equally, claim that the liver or heart or kidneys are the
soul on this basis, because someone would die if any one of them were removed.
157
Plato, Timaeus, 70A–71B and Galen, De Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis, 7.3.2. In this
system, the liver was thought to control nutrition, growth, and reproduction, the heart to impart
heat and life, and the brain to control nerves and feelings. See Vivan Nutton, Ancient Medicine
(London: Routledge, 2004), p. 239, who notes the contrast with Stoicism; Frank Magill and
Christina Moose, ‘Galen’, Dictionary of World Biography: the Ancient World (London: Taylor
and Francis, 2003), pp. 447–51, 449.
158
Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis, 12.

Gregory reacted (Gregory was generally positive about Eustathius, so it would
be unsurprising that he should not name him when casting his work in a
negative light). It should be noted, however, that such a view is not required by
the progression of Eustathius’ argument in fragment D4 (as Spoerl acknow-
ledges). As we have seen, the immediate structural point of Eustathius’
reference to the heart here is that scripture sometimes refers to God’s heart;
it is not that the soul is particularly more connected to the heart than to any
other part of the body.
Spoerl’s argument is partly determined by the fact that she takes the
opening lines of the fragment—ŒÆæÆ › ı fiB łıåfiB
ııæåØ ÆP fiH
ººÆåF B ªæÆçB æºª › Ł&—to suggest that passages that refer
to God’s heart and soul are agreed, by both Eustathius and his opponents, to
refer to the incarnation. I have suggested, alternatively, that Eustathius distin-
guishes between passages that refer to Christ’s soul and God’s soul, the latter
being metaphorical. His argument here is that his opponents are wrong to take
passages about God’s soul as applying to the incarnation. Eustathius’ argument
seems to me to require that his opponents do not want Christ’s body, includ-
ing his heart, to belong to the intelligible sphere. So, when he writes that ‘it is
necessary to confess that it is a kind of intelligible heart—for the bodiless is not
able to have a bodily part’, he is not putting words into his opponents’ mouths,
but demonstrating that they have fallen into a trap. If my reading is correct,
cardio-centric consciousness is a possible inference from this passage, but it is
less strongly suggested than may initially seem to be the case.
As far as the sources permit judgement, Eustathius believes the entire soul
to be involved in physiological processes (this is one of several aspects of his
anthropology suggesting that he considered the soul to be non-composite):
God declared: ‘anyone among the sons of Israel or the proselytes who would eat
blood, I will stand my covenant upon that soul and expel it from the people.’ So, it
is gently suggested that the soul is blood. For scripture forbids blood as nourish-
ment. Because of this, when the blood flows forth, the body stands soulless and
unmoving. And the soul is not simply blood, but flows strongly [Œıæø] in the
blood itself.159
The Septuagint’s tendency to use łıå as a synonym for ‘life’ had prompted a
rich exegetical conversation, first in Hellenic Judaism, and subsequently
amongst patristic authors. The apparent association between soul and blood
was an important aspect of this conversation, and was also an important topic
in philosophical discussions about the soul. Origen notes the connection as
evidence that all living creatures had souls.160 Eusebius of Caesarea notes the
biblical connection between soul and blood, but claims that this refers only to
souls of animals. This occurs within a discussion of sacrifice, and Eusebius is
159 160
D51:5–12 [Ariomanitas]. Origen, De Princ., 2.8.1.
Body and Soul 109

explaining why it was morally acceptable for the Hebrews to sacrifice
animals—animal souls are not like human souls, they are irrational, and it is
therefore acceptable to kill an animal.161 Eustathius, further down in the
fragment quoted directly above, also notes the fact that a beast’s life is referred
to as both blood and łıå, and claims that this is also an inexact usage.162
In the quoted passage, Eustathius closely links soul and blood, whilst
maintaining a distinction between them—the soul ‘flies . . . in the blood’ and
so, presumably, is distinct from it. In this he follows earlier interpretations of
the Septuagint, which had sought to maintain the apparent connection be-
tween soul and blood without equating them. He alludes to the soul’s vivifi-
cation of the body—‘when the blood flows forth, the body stands soulless and
unmoving’—and infers from this that it must have some connection to the
physiological processes that enable the body to function.163 The appeal to the
soul’s lifelessness on loss of blood as proof that the soul was blood was familiar
in the fourth century; it is reported by Nemesius, who rejects it.164 Eustathius
is probably aware of this position, and seeks to modify it. His exegesis finds
both a parallel and a contrast in two separate discussions from Philo of
Alexandria: Philo, like Eustathius, thinks that scripture implies a close con-
nection between the soul and the blood but does not actually equate them. In
his Questions on Genesis, Philo distinguishes three parts of the soul, ‘nutritive,
sense-perceptive, and rational’, and argues that
the divine spirit is the substance of the rational . . . for in the account of the
creation of the world, he says ‘he breathed the breath of life into his face’ . . . But
blood is the substance of sense-perceptive and vital [soul], for he says in another
place ‘the soul of all flesh is its blood.’ Very properly does [Scripture] say that
blood is the soul of flesh. And in the flesh are sense-perception and passion but
not mind or reflection. Moreover [the expression] ‘in the blood of the life’
indicates that the soul is one thing, and the blood another, so that the substance
of the soul is truly and infallibly spirit. The spirit, however, does not occupy any
place by itself alone without the blood but is carried along and mixed together
with the blood.165
In Quis rerum divinarum heres sit, he writes:
We use ‘soul’ in two senses, both for the whole soul and also for its dominant part,
which properly speaking is the soul’s soul . . . And therefore the lawgiver held that
the substance of the soul is twofold, blood being that of the soul as a whole, and
161 162
Eusebius, D.E., 1.10. D51:27–30.
163
Compare Galen, De Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis, 2.8.47.
164
Nemesius, De Natura Hominis, 2. Relatedly, Plotinus contrasts soul and blood: Enneads,
3.6.3.
165
Philo, Questions on Genesis, translated by Ralph Marcus (London: Heinemann, 1953),
II.59.

divine breath or spirit of its most dominant part. Thus he says plainly ‘the soul of
all flesh is its blood.’166
In both of these passages, blood is associated only with the lower part of the
soul. This finds a parallel in Origen, who argues that the soul is to the ‘inner
human being’ what blood is to the ‘outer human being’, and goes on to develop
a dualistic picture of a physical and spiritual human being.167 By contrast,
Eustathius wants to offer a picture of a human being in which the corporeal
and the incorporeal—which is not especially associated with the spiritual in
this context—are united. So, he distinguishes the soul from blood rather more
firmly than Philo—he is clearly not a materialist—but he does not employ a
notion of a higher soul to do so, as far as we can tell (correspondingly, in his
exegesis of Genesis 2.7, he seems to make no distinction between the soul as
the breath from God and the soul that enables the limbs to move).
THE P AS S IO NATE S OUL AND THE P AS S I ONATE S E LF
Body, Soul, and Passion
For Eustathius, both body and soul are subjects of Ł in their own right, but
are also dependent on each other to experience Ł. As it is the self who acts,
it is, emphatically, the self who undergoes passion. The relationship between
the body and the soul in undergoing passion is the same as with other actions.
Eustathius gives no precise definition of Ł, so we cannot be certain what
range of feelings and experiences he considers to be ŁÅ. He refers in
particular to grief and pain as ŁÅ, but also writes of hunger, thirst, and
tiredness as ‘natural and unexceptionable’ ŁÅ.168 He thus distinguishes
between feelings of desire such as hunger and feelings of sorrow, but he rejects
the Stoic understanding of the latter as inappropriate.169
The pro-Arian idea that the Word is the subject of Ł in Christ is
importantly problematic for Eustathius, because he maintains that the Word
is impassible. Eusebius’ different pro-Arian theology, in which the Word is
protected from suffering in the incarnation, is also problematic: Eustathius
wishes to safeguard the reality of Christ’s human actions and experiences. In
particular, Eustathius wants to defend the reality of every action that was
166
Philo, Quis rerum divinarum heres sit?, edited and translated by Francis Colson and
George Whitaker (London: Heinemann, 1932), p. 55.
167
Origen, Dialogus cum Heraclide, edited by Jean Scherer (Paris: Cerf, 1960), 10.20–12.19
and 15.30–24.24.
168
169
For this Stoic understanding, see Cicero, Tusculanae Disputationes, 4.14 (VI).
Body and Soul 111

soteriologically necessary. This agenda centralizes Christ’s crucifixion and
death—and an impassible Word dwelling in a soulless body radically threatens
the reality of these events.170 The picture of Christ as immutable by self-
directed will, suggested by the pro-Arian faction at the Council of Antioch,
appears to Eustathius to be Docetic as well as subordinationist—Christ is
immutable contingently, so he is not God, but he is immutable, so he is not
human. Additionally, the Stoic idea that grief, in particular, is an improper
emotion placed passages that referred to Christ’s mental anguish in a key
position in disputes about the mutability or passibility of the Word. The result
of all of this in Eustathius is that the human soul is depicted as the natural
recipient of suffering in contradistinction to the divine Word.
Eustathius believes that the soul undergoes passion appropriately and in its
own right.171 He sometimes depicts the soul as the primary subject of suffer-
ing. A passage from Ariomanitas is particularly striking in this respect:
He did not say ‘my body is in greatest pain’ so that someone receiving this from
above should not think that, while the Spirit itself was remaining for the soul, the
very bodily temple suffered according to itself, but he said ‘my soul is in greatest
pain.’ For the suffering principally falls upon the soul and has dealings with it.172
Eustathius wants to exclude not only the possibility that the Word suffered,
but also that Christ’s suffering involved only the body. He therefore identifies
mental and emotional anguish as suffering of the soul, as such.
Here, Eustathius quotes Jesus’ words in Gethsemane according to Matthew
26.38 and Mark 14.34. Although he believes that the soul is involved in
Christ’s bodily suffering on the cross, he marks out Gethsemane as the
particular site of mental anguish in Christ’s passion. I shall show in a moment
that Marcellus and Athanasius do likewise. He is very close to Marcellus, in
particular, in that he refers to Christ’s experience in Gethsemane partly
defensively, as something that the Word could not have done. Marcellus
cites it to contest the claim that the unity of Father and Son resides in the
unity of their wills.173 Eustathius is an early example of a growing tendency to
find a place for Christ’s psychological experiences.
170
Recall Eusebius, De Theophania, 3.61. See discussion on ‘Eustathius’ opponents in Ar-
iomanitas’ in Chapter 2.
171
Navascués makes this argument in ‘El sustrato filosófico’, p. 153.
172
173
Marcellus, fragment K73. Parvis in Marcellus, p. 6, and Spoerl in ‘Two Early Nicenes:
Eustathius of Antioch and Marcellus of Ancyra’ in In the Shadow of the Incarnation: Essays in
Honour of Brian E. Daley, S.J., edited by Peter Martens (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame
Press, 2008), pp. 121–48, 136, have both argued that Marcellus also had a developed concept of
Christ’s human soul, though I have argued that he probably did not in ‘The Image of God’,
pp. 177–8. I now suspect that Marcellus did explicitly affirm the existence of Christ’s human soul,
but also that the framing of the question simply in terms of the presence or absence of a soul
obscures the fact that Marcellus is using rather a different framework from Eustathius; for

The claim that the soul is a subject of suffering in its own right is a
significant one for a Hellenic thinker in the early fourth century. The role of
the soul in ŁÅ had been (and would continue to be) hotly disputed in Middle
and Neoplatonism. Throughout these discussions, though it is widely held that
the body cannot be the subject of passions itself, it is also assumed that the
question of the soul’s involvement in ŁÅ is a question about the soul’s
involvement in experiences that the person has as a result of being bodily.
For example, Pseudo-Plutarch considers that ‘[t]his question concerning
desire and grief arises: whether passion is of the body, or of the soul but
from the body’.174 Where the soul is thought to undergo passion, it is
frequently held that it is a lower, affective part of the soul that is the subject
of ŁÅ.175 In Enneads 1, Plotinus agonizes over whether and in what sense the
soul undergoes passion.176 He begins this discussion by laying out the options:
1) the soul undergoes passion itself; 2) the body undergoes passion employed
by the soul; 3) something else, deriving from body and soul, undergoes
passion. In what follows, he definitively rejects the first option (we came across
part of his further discussion when examining his view of the body as
instrument).177
The idea that passions result from embodiment is reflected in much Greek
patristic Christology prior to and contemporaneous with Eustathius. The
Word undergoes passion through the flesh as the soul does. For example, in
Athanasius’ Contra Gentes when the soul turns, erroneously, towards the
body, it partakes of passions, and Athanasius correspondingly also writes of
Christ’s flesh as the subject of Christ’s suffering.178 This is, pointedly, true of
Christ’s mental anguish in Gethsemane:
For the properties of the body would not have been in the incorporeal [Word],
unless he had taken a corruptible and mortal body . . . when he was in a body
suffering and weeping and toiling, these things, which are proper to the flesh, are
ascribed to [the Word] along with the body . . . if he asked that the cup might pass
away, it was not the Godhead that was afraid, but the human being.179
Marcellus, ‘flesh’ may stand in for ‘human being’ or ‘body’. This passage could also suggest that
the vaguer ‘flesh’ was the subject of this other will.
174
Pseudo-Plutarch, De libidine et aegritudine, 1.4.
175
Plato, Respublica, 4.441e3–442c7; Nemesius, De Natura Hominis, 16—who nonetheless
writes that certain passions ‘belong’ to the soul rather than the body; Plotinus, Enneads, 1.1.12.
176 177
178
Athanasius, C.G., 2ff. For a discussion, see Andrew Louth, ‘The Concept of the Soul in
Contra Gentes—De Incarnatione’, SP, 13 (1975), p. 227. On the suffering of Christ’s flesh, see
C. Ar., III, 35.
179
Athanasius, C. Ar., III.56. I here differ from Uthemann, who argues that, for Athanasius,
Christ’s grief is ‘nur ein Drama zur Belehrung der Christen zu sehen’—‘only a drama for the
instruction of Christians’ (‘Seelenlosen’, p. 513. See in particular note 253). I think that, rather,
Athanasius is trying to find room for Christ’s grief without attributing it directly to the Word.
Body and Soul 113

Eustathius, like Athanasius, thinks that Christ’s mental anguish is important,
but attributes it to the soul, not the flesh. The Word is more involved in
suffering in Athanasius than in Eustathius, because the Word is as involved as
Athanasius allows any intelligible entity to be. Eustathius has not simply
replaced the subject of passion with the human soul, relative to pro-Arian
‘soulless’ Christology. The mechanism of suffering is different. At least in some
pro-Arian ‘soulless’ Christology, if the Word becomes passible, this happens
through the flesh, or body.180 In this view, unlike the Father, the Word may
become passible, but the Word is not passible in himself. This corresponds to
the idea that the soul is passible because it is embodied, which can be found in
various guises among Christian writers and the Platonic commentators. For
example, Albinus writes that, when a soul becomes embodied, ‘mortal pas-
sions from the body attach [to the soul] first sensation, then pleasure and pain,
fear and anger’.181 Gregory of Nyssa similarly tends to regard passion as a
consequence of embodiment—though occurring in the soul.182
Plotinus himself sometimes goes rather further than stating that the soul is
only involved in passions because of embodiment and, in his earlier writings,
denies that the soul has any involvement in passions.183 Eustathius perhaps
reacts so strongly against the treatment of the soul’s passibility in Platonism
because he has encountered it in an extreme form.
Eustathius shares with many Platonic commentators the idea that the soul
and body must both be involved in passion in some sense, but emphasizes the
passibility of the soul within this framework. The soul has a kind of double
agency with respect to passions. Its part in enabling the body to feel a given
passion is the same as in Eustathius’ wider account of human action, but it also
undergoes the same passion itself.184 The body is therefore dependent on the
soul’s Ł for its own. Hence, when he insists that the claim ‘my soul is in
great pain’ does indeed apply to the soul, he also argues that the body could
180
See D19a/b [Ariomanitas].
181
Albinus, Didaskalikos, 172:11–13 [XVI]. This text might be the work of another Middle
Platonist, the otherwise elusive Alcinous, whose name it bears. For a discussion, see Göransson,
Albinus, pp. 13–23.
182
Gregory of Nyssa, Homilies on Ecclesiastes, 284, 1–11. See Everett Ferguson, ‘Some Aspects
of Gregory of Nyssa’s Moral Theology in the Homilies on Ecclesiastes’ in Gregory of Nyssa’s
Homilies on Ecclesiastes, edited by Stuart Hall (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1993), pp. 319–36,
326–7. Although Gregory’s mechanistic understanding of how passion works is different from
Eustathius’, he follows Eustathius in finding legitimacy in psychological distress. This shall be
discussed in ‘Suffering and the Tragedy of History’ in Chapter 5.
183
Enneads, 3.6.1. See Remes, Plotinus, pp. 191–6, esp. p. 192; Sorabji, Ancient Commenta-
tors, vol. 1, pp. 281–2.
184
There is no textual basis for determining whether Eustathius regards passions, or some
passions, as value judgements in a Stoic fashion (on which see for example Seneca, De Ira, edited
and translated by John Basore (London: Heinemann, 1928), 2.28; Epictetus, Enchiridion, 14); the
idea that the soul is the principal subject of passion, held together with a focus on emotional and
mental anguish, might suggest so.

not undergo passion alone because it has no sensation ‘according to itself ’.185
Eustathius here suggests that the body undergoes passions via the soul, and
therefore arguably distances the body from the experience of passion—the
passions are proper to soul rather than body. However, he makes this argu-
ment in order to assert that the body and the soul undergo passions together,
and are mutually dependent in this process. His very assertion that the pain of
the soul was exactly that in fact leads to the claim that ‘the soul does not gush
forth tears apart from a body, and nor will a body cry joylessly asunder from a
soul, but the one who cries is the one who has a proportionate mixture from
both . . . these are passions of soul and body’.186 Here, Eustathius has in mind
the picture of body and soul experiencing passion individually, and finds it
wanting.
Eustathius sometimes gives soul and body different roles in experiencing
passion. He writes that Christ ‘defined the food as the soul’s business’, but also
that the soul receives desires from the body: ‘[Christ] is said to be hungry and
thirsty, [and] a yearning [ZæØ] for food and drink is put in the soul by the
body, [lacuna] supplying the desire [ B KØŁı ØÆ].’187 The latter passage does
not problematize his sense that passions are proper to the soul—the point is
simply that hunger and thirst require a body—but it does associate certain
appetitive desires especially with the body. Eustathius’ picture seems to be that
various passions may originate exclusively in soul or body, but that they are
manifested and experienced through both soul and body.
Eustathius’ focus on the soul as a subject of passion in its own right requires
that passions have a legitimate and important role in human experience.
Eustathius regards the capacity for emotional experience as a good, and
correspondingly regards many emotional experiences as morally good, in
such a way as to place him sharply at odds with Stoicism. Pointedly, his
emphasis on Christ’s grieving soul makes it evident that he sees Christ’s
grief as a morally appropriate emotion and, simultaneously, suggests the
extravagance and depth of this grief.
It does not follow that Eustathius places grief in the same category as, for
example, hunger. Appetites such as hunger and thirst are juxtaposed with
Christ’s suffering in Gethsemane and on the cross. Expanding on his accus-
ation that ‘soulless’ Christology risks Docetism, he notes, as one of its Docetic
implications, that ‘before the cross the lord did not receive the passions that
are natural and unexceptionable [ . . . IØºÅ Æ ŒÆd çı
ØŒa . . . ŁÅ]’.188
The phrase IØºÅ Æ ŒÆd çı
ØŒa ŁÅ was to become important in later
185
D7:1–12. See also D9:7 on the body’s inability to undergo passion for itself.
186
187
D10:7–8 and D17:19–21, respectively [Ariomanitas].
188
D9:10–11 [Ariomanitas]. Eustathius similarly refers to ‘innocuous motions’ in D91
[Arianos].
Body and Soul 115

centuries.189 However, there is no earlier instance of it in Greek literature
catalogued within the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. It next appears in Didymus
of Alexandria.190 It is possible that this phrase is the epitomizer’s, in which
case Didymus might be the original source. However, it is equally likely that it
is Eustathius’, and that Didymus read his work. This could plausibly have
occurred via Jerome, who was a close associate of Didymus and highly familiar
with Eustathius’ writing.191 Suffice to note that, if the words themselves are
Eustathian, they are not operating within a known established tradition.
The adjective IØºÅ Æ is important to understanding the contrast made.
The word’s immediate context—a contrast between natural passions and their
presumed alternative—might tempt us to hear an echo of the Stoic PŁØÆ—
crudely, ‘harmless passion’ (which, it might be supposed, was the term ori-
ginally used).192 However, this would render the rest of Eustathius’ argument
incoherent by casting the other ŁÅ in this comparison—Christ’s on the
cross—in a negative light. Clearly, there is no Stoicism here. The original sense
is simply that other ŁÅ have no negative connotation, whilst grief is a
response to something imperfect.193
Eustathius’ attitude to grief is at odds with aspects of Stoic ethical theory that
had so far been dominant in patristic thought. Origen is uncomfortable with
Christ, even qua human, as having experienced grief, and explains it, accord-
ingly, as simply initial, involuntary grief, a æŁØÆ in something very like the
sense found in Seneca:194 ‘[Scripture] did not say “he was saddened and
distressed” but “he started [coepit] to be saddened and distressed” . . . [Jesus]
was not grieved by the sorrow of his own passion; this happened—with respect
to the human nature—only as far as the beginning of grief and trembling.’195
The contrast with Eustathius could hardly be greater.196
189
See for example John of Damascus, Expositio Fide, 64 and 67; Photius, Bibliotheca, edited
by René Henry, vol. 2 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1960), p. 133, section 106b.
190
Didymus, Fragmenta in Psalmos, 716a.
191
On Jerome’s connection with Didymus see Megan Williams, The Monk and the Book:
Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship (London: University of Chicago Press, 2006),
p. 196.
192
For Stoic reference to PŁØÆ, see for example Pseudo-Andronicus De Passionibus,
edited by Hans von Arnim, Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, 2nd edn, vol. 3 (Stuttgart: Teubner,
1968), fragment 6, p. 432.
193
I discuss Eustathius’ attitude to grief in the context of ethics in ‘Human Suffering’ in
Chapter 5.
194
For Seneca’s discussion of æŁØÆ—‘pre-passions’, involuntary initial affective re-
sponses to circumstance outside one’s control—see Seneca, De Ira, 2.1. Discussions of Seneca’s
treatment of æŁØÆ, and its influence on Origen, can be found in Richard Layton, ‘Pro-
patheia: Origen and Didymus on the Origin of the Passions’, VC, 54, no. 3 (2000), 262–82;
Margaret Graver, Stoicism and Emotion (London: University of Chicago Press, 2007), pp. 85–108
(who cites this quoted passage).
195
Origen, Commentaria in Mattheum, 38.205.
196
Though Origen’s own position is arguably already a move away from the Stoic position, as
it allows temptation to grief. See ‘Suffering and the Tragedy of History’ in Chapter 5.
Passible Souls and the Rejection of Origen’s Cosmology
A belief in the innate passibility of the soul coheres with a wider tendency in
fourth-century Christianity to relativize the category of intelligibility. Fourth-
century Christianity rejected Origen’s ambiguous speculation on the eternity
of the intelligible world. Eustathius employs as a foundational metaphysical
framework the distinction between the IªÅ God and ªÅ everything
else. This distinction is temporal; IªÅ Æ have always existed, ªÅ Æ have
come into being.197 Things that come into being are impermanent: ‘Every-
thing that has a beginning also has an end. Everything that ends is capable of
corruption.’198 In this respect, he follows typical fourth-century Christian
thought in applying the categories ‘not having not existed’ and ‘having coming
to exist’ to God and everything else, respectively, and therefore not to the
intelligible and perceptible worlds.199 He also does not regard intelligibility as
entailing impassibility in any sense. This is much more unusual for a Greek
writer, but it is a logical development of the wider fourth-century attitude to
the category ‘intelligible’. By the insistence that everything but God has a
beginning, the categories intelligibility and eternity have ceased to be mutually
determining. In Eustathius’ thought, a similar thing has happened to the
relationship between intelligibility and impassibility. An important passage
from Methodius forms a revealing contrast, whilst also hinting at how discus-
sion of the nature of intelligibles was already developing. In it he very strongly
insists that the soul is passible, but then argues that it must, therefore, be
corporeal.200 A little further along, he clarifies that souls are corporeal in the
sense that they are ‘visible to reason’—this rather suggests that they are
‘corporeal’ in the sense of intelligible, as opposed to being inaccessible to
reason.201 This implies that intelligibility, in its broader sense, is the criterion
for passibility. The distinction between rational, impassible, incorporeal things
and non-rational, passible, corporeal things is already being reworked. In one
sense, Eustathius gives an account of the soul’s role in human experience that
is indebted to Methodius, but an account of its ontology that is indebted to
Origen. Like both Origen and Methodius, Eustathius draws a line between
incorporeal and corporeal things. Like Origen, he places the soul on the
‘incorporeal’ side of the line. However, like Methodius, he maintains that it
is passible in its own right. In another sense, by renegotiating the category
‘intelligible’ he develops a line of thought that Methodius had already begun.
197 198
See Hanson, The Search, pp. 202–6. D108, whole fragment [Arianos].
199
See Eusebius of Nicomedia, Letter to Paulinus of Tyre, Opitz, Urkunden, III 8.3 4 (16);
Athanasius, C. Ar., 1.30–1. Compare Parvis, Marcellus, p. 54. Alvyn Petterson, Athanasius and
the Human Body (Bristol: Bristol Press, 1990), pp. 20–4, notes this categorization in Athanasius,
and connects it to a more integrated anthropology than is found in Plato, but he does not really
place this in the context of wider fourth-century Christianity.
200 201
Methodius, De. Res., III.18.1–2. Methodius, De. Res., III.18.5.
Body and Soul 117

This renegotiation of the intelligible realm in relation to God, though it
probably primarily stems from a disagreement over Origen’s cosmological and
Christological nexus, finds interesting parallels in Neoplatonism. Rowan Wil-
liams, examining Arius’ theology, finds that his radical subordination of
everything to the Father is indebted to the Neoplatonic subordination of
everything to the Transcendent One.202 Christopher Stead rejected this the-
sis.203 Both Stead and Williams focus to a large degree on terminology specific
to Arius, and its relationship to Neoplatonic commentators. It is not my
intention to weigh into this dispute about the theology of Arius. In my view,
Williams’ thesis is suggestive of a wider parallel between fourth-century
Christianity in general, and the emphasis on the transcendence of the One
found in Neoplatonism. We must acknowledge, as Stead points out, that, in
Neoplatonism, the cosmos emphatically is eternal. However, the possibility
that this is a case of Neoplatonic metaphysical categories placed within a
Christian view of creation is attractive.204
A N UNDIVID E D S OUL?
Eustathius’ use of physiology and his picture of how the human being under-
goes passions both suggest that he does not divide the soul into different parts.
When seeking to explain the relationship between soul and blood, like Philo,
he wants to link the two without equating them but, unlike Philo, he does not
invoke a lower portion of the soul. The shock-value of his argument from
physiology about the necessity of Christ’s soul is also most effective if he is
thinking that the entire soul would be involved in all physiological processes—
otherwise, why can the Word not simply act as the higher soul, removed, as it
would be, from any involvement in bowel movements? Eustathius’ arguments
that the soul, qua soul, is and ought to be involved in passions also suggests a
rejection of both the compartmentalization of the soul into rational and
irrational parts, and the related idea that only what is irrational in the soul is
a subject of passion.205 His emphasis on the soul’s involvement with the body
202
Williams, Arius, pp. 181–229.
203
Christopher Stead, ‘Was Arius a Neoplatonist?’, SP, 33 (1997), 39–52.
204
For Plotinus’ references to the transcendence of the One, see in particular Enneads, 5.3.
Though see also Georgios Lekkas, ‘Plotinus: Towards an Ontology of Likeness (on the One and
the Nous)’ International Journal of Philosophical Studies, 13, no. 1 (2005), 53–68, doi: 10.1080/
0967255042000324335; Lekkas argues that Plotinus emphasizes similarity between the One and
the Intellect—Plotinus’ second principle, mediating between the One of the rest of the
intelligible world.
205
For a division of the soul into rational and irrational parts, see Gregory of Nyssa, De
Opificio Hominis, 8.5, though Rowan Williams, ‘Macrina’s Deathbed Revisited: Gregory of Nyssa
on Mind and Passion’, in Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy in Late Antiquity: Essays in

is very uncongenial to the notion of mediation between the soul and the body.
These arguments are necessarily based on conjecture. Nonetheless, Eustathius’
highly integrated account of the body–soul relationship lends itself to a
monistic psychology.
T H E RE S U RR E C T I O N O F TH E B O D Y
Eustathius is adamant that our resurrection bodies will be corporeal, and the
same in substance as the current body. In this way, his theology of bodily
resurrection coheres with his wider desire to locate the self partly in the body,
and is highly connected with his arguments against transmigration. Drawing
on 1 Corinthians 15, on which his opponents had also drawn, he uses the
terms łıåØŒ and ı Æ ØŒ to describe our current bodies and our
eschatological bodies, respectively, and to describe Christ’s body before and
after his resurrection.
Eustathius’ discourse on the resurrection is part of an anthropological
tradition that emphasizes the bodily nature of the human being, associated
with Irenaeus. He is also drawing on Methodius, and makes numerous
references to his De Resurrectione.206 What Eustathius says about the resur-
rection is therefore, in one sense, self-consciously anti-Origenist, and many of
his exegetical arguments are responding to Origen’s doctrine of the resurrec-
tion and, also, the fall of souls. However, it is more particularly deployed
against Eusebius of Caesarea and specifically his positive attitude to Plato’s
view of post-mortem judgement, which happens exclusively to the soul. His
arguments echo explicitly anti-Platonist arguments in both Irenaeus and
Athenagoras. Extremely similar arguments for the identity between resurrec-
tion bodies and current ones are also attributed to Origen in Pamphilus’ (and
Eusebius’) Apologia pro Origene. Again, we must wonder whether he simply
disregards the Apologia, or quotes it back at Eusebius.
Eustathius insists that it is the body we have now that will be raised: ‘the
bodies themselves, not different ones, are to be raised’.207 Christ’s resurrection
body is an archetype for ours. So, Christ is the ‘first fruits of the resurrection
from the dead’.208 Among the arguments given for this is that Christ’s
Tribute to George Christopher Stead, edited by Lionel Wickham and Caroline Bammel with Erica
Hunter (Leiden: Brill, 1993), pp. 227–46, sees him as offering a more nuanced perspective,
placing ‘lower’ elements within the rational soul in De anima et de resurrectione. What is striking
in Eustathius is that he does not, apparently, see the soul as primarily rational, and only as
secondarily impulsive.
206
Declerck has noted a number of allusions to Methodius’ De Res. in his annotations of
Eustathius’ corpus and I both draw and advance on these here.
207 208
D45:1–2 [Ariomanitas]. D21:10–11 [Ariomanitas], drawing on 1 Cor. 15.20.
Body and Soul 119

resurrected body was clearly the same as the one that was crucified, as it
carried the nail and spear marks.209 The wider anthropological relevance of
this claim obviously relies on the similarity between Christ’s resurrection body
and our own (which will be discussed in the next chapter) and echoes
Methodius.210 It also emphasizes the sheer physicality of the resurrection
body, in pointed contrast to the Origen’s concept of a spiritual, or ÆPªØb
resurrection body, similar to an angelic body.211
Eustathius’ most forceful extant arguments asserting that the resurrection
body is the same as the current one rely on the location of human identity in a
particular body and soul, and are therefore cohesive with the bulk of his
anthropological ontology. Eustathius is adamant that the body that is raised
is the same as the one that was previously alive. He argues that justice demands
that the person who performed an action must be the one who is punished or
rewarded for it. Those who deny that the body and soul of the resurrection are
the same as the ones we have now are ‘attributing unjust judgements to
God’.212 This is part of his conviction that a person is a mixture of body and
soul. The fact that a human being is necessarily defined partly by his or her
body is the axiom underlying this argument.
This argument is almost identical to Athenagoras’ argument in his De
Resurrectione. He addresses Plato’s view of judgement explicitly, and claims
that the Platonic court is unjust because the person committed acts for which
only the soul is judged.213 Athenagoras here explicitly refers to a scenario in
which there is no resurrection. It is just conceivable that Eustathius thinks that
this scenario—where just the soul is judged—would be fairer than the scenario
to which he explicitly refers—the original soul or body attached to a new
counterpart. However, it is much more likely that Eustathius held the same
view as Athenagoras for two reasons.
First, Eustathius probably makes the same connection to Plato that Athe-
nagoras does; his discourse on the resurrection is connected to, and probably
follows shortly after a derisive description of souls being judged in Hades
according to Greek mythology, and connects this to Plato’s doctrine of the
pre-existence of souls. Eustathius partly quotes and partly paraphrases from
Phaedo 111e6 to 114b4–5, in which Socrates, offering a speculative vision of
the afterlife, describes the various fates of souls in Hades (it is far from obvious
that the character Socrates is supposed to believe the myth he reflects on, let
alone that Plato himself was laying down a dogma, but Eustathius, playing the
209
210
Methodius, De Res. II.18.7, III.2.3.
211
See Origen, Commentaria in Mattheum, 17.30. Compare Iamblichus, Mysteries, 5.10 and
Proclus, In Timaeum, 2.81D, where the adjective is applied to the ‘vehicle’ of the soul (on which
see ‘Eustathius the Origenist: the Disembodied Soul—The Disembodied Form of the Body:
Eustathius between Methodius and Origen’).
212 213
D44:34–5 [Ariomanitas]. Athenagoras, De Res., 20–3.

rhetorician, does not acknowledge this). To summarize the passage briefly:
After the death of the body, souls go to Hades, which boasts a collection of
waterways. Souls travel through various waterways and are then judged. What
happens next depends on how they are judged. Those who have been really,
really bad are thrown back into the biggest lake, where they remain forever.
Those who have been pretty bad, but are redeemable, upon petition, get sent
around the system of waterways again until those whom they have wronged
agree to their release. Those who are judged pure are released from Hades and
go up into the air.214 This passage, cited by Eustathius, likely underlies his
attack on judgement of the soul alone.
Second, in another facet of the same argument, Eustathius defends the need
for a body more directly. He follows Athenagoras and Irenaeus in insisting
that the bodies of the martyrs, since they have been tortured to death, must be
raised.215
Both of these arguments are aimed specifically against Eusebius of Caesarea:
Eusebius had cited the same passage from Plato approvingly (as we have seen,
Eustathius brings his attack on Plato’s view of post-mortem judgement into an
attack on the transmigration of souls, and therefore implies that Eusebius’
Christology supports this doctrine).216 Furthermore, the claim that it would be
unjust if the bodies of the martyrs were not raised is attributed to Origen in
Pamphilus’ Apologia:
For how does it not seem absurd that this body that suffered wounds for Christ,
and that equally with its soul endured the cruel tortures of persecutions, that even
suffered the penalties of imprisonment, chains and beatings . . . should be de-
prived of the rewards of such great contests? For if the soul alone, which did not
struggle alone, is crowned, and the vessel of its body, which served it with very
great exertion, should attain no rewards for the struggle and the victory, how does
it not seem contrary to all reason . . . that at the time of recompense, one should
be brushed aside as unworthy while the other is crowned? Doubtless such an
outcome makes God guilty either of some injustice or of impotence.217
Because Pamphilus’ text is preserved only in Latin, and Eustathius’ in an
epitomized form, it is unfortunately not possible to establish quite how close
they were, but that there is a close similarity is clear, and it is likely that
Eustathius had in mind Pamphilus’ text, which had been finished and pro-
moted by Eusebius himself.
214
D30–D31.
215
D44:43–9 [Ariomanitas]. For Irenaeus, see his A.H., 5.32.1, where the argument is
specifically that they must be raised in this creation.
216
Eusebius, P.E., 13.16.12.
217
Pamphilus, Apologia pro Origene, 128, amended from the translation of Thomas Scheck
(Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2000).
Body and Soul 121

Both of Eustathius’ arguments for the physical resurrection especially
emphasize the centrality of the body to human ontology. The latter, even
more than the former, assumes the importance of the current life to human
identity: life’s events—embodied events—must be redeemed. Eustathius’ view
of the bodily resurrection is part of a wider belief in the intrinsic value of the
body. For instance, he insists that Christ’s claim that ‘the flesh profits nothing’
does not mean that the flesh was ‘useless’; rather, it means that only the spirit
is ‘life-giving’.218 The body, obviously, requires salvation, but it is therefore as
proper an object of salvation as is the soul.
The way in which Eustathius regards the weakness of the body is elucidated
by a comparison with Irenaeus. For Irenaeus, the very resurrection of the body
implies its weakness as well as its potential: the body must be resurrected
because, otherwise, salvation has not been achieved at all—the soul was
already immortal.219 There is at least an element of this in Eustathius’ con-
ception of the resurrection—and in his references to martyrdom when writing
of it. As Gillian Clark notes, ‘the suffering of the body is of central importance:
it is not a temporary and finally irrelevant anguish, left behind as the triumph-
ant soul ascends to God, but a glorious demonstration of God’s power
manifested in what seems most vulnerable, human flesh and blood’.220 Clark
correctly identifies two aspects of the tendency to see martyrdom in light of a
triumphal resurrection, the latter of which requires some expansion: one is the
centrality of human physicality; the other is the weakness of the body, which is
implied in the way that God’s power is shown especially in manifesting itself in
the body.
Both Irenaeus and Eustathius make roughly the same factual claims about
the connection between resurrection, soteriology, and anthropology: the same
body is truly resurrected, and both body and soul need salvation. However,
they have divergent emphases. Irenaeus emphasizes the resurrection of the
body even more than Eustathius. He therefore lays more stress on the body’s
importance, but also implies that it is particularly in need of salvation. He
sometimes contrasts it with the soul, which does not need to be given access to
immortality through the resurrection.221 Eustathius, conversely, emphasizes
the soul’s need for salvation. Even whilst maintaining this emphasis,
218
D20:28–32 [Ariomanitas]. Here we see both similarities and differences with Marcellus of
Ancyra, who argues, in reference to John 6.63, ‘Flesh was not useful to the Word, because he is
God’, but it is useful to us, in fragments K117 and K118.
219
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.7.1. Compare Pseudo–Justin, De Resurrectione, Chapter 10.
220
Gillian Clark, ‘Bodies and Blood: Late Antique Debate on Martyrdom, Virginity and
Resurrection’ in Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings: Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity,
edited by Dominic Montserrat (London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 99–115, 106. She cites the
veneration for the bloodied, disemboweled bodies of the martyrs in martyrological accounts.
See Peristephanon, Prudentius, 5.337–40 (Clark’s account admittedly focuses on the Latin West).
221
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.7.1. This is shaped by Irenaeus’ anti-Gnostic context, on which see Denis
Minns, Irenaeus: an Introduction (Edinburgh: T and T Clark Int., 2010), pp. 19–25.

Eustathius holds that the soul is superior to the body. The soul was assumed,
because the Word would hardly neglect the ‘better part’ of the human being.222
For Eustathius, the body is not further degenerated than the soul but it is,
nonetheless, inferior to the soul. Consequently, whereas Irenaeus’ picture of
the body’s degeneracy may point to an inferiority contingent on the lapse, for
Eustathius, the inferiority of the body is intrinsic.223 With regards to the
resurrection, this suggests that he sees the resurrection of martyrs’ bodies as
strength made perfect in the weakest part of humanity.
Eustathius does not regard the resurrection body and the current body as
altogether identical. Though the body’s substance remains the same, the body
does undergo a change. Normally, where Eustathius suggests that the body will
change when it is resurrected, he is directly quoting Pauline passages that
focus on eschatological transformation. In many of his arguments for the
identity of the resurrection body with the current one, there is some sense of
change in addition to an overriding sense of continuity. Our identity with
Christ, sometimes invoked to prove that the two bodies are the same, here
entails a change. For instance, Eustathius writes, the lord ‘changing the lowly
body of human beings, conforms it to his own’.224
Much of Eustathius’ discourse on the spiritual body is part of an argument
about the soul. Crudely, he is trying to refute the (putative) claim that Christ,
being ‘spiritual’ [ı Æ ØŒ], had the Spirit in place of a soul.225 He quotes
the Pauline text: ‘the first Adam became a living soul, the last Adam became a
life-giving spirit’.226 His opponents presumably defended their ‘soulless’
Christology on the basis that Christ was the ı Æ ØŒ Last Adam and
therefore had a spirit rather than a soul.227 Whether or not Eustathius is
being fair on his opponents, his own point is quite clear. In the course of this
argument, he moves from defending the presence of the soul in the ı Æ ØŒ
person to defending the presence of the corporeal body in the resurrection. The
first Adam, he argues, had a soul and a body; this is what łıåØŒ means. If you
want to argue that the last Adam had no soul, you must also accept that he had
no body. The discourse about the nature of the body then begins.228
222
223
Eustathius’ conception of the primeval degeneration of humankind is discussed in ‘The
Lapse’ in Chapter 5. As I explain there, I opt for the term ‘lapse’ because the term ‘fall’ is not
evidenced in his writings and has rather specific metaphysical implications that it is best to avoid
attributing without sufficient evidence.
224
D69:6–8 [Proverbs 8.22]. Compare Methodius, De Res., II.17:6–8 and De Res., III.5.
225
Eustathius himself often uses the term ‘divine Spirit’ to refer to the divine in Christ, and
this helps to shape his response here. See Engastrimytho, 17.10 and Spoerl ‘Two early Nicenes’,
p. 131.
226
1 Corinthians 15.45, quoted at D44:2–3 [Ariomanitas].
227
Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’, pp. 499–500.
228
There may originally have been a longer section connecting the discussion about the soul
with the discussion about the body.
Body and Soul 123

Eustathius is attacking a framework in which the contrast between łıåØŒ
and ı Æ ØŒ is characterized as one between soul and spirit. Rightly or
wrongly—and perhaps disingenuously—he attributes such a framework to his
opponents. He claims that, since the Last Adam evidently has a body, and
therefore a soul, this framework for understanding the eschatological trans-
formation of the human being is wrong. Specifically, Eustathius wishes to
argue that neither component of the human being is replaced by something
else. The context of this argument is Christological: the biblical text referring
to Christ as ‘spiritual’ does not imply that part of him has been replaced by the
Spirit—so, it does not imply that the divine Spirit acted qua soul in Christ.
Eustathius claims that ‘the one who is “soul-like” is from body and soul, whilst
the one who is spiritual has been brought together from the divine Spirit’.229
This exegesis of 1 Corinthians 15 is reminiscent of Irenaeus’, in which the
distinction between łıåØŒ First Adam and ı Æ ØŒ Last Adam is par-
alleled by a distinction between original and eschatological humanity, the
latter having received the Spirit.230 Irenaeus wants to establish that Paul
does not mean that a different body is raised. The term ı Æ ØŒ does
not imply that bits of the human being are to be discarded. Eustathius,
likewise, is obliged to show that ı Æ ØŒ nature includes the body and
soul which constitute łıåØŒ nature, and goes on to insist that the body that is
resurrected must be the same as the one that previously lived:
For doubtless [the ‘spiritual body’] is not soulless. For [Paul] does not show one
human being raised up in place of another, as if, as Valentinus and his associates
say, a different, intelligible thing is raised, apart from this perceptible thing.231
Eusebius also refers in a derogatory fashion to Valentinus and he specifically
mentions Irenaeus’ attack on Valentinus.232 By referring to Valentinus, Eu-
stathius may well be quoting Irenaeus back at Eusebius. He may also be
responding to Origen’s De Principiis. Origen writes that
[Paul] says it is sown a soul-like body, and raised a spiritual body, pointing out
that in the resurrection of the just there will be nothing soul-like . . . And therefore
we ask whether there is any substance which is imperfect insofar as it soul.
Whether it is imperfect because it has fallen [decidit] away from perfection, or
because it was created like that by God, will be a topic of inquiry . . . 233
The future inquiry that Origen promises is his discussion of the fall of souls,
which he begins to elaborate in the following section.234 Origen’s point is that
the soul is only called the ‘soul’ in its fallen form (whatever he might mean by
229 230
D44:9–10 [Ariomanitas]. Irenaeus, A.H., 5.12.2.
231 232
D44:30–4 [Ariomanitas]. Eusebius, H.E., 5.20.
233 234
Origen, De Princ., 2.8.2. Origen, De Princ., 2.8.3.

fall).235 It was created spirit, and it will be spirit again. It is very likely that
Eustathius had, indeed, encountered a related, pro-Arian Christological argu-
ment as well. For Origen, Christ’s soul did not fall.236 It remains spirit. As
Uthemann has posited, Ariomanitas suggests the existence of a pro-Arian
theology that has given the place of Christ’s human soul in Origen’s Christ-
ology to the Word:237 the Word/Spirit acts as a distorted parallel to Christ’s
soul in Origen, and Christ is therefore spiritual where others are soul-like.
This is a good example of how Eusebius of Caesarea, an Origenist who
sometimes denied that Christ had a human soul, is a very good candidate for
Eustathius’ opponent. Jerome alludes either to a work by Eusebius on 1
Corinthians, or to an extended discussion of the epistle: he lists Eusebius as
one of several people who has ‘employed a lot of latitude in interpreting [1
Corinthians]’.238 We might suspect that Eusebius’ discussion would provide
the missing link between Origen’s exegesis and Eustathius’ counter-exegesis.
Neither Eusebius nor any other pro-Arian is likely to have demoted the Word
to the level of a sinless soul, but it is plausible that he offered an exegesis of 1
Corinthians 15 that, to Eustathius at least, led to this conclusion.
If Eustathius’ most immediate objection is to a pro-Arian Christological
argument, he is also objecting to Origen’s supposed doctrine of the fall of
souls, on the basis that it undermines the specifically human nature of the
human soul, and the location of human identity in the present life. If his pro-
Arian opponents have demoted the Word so that the Word can act as the human
soul of Christ, this was only possible because Origen had disconnected Christ’s
soul—and, by extension, other souls, in their perfected state—from earthly
human life. Eustathius’ claims about the resurrection, which had themselves
stemmed from a discussion of the soul, are part of a discussion of the totality of
the eschatological human condition. A characteristically holistic anthropology
under-girds the whole discussion. Whatever happens in the transformation from
łıåØŒ to ı Æ ØŒ happens to both the body and the soul.
Eustathius invokes the necessary continuous identity between the person
who lived and the person who is raised while also, in the immediately
surrounding discussion, making a distinction between perceptible and intelli-
gible categories. In doing so, he suggests that the corporeality of the resurrec-
tion body means something very similar to the corporeality of the current
body. In the resurrection, though the body will look in some way different
from the way it looks now, it will not be ethereal, and will still be flesh and
blood. Eustathius’ view of the resurrection relies on the intrinsic physicality of
235
This is discussed in ‘The Lapse’ in Chapter 5. 236
Origen, De Princ., 2.6.3.
237
Uthemann, ‘Seelenlosen’, p. 520. As Uthemann acknowledges, this develops Rudolph
Lorenz’s argument about pro-Arian theology: Lorenz, Arius Judaizans? Untersuchungen sur
dogmengeschichtlichen Einordnung des Arius (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1979),
p. 222, claimed that Arius followed Origen in Christology, rather than Logos theology.
238
Jerome, Epistula, 49.3.
Body and Soul 125

the human being and on the importance of our ontological make-up in
defining who we are. In this, he follows Methodius’ sometime antipathy
towards Origen. His theology of bodily resurrection forms part of his wider
picture of the human person as grounded in the current life.
Elements of Origen’s Christology could be preserved in Eusebius and
others, whilst his doctrine of Christ’s soul was jettisoned, because, in Origen’s
anthropology, the human soul is not defined primarily in relation to the
current life. In consequence, Eustathius’ attack on ‘soulless’ Christology is
also an attack on Origen’s anthropology. However, in another context, Eu-
stathius employs Origen’s Christological anthropology to his advantage, draw-
ing on it to emphasize Christ’s full humanity.
EUSTATHIUS THE ORIGENIST:

THE DISEMBODIED SOUL
Though the soul and body are necessarily defined in relation to each other, this
does not entail their inability to exist separately. Eustathius writes of the
disembodied soul in three contexts239: Christ’s soul outside of the body whilst
Christ is alive (and not necessarily asleep) on earth; between death and
resurrection, naturally enough regarding death as the separation of body and
soul;240 and in dreams. As we shall see, it is unclear whether Eustathius
believes the third instance to be possible. If he does, he seems to regard the
soul’s experience in this instance in the same light as that of the disembodied
soul between death and resurrection.
Eustathius’ discourse on the disembodied soul is very often Origenist.
When he writes about the soul between death and resurrection in Engastri-
mytho, Eustathius is torn between Origen and Methodius, but pointedly ends
up closer to the former. When writing about the disembodied soul of Christ,
he draws heavily on Origen’s Christology and the soteriology and anthropol-
ogy that support it. There are also close parallels with Middle and Neoplatonist
commentators.
The Divided Self
The soul is separated from the body and retains active agency in the finite
period between bodily death and resurrection whilst the corpse is inert. When
239
Some of this material appeared in a much earlier version, in my article ‘The Human Soul
between Death and Resurrection in Eustathius of Antioch’, SP, 52 (2012), 139–49.
240

he writes of the soul and body between death and resurrection, there is a
tension between Eustathius’ ontology of the person per se and his narration of
human experience. Specifically, this relates to the relative importance of body
and soul in the location of human agency and identity. The self remains both
body and soul; the very inertia of the body is anthropologically significant but,
because the soul is more active, Eustathius’ narration of human experience
repeatedly suggests that when things happen to the disembodied soul, they
happen to the human being; it looks as if the soul is the self, and this frees
Eustathius up to give a thoroughly Origenist account of the disembodied soul
in other respects.
The soul’s identity and experience between death and resurrection are
connected to the person’s corporeal life, and correspondingly, to the particular
body in which the soul lived. However, this connection serves to reinforce the
idea that the soul is the self.
There are numerous examples of the soul’s being active between death and
resurrection: Christ’s human soul leads the soul of the penitent thief into
paradise, ‘while his body was encompassed by the tomb’ and ‘on the same day
as the death of his body’;241 souls are imprisoned in Hades when Christ arrives
there; when discussing the putative summoning of Samuel in 1 Kingdoms 28,
Eustathius clearly assumes that Samuel’s soul, although not called up by the
necromancer of Endor, is active somewhere. His objection to Origen’s claim
that Samuel really appeared in Endor rests on the improper power Origen
attributes to the necromancer. Only God has power over souls: ‘demons do
not have authority over spirits and souls, but God does, who rules over
everything at once’.242 It is not the capacity of the soul to be summoned, but
the capacity of the one summoning it, that is the issue.243
Having a soul that is conscious between death and resurrection is an
intrinsic part of human experience. This is clearest in Eustathius’ Christology.
I have claimed that Eustathius’ principal argument in Ariomanitas is that
Christ must have a human soul in order to be human. The same argument lies
behind Eustathius’ discussions of Christ’s soul between death and resurrec-
tion. If Christ did not have a human soul to go to paradise, then the human
Christ did not go to paradise, so the penitent thief was the first human being to
go there.244 In the case of Christ, the disembodied soul has a vital soteriological
role to play, freeing souls from Hades and opening the gates of paradise. It is
241
D22:21–2 and D28:2–3, respectively [Ariomanitas].
242
Engastrimytho, 3.3.
243
Greer makes this point in Belly-Myther, p. lxi. However, he also argues that, for Eustathius,
souls must wait in ‘hell’ until Christ has harrowed it, p. lix. He thus sees a circumstantial bar to
the souls of the dead appearing in the perceptible world, though not an ontological one. Though
a priori this position coheres with Eustathius’ theology, it is far from evident that Eustathius
rejects that possibility of God recalling a soul from Hades under other circumstances.
244
This theme recurs in several fragments: D21, D22, and D28.
Body and Soul 127

necessary for Christ’s soul, as opposed to the Word, to open the gates of
paradise because it is necessary for a human being to do this. Furthermore,
salvation of humanity is effected in Hades and paradise because these are,
properly, human realms as much as anything else.
Humans continue to be defined partly by their bodies between death and
resurrection. Let us return to Eustathius’ claim that a human being is a
‘proportionate mixture’ of body and soul. Significantly, this claim is made in
order to contrast a human being—body and soul—with a disembodied soul on
its own—hypothetically Samuel’s, called up from Hades. Eustathius’ discourse
on the disembodied soul is not, then, uncharacteristically inattentive to the
dipartite nature of the human being.
Correspondingly, Christ’s soteriological activity in the intelligible realm of
souls is paralleled by his soteriological (in)activity in the corporeal realm. He has
also ‘partaken in the grave through the body’.245 It is not that the self is now
located in the soul, but that the self has been rent in two. Correspondingly,
Eustathius’ claims about the disembodied soul occur against the backdrop of the
resurrection to come, when the two distinct parts of the human being will be
reunited.246 Whilst the soul can function without the body, this is not ideal for
the soul. It is when the body is resurrected, and the soul is reunited with it, that
both soul and body achieve their telos. Nonetheless, when Eustathius talks about
the soul between death and resurrection, the interdependence between body and
soul, which is elsewhere so important to him, is inevitably absent. When the
disembodied soul acts, it acts for the whole human being. For example, when
Christ’s soul entered paradise, Christ entered ‘through Christ’s soul’ [Æ B
łıå].247 Specifically the soul, and not the whole human being, is the agent, but
the soul provides a way for the human being to act. Similarly, Christ ‘has
partaken in the grave’ because the body has gone there. Here, in contrast to
Eustathius’ conception of human action when body and soul are united, there
are separate tasks proper to body and soul.
There is a significant distinction between agency and identity in Eustathius’
descriptions of post-mortem activity. Between death and resurrection, both
the body and the soul perform on behalf of the person to some degree, and
therefore both have some kind of agency; however, the soul’s role is active, the
body’s role is passive. The soul moves around, converses, and is rewarded or
punished. All the body does, and all it is capable of doing, is to be dead.
Eustathius often emphasizes this by contrasting the disembodied soul’s
245
246
Greer, Belly-Myther, pp. xxxiv–lix, has correspondingly argued that Origen’s and Eu-
stathius’ different approaches to experience of the soul following bodily death are connected to
different attitudes to bodily resurrection.
247
D28:1–2 [Ariomanitas]. Eustathius correspondingly ascribes to Christ all the activities
performed Æ B łıå of Christ, while Christ’s body was dead. So, the soul is Christ is able to
fulfil the promise that Christ made to the penitent thief whilst alive. See D21:1–5 [Ariomanitas].

activity with the dead body’s inertia. His claim that Christ’s soul travelled to
paradise ‘while his body was still encompassed by the tomb’, for instance,
seems calculated to evoke such a contrast.248 The disembodied soul, unre-
markably, has a qualitatively superior kind of agency to the soulless body.
However, this hierarchical relationship is absent with reference to human
identity, which is located in both. When the soul goes to paradise, this is
equivalent to the person going to paradise. When the body is dead, this is
equivalent to the person being dead.
There is one exception to the location of human identity in both body and
soul: the soul receives punishments and rewards for the person. This arises in
Eustathius’ reading of the parable of the rich man and Lazarus; among other
things, ‘each man had received his fitting reward in each place’.249 Admittedly,
he could scarcely avoid seeing punishment and reward in this passage. Add-
itionally, this appears to be simply an extension of the principle that both body
and soul can act, independently, for the whole person in this context. How-
ever, at this point, that principle becomes problematic for Eustathius’ overall
coherence: he seems to identify the soul between death and resurrection with
the whole person, by the very standards he is later to identify for establishing
the whole person when talking about resurrection. The soul is punished for the
sins of the human being, and therefore ‘unjust judgements are attached to
God’.250
In Engastrimytho, then, Eustathius is inconsistent in his identification of the
self. This is not, in the first instance, because he follows Origen in seeing the
soul as the self, but rather because he has the sense that both soul and body
contain within themselves the whole selfhood. The soul and body are hugely
different and can act out separately hugely different aspects of humanness.
The self is divided at death. Out of this occasionally arises an Origenist (and
Plotinian) sense that the soul is the self, despite Eustathius’ declarations to the
contrary.
The Disembodied Form of the Body:

Eustathius between Methodius and Origen
In Engastrimytho, Eustathius alludes to Origen’s idea that the soul retains the
visible form of the body after death. Although he believes that disembodied
souls are not intrinsically visible in the corporeal world, he shows some
248
D22:21–2.
249
250
Eustathius thinks that the soul retains the ‘form’ of the body after death (see ‘The
Disembodied Form of the Body: Eustathius between Methodius and Origen’). He may, then,
think that it is punished through this form, Philoponus, In De Anima, 17.26–18.31, and
Olympiodorus the Neoplatonist, In Gorgiam, 47.7, were both to suggest this.
Body and Soul 129

hesitation about whether or not the soul can be visibly manifested, looking like
the body it was united to in life. This is partly because the idea that the soul
retains the form of the body whilst awaiting the resurrection is found in a range
of thinkers, some of whom aggressively defend the location of human identity in
the body; this picture can be seen as affirming the soul’s intrinsic connection
with the body more than undermining it. I suggest that Eustathius’ unwilling-
ness openly to affirm belief that the soul retains the body’s form after death
arises out of loyalty to Methodius, who had attacked Origen’s belief in this.
The argument between Methodius and Origen about the form of the body
is reported in Methodius’ De Resurrectione, in which Methodius is probably
less than fair to Origen.251 At any rate, Eustathius is evidently very taken
with Methodius’ approach to Origen in this work. Origen’s claims are very
closely connected to the Neoplatonic concept of the ‘vehicle [ZåÅ Æ] of the
soul’, acquired before the soul’s descent into its present body, and retained
after death, found in Iamblichus and Porphyry.252 The belief that the soul
retains the body’s form after death also occurs in Irenaeus.253 It is, however,
rejected by Methodius. He referred to this belief when attacking Origen’s
claim that the soul was incorporeal. He ultimately connects this to Origen’s
putative doctrine of a ‘spiritual’ resurrection. Methodius’ response to Origen
relies on the belief that the soul is corporeal in itself, and therefore does
not need a bodily covering as Origen believed it did. Eustathius shares
Methodius’ antipathy towards Origen’s doctrine of a ‘spiritual resurrection’:
‘Methodius . . . has written sufficiently about Origen’s doctrine [of the resur-
rection] and has clearly demonstrated to everyone that Origen unwisely
gave an opening to the heretics, defining the resurrection as one of form,
but not of the body itself.’254 However, he agrees with Origen that the soul is
incorporeal, and he therefore has difficulty in taking Methodius’ part in this
argument.
Eustathius addresses the question of the disembodied soul’s resemblance to
its body when he refers to souls appearing in dreams:
[P]erhaps you will say that the very apparatus of the soul had the habit of taking
shape in human form according to age, in order that by its appearance the soul
might foretell the future by prophetic foreshadowing. As everyone knows, some-
times in dreams spirits and souls appear to human beings, displaying the char-
acteristics of humans with all their limbs . . . [but if that were the case here] why
251
See Methodius, De Res. I.22.3/Origen, Selecta in Psalmos, 11 for Origen’s supposed
argument. Methodius attacks it at De Res.III.3.4–5. For Origen’s writings suggesting an intrinsic
connection between body and soul, see De Princ., 1.6.4, 4.3.13. For a discussion, see Henri
Crouzel, ‘Le theme platonicien du “véhicule de l’âme” chez Origène’, Didaskalia, 7 (1977),
225–37 and Mark Edwards, Origen against Plato, pp. 95–6.
252
See for example Iamblichus, In Timaeus, fragments 81 and 84; Porphyry, Abstentia,
2.39.1–3. See also Proclus, In Respublicam, 1.39.9–17, 2.167.2–6.
253 254
Irenaeus, A.H., 2.34.1. Engastrimytho, 22.5.

on earth didn’t the woman say “I saw a prophetic soul” and not the opposite, “I
saw a man standing”?255
Either Eustathius takes it as common knowledge that souls appear to people in
human form in dreams or he does not accept this himself, but is mocking
Origen, who does.256 Eustathius avoids being explicit on this point in part
because he is caught between Methodius and Origen; he wishes to defend
Methodius, but he is actually closer to agreeing with Origen.257
He proposes an argument that Origen might make to explain how it could
be that Saul did not see Samuel, while the necromancer did. The suggested
argument is that the necromancer saw Samuel’s soul, which had taken the
shape of his body. Eustathius then explains why this could not have been the
case. In order to establish whether Eustathius thinks that souls can appear,
looking like the people they had been part of when alive, we need to establish
the function of the phrase: ‘As everyone knows, sometimes in dreams
spirits and souls appear to human beings, displaying the characteristics of
humans with all their limbs’ [x Æ c ŒÆ a f oı K Æ Æ ŒÆ
E IŁæØ KçØ
Æ ÆØ, Æ ºd f IŁæı KØØŒı ÆØ
åÆæÆŒ BæÆ].
There are two strands to the proposition that souls can appear in the form
of their bodies. One is partly about the intrinsic connection between the body
and the soul, and partly about the soul’s visibility more generally. Can the soul
look like its body when not attached to it? The other is about whether the souls
of the dead manifest themselves in any sense (visual or otherwise) in the
corporeal world. With regards to the latter question, I have noted that
Eustathius believes that only God can call souls from Hades; he does not
spend much time worrying about whether God ever actually does so or not.
With regards to the former, he does seem to accept the ontological possi-
bility of the soul appearing in the shape of its body. He proceeds to list the
many reasons why this could not have been what happened in the case
presented in 1 Kingdoms 28. He has an idea of the manner in which souls
return, temporarily, from the dead and what is described in 1 Kingdoms 28
does not fit it. The notion that dead people’s souls can, on occasion, and only
at God’s behest, appear in the corporeal realm is rather implied within his
argument.
Methodius’ attack on Origen, in this instance, relies on a gradiented con-
ception of corporeality. Eustathius shares aspects of this conception, but other
255
Engastrimytho, 6.1–2.
256
Eustathius does not comment further on the difference between souls appearing in dreams
and in other instances. Therefore, if we accept that he allows that souls appear in dreams, we
must suspect that he allows that the kind of appearance that happens in dreams might be
applicable to other circumstances, as he suggests that Origen would like to argue.
257
This emends an argument I made in ‘The Human Soul’.
Body and Soul 131

aspects of it jar with his metaphysical assumptions, and, specifically, the
arguments he makes in Engastrimytho. Like Eustathius, Methodius initially
presents his argument as over-determined by claiming that even accepting
Origen’s picture of the disembodied soul, Origen’s view of embodiment is
incoherent, as it does not follow from this picture.258 He also, however, rejects
the view that a soul retains the form of a body between death and resurrection.
His argument, we have noted already, is that insofar as the soul is physical, it is
physical in itself. He reflects on the rich man and Lazarus and contends that
souls are spoken of as if physical ‘not because they had another invisible body
but because, having been stripped of their entire covering, the souls themselves
are naturally like that’.259 Methodius wants to demonstrate that souls are
naturally visible, in the sense of being ‘visible to reason’, whereas God is
completely invisible. Methodius appeals to an apophatic theological principle:
souls are intelligible, whilst God is above intelligibility. This is part of his
argument for the physical resurrection of the body.
Eustathius also conceptualizes Samuel in a visible way when he writes of
clothing ready for Samuel in heaven. Samuel’s clothing, and, one may specu-
late, his appearance, would have been an idealized form of how he used to
look. Eustathius asserts that ‘imperishable garments from heaven, shining with
flashing rays of light, are ready for the saints’.260 He then claims that Samuel’s
soul, as ought to be obvious to anyone, would have been in ‘his priestly
cloak . . . seen in a spiritual way’.261 This phrase—‘seen in a spiritual way’—
may resemble Methodius’ claim that souls are ‘visible to reason’. However, it is
primarily an example of how a soul would look, conceding to Origen that
Samuel’s soul may, theoretically, have appeared in the form of the body. The
sense that Samuel’s soul would be wearing these shining garments whether or
not he returned as a ghost might imply that the disembodied soul always
retains a kind of bodily form. Eustathius’ own voice is unclear in the text
because he focuses on proving that there is no coherent way of concluding that
the necromancer really did see Samuel. As he rhetorically concedes points to
show that, even under more favourable circumstances than the text allows,
Origen cannot succeed, his own view gets lost. Interestingly, in Ariomanitas,
where he uses similar rhetorical techniques, Eustathius’ own opinion on the
main point in question is rarely lost. I suspect that, here, we have a deliberate
ambiguity.
Eustathius may think that Methodius has come uncomfortably close to
describing the soul as corporeal. I have argued that Eustathius employs the
category of incorporeality variously, sometimes to apply to a range of entities,
including souls, and sometimes to demarcate God from everything else. This
258 259
Methodius, De Res., III.17.2–18.6. Methodius, De Res., III.18.5.
260
Engastrimytho, 6.7.
261
Engastrimytho, 6.8. The contrast here is to being seen in a body.

he shares with both Origen and Methodius, but he does not adopt Methodius’
framework for negotiating the nexus between God, corporeality, and incor-
poreality, and this would plausibly problematize for him Methodius’ argument
against Origen.
Eustathius is partly unwilling to condemn Origen’s idea that the soul retains
the ‘form of the body’ because it in fact affirms an intrinsic connection
between the soul and the body. Methodius’ own argument had inadvertently
undermined this connection: the soul is intelligible, and this has nothing to do
with the body—it can be known and understood without reference to its body.
Mark Edwards, similarly arguing that Origen connects the soul with the body,
claims that Origen’s doctrine of bodily form actually affirms that the soul is the
form of the body.262 Drawing on this argument, I would like to suggest, more
tentatively, that Eustathius’ discomfiture with Methodius’ argument against
Origen’s ‘form of the body’ notion is specifically connected to Methodius’
implied rejection of the idea that the soul is the form of the body. This
suggestion assumes a connection between Methodius’ argument against Ori-
gen’s ‘vehicle of the soul’ doctrine, and Origen’s doctrine of spiritual
resurrection—in particular, Origen’s idea that the ‘form of the body’ is raised.
Methodius claims that the N of the body cannot exist without the body.
Crouzel has claimed that Methodius simply interprets Origen’s N to be
equivalent to æç, meaning outward structure. Edwards, however, claims
that Methodius’ mistake is to think that, for Origen, the form, even if outward
structure, can exist without a material substrate.263 If Edwards is correct,
Methodius is here arguing that form cannot exist without its matter, as he
does, for example, in De autexousio.264 On one hand, this draws on a reading of
Aristotle that denies that the soul can exist separately from the body. However,
Methodius is writing of the parable of the rich man and Lazarus; he does think
the soul can exist separately from the body. Here, he makes the same move as
Plotinus in the fourth Ennead: form and matter cannot exist apart from each
other, so clearly, the soul is not the form of the body.265 The denial that the soul
retains the form of the body after death then looks like a version of the same
argument. This is a view at odds with other aspects of Methodius’ anthropology,
as we have already seen. Even if we accept this reading of Methodius, it
seems very unlikely that Methodius would have wished to extend the implica-
tions of this claim across his anthropology. Nonetheless, might Eustathius
have noticed this troubling implication of Methodius’ attack on Origen? If so,
262
Edwards, Origen against Plato, p. 109.
263
Methodius, De Res., III.6. Crouzel, Origen, translated by Stanley Worrall (Edinburgh:
T and T Clark, 1989), pp. 255–6; Edwards, Origen against Plato, p. 109.
264
Methodius, De autexousio, esp. IV–V.
265
Williams, Arius, p. 186, has observed this view of the relationship between form and
matter, and its debt to Plotinus, in Methodius.
Body and Soul 133

this can help to explain his rather ambiguous treatment of the soul’s visibility
between death and resurrection.
The Omnipresent Soul: Origen’s Christology as Battleground
The omnipresence of Christ’s soul in Eustathius’ thought is indebted to Origen

in two respects. First, it involves his acceptance of a disembodied existence for
the soul, not only after bodily death, but while the body is alive; it therefore
suggests that the soul is torn, as for Origen, between its embodied life and its
life in the heavenly realms. This further suggests a Porphyrian distinction
between the soul in relation to the body and the soul ‘according to itself ’.
Second, Eustathius implies, though he never states, that the soul is closer to
God than the body is, and that it is in union with Christ’s soul that God is
united to ‘the human being of Christ’. This is reminiscent of Origen’s belief
that the soul of Christ mediates between God and the flesh, and also echoes
Iamblichus and, to a lesser extent, Plotinus.
In Ariomanitas, Eustathius writes:
not only did the unattainable Word of God ‘fasten himself to heaven, and was
upon earth’ but also acting as God himself, he allotted such great increase of
authority to the human being whom he contained that, through the soul [the
human being] at once both traversed [K æØºE] the entire earth and dwells in
the heavenly bodies. For we say that the son of humanity, rather than the Son of
God, has passed into heaven, and came from heaven itself, and being in heaven
again, continues unshakably. He led the ascending occupations of the soul.266
This develops a line of thought in Origen’s De Principiis. Origen writes:
Let no one imagine, however . . . that one part of the Godhead of the Son of God
was in Christ while the other part was elsewhere or everywhere . . . For it is
impossible to speak of a part of what is incorporeal, or to divide it . . . Therefore
the Son of God, because he wanted to appear to human beings and dwell among
them for the salvation of the human race, assumed not only, as some people
think, a human body, but also a soul . . . 267
Origen is actually rather less explicit about the omnipresence of the soul than
Eustathius, but he has the sense that the human soul provides a way in which
the Word can be incarnate and omnipresent, which requires that the soul also
be omnipresent. In Homilia in 1 Regum 28, Origen does not seem to regard
Christ’s soul as omnipresent. Origen implies that Christ was spatially confined
to Hades when there, because he explains that Christ was yet omnipresent in
the sense of being ‘above with respect to æÆæ
Ø’ to the chagrin of
266 267
D20:4–14. Origen, De Princ., 4.4.4.

Eustathius.268 Perhaps Origen is drawing back from the controversial cosmol-
ogy of his De Principiis. In any case, in Engastrimytho, Eustathius deploys an
Origenist Christology against Origen: Christ’s soul is not simply above ‘with
respect to æÆæ
Ø’—Christ’s soul, being united with the Word, is every-
where at once. Hence, Eustathius argues that Christ’s soul journeys to Hades
and paradise simultaneously.269
This idea finds clear resonances within both Middle and Neoplatonism, and
Eustathius may also be drawing directly on the commentators. The term
K æØºE, which Eustathius uses, is not used in any earlier source cata-
logued in Thesaurus Lingaue Graecae to describe the movements or activities
of the soul, nor is the word common in later sources. The unusualness of this
word strongly suggests that it is Eustathius’ own, and not the epitomizer’s
gloss. It is therefore interesting that Plutarch uses the verb æØºE in an
almost identical context, to say that the soul ‘traverses instantaneously in its
flight all heaven and earth and sea’.270 It is evident that Eustathius is drawing
on other of Plutarch’s writings in Engastrimytho, so we might suppose that he
is also drawing on him in Ariomanitas.271
The Neoplatonic parallels with the idea that Christ’s soul was in the heavens
with the Word at the same time as it vivified Christ’s body are striking: the soul
is no longer inextricably tied to the body as in Eustathius’ account of digestion.
It not only exists apart from the body but, more remarkably, has a full,
separate life distinct from it. Such a picture has broad resonance with Plotinus’
claim that the soul is divided between embodied existence and a disembodied
one. Correspondingly, Eustathius’ concept of the soul’s union with the Word
finds parallels in Plotinus’ ideas about the soul’s ascent, and union with the
One.272 The soul is united with God, and existing in the intelligible realm.
There are closer parallels with Iamblichus and Porphyry. Iamblichus cites an
idea that he attributes, approvingly, to Plato and Pythagoras: ‘the soul lives a
double life, one in itself and one with the body’.273 As we have seen, Porphyry
has a similar idea, distinguishing between the soul ‘according to itself ’ and
‘according to relation’. Eustathius’ account of the soul’s role in bodily pro-
cesses seems an insurmountable barrier to positing for him a Porphyrian
268
Homilia in 1 Regum 28, 7.4; Engastrimytho, 17.4.
269
D22:19–20; Engastrimytho, 20.5.
270
Plutarch, De facie quae in orbe lunae apparet, 926.12, edited and translated by Harold
Cherniss and William Helmbold (London: Heinemann, 1957).
271
Declerck notes close parallels with Plutarch, De gloria Atheniensium, 3, 346F–347A, 4,
348A across Engastrimytho, 27.
272
For the soul’s ascent see Plotinus, Enneads, 4.8.1; for union with the One see Enneads, 6.7.
273
Iamblichus, De Anima, 2.10 (368). Translation slightly amended from John Finamore and
John Dillon (Leiden: Brill, 2002). The omnipresence of the soul can be found in various Platonic
texts. See Timaeus [36e], where Plato talks of the World-Soul interweaving with its body in this
way. Norris has noted Plotinus’ debt to this passage in Manhood, pp. 70–2. See Plotinus,
Enneads, 1.
Body and Soul 135

psychology. Nonetheless, synthesis of Eustathius’ account of the disembodied
soul with his more earthbound anthropology in other contexts arguably works
best on a Porphyrian model: the soul exists both as the form of the body and
disembodied, according to itself.
It is also plausible that Eustathius could accept Porphyry’s terminology for
the disembodied soul as ‘according to itself ’ as opposed to ‘in relation’. He says
that Christ’s body did not suffer ‘according to itself ’ but with the soul.274
Evidently, by ‘according it itself ’ he does not mean ‘most itself ’ or ‘qua
body’—the body is actualized by the soul—but simply ‘on its own’. Given
this qualification, it is plausible that he might refer to the disembodied soul as
‘according to itself ’.
It must be allowed that Eustathius would put a very different spin on this
distinction to the one found in Porphyry: if we are to synthesize Eustathius’
two accounts of psychology—embodied and disembodied—I think that we
must accept that, for him, the soul’s embodied life is its most important and
its primary life. Iamblichus’ description of Stoic and Peripatetic psychology
elucidates the difficulties of categorizing Eustathius within the commentary
tradition. Iamblichus argues that both Stoics and Peripatetics suggest that
‘the composite life is the soul’s only life’. For the Stoics, this is because the
soul is
ıªŒŒæÆ Å—‘mingled’—with the body. For the Peripatetics, this
is because ‘the soul gives all of itself into the shared life. According to them,
the [soul’s] powers are present in only one way—in the sharing [ å
ŁÆØ]
and mixing [ŒŒæA
ŁÆØ] with the whole living being’.275 Eustathius does, in a
sense, think that the soul ‘gives all of itself into the shared life’: nothing,
apparently, is held back when the soul involves itself in bodily processes.
However, he clearly does not think that the soul’s embodied life is its only
life, or that its powers are only present in the mixing and sharing of the body.
Perhaps Eustathius’ respective embodied and disembodied psychologies
cannot quite be synthesized, and the intellectual historian would do best to
let them rest side by side.
Having noted the striking parallels between Eustathius’ account of the
disembodied soul and that in Neoplatonism, it should also be acknowledged
that his account is atypical of Neoplatonism in certain ways. Rather than
contemplating the divine, Christ’s human soul is engaged in cosmic battles
and triumphant entries (as are the other disembodied souls with whom he
interacts). There is also no reason to think that Eustathius, like Plotinus,
identifies the life of the disembodied soul with purely rational existence, for
example.276
274
D7:3 [Ariomanitas]. Compare also D9:7, D:4 [Ariomanitas].
275 276
Iamblichus, De Anima, 10. See Enneads, 2.3.9.30–1.

What Eustathius has to say about the disembodied soul is, of course,
Christological as well as anthropological. It is not altogether clear whether
only Christ’s soul can exist in multiple places at once, or whether all human
souls can. There are contexts in which patristic authors speak of the soul of a
living person being disembodied. For example, Athanasius writes of the soul
‘travelling to foreign places’ while the body sleeps.277 However, the omni-
presence of the soul is more unusual among patristic authors; for Eustathius,
it is connected to the idea that Christ’s soul is uniquely powerful because it is
‘strengthened by the divine spirit’.278 Relatedly, Eustathius claims that
Christ’s soul alone was ‘unpolluted’.279 These ideas echo Origen in import-
ant respects:
But since the power to choose good and evil is available to everyone, this soul
which belonged to Christ elected to love righteousness, so that in proportion to
the depth of its love, it clung to it immutably and inseparably, so that firmness of
purpose, and immensity of affection, and inextinguishable warmth of love des-
troyed all susceptibility to alteration; and what at first depended on will was
changed through force of custom into nature. So, it is necessary to believe that in
Christ there was a rational human soul, without thinking that it had any inclin-
ation to sin, or that its sinning was possible.280
This is discussed in more detail in ‘The Lapse’ in Chapter 5. For now,
I examine the implications for the relationship between Christ’s body and
soul. There are, obviously, important differences between Origen’s Christ-
ology and Eustathius’. Though Eustathius has the idea that Christ’s soul was
uniquely unpolluted, he does not share Origen’s belief in the soul’s pre-
existence, and therefore does not ascribe to Christ’s soul a moral existence
prior to the incarnation. Nonetheless, Eustathius’ doctrine of Christ’s human
soul has a soteriological dimension that is thoroughly Origenist; the soul is
united to the Word and thus avoids sin. For both thinkers also, because
Christ’s soul is united to the Word, it may act as a mediator between the
Word and the human body, on one hand, and God and humanity, in general,
on the other. For Eustathius, as for Origen, Christ’s human soul is the point
at which God is united to the human being in the incarnation. There is a
sense that it is in a mediatory position between the Word and the human
body: it is only in the soul that humanity can enter the heavens. Implicit is
277
Athanasius, C.G., 31. This appears to be a minority opinion. Contrast Tertullian, De
Anima, 43.12. For a discussion of the treatment of dreams in Tertullian, Athanasius, and Gregory
of Nyssa, see Lien–Yueh Wei, ‘Doctrinalising Dreams: Patristic Views on the Nature of Dreams
and their Relation to early Christian Doctrine’ (PhD Thesis, University of Edinburgh, 2011),
pp. 38–50.
278
Engastrimytho, 17.10. Compare Origen, De Princ., 2.6.4.
279
280
Origen, De Princ. 2.6.5., translation amended from G. W. Butterworth (Gloucester, Mass:
Peter Smith, 1973).
Body and Soul 137

Origen’s doctrine that Christ’s soul mediates between God and the flesh—
and for Origen, this is clearly possible partly because souls, in general, are in
an intermediate position between God and the flesh: ‘This substance of a
soul, then, is intermediate between God and the flesh as it is impossible for
God’s nature to intermingle with a body without an intermediate
instrument.’281
The highly related idea of the soul as the mediator between the body and the
intelligible realm is found in Iamblichus.282 In fact, he develops this idea much
more clearly than earlier commentators.283 It might seem as though Eu-
stathius’ Christology follows Iamblichus’ anthropology quite closely in this
instance. However, Iamblichus posits two different essences in the soul, one
for the embodied soul and one for the transcendent soul.284 Again, Eustathius
parts company with eclectic Neoplatonism over his refusal to qualify the sense
in which the soul is involved in the body—and, specifically, to do so by
dividing the soul.
The extravagant omnipresence of Christ’s soul renders intelligible the
soteriological content of Christ’s descent to Hades and ascent to paradise for
Eustathius. This in some ways follows Origen but, in the case of Christ’s ascent
to paradise, draws out the implications of his doctrine about Christ’s soul in
ways that he had not anticipated. It has a further function in Eustathius’
Christological argument: it is a dramatic instance of the promotion of the
human being that the Word cannot receive as proxy (this has important
soteriological implications to be discussed in Chapters 5 and 6).
Eustathius’ emphasis on the omnipresence of Christ’s soul arguably treats
that soul in more Neoplatonic terms than Origen had, particularly in that he
does not allow Christ to be confined to Hades. This is a reflection of the fact
that Origen’s vision of an eternal cosmos had broken down in the fourth
century and, with it, his view of the Word as mediator. The entire structure of
divine mediation in Christ must now be reworked. Consequently, though
Eusebius gave the Word many of the functions that Origen gave Christ’s
soul, he had also combined these with certain aspects of Origen’s logos-
theology.285 This creates a problem for Eustathius; on earth, in the realm of
281
Origen, De Princ., 2.6.3. Eustathius also refers to Christ’s soul as the Word’s instrument,
and this might similarly connote its mediatory position. See D11:3: e B łıåB ZæªÆ—‘the
soul-instrument’.
282
See Iamblichus, De Anima, I.7, where the soul is described as intermediate between
sensible and intelligible realms and IV.26, in which the soul is said to descend in order to purify
the body.
283
As noted by Finamore and Dillon, ‘Commentary to De Anima’, p. 15.
284
Iamblichus, De Anima, I.7. Again I draw on Finamore and Dillon, ‘Commentary to De
Anima’, p. 15.
285
For example, for both Origen and Eusebius, the Word mediates between creation and the
Father. See Origen, Fragmenta in Colossenses, where Origen says that the Word was mediator
even before the incarnation, and Eusebius, D.E., 4.10.

blood, sweat, tears, and faeces, it is fairly clear, from Eustathius’ point of view,
that the Word cannot act for a soul. In the intelligible realm, this is less
evident. When talking about the disembodied soul, Eustathius clings strongly
to the Platonic elements of Origen’s doctrine of the soul so that it can do all the
work that Eusebius’ or Theodotus’ Word can do. This does threaten to
undermine Eustathius’ insistence that the soul is properly embodied, and
might fall into some of the traps that, according to him, his opponents are
enmeshed within. However, it allows Eustathius to explore another sense in
which the intelligible part of the human being is, in its very incorporeality, still
emphatically human. We can tell from Engastrimytho that this Origenist
element of Eustathius’ Christology and soteriology predated the ‘Arian’ con-
troversy. However, in Ariomanitas, he is presumably conscious that he is more
Origenist than Eusebius, and is quoting him back at him.
S U MM ARY
Eustathius draws on a wide and complex range of sources to offer a holistic

psychophysical account of the human being as body and soul. A fraught
negotiation of Origen’s legacy shapes much of his anthropology. On one
hand, Eustathius holds himself in opposition to Origen’s denigration of
embodiment (as ungenerously interpreted), which he sees also in the Platon-
ism of Eusebius. Origen’s ostensible doctrines of the pre-existence and fall of
souls, and spiritual resurrection, form a backdrop to Eustathius’ attack on
Plato and his own discussion of the resurrection. On the other, he sees in
Origen’s Christology a necessary insight into the importance of the human
soul which, in his view, had bypassed Eusebius; it is not enough simply to
regard the soul as human because it is properly embodied within a human
body; it must be human in itself. In consequence, running parallel to his
earthy, physical depiction of the human being, Eustathius develops an Orige-
nist discourse about the human soul in relation to God, which can go in a
jarringly different direction to the rest of his anthropology, and which has
much in common with Neoplatonism (though even here, Eustathius retreats
from those aspects of Neoplatonism that qualify the soul’s embodiment by
restricting it to a particular aspect of soul).
Eustathius’ debt to Origen, however, is not purely Christological. In his view
of the body–soul relationship, he stands in a tradition strong in Asia Minor
and engages in a conversation with Origen that Methodius, also in this
tradition, had already begun. He finds in Aristotle’s legacy a resource for
seeing embodiment as the optimum state for the soul and, in his account of
the body–soul relationship, consistently depicts the soul as fulfilling the body’s
potential. Origen himself had a heavy debt to Aristotle, mediated through a
Body and Soul 139

Platonic lens, and is often at his most positive about embodiment where he
can be seen to be deploying Aristotle’s thought (however unconsciously). It is
not surprising then, to find elements of Origen’s anthropology influencing
Eustathius, particularly with regards to the disembodied soul. If Eustathius’
debt to Origen cannot be reduced to Christology, nor can his reflection on
the human soul be reduced to a chapter in the history of Origenism. For
Eustathius, the soul is a locus of human emotion. His is an early Greek
example of discourse on Christ’s grief, which was to be taken up by Athana-
sius, and it is particularly striking in positing the innate passibility of the soul.
Eustathius had clearly read Peripatetic interpretations of Aristotle. This is
relatively unusual for the early fourth century, and partly reflects Eustathius’
concern with medical writings. It may also reflect his reliance on, and response
to, Eusebius, who caricatured the distinction between Aristotle and Plato, but
in the process offered some Peripatetic sources, and interpretations of Aris-
totle most amenable to them. The fact that Eustathius brings these Peripatetic
sources into conversation with a broad, eclectic, Christian Platonism is an
expression of a wider tendency in Christian anthropology to take what is most
Aristotelian in Platonism and use it to explore embodied existence.
The Image of God
Eustathius’ picture of the image of God in human beings assumes and

promotes several anthropological principles.1 First, it holds together a strong
ontological disjunction between God and humankind with a conviction that
God is revealed in humankind. In this respect, Eustathius’ anthropological
understanding of the image of God highlights some of the possibilities and
limitations for humanity’s relationship to God offered by his divisive Christ-
ology. As Christ’s humanity remains distinct from the divinity that it bears,
eschatological humanity remains distinct from God. This anthropology is
one possible conclusion to be drawn from the tendency to emphasize
God’s distance from creation, which was so pronounced across the ‘Arian’
controversy.
Second, Eustathius’ theology of the image of God reinforces his conviction
that both body and soul are integral to the human being; it coheres with his
wider understanding of the body–soul relation, in which the soul actualizes the
body. In image theology, this relation is considered explicitly in the context of
the whole human being’s connection to God. In depicting the interconnection
between body, soul, and God’s image, Eustathius draws a great deal on
Methodius’ theology in Convivium, in which ideas from Irenaeus and Origen
are interwoven. However, Eustathius’ image theology focuses on the body to a
greater extent, and with less ambiguity, than Methodius’ had. Irenaeus is
adamant that the body is integral to God’s image, and this conviction is
more dominant in Eustathius than in the Convivium. Eustathius’ image
theology regarding the body also finds parallels in Marcellus of Ancyra.
Third, Eustathius’ image theology has an important soteriological dimen-
sion; Eustathius draws on Pauline parallels between Christ and Adam qua
image to talk about how Christ fulfils Adam’s potential and, correspondingly,
is the archetype for perfect humanity. In this, Eustathius deploys a pattern
of Adam–Christ typology shaped by Irenaeus and taken up by Origen, Me-
thodius, and Marcellus.
1
I explored Eustathius’ image theology in Cartwright, ‘The Image of God’. This chapter
builds on that material in places.
T H E IM A G E O F G OD I N E ARLI E R AND
CONTEMPORARY PATRISTIC DISCOURSE
The image of God is a foundational theme in patristic anthropology. It acts as

an interpretative key for the relationship between God, the human race, and
Christ. Because the term ‘image of God’ is used both in relation to Adam and
Eve, and in relation to Christ, it denotes humankind both before the lapse, or
the fall, and in its eschatological destiny. The anthropological understanding
of God’s image is therefore particularly connected to a concept of actualized
human potential. It is anthropological in part because it is soteriological.
The key scriptural texts for an anthropological understanding of God’s
image are:
• Genesis 1.26–7: ‘And God said, “Let us make humankind [¼Łæø]
according to our image [NŒÆ] and likeness [›øØ], and let them
rule over the fish of the sea, and over the flying creatures of heaven, and
over the cattle and all the earth, and over all the reptiles that creep on the
earth.” And God made humankind [¼Łæø], according to the image
[NŒÆ] of God he made him. Male and female he made them.’
• Genesis 8.6: ‘[And God said] “whoever sheds the blood of a human being, his
blood shall be shed in its place. For I made humankind in the image of God.”’
• Romans 8.29: ‘Those whom he foreknew, he also predestined to be
conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the first among
many brothers.’
• 1 Corinthians 4.4: ‘ . . . Christ . . . is the image of God.’
• Colossians 1.15: ‘[Christ is] the image of the invisible God, firstborn of all
creatures.’2
Important anthropological trajectories can be seen in the various interpret-
ations of these passages. Irenaeus and Origen represent divergent traditions of
their interpretation in patristic discourse prior to the fourth century. Origen,
though reacting against Irenaeus’ interpretation, also takes on important
aspects of it. Neither is scrupulously consistent in his terminology, and both
offer something closer to a matrix of ideas, working on clear principles, than a
2
Frances Young notes that Exodus 20:4: ‘You shall not make for yourself a carved image or
likeness’ is sometimes connected to patristic reflection on the image of God in humanity. In the
fourth century, it is found in Athanasius, Cyril of Jerusalem, and the Cappadocians, but,
otherwise a connection between it and the other image of God texts is not prominent: Young,
‘God’s Image: the Elephant in the Room in the Fourth Century?’ SP, 50 (2011), 57–72. There may
be some connection to discourse on idolatry in Eustathius’ reference to Adam as a ‘statue of
God’, especially given that his definition of the body–soul relationship finds parallels in Atha-
nasius’ discussion of idols (see ‘The Soul as the åÆæÆŒ Bæ of the Human Being’ and ‘The Soul as
the Form of the Body’ in Chapter 3). However, this connection must remain speculative.
The Image of God 143

single, explicit thesis. For Irenaeus, the sheer physicality of God’s image is
paramount: the human body is integral to the image.3 He also implies that the
difference between image and likeness corresponds to the difference between
Adam, in Eden, and the resurrected Christ, to whom we will all be
conformed—for example, he writes that the likeness is acquired through the
new commingling of the Spirit with the body and soul.4 Origen emphatically
locates the image of God in the human soul, but he develops Irenaeus’
soteriological suggestion of progression from image to likeness and places it
within his own, often radically different, cosmology.5 We shall see that, in
Convivium, Methodius’ theology of the image of God draws on both Irenaeus
and Origen, in different ways. Methodius locates the image of God in the soul,
but places this in an anthropological framework closer to Irenaeus’: the soul is
supposed to be embodied, destined for embodiment. Like both of these earlier
thinkers, Methodius has a sense of restoration in progression. Marcellus also
shares a sense that God’s image is partly in the body, and deploys image
theology to think about restoration and progress in soteriology.
The question of which aspect, or aspects, of the human being were in God’s
image was evidently being widely canvassed in the fourth century, and had
much to do with negotiating Origen’s legacy; Epiphanius reports four different
stances: some—the Audians—say that the image is located purely in the body;6
others that it is located purely in the soul;7 others that the image refers not to
body or soul, but to virtue (with the implication that Adam lost the image).8
Epiphanius himself argues that the image is in the whole human being, and
presents this as the only orthodox position. He is deliberately obfuscating as to
exactly what he means by this; part of his justification for his position is that
we are unable to know where the image is located and should therefore simply
accept that it is located in the human being.9 Epiphanius sets himself apart
from the Audians but also, pointedly, from Origen, whom he excoriates
for denigrating the body.10 In fact, Epiphanius’ categories are a little
3
See Irenaeus, A.H., 5.6.1. Irenaeus uses the term ‘image’ variously to refer to the whole
human being or to the body, but, importantly, the body is always included in the image. For a
discussion, see Minns, Irenaeus, pp. 72–6 and Osborn, Irenaeus of Lyons (Cambridge: CUP,
2001), pp. 211–16.
4
See Irenaeus, A.H., 5.6.1. Minns, Irenaeus, p. 61, sees this soteriology as most characteristic
of Irenaeus.
5
On Origen’s location of the image in the soul, see his I Homilia in Genesim, 1.13. On the
progression from ‘image’ to ‘likeness’, see De Princ., 3.6.1.
6
Epiphanius, Panarion, 6.70.2. Theodoret, H.E., 4.10., claims that the Audians interpreted
Genesis 1.26 as suggesting that God had a body; this, according to Epiphanius, is a dangerous
implication of their location of the image in the body. Epiphanius is more proximate to Audius
and is likely to have had better knowledge of him; his analysis of the Audians may have been
Theodoret’s source.
7 8
Epiphanius, Panarion, 6.70.3.1–2 and 6.70.4.1. Epiphanius, Panarion, 6.70.3.3–8.
9
Epiphanius, Panarion, 6.70.2.7 and 6.70.3.5.
10
For example, Epiphanius, Panarion, 64.9. See Clark, The Origenist Controversy, pp. 87–104.

over-simplistic; for example, many authors are ambiguous on whether the
image is in the soul or the soul and the body (as shall become clear shortly).
Additionally, the idea that God’s image is virtue is tied in with soteriological
readings of the image that sit alongside a very wide variety of ideas about the
image in soul and body. However, Epiphanius’ report does tell us that ques-
tions of embodiment and soteriology were at the heart of fourth-century
discussions about God’s image.
The contemporary debate about embodiment, which was so important to
Eustathius’ engagement with Origen, was also the foundation for wider Christo-
logical and cosmological issues in the ‘Arian’ controversy.11 Correspondingly,
passages referring to the Son or Christ as the image of God were battleground
texts in the ‘Arian’ controversy and Origen’s legacy was formative to this
battleground.12 Origen’s image theology could be read to imply either continuity
or disjunction between Father and Son, and this ambiguity was fundamental to
the way in which the term NŒ
was deployed by various contenders in the
‘Arian’ controversy. We shall see that Eusebius of Caesarea points out that the
term ‘image’ implies distinction from the thing imaged. This was to be import-
ant in the argument between Marcellus of Ancyra and Asterius.13 In He
Philarchos, Alexander appeals to the fact that the Son is the Father’s image
and likeness as proof of his eternity and similarity to the Father. He writes that
the Son is the ‘indistinguishable image of the Father and the express imprint of
the prototype [IÆæººÆŒ NŒ
ı Æ æ ŒÆd ı æø ıı Œ ı
åÆæÆŒ Bæ]’.14 The Council of Antioch 324 again affirms that the Son is image of
the Father as an anti-subordinationist argument. Conversely, Asterius and
Acacius both use the phrase IÆæººÆŒ NŒ
in a subordinationist sense.15
I have already noted that Origen’s concept of the Son as mediator might
have broken down partly because of the influence of a Neoplatonic emphasis
on divine transcendence.16 This carries over into the discussion about God’s
image: for Plotinus, the Intellect, which mediates between the One and the
11
So Young, ‘The Elephant in the Room’ observes that ‘[t]he so-called Arian and Origenist
controversies thus present themselves as different stages in a single debate, in that similar issues
are at stake: a tendency to devalue the physical creation and human embodiment, and so to find
mediation through a hierarchical understanding of how God relates to the creation’, p. 71.
12
Correspondingly, Manilo Simonetti, La Crisi ariana nel IV secolo (Rome: Institutum
Patristicum ‘Augustinianum’, 1975), pp. 55–60, sees the ‘Arian’ controversy as a dispute within
Origenism.
13
For Marcellus’ argument see Cartwright, ‘The Image of God’, p. 177.
14
He Philarchos, 38. The term ‘express imprint’ follows Hebrews 1.3—‘the Son . . . is the
express imprint [åÆæÆŒ Bæ] of God’s being [ ÆØ].’ The term ‘indistinguishable image’ may
echo Origen (see Comm. in John, 13.36.), though Hanson, The Search, p. 288, argues that it
does not.
15
Asterius, Fragmenta, edited by Markus Vinzent (Lieden: Brill, 1993), fragment 10; Acacius,
Contra Marcellum Fragmenta in Epiphanius, Panarion, 72.6–10, edited by Karl Holl (Leipzig:
Akademie–Verlag, 1980), pp. 260–4, 260, section 6:2.
16
See ‘Passible Souls and the Rejection of Origen’s Cosmology’ in Chapter 3.

Soul, is the image of the One.17 The Soul, correspondingly, images Intellect.18
There is a Plotinian question about identity and distinction between the One
and Intellect that finds a parallel in Christian discussions of identity and
distinction between Father and Son.
T W O KI N D S O F I M A G E : T H E SO N
VERSUS CHRIST– ADAM
I now turn to the structural aspect of the relationship between the Father, the
Son, Christ, Adam, and the whole human race implied in the term ‘image of
God’ for Eustathius. Like Origen, he distinguishes between the way in which
the Son is image and the way in which human beings are images. He does so in
order to demonstrate that, whilst the Son’s role as image implies his continuity
with the Father, the imagehood of both ‘the human being of Christ’ and the
rest of humanity implies a sharp distinction from, as well as a similarity to,
God. Following He Philarchos, he also deploys Hebrews 1.3 to explore the
Father–Son relationship.
Eustathius refers to God’s image explicitly three times, and I treat these in
turn before drawing them together. One very significant fragment must be
quoted in full:
For Paul did not say, ‘like in form to the Son of God’ but ‘like in form to the image
of his Son’, showing that the Son is one thing and his image another. For indeed
the Son, bearing the divine marks of the paternal excellence, is the image of the
Father since, because like is begotten from like, the ones begotten appear as true
images of the ones who begot them. But the human being whom he bore is the
image of the Son, as images are made from dissimilar colours by being painted on
wax, some being wrought by hand deliberately and others coming to be in nature
and likeness. Moreover the very law of truth announces this. For the bodiless
spirit of wisdom is not ‘like in form’ to corporeal people, but the human express
image having been made bodily by the Spirit, bearing the same number of limbs
as all the rest, and clad in similar form to each.19
This passage offers a hierarchical conception of the image relationship be-
tween the Father, the Son, the human being of Christ, and Adam/the rest of
humanity: roughly, the Son is image of the Father, the human being of Christ
is image of the Son, and humanity is conformed to the human being of Christ;
this may well suggest that human beings other than Christ are images of
Christ, the human being, though this is not explicit. The sense in which the
17 18
Plotinus, Enneads, 5.4.2.23–6. Plotinus, Enneads, 5.1.6.46–7.
19
D68 [In Proverbia 8.22], whole fragment.

Son is image of the Father is qualitatively superior to the sense in which Christ
is the image of the Son. This is not simply a descending scale of images, from
the Father, via the Son and Christ, to Adam, because a radical disjunction
between the divinity of the Father and the Son on one hand, and the humanity
of the human being of Christ and Adam on the other, intervenes. Indeed, the
point intended in the rather strange last sentence is that Christ’s humanity is
typically human; Eustathius wants to distinguish his humanity from his
divinity here as much as anywhere else.20
Eustathius explicitly contrasts the sense in which the Son is the Father’s
image with the sense in which the human being of Christ is the Son’s image.
The Son is the Father’s image in the sense that ‘[when] like is begotten from
like, the ones begotten appear as true images of the ones who begot them’.21
Conversely ‘the human being of Christ’ is not a ‘true image’: ‘the human being
whom [the Son] bore is the image of the Son, as images are made from
dissimilar colours by being painted on wax, some being wrought by hand
deliberately and others coming to be in nature and likeness’.22
The Son is begotten and it is in this sense that he is an image; humanity (like
everything else) is created, but God created it as an image of himself. Eustathius’
distinction between the Son’s imagehood and Christ’s imagehood corresponds
to his wider distinction between the Son and humanity: ‘if . . . [the Son] is a
creature, then he is not begotten. And if he is begotten, then he is not a creature,
since it is not possible for the classification of each of these to be wound
round’.23
Eustathius’ hierarchical conception of the image of God echoes Origen, as
does his distinction between the two kinds of image: Origen identifies two
distinct meanings of the term ‘image’, applying one to the relationship be-
tween God and humanity, and the other to the relationship between God and
Christ: 1) ‘an object painted or carved on some material’ corresponds to the
sense in which homo is God’s image; 2) ‘a child is said to be the image of its
parent when the similitudinum of the parent’s features is in every respect
faithfully reproduced in the child’. This sense, Origen argues, corresponds to
the sense in which Christ is God’s image.24 Eustathius shares his understand-
ing of the pre-incarnate Word as image not only with the range of pro-Arian
20
The phrase ‘clad in similar form to each’ is part of this argument, but here Eustathius seems
to have in mind the idea that the soul is wearing the body. Though this might be seen to jar with
his wider view of body–soul relations, it should not be taken too seriously because Eustathius is
being humorously sarcastic, and the way in which the soul relates to the body is not the point of
this passage.
21 22
D68:5–6 [In Proverbia 8.22]. D68:7–10 [In Proverbia 8.22].
23
D107, entire fragment [Arianos].
24
Origen, De Princ., 1.2.6., translated by G. W. Butterworth (Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith,
1973).

theology, but also with other anti-Arians, such as Athanasius.25 In his use of
Origen’s image theology to emphasize continuity between the Father and the
Son, he is also very close to He Philarchos, and may be drawing on it directly.26
However, in this regard, he differs sharply from Marcellus, to whom he is very
often closest theologically: Marcellus will not apply the term ‘image’ to the pre-
incarnate Word.27 This reflects the eclecticism of Eustathius’ intellectual
resources. It also, as Spoerl argues, indicates that he distinguishes the Father
and the Son more than Marcellus does.28
For Eustathius the term ‘image’, whilst it denotes continuity between the
image and the thing it images, does assume a distinction between them: the
reference to the image of the Son shows ‘that the Son is one thing and his
image another’. This he shares not only with Marcellus, but also with Eusebius
of Caesarea (and Plotinus).29 In Contra Marcellum, Eusebius writes, ‘Certainly
the image and the one whose image it is are not thought of as one thing; rather,
they are two beings and two things and two powers’;30 for Marcellus, it is
because the phrase ‘image of God’ implies distinction from God that he will
not apply it to the pre-incarnate Word. Sharing this framework with both of
them, Eustathius adopts a Christological understanding of God’s image some-
where between Eusebius’ and Marcellus’. He agrees with Eusebius that the
term ‘image of God’, understood Christologically, must apply in some sense to
the Son/Word. However, because he does not like the distinction this implies
between the Son and the Father, he offers a double Christological interpret-
ation of the term ‘image of God’, for which he is indebted to Origen. The
distinction between the Son and the human being of Christ is the reason that
Eustathius raises the question of the image of God: ‘Paul did not say, “like in
form to the Son of God” but “like in form to the image of his Son”, showing
that the Son is one thing and his image another.’31 He then immediately goes
25
Compare Eusebius, D.E., 4.2; Athanasius, C.G., 41.3. Origen’s and Eustathius’ idea of
humanity qua image is also similar to Athanasius’ anthropological understanding of image in
De Inc., 14:1–2.
26
Parvis, Marcellus, p. 80, cites the omission of the (possibly) Origenian ‘unvarying image’
from the letter of the Council of Antioch, which is otherwise very close to He Philarchos
theologically, as evidence of Eustathius’ particular influence on the synod’ theology, but there
is no reason to think that Eustathius was uncomfortable with this term. Its omission from the
conciliar letter may equally be a piece of politesse towards Marcellus of Ancyra.
27
Marcellus, Contra Asterium, K96. On the affinity between Marcellus and Eustathius, see
Ayres, Nicaea, pp. 62–9 and Spoerl, ‘Two Early Nicenes’.
28
Spoerl, ‘Two Early Nicenes’, p. 129. 29
Plotinus, Enneads, 5.1.7.
30
Eusebius, Contra Marcellum, 1.4. Compare Eusebius, Epistula ad Euphration in Athanasius
Werke, III.1: Urkunden zur Geschichte des arianischen Streites, edited by Hans-Georg Opitz,
(Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1934), 3.4 (written c. 318–323). The letter is cited by Jon Robertson,
who also notes Eusebius’ insistence on both the sameness and difference between an image and
the thing it images in his Christ as Mediator: A Study of the Theologies of Eusebius of Caesarea,
Marcellus of Ancyra, and Athanasius of Alexandria (Oxford: OUP, 2007), pp. 53–4.
31
D68:1–3 [In Proverbia 8.22].

on to find a way of seeing the Son as the Father’s image. He seeks to emphasize
the continuity of image status with reference to the Father–Son relationship,
and distinction with reference to the God–human relationship.
Eustathius’ description of the Son’s role as image of the Father involves the
specific claim that the Son, qua image, is begotten. This he shares with
Asterius the Sophist, who writes: ‘the Father is another, who begot from
himself the Only-begotten Word, First Born of all creation . . . God begetting
God, who is the IÆæººÆŒ NŒ Æ of his PÆ.’32 Eustathius seems to be
engaging with a similar argument and trying to demarcate the terms ‘begotten’
and ‘image’ as anti-subordinationist. Thus, many of the other phrases used
here by Asterius would be uncomfortable to Eustathius. It is hard to imagine
that Eustathius would agree that the Son is the image of the Father’s PÆ, for
example.
A Latin fragment from the Contra Arianos collection initially appears to use
image language to distinguish sharply between Father and Son, and echo
Asterius’ ‘image of the PÆ’ closely. However, the Greek has very probably
been misleadingly rendered into Latin. The Latin reads: Deus Verbum eandem
quam genitor portat imaginem, imago quippe existens divinae substantiae.33 If
one retroverts imago to NŒÆ, and substantia to PÆ and therefore trans-
lates them as ‘image’ and ‘substance’, respectively, the passage reads: ‘God the
Word bears the same image as the begetter, being an image of the divine
substance.’ In this case, the Son is not ‘of the same substance’ as the Father.
Parvis argues that this reading jars, not only because it does not cohere with
Eustathius’ concept of the Son elsewhere, but also because the Father also
‘bears’ an image, which makes very little sense. She suggests imago and
substantia should in fact be retroverted to åÆæÆŒ æ and ÆØ, respect-
ively. The passage, she argues, should therefore be rendered ‘God the Word
bears the same imprint as the begetter, being the imprint of God’s being’ and
would echo Hebrews 1:3, like He Philarchos.34
The resemblance to Hebrews 1.3, in the original Greek, may have been
closer still. What is rendered as ‘eandem . . . imaginem’—‘the same imprint’
may have read in Greek e åÆæÆŒ BæÆ ÆP —‘the very imprint of the
begetter’; this could have been misread as e ÆP åÆæÆŒ BæÆ.35 So, the
passage might well be rendered in English, ‘God the Word bears the very
imprint of the begetter, being the imprint of God’s being’. Parvis’ argument is
persuasive, particularly because it does not lead us to the bizarre conclusion,
otherwise suggested by this fragment, that Eustathius thought that the Father
was himself an image. What could the Father conceivably be an image of? In
32
Asterius, Fragmenta, edited by Vinzent, fragment 10.
33 34
D95:1–2 [Arianos]. Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 58–9.
35
I am grateful to Paul Parvis for this suggestion.

any case, it is clear that this fragment does not represent a divergent aspect of
Eustathius’ image theology.
Eustathius’ concept of image evidently cannot be understood aside from
his divisive Christology: ‘the human being of Christ’ qua image is distin-
guished from the Son qua image. Also, the connection between Adam and
Christ within Eustathius’ image theology relies on Eustathius’ emphasis on
Christ’s humanity, so important in his anti-Arian writings. We have almost
entirely post-‘Arian’ sources for Eustathius’ image theology, which leaves us
with the frustrating question of whether his image theology shifted with his
Christology and, if so, how. As Eustathius had a developed discourse on
Christ’s human soul prior to the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy, his
distinction between Christ as image and the Son as image would still have
worked structurally. It is significant that his understanding so closely echoes
that of Origen, who also had a clearly developed concept of Christ’s human
soul. Nonetheless, his use of Origen’s distinction to maintain a disjunction
between God and humanity fits, specifically, into his later, more divisive
Christological framework.
G OD’S I MAGE RE VE AL S GOD
In Eustathius’ writings, the term ‘image of God’ denotes, among other things,
something that reveals God. The Son, Adam, and Christ are images of God in
that they make God known. The starting point for this idea is the revelation of
God in the incarnation. The revelatory nature, and therefore the image-status,
of both the Son and Adam are bound up in Christ’s revelatory nature: Christ,
the human being, reveals God because of the Son dwelling in him, and
humanity reveals God by becoming conformed to Christ.
The idea that Christ, qua image, revealed God was widely agreed on in the
early ‘Arian’ controversy. The variety of ways in which the IÆæººÆŒ
NŒ
‘unvarying image’ was used offers a good example. As Mark Del
Cogliano has argued, the adjective IÆæººÆŒ signifies an epistemological
status:36 looking at the Father and Son, we see the same thing, so the Son
reveals the Father.
Eustathius has the idea that Christ’s revelatory capacity relies on the in-
dwelling Word. This is evident because for him Christ points, in the first
36
Mark Del Cogliano, ‘Eusebian Theologies of the Son as Image of God before 341’, JECS, 14
(2006), pp. 459–84, esp. p. 470, doi: 10.1353/earl.2007.0003. As he further notes, the term
IÆæººÆŒ was central to the dispute amongst Stoics and Academics about whether it is
possible for two distinct but indistinguishable—IÆæººÆŒ —things to exist (p. 465); the
question of sameness and distinction also shapes the notion of God’s image as revelatory.

instance, specifically to the Word, and only because he points to the Word
does he point to the whole Godhead:
[T]he human being of Christ is a saviour . . . a bringer of light to the human
race . . . [in order that] . . . we may behold the Word and God through him,
through the Word we may behold the universally sovereign authority . . . through
the one image looking at the dyad of Father and Son . . . in the dyad knowing the
one Godhead.37
This understanding of God revealed in the incarnation is rich with paradoxes:
the first paradox relates to unity and distinction within the Godhead: the
Word both is God and reveals God—the notion that the Word/Son reveals
God is presumably connected to his being God’s image. Eustathius’ hierarch-
ical image theology jars with his emphasis on divine unity in that it appears to
subordinate the Son to the Father. Despite attempts to the contrary, Eustathius
also cannot avoid implying a more hierarchical distinction between them than
is found elsewhere in his writings. However, even within this hierarchical
context, he wants to maintain the unity of God. This elucidates his distinction
between the way in which the Son is image and the way in which Christ is
image: Christ reveals God by pointing to something that he himself is not; the
Word Incarnate reveals God because he is God made manifest.
The second paradox concerns the revelatory nature of Christ’s humanity:
the mechanism of revelation described in this passage is that Christ reveals
God because God is incarnate in him. Despite this, there is a strong emphasis
on the revelatory capacity of Christ’s humanity. The rhetorical point of this
passage is that › ¼Łæø F æØ F—‘the human being of Christ’ as
opposed to the Son is the one ‘bringing light to the human race’ and the one
through whom we behold God.38 At least in one important sense, it is Christ’s
humanity that reveals God. As Spoerl argues, ‘the “man of Christ” is a visible
image through which we perceive divinity’.39 There is something soteriologi-
cally important about the revelation of God in a human being.
Elsewhere in Ariomanitas, Eustathius clearly has the idea that Adam re-
vealed God. Let us return to his description of Adam’s pre-ensouled body as a
statue. Before God breathed a soul into Adam’s body, it was F ŁF
æø ı ¼ªÆºÆ, a ‘prototypical statue of God . . . most perfect copy of
the most divine image’.40 The statue motif is evidently a reference, in some
sense, to the ‘image and likeness’ of God attributed to ¼Łæø in Genesis
1.26–7. To cast the ‘image’ as a statue emphasizes its revelatory capacity:
statues are supposed to represent, and therefore to reveal, the things of
37
38
There is a parallel here to Eustathius’ belief in the capacity of Christ’s human soul to be
omnipresent.
39
Spoerl, ‘Two Early Nicenes’, p. 131. 40

which they are statues. In particular, Eustathius perhaps had in mind statues
of the emperor, which represent him in his absence.41 Not only does the statue
metaphor evoke the revelatory nature of an image, it brings out the physicality
that this entails, linking it with the image’s visibility.
In the passage describing Adam as a statue of God, the ‘most divine image’
that Adam is a copy of is presumably God the Word, not the human being of
Christ. Of course, Adam does not image God the Word independently of God,
because this is a description of God’s creation of Adam. However, the Word is
not ‘dwelling’ with Adam as the Word is with Christ. This is somewhat in
tension with the suggestion that Christ reveals God by virtue of God dwelling
in him. It suggests that we should take seriously the implication that ¼Łæø
qua ¼Łæø reveals God, hinted at in Eustathius’ description of Christ as
one through whom we behold God. Alongside Eustathius’ conviction of the
radical ontological disjunction between God and humanity is a conviction that
humanity displays the divine.
Marcellus similarly suggests both that Adam reveals God, and that Christ
does so by virtue of the incarnation; his terminology, in both cases, is very
similar to Eustathius’—Adam is an ‘ensouled statue’ (as we saw in the last
chapter), and the incarnate Word reveals specifically ‘the whole Godhead’: the
Word took flesh and ‘displayed the whole Godhead bodily’.42 As I have argued
elsewhere, for Marcellus, the blueprint for Adam is clearly Christ incarnate.43
Here is the salient passage:
[God said] . . . ‘let us make a human being according to our own image and
likeness,’ rightly calling the human flesh ‘image’, because he knew precisely that
a bit later it would be the image of his own Word.44
For Marcellus, Adam is God’s image because he is modelled on Christ
incarnate. The idea that humanity, qua humanity, reveals God is even more
emphatic in Marcellus than in Eustathius. The incarnation remains funda-
mental to Marcellus’ conception of the image of God, in that Adam is created
in light of the incarnation. Marcellus may be drawing on Irenaeus: ‘In the past,
it was said that humanity was created after the image of God, but it was not
demonstrated; for the Word after whose image humankind was created was
still invisible.’45 The sources for Marcellus are fragmentary, so contextualizing
his statements can be difficult. We might plausibly infer that, for him, the
41
On the connection between statues of gods and the image of God in Greco–Roman
thought, see George van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation
to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), pp. 112–18.
42
Marcellus, Contra Asterium, fragments K58 and K16, respectively. Translation follows Sara
Parvis, forthcoming.
43
Cartwright, ‘The Image of God’, p. 176.
44 45
Marcellus, fragment K95. Irenaeus, A.H., 5.16.2.

incarnation reveals the archetype for Adam, and so reveals the whole Godhead.
Unlike Marcellus, Eustathius refers to the Word as image of the Father, which
hints at a stronger sense that the Word, qua Word, is revelatory of God.
Nonetheless, Marcellus’ sense that Adam is modelled on Christ incarnate
offers a plausible framework in which to understand Eustathius’ claim that
we behold God through Christ’s humanity.
A D A M A N D CH R I S T
So, for Eustathius, Adam and Christ are both, in some sense, images of God
and it is initially unclear whether, and in what way, Eustathius synthesizes
these two ideas. Marcellus offers us a clue, and this is reinforced by Eustathius’
emphasis on Christ’s humanity, in contradistinction to his divinity, when he
talks about Christ revealing God. The image of God is found in the humanity
that Adam and Christ share. Though Eustathius also understands the Word as
image, this other, Marcellen, idea is clearly important to him. I now turn to
what Eustathius’ image theology can tell us about the relationship between
Adam and Christ.
The term ‘image of God’ refers, among other things, to human telos. This is
an extremely common patristic understanding of the term, with a clear parallel
in philosophical ethics.46 Corresponding to this idea is the idea that Christ qua
image is the archetype for perfect, eschatological humanity. So, Eustathius
quotes Romans 8.29, and applies it, emphatically, to ‘the human being of
Christ’: ‘For Paul did not say “conformed to the Son of God”, but “conformed
to the image of his Son”, showing the Son to be one thing, and his image
another.’47 He then moves on to the central rhetorical point of this quote—the
distinction between Christ and the Son. He argues that ‘the bodiless Spirit of
wisdom is not like in form to corporeal people, but the human impressed
likeness [åÆæÆŒ æ], which has been made bodily by the Spirit, and which has
the same number of limbs as the rest, and clad in similar form to each [is like
in form to them]’.48
46
In Plato’s Theatetus [176 AB], Socrates claims that there will also be evil on earth, and that
therefore we should flee to the gods’ home instead, ‘but flight is likeness [›øØ] to God, as
much as that is possible, and to become like God is to be righteous and holy with wisdom’.
Plotinus takes up this idea, writing of likeness to God as the perfection of virtue [Enneads, 1.2.1].
This discussion hovers in the background of Christian ideas on the subject, and is deployed in
particular by some of those Christians who acknowledge a debt to the Platonic tradition;
Clement of Alexandria connected Genesis 1.26 with Plato’s idea of likeness to God [Stromata,
2.19], and this connection is cited by Eusebius [P.E., 13.13].
47 48
D68:1–3 [In Proverbia 8.22]. D68:11–15.

Eustathius’ exegesis of Romans 8.29 is part of a wider Adam–Christ paral-
lelism drawing on Pauline motifs.49 So, in his exegesis of 1 Corinthians
15:44–6, he clearly has the sense that Christ perfects Adam, advancing on
the original condition. He quotes the Pauline text: ‘Adam, the first human
being, became a living soul, the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But the
first Adam was not spiritual [ıÆ ØŒ ] but soul-like [łıåØŒ ], the second
was spiritual.’50 A little later, he writes that ‘Paul wrote that a “soul-like” body
was sown, which has performed manifold sins through the soul, but he says
that this body is raised spiritual’.51 Eustathius’ exegesis of Romans 8.29
strongly suggests that his image theology fits into this framework of Adam–
Christ typology found in his exegesis of 1 Corinthians: Christ qua image fulfils
the potential of Adam qua image.
The claim that people are conformed to God’s image, i.e., Christ, has a
strong soteriological dimension. Christ is the first new human being, the
perfection of Adam. This is why Christ’s full humanity is so important to
Eustathius—he must be typically human in order to be archetypally human.
Arguing that the Word took up a soul as well as a body, he writes of Christ as
an ›º ŒºÅæ ¼Łæø, which could mean either a perfect, or complete,
human being.52 For instance, Methodius writes, ‘Just as a woman, receiving
an amorphous seed from a man, in time bears a ›º ŒºÅæ ¼Łæø,
so . . . the church, conceiving those who have fled to the Word, forms them
according to the likeness and form of Christ.’53 He may well be Eustathius’
source, and his usage has a similar ambiguity; the woman simply bears a
‘complete human being’, but this is then used as an analogy for humans
becoming complete in the sense of ‘perfect’.54 We might wonder whether
the ambiguity of the term ›º ŒºÅæ is a deliberate play by Eustathius on the
relationship between Christ’s humanity and our humanity—Christ is both
completely and perfectly human—he is both typical and archetypal. Recall the
claim that ‘the lord did not take up a Ø ºB human being’, which could mean
that Christ’s humanity was not ‘half-complete’ or that Christ did not take up
‘half of a perfect human being’.55
49
See Navascués, ‘ “Cuerpo” ’, pp. 41–4.
50
1 Corinthians 15.45–6, quoted at D44:1–4 [Ariomanitas].
51
D47:5–9 [Ariomanitas]. See 1 Corinthians 15.44.
52 53
D10:17–18 [Ariomanitas]. Methodius, Convivium, 8.6.
54
Compare also Athanasius, Vita Antonii, 80, where Antony’s listeners are described as
¼ŁæøØ ›º ŒºÅæØ, having been transformed by his words. Here, the Word clearly has
soteriological connotations and means ‘perfect’ in some sense, but presumably does not mean
that Antony’s listeners actually became sinless. John Chrysostom uses the phrase on numerous
occasions to mean ‘the whole human being’. See Chrysostom, Homilia in Epistula ad Romanos,
13, commentary on Rom. 8.6: Paul has a habit of referring not just to the human body but to
‘›º ŒºÅæ ¼Łæø, including the soul, as flesh’.
55

Eustathius believes that humankind must be renewed; humankind’s essen-
tial condition must be altered in a way that is partly a restoration to its original
state, but is also more than that. Christ is not only the architect but also the
archetype of this renewal: ultimately, humanity will be conformed to Christ,
who is perfected ¼Łæø. Human perfection is therefore achieved through
the incarnation and Christ’s resurrection. Christ is an archetype for what
we will become. In this, Eustathius draws heavily on Irenaeus’ concept of
IÆŒçÆºÆØøØ—recapitulation—as Zoepfl argues (and as I have suggested
elsewhere).56 Though Eustathius himself never uses the term, it is used by his
contemporary and ally, Marcellus, in close connection with an exegetical
pattern that he shares with Eustathius, and which is indebted to Irenaeus.
Marcellus writes that ‘the first new human being, in whom God wished to
“sum up everything”, is the one whom the divine writings name “the first-born
of all creation”’.57
For Irenaeus, Christ both restores to humankind something that Adam and
Eve had, but lost, and advances it beyond the original condition. For example,
Irenaeus writes both that ‘what we lost in Adam . . . we may recover in Christ
Jesus’ and that we will ultimately ‘obtain in addition a capacity of the uncre-
ated’.58 He also uses Romans 8.29 to express our eschatological fulfilment.59
Similarly, Marcellus of Ancyra writes that, in Christ, humankind is ‘not only
set free from the previous slavery, but also made worthy of glory surpassing
humanity’.60 Eustathius’ Adam–Christ typology is also indebted to Origen’s
Commentaria in Romanos, for which Origen himself seems to have drawn
heavily on Irenaeus. So, Origen too thinks of our progression from łıåØŒ to
ıÆ ØŒ as a conformation to Christ, the image of God, but also connects
this progression to a casting-off of the sin that entered through Adam:
It is clearly one human being through whom sin entered, and through sin,
death—the one whom the apostle calls ‘The first of the earth, earthly’, but the
second one was ‘heavenly.’61 This is the passage where [Paul] encourages us to
cast off the image of the earthly and wear the image of the heavenly; that is, by
living according to the Word of God we are to be renewed and remade in the
inner human being after the image of God, who created him.62
56
Zoepfl, ‘Trinitarischen und christologischen Anschauungen’, p. 201. For my earlier argu-
ment, see Cartwright, ‘The Image of God’.
57
Marcellus, fragment K6. I expand on Eustathius’ and Marcellus’ use of Pauline Adam–
Christ typology later in this chapter, and in the next.
58
Irenaeus, A.H., 3.18.1 and A.H., 4.38.3, respectively.
59
Irenaeus, A.H., 4.37.(7). Though this interpretation is not surprising, the passage is often
otherwise cited with reference to divine foreknowledge. See Origen, Comm. in Rom., 1.3.(4).
Number in brackets for Comm. in Rom is according to Thomas Scheck, trans. (Washington, DC:
60 61
Marcellus, fragment K107. 1 Cor. 15.47, 49.
62
Origen, Comm. In Rom., 5.1.(15) translation amended from Thomas Scheck (Washington,
DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2001).

Eustathius’ debt to Irenaeus’ idea of IÆŒçÆºÆØøØ, and to Origen’s deploy-
ment of this idea, suggests, in turn, an instructive comparison with Methodius.
Methodius, like Origen, refers to IŒÆ ÆØ, ‘final restoration’.63 In
Origen, this refers specifically to the restoration of souls, which might seem
at odds with Methodius’ and Eustathius’ emphasis on the resurrection of the
body.64 However, IŒÆ ÆØ and IÆŒçÆºÆØøØ are distinguished prin-
cipally (and importantly) by the cosmological frameworks in which they are
placed. The idea of IÆŒçÆºÆØøØ—the summing-up of all creation in
Christ, and the more specific sense that Christ restores and fulfils
humankind—has many similarities, as a metanarrative of human history,
with IŒÆ ÆØ. Methodius took many of Origen’s ideas and removed
them from Origen’s cosmology and metaphysics. If Methodius had an idea
of IŒÆ ÆØ from which he has removed Origen’s ambivalence
about ultimate embodiment, it begins to look as though he had something
similar to a concept of IÆŒçÆºÆØøØ. In this instance, by standing in an
Irenaean tradition, Methodius and Eustathius both share something with
Origen.
Eustathius identifies the Pauline distinction between łıåØŒ and
ıÆ ØŒ humanity with a distinction between original and eschatological
humanity: original Adam—Adam before the lapse—was łıåØŒ , Christ is
ıÆ ØŒ .65 Humanity will progress to the ıÆ ØŒ state, thereby
becoming ‘conformed to the image of the Son’.66 The łıåØŒ state is the
original state, eventually to be left behind. Eschatologically, people will pro-
gress beyond the pre-lapsed condition. However, Eustathius also thinks that
łıåØŒ people have ‘performed manifold sins’. This raises a question, because
people in their pre-lapsed state, by definition, have not sinned: how do the
original, pre-lapsed condition and sin fit in with Eustathius’ concept of
the łıåØŒ state? Eustathius is giving instances of the ways in which Paul
uses the term łıåØŒ ; in Eustathius’ view, Paul’s uses of the term in relation to
Adam, and in relation to other people, are very closely connected, but they are
not identical:
The apostle tends to call human beings ‘soul-like’ inasmuch as when they sin
through the soul, the fellowship of the divine Spirit is turned away, and spiritual
inasmuch as, through divinely inspired citizenship, they partake in the Holy
Spirit, accepting its plenty. Because of this, he wrote that a ‘soul-like’ body was
63
Methodius, Convivium, 4.2.2 and 8.11.22. Patterson Methodius, pp. 136–7 and 144–55,
observes this and sees it as evidence of Origen’s profound influence on Methodius.
64
On the question of whether Origen entertained the possibility of completely bodiless souls,
see ‘The Lapse’ in Chapter 5.
65
D44:1–34 drawing on 1 Corinthians 15:45–7.
66
D68:1–3 in which Eustathius quotes Romans 8.29.

sown, which has performed manifold sins through the soul, but he says that this
body is raised spiritual.67
When he writes of the łıåØŒ body having sinned, he is clearly not thinking
of Christ’s body before his death and resurrection. He is thinking of our
bodies, before our deaths and resurrections. We might infer that the body
was not sown sinful, as Adam was not created sinful, but it has since sinned. All
who are łıåØŒ are now sinful, so Eustathius writes of the łıåØŒ state as a
sinful state.68 The negation of this sin, and the progression beyond the
original, pre-lapsed condition, are held together in Eustathius’ picture of
Christ as the perfect human being.
The Spirit is fundamental to the transformation of human nature in Eu-
stathius’ theology.69 When exploring the concept of the ıÆ ØŒ human
being, Eustathius clearly draws conclusions about human perfection from
Christology. As Zoepfl argued, Eustathius tends to talk of the incarnation in
terms of God clothing himself in humanity, rather than becoming human.70
The ontological transformation of Christ’s humanity results from God’s action
as an external agent, upon that humanity. This is reflected in Eustathius’
understanding of what it means for a person to become ıÆ ØŒ . The
difference between the łıåØŒ state and the ıÆ ØŒ state is characterized
by a union between the person and the Spirit: ‘he who has been united (Æªd)
with the Holy Spirit is ıÆ ØŒ , while he who has been mixed (ŒæÆŁd)
proportionately in soul and body is łıåØŒ ’.71 In this instance, Eustathius is
contrasting Christ with Adam, and therefore his description of the union
between the person and the Spirit is a description of the incarnation. This
leads to a discussion of ıÆ ØŒ in general—the adjective ıÆ ØŒ ,
Eustathius notes, can apply to holy people in this life. Here, Eustathius writes
of ‘fellowship of the divine Spirit [ F Łı Æ . . . ŒØøÆ]’.72 Eu-
stathius uses different verbs to describe the union of the soul with the body, on
one hand, and union of the human being with the Spirit, on the other. The
human being’s union with the Spirit is weaker than the body–soul union. The
Spirit does not function as a third portion of the person in Eustathius’
anthropology. Irenaeus often posits a tripartite anthropology in which the
67
D47 [Ariomanitas].
68
It had, then, always been susceptible to sin. The point of bringing sin into this contrast
could be that the ıÆ ØŒ body that is raised is not susceptible to sin. See ‘Suffering and the
Tragedy of History’ in Chapter 5.
69
As argued by Navascués in ‘ “Cuerpo” ’, p. 42.
70
Zoepfl, ‘Die trinitarischen und christologischen Anschauungen’, pp. 194–5.
71
72
D47:1–2 [Ariomanitas]. The plural ŒØøÆ might well suggest ‘communications’ instead.
However, ‘fellowship’ seems more likely here because Eustathius is examining Paul’s use of the
term ıÆ ØŒ , and Paul often writes of this in connection with ŒØøÆ with the Spirit,
where something much more like ‘fellowship’ is meant. See Philippians 2.1–2.

Spirit is or ultimately becomes a part of the human person.73 Origen deploys a
similarly tripartite anthropology to construct a moral and spiritual struggle as
a struggle of the soul, torn between flesh and spirit.74 Eustathius pointedly
differs from both of them: the Spirit is not a part of the human being, but is an
agent acting upon the human being.75 Nonetheless, Eustathius very clearly
believes that perfected humanity involves the Spirit in a way that pre-lapsed
humanity does not. The Spirit is central to the transformation of the person.
The presence of the fortifying spirit makes the person ıÆ ØŒ . This is
clearest in Eustathius’ Christology, where the human being of Christ is
‘strengthened by the divine spirit’.76 Drawing an anthropological inference
from Christology, we might suggest that, for all human beings, the change
between łıåØŒ and ıÆ ØŒ is less dramatic and the continuity between
the original person and the redeemed person is strong. The person is trans-
formed by God, but the result of this transformation relates very closely to
what he or she is now.
For Eustathius, the human image of God remains starkly distinct from God,
corresponding to his divisive Christology, in which humanity is starkly dis-
tinct from divinity. This stands in contrast to the incarnational theology of
Irenaeus or Athanasius, in which the human being is in some sense deified.77
Eustathius’ theology provides less opportunity for intimacy with God, but,
correspondingly, provides more opportunity for human autonomy.
Eschatologically, the human being is both physically and morally trans-
formed. Eustathius sees the problem that requires resolution in the individual
as twofold: both sin and mortality are constituents of the lapsed human
condition that will ultimately cease to exist. The ıÆ ØŒ person is distin-
guished from the current łıåØŒ person partly in that moral progress is
completed: ‘the bodies change their ways [and] no one sins at all anymore’.78
The transformation of the human body is held together with the attainment of
moral perfection, and is therefore part of a transformation of the whole human
being, other aspects of which, apparently, may begin in this life.
It is evident that progress towards sinlessness manifests before the resur-
rection, because many of the saints are described as ıÆ ØŒ on account of
holiness; although Eustathius is describing a different use of the word here, he
sees a relationship between this use and its use to denote human perfection.
Importantly, the salvific process is gradual. Furthermore, the essential change
73 74
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.6.1. For example Origen, Comm. in Rom., 1.18.(5–6).
75
Irenaeus and Origen both also sometimes write of the Spirit as if the Spirit acts on or
interacts with the human being as an external agent, e.g. sanctifying, or bestowing gifts on, the
human being. See Irenaeus, A.H., 5.8.1; Origen, Homilia in Jeremiam, 16. Perhaps Eustathius has
narrowed the range of referents for spirit in anthropology.
76
Engastrimytho, 17.10. See also D48 [Ariomanitas].
77
See Irenaeus, A.H., 5. Preface; Athanasius, De Inc., 54.3.
78

that culminates eschatologically begins in this life, though invariably is never
completed within it.79 The current world order apparently allows considerable
possibilities for the development of human nature, but they are intrinsically
limited possibilities. This aspect of Eustathius’ soteriology focuses on the
improvement of human nature from the state in which it was created, which
is not primarily seen in terms of the correction of fault. Indeed, in a passage
from Arianos, Eustathius declares that everything that has a beginning is
‘corruptible’.80 Here, at least, Eustathius regards human nature as intrinsically
corruptible. He might well agree with Athanasius that human beings were only
ever incorruptible by virtue of God’s particular gift, rather than through their
God-given created nature.81 This lends itself to a relatively positive attitude to
the current situation: human imperfection is not a catastrophic error, but a
stage en route to perfection.82 We shall see, in the following chapter, that
such optimism regarding our current situation is far from being Eustathius’
dominant soteriological motif, but we can only understand the entire tapestry
of his soteriology if we appreciate this aspect of it.
BO DY, S OUL, AND THE IMAGE OF GOD
Eustathius clearly regards the human body as integral to the image of God in
humankind. The place of the human soul in this picture is less clear. It can
look as if Eustathius has two different ideas, one in which the whole human
being is the image, and another in which the image is simply the body.
However, placed in the context of other discussion on the body–soul relation-
ship, it becomes clear that the former view is most representative.
The Statue of God
That the body is integral to the image of God in humankind is evident both
from his description of Adam as a ‘statue of God’ and his insistence that Christ
79 80
Compare Clement of Alexandria, Stromata, 6.3. D108 [Arianos].
81
See Athanasius, De Inc., 3. Compare also Irenaeus, A.H., 2.34.4.
82
John Hick famously makes this point in his iconic Evil and the God of Love, 2nd edn
(London: Macmillan, 1977), p. 137, as part of a contrast between ‘Irenaean’ and ‘Augustinian’
theodicy. Minns, Irenaeus, pp. 183–6, though largely agreeing with Hick’s assessment of Irenaeus
and Augustine as anthropological optimist and pessimist, respectively, notes that Augustine’s
view of the facts of human history is very similar to Irenaeus’ (he couples Athanasius with
Augustine in this comparison). If we take Minns’ perspective seriously, this should caution us
against reading too much about the nature of human imperfection into Eustathius’ belief in
progress beyond the original condition.

qua image is physical. The description of Adam’s pre-ensouled body as a
statue of God initially suggests that Eustathius located God’s image exclusively
in the human body.83 This coheres with the idea that the image of God reveals
God, because it is in the body that God is made visible. However, this jars with
Eustathius’ sense that Christ qua image is the archetype for human complete-
ness, because he is always adamant that human completeness involves both
body and soul. It is, presumably, the entire human being that is conformed to
the image of the Son.
Eustathius may simply use the term ‘image’ inconsistently. However, closer
inspection of the statue metaphor suggests that, whilst it does allude to the
‘image of God’ of Genesis 1.26–7, the statue of God is not identical to the
image of God. Rather, the statue is an aspect of the image. Eustathius’
description of Adam’s pre-ensouled body as a statue of God is reminiscent
of his description of a hypothetical, soulless Christ, who, he argues, is the
Christ of pro-Arian theology (we have come across this passage before, so
I quote only the most relevant section): ‘[I]f indeed Christ received the soulless
bulk of a body . . . he received a statue and not a human being, the shape
having been cast on at the beginning, and the innermost stamp having fled.’84
Though the description of Adam’s soulless body is decidedly more positive
than this description of Christ’s hypothetical soulless body, the structural
relationship between body and soul in both cases is the same. The latter
description elucidates the former.
The notion of the image of God as a ‘statue’ proved controversial in the
‘Arian’ controversy: Acacius—writing after Eustathius—charges Marcellus
with depicting a dead, sterile image of God by using it. He counters with the
term ‘living image’.85 Eusebius likewise uses the term ‘living image’.86 How-
ever, he also refers to Christ’s body as a ‘divine statue [IªºÆ]’—and this in
his anti-Marcellan Ecclesiastica Theologia. He elaborates that the statue is
Ł—‘God-infused’.87 He is willing to concede to Marcellus that, yes,
Christ’s body reveals divinity—but of course this must be because of the
Word dwelling in him; rightly or wrongly, he thinks that Marcellus has failed
to grasp the importance of the incarnation.
Given Eusebius’ own use of the term ‘living image’, it seems likely that the
lifelessness of the statue itself, were it not ‘God-infused’, is significant to him.
Read in this light, Eusebius’ picture of Christ’s body as a statue has much in
common with Eustathius’ description of Adam’s body as a statue: both
83
The description of Adam’s body as a statue is found in D61:4–5 [Ariomanitas]. See Parvis,
Marcellus, p. 58.
84
85
Acacius, Contra Marcellum Fragmenta in Epiphanius, Panarion, 72.7.2–3, 72.7.8, 72.7.10,
72.9.7, and 72.7.3, 72.9.3, 72.9.8, respectively. I am indebted to Del Cogliano, ‘Eusebian Theolo-
gies’, p. 477.
86 87
Eusebius, D.E., 5.1. Eusebius, De Ecclesiastica Theologia, I.13.5.

appreciate the inertia of the body—the statue—before it has received the Word/
soul. This gives further context to Eustathius’ assertion that a soulless Christ is a
‘statue, and not a human being’; it pointedly taps into Eusebius’ concern and
appeals to the same sentiments as Acacius does when attacking Marcellus’ statue
motif. A soulless body dwelt in by the Word remains a statue—the combination
does not produce a ‘living image’, Eustathius opines. The statue of God has a
potential that can only be realized when it receives its ‘innermost stamp’, its
K Æ åÆæÆŒ æ, and is no longer a statue. Eustathius uses the term
åÆæÆŒ æ, another word often connected to NŒ
. There is a sense that ‘statue’
and the ‘innermost stamp’ are both part of the complete image.88
The unapologetic physicality of the image of God is, nonetheless, striking
and the contrast with Origen, who located God’s image in the soul, is pointed
and probably deliberate. This is particularly interesting because Eustathius
shares with Origen the idea that Christ’s humanity is ‘image of the image’.
Origen can distinguish between Christ qua image and the Son qua image
without locating the image of God in the body because of his belief in Christ’s
human soul, which he shares with Eustathius. The difference between them in
this case hinges precisely on the status of the body.
The relationship between the soulless body—a statue—and the human being,
body and soul—an image—both fleshes out and offers a solution to a problem
that Zoepfl identified in Eustathius’ thought. Zoepfl argued that Eustathius’ idea
that Christ’s humanity revealed God was undermined by Eustathius’ Origenist
sense that Christ’s soul mediates between God and the body.89 As argued in
Chapter 3, I believe that Zoepfl is justified in observing an Origenist schema of
Word–soul–body in portions of Eustathius’ writing, and that this diverges from
Eustathius’ other, more dominant picture of body and soul as relating to God in
basically the same way. In his statue–image schema, Eustathius clearly has the
idea that it is the body that reveals God, and yet the body is not entirely itself if it
does not have the soul. Taking, admittedly, a slight conceptual jump, we might
suppose that it is the ensouled body, the living human physicality, in which God is
most fully revealed. In Eustathius’ theology of the image of God, we see how he
employs Origenist Christology to construct an anthropology and anthropological
Christology that are psychophysical.
Methodius
Eustathius is also drawing on Methodius in his understanding of how body

and soul relate to the image of God, but, again, he diverges from him in
88
There is a parallel in Ps. Menander Sententiae e codicibus Byzantinis in which both the king
and the queen are described as NŒ
łıå ŁF. See 264 and 1.79, respectively.
89
Zoepfl, ‘Die trinitarischen und christologischen Anschauungen’, pp. 188–9.

important respects. In Convivium, Methodius associates the image of God
primarily with the soul, though he sometimes qualifies this.90 For example,
Methodius writes that ‘it isn’t enough just to keep the body undefiled, just as
we shouldn’t give the impression that we think more about the temple of God
than the image of God’.91 This clearly distinguishes between the body, which is
the temple, and the soul, which is the image. In De Resurrectione, he some-
times associates the image explicitly with the body, though also sometimes
with the soul. Here, like Eustathius, he refers to human beings as statues—
IªºÆ Æ—of God.92 There are also times at which he describes the body and
soul as mutually defining with reference to the image, and this echoes Eu-
stathius’ idea of the soul as an actualizing form of the body. So, Methodius says
that the body cannot be destroyed, because it was united to the image of
God.93 Elsewhere, he describes human souls as the IªºÆ Æ of human
bodies.94 This could be translated simply as ‘divinities’, but it is surely note-
worthy that Methodius uses a term that can be synonymous with NŒ
, and
that he himself employs to refer to humanity’s creation in the image of God in
another passage. This is clearly a reference, specifically, to the imago Dei. Note
that Methodius does not write that the soul is the ¼ªÆºÆ of the human being,
but of the body. This gives the impression that the soul, the image of God,
infuses the body with that image.
Methodius’ notion that the soul infuses the body with the image parallels
Eustathius’ idea that the soul makes the body more truly the body, more
truly the image of God. Eustathius’ claim that the soul is the innermost
åÆæÆŒ æ of the human being gives us a clue as to how he develops
Methodius’ understanding of image, and it points in a somewhat different
direction. Methodius very frequently refers to human beings as in the
åÆæÆŒ æ of God.95 This åÆæÆŒ æ is normally associated specifically with
the soul, and is more or less synonymous with NŒ
. We have seen that the
body is, nonetheless, the statue that receives this åÆæÆŒ æ/NŒ
. Eustathius
follows Methodius very closely in that he too believes the human body to be
a statue that receives its åÆæÆŒ æ from the soul. However, he seems to
consider the NŒ
to be the union of statue [¼ªÆºÆ] and åÆæÆŒ æ, rather
than to be the åÆæÆŒ æ. Though their image theologies have much in
common, Eustathius is rather clearer than Methodius that the NŒ
resides
partly in the body. This is further reflected in his sense that the human being
of Christ, qua image, is physical.
90 91
See Patterson, Methodius, p. 157, note 22. Methodius, Convivium, 1.1.
92 93
Methodius, De Res., I.34.2–3. Methodius, De Res., II.24.2–4.
94 95
Methodius, Convivium, 1.1. For example, Methodius, Convivium, 6.2.4., 6.1.
Gregory of Nyssa
Gregory of Nyssa’s De Opificio Hominis gives an account of God’s image that

echoes Methodius’ in important ways, and a brief examination can help to
further locate Eustathius’ image theology within discussions about image and
embodiment in the fourth century. Gregory claims that it is specifically the
human soul that is made in the image of God: ‘[humankind] was made
according to God, and the soul was formed in the image of the creator’.96
Though Gregory states that it is specifically the soul that was ‘formed in the
image’, this has implications for the whole human being. It quickly becomes
evident that he thinks that the image of God is visible in the body, despite not
residing there; our soul, in fact, is not able to show the image of God
corporeally, so it uses the body to do so, as a musician uses an instrument to
play a tune.97 Correspondingly, Gregory thinks that the human body is
formed so as to reflect the fact that humans are in God’s image; one important
aspect of our being made in God’s image is our being ÆP Ø—self–
ruling—and the human body reflects this in that we have hands and in that we
walk upright.98 The soul’s nature as the image of God is imprinted on the
body, as in Methodius. In this respect, both Gregory and Methodius deploy a
kind of embodied Origenism. They both accommodate an Origenist equation
of the image and the soul to a more earthbound anthropology. Eustathius
deploys many of the same ideas but, like Marcellus, shies away from the
equation of soul and image.
Body, Soul, and the Image: A Summary
Eustathius’ use of the image of God motif to understand the human body and
soul in relation to God echoes and diverges from both Origen and Methodius
in important ways. However, he is not, in this case, torn between them. In
some ways, Methodius is closer to Origen than Eustathius is. In locating the
image partly in the body, Eustathius follows Irenaeus where Methodius
departs from him.99 In his theology of God’s image, Eustathius draws on
both Irenaean and Origenist traditions creatively to come up with a picture
96
Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis, introduction. The sense that the image resides in
the soul recurs at various points in this treatise. Gregory uses the analogy of the making of a
statue to describe the way in which human beings are brought into the image of God—like
Marcellus of Ancyra, he uses the term IæØ; however, in contrast to Marcellus and Eustathius,
he says that the soul is moulded as an IæØ: De Opificio Hominis, 30.30.
97
Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis, 9.1–2.
98
Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis, 8.
99
For Irenaeus’ location of the image in the body, see A.H., 5.6.1.

that is very much his own. In doing so, he contributes to a discussion that was
to continue throughout the fourth century.
S U M MARY
Eustathius’ theology of the image of God suggests an affinity between God and
humanity, but it also pointedly maintains the ontological separation between
God and humankind that is so evident in his Christology. It simultaneously
finds a positive place for humankind, as separate from God, because it is as
separate from God that humanity is God’s image, and this description must
carry positive connotations. Humanity is conformed to the image of God,
Christ, and is then perfect in its humanity. The disjunction between God and
humanity in Eustathius’ image theology echoes a wider tendency in fourth-
century cosmology to emphasize the ontological otherness of God. However,
other image theologies of the fourth century—such as Athanasius’—tried
harder to overcome this distinction. Eustathius’ take on God’s image is a
natural, but not necessary, result of it.
Where Eustathius’ image theology touches upon the body–soul relation-
ship, it tends to cohere with his wider picture of this relationship; it is not
altogether clear whether the image is just the body, or the body and soul.
However, if the former, then, even in describing the body’s image status,
Eustathius implies its incompleteness when bereft of the soul. In either case,
Eustathius maintains a clear sense of the importance and essential goodness of
the body. His location of the image of God in the body is pointedly in contrast
to Origen, whom his image theology otherwise echoes.
Eustathius’ theology of God’s image has an important soteriological dimen-
sion, in that we are conformed to Christ’s image. This is part of an Adam–
Christ typology that is tied in with a wider sense of progression from the
łıåØŒ to ıÆ ØŒ . Eustathius’ soteriological deployment of ‘image of
God’ language and Adam–Christ typology participates in a conversation,
drawing on Irenaeus’ legacy, in which Origen and Methodius had also been
involved. Humankind is restored to the state it had in paradise, and promoted
beyond it, according to its archetype, Christ.
Soteriology: The Tragedy and Potential

of Human History
Eustathius’ soteriology is a window into his vision of human history and

destiny.1 It draws on and contributes to a rich tapestry of ideas within Greek
patristic theology that conveys and struggles with a very real sense of the
tragedy of human history and the evil of human sin against the backdrop of
the essential goodness of God’s creation. Eustathius’ relaying and reimagining
of these ideas offers an arresting glimpse of the development of Greek patristic
soteriology in the aftermath of the so-called Great Persecution and at the time
of the Constantinian Revolution.
Ariomanitas is the most revealing text for Eustathius’ soteriology, though
many ideas within it are also found in both Engastrimytho and Eustathius’
other anti-Arian works. The Arianos fragments focus particularly on the
eschatological reign of Christ, in which the saga of salvation culminates. The
fundamental argument of Ariomanitas is a Christological one, appealing to
anthropological and soteriological axioms: if Christ were not human, he could
not have been a saviour for the human race. Eustathius has a clear idea of what
the drama of salvation looks like, and how Christ operates within it, and he
argues that Christ could only have performed his role if he had a human soul.
We saw in the last chapter that Christ is an archetype according to which the
rest of the human race is remade. This picture of Christ as the archetypal
human being pervades Eustathius’ soteriology; in his anti-Arian works, it is
expressed in the designation of Christ’s humanity as ‘the human being of
Christ’.
1
The related terms ‘salvation’ and ‘soteriology’ both have a broad semantic range and tend to
refer specifically to being ‘saved’ from a bad situation; progress beyond the original condition
cannot, strictly, be designated by them. Nonetheless, in Eustathius’ thought (unremarkably), the
concept of progress beyond the original condition is so interlinked with the concept of correcting
faults that follow from the lapse that I use the terms ‘salvation’ and ‘soteriology’ to refer to the
process and consequence of achieving human telos, whether or not this process carries a negative
connotation for the circumstance or condition left behind.

Eustathius’ soteriology is a story about human history and destiny, and as
such it is fundamentally political: it is a story about power and freedom; the
devil’s power over humankind, and humankind’s slavery to sin and the devil,
and eventual freedom from both; the power of Christ and the Spirit to save,
and Christ’s eschatological reign. It is a political narrative that operates on
both a macro and micro level because it is a narrative about cosmic events, but
it is closely concerned with the individual’s role in these events. Eustathius’
soteriology conveys a strong sense of the tragedy of human sin, and holds
human victimhood together with human guilt. The devil holds humankind in
bondage such that humankind is almost helpless before him, but humankind
is also sinful, and therefore in need of forgiveness and transformation. For-
giveness and transformation are bound up with freedom from the devil.
Eustathius’ is a holistic picture of the human condition, considering both
human essence and human circumstance. The political is personal.
The legacy of Irenaeus permeates Eustathius’ Christology and his account of
human history. Fundamentally, for Eustathius as for Irenaeus, Christ re-enacts
Adam’s fight with the devil, and Adam’s death, but he gets it right where
Adam got it wrong. Eustathius falls within an Irenaean soteriological tradition
which can also be seen clearly in the fourth century in Marcellus of Ancyra (as
I suggested in the last chapter). However, distinctive aspects of Origen’s
thought also significantly shape Eustathius’ soteriology, in two ways:2 first,
Eustathius deploys Origen’s doctrine of Christ’s human soul to develop his
picture of Christ as the archetypal human; second, Eustathius has a much
stronger sense of human sinfulness than Irenaeus, corresponding to Origen’s
doctrine of the fall, and specifically indebted to Origen’s Commentaria in
Romanos. In his doctrine of Christ’s human soul, Eustathius might reasonably
be regarded as the lone bearer of an Origenist torch, to pass on to the next
generation.3 In having an acute sense of human sin, he is part of what is
rapidly becoming an established tradition (in which he follows Origen rather
less closely than many others). However, Eustathius, like Origen, closely
connects these two ideas because he believes that Christ’s human soul is
uniquely preserved from the effects of the primeval tragedy that Origen
generally terms the fall [e E]—and Eustathius’ term for which remains
uncertain.
We saw in the last chapter how Eustathius’ divisive Christology lent itself to
a view of humankind as created to be relatively autonomous and therefore also
relatively distant from God; the human being is not divinized as Irenaeus and
2
That these are distinctive aspects of Origen’s thought is significant because, as I have
suggested, Origen is himself profoundly indebted to Irenaeus in certain respects.
3
So the human soul of Christ was to become a cornerstone of Cappadocian theology; Gregory
of Nazianzus’ dictum that ‘what is not assumed is not healed’ (Epistulae, 101.7) echoes Eu-
stathius closely. Similarly, see Gregory of Nyssa’s Antirrheticus contra Apollinarium, edited by
Fredericus Mueller, Opera Dogmatica Minora, part 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1958).
Soteriology 167
Athanasius both suggest—instead, God supports the human being. This
perspective shapes how Eustathius understands grace; though his divisive
Christology is problematic for a doctrine of the incarnation, it vests him
with particular resources for exploring the relationship between human
agency and grace: when God intervenes to save humanity in Christ, he
strengthens human agency: God is not one with Christ’s humanity, but rather
strengthens [ŒæÆÆØøŁd] ‘the human being of Christ’ to enable him to act
rightly. It is, similarly, by giving them strength that the Spirit restores and
promotes other human beings. Voluntary goodness is important to Eu-
stathius, and voluntary goodness often involves God’s help.
THE L APSE
Eustathius locates the origins of human sinfulness and mortality in a primeval

catastrophe, for which he draws on both Irenaeus and Origen, in various
ways.4 In part, he develops an account of Adam’s transgression that is found in
Irenaeus and sometimes taken up by Origen. However, for Eustathius, the
results of Adam’s transgression were catastrophic, and this echoes aspects of
Origen’s account of the fall which marked a departure from, among other
things, Irenaeus’ optimism. Eustathius rejects Origen’s speculations about the
fall of souls as we saw in Chapter 3, but he wishes, like Origen, to give an
account that does justice to the sinfulness of the current human condition. For
Eustathius, sinfulness is inherited from one’s parents, in a move adumbrated
in Origen’s Commentaria in Romanos and anticipating Augustine.5
Eustathius’ clearest account of the primeval catastrophe is part of a descrip-
tion of the incarnation, where the catastrophe features as the event that Christ
had to negate:
. . . the human being [of Christ] himself is the cause of the salvation to the other
human beings who believe, as Paul says in the letter to the Romans: ‘For if we
many have died by the transgression of one human being, how much more the
grace, and the gift in the grace of Jesus Christ abounds in the many.’ Therefore
assuredly, in the transgression of the first-formed, the death coming from sin
hurled on [K ŒÅł], great and incurable. But the child of God, having looked
ahead, decided to punish the devil, the sower of death through the same human
race and bore the whole human being, in order that, once he had attached him to
4
If Eustathius ever formulated a precise definition of ‘sin’ [±
ÆæÆ], the extant text will not
yield it to us.
5
The respective roles of inherited sin and the fall of souls in Augustine’s protology of sin is a
vexed question. Dominic Keech has recently argued that both accounts are necessary to
Augustine’s explanation of Christ’s sinlessness in The Anti-Pelagian Christology of Augustine
of Hippo (Oxford: OUP, 2010).

the divine harmonies, and in this way conquered the evil one, he might hold sway
in incorruptible life.6
The devil, ‘the sower of death through the . . . human race’, is clearly very
important to Eustathius’ account of the origins of sin and mortality. Elsewhere
in Ariomanitas, Eustathius writes that the devil ‘fell’ [KŒø] through sin: ‘The
devil was sentenced to live in Hades once he had fallen from his own virtue.’7
Now, having ‘sown death’, the devil lurks possessively over humankind. Christ
defeats the devil by being sinless, and therefore negating what the devil had
wrought in causing Adam to sin. In this passage, Adam’s disobedience is
evidently fundamental, but it is traced back, in some sense, to the devil’s
machinations. This interplay between human victimhood and human guilt is a
defining theme in Eustathius’ soteriology. The contrast between Adam’s dis-
obedience and Christ’s obedience was a foundational theme for Irenaeus, and it is
taken up by Origen, and then by Methodius especially in his De autexousio.
Like Eustathius, Irenaeus deploys Paul to bring out this theme, and it is
likely that Romans 5.15 informed his Adam–Christ typology. For example, he
writes that Christ ‘made an end to the disobedience of humanity, which had
happened in the beginning through the tree “he became obedient to death,
even death on a cross” [Philippians 2.8], healing through obedience on a tree
the disobedience on a tree’.8 However, Irenaeus never actually quotes this
verse; the whole of it is quoted by Origen. Though the fact that he wrote a
commentary on Romans would have obliged him to address it, Origen cites
this verse several times, for various reasons.9 In Commentaria in Romanos, it is
important to explain the relationship between Adam and Christ, and, in
particular, elucidates the preceding verse (Romans 5.14): ‘[Adam] was a type
of the one who was to come’, which is also cited by Irenaeus.10 Origen has a
stronger sense of human sin than Irenaeus and develops Irenaeus’ Adam–
Christ typology so as to emphasize sin in Commentaria in Romanos.
In De autexousio, Methodius argues that the origin of evil is disobedience to
God (and that evil simply is disobedience to God) and insists that the devil
taught human beings evil.11 Methodius also refers, like Origen, to the fall.12
Like Irenaeus, he sees human beings as victims, but also has a sense of
6
D22:4–15 [Ariomanitas]. Romans 5.15 is quoted at D22:6–9. Eustathius’ quotation diverges
from the Pauline text, which reads: ƒ ººd IŁÆ—‘the many have died’. Eustathius writes
that ƒ ººd IŁ
—‘we many have died’. This variation is recorded nowhere else, either
in New Testament manuscripts recorded on Logos or quotations in other patristic sources.
7
D29:1 [Ariomanitas]. This shows both an interest in the devil’s sin, and a belief that this sin
constituted a fall from grace.
8
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.3.16. Similarly Irenaeus, Demonstration, 34.
9
See Origen, Commentaria in Evangelium Joannis, 20.389, where he is arguing that the Jews
are aware of only the first part of Paul’s teaching—that death came—and not the second—that
we have grace through Christ.
10
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 5.1.(6); Irenaeus, A.H., 3.22.3.
11 12
Methodius, De autexousio, XVII.6. Methodius, Convivium, 10.3.
Soteriology 169
primeval catastrophe. Methodius and Eustathius, then, both partly follow
Origen in his strong sense of primeval catastrophe, but retain Irenaeus’
sense of Adam and Eve’s victimhood at the hands of the devil (indeed, nor
is this sense altogether absent in Origen).
In Origen’s Commentaria in Romanos, Adam and Eve’s mortality is in-
herited by subsequent generations:
[The whole human race was] in Adam’s loins when he was still in paradise. And
all people who were with him, or rather in him, were expelled from paradise when
he was himself driven out from there; and through him the death which had come
to him from the transgression consequently passed through to them as well, who
were dwelling in his loins; and therefore the apostle rightly says, ‘For as in Adam
all die, so also in Christ will all be made alive.’13
In Commentaria in Romanos, Origen also apparently suggests that we inherit
from Adam a tendency to sin, though this is agonizingly ambiguous. He starts
book 5 with an exegesis of Romans 5.12: ‘Just as sin came into this world
through one human being, and death through sin, so death passed through to
all people in quo all have sinned’ (the in quo of Rufinus’ translation presum-
ably renders the Greek Kç’ fiz). Thomas Scheck has pointed out the particular
ambiguity of this passage, and of Origen’s treatment of it.14 The Latin, and
underlying Greek, could be either causal—‘because all have sinned’—or a
relative clause—‘in whom all have sinned’.15 Quoting the verse further on in
the discussion, Origen omits the second reference to death, so that his
quotation reads ‘so it passed through to all people’.16 This could mean that
sin is passed through to all people, but it could also refer to death. In book 6,
Origen says that Christ’s soul is sinless because he was not conceived sexually
and so ‘did not have the pollution of sin which is passed to those conceived by
lustful movements’.17 The connections between these various passages are not
obvious. However, Origen clearly argues that mortality is inherited from the
loins of Adam; he suggests that tendency to sin is likewise inherited—perhaps
specifically because humans come to be through sex?—and that Christ is
13
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 5.1.(14). Caroline Bammel, ‘Adam in Origen’ in The Making of
Orthodoxy, edited by Rowan Williams (Cambridge: CUP, 1989), pp. 62–93, argues that Origen’s
account of the pre-existence and fall of souls is consistent with his account of death inherited
through the loins of Adam.
14
Thomas Scheck, ed. and trans., Origen, Commentary on the Romans, Books 1 to 5
(Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2001), p. 303, note 1.
15
It should be noted that interpreting the phrase as a relative clause would render the
interpretation divergent from those elsewhere in Origen’s writings. See Origen, Commentaria
in Jonannis, 20.39, as noted by Scheck, trans., Origen, Romans, Books 1–5, p. 303, note 1.
16
Origen Comm. in Rom, 5.1.(3).
17
. . . pollutionem tamen peccati quae ex concupiscentiae motu conceptis traditur omnino non
habuit. Origen, Comm. in Rom, 6.12.(4). See Keech, Anti-Pelagian Christology, pp. 130–4, for a
discussion of original sin in this passage.

protected from inherited tendency to sin because he was not conceived
sexually—and is not from the loins of Adam.
Origen also refers, famously, to ‘the fall’.18 The term Œø Ø and related
cognates are clearly evidenced in what remains in Greek.19 We can rely on the
Greek in this case because, in Latin, terms similarly indicating downward
motion are used. Origen opens book 2 of De Principiis by asking how diversity
in the world can be explained except by ‘the variety of motions and falls
[prolapsuum] of those who fell [deciderunt] from original unity and con-
cord’.20 Origen goes on to suggest that souls, sinning, fell away from God:
As . . . God is ‘fire’ . . . and the saints are ‘fiery in spirit’, so conversely those who
have fallen [deciderunt] away from the love of God undoubtedly must be said to
have cooled in their love for him and become cold . . . 21
Exactly what he means by this has occasioned a great deal of argument. For
example, Crouzel argues that Origen believed that souls pre-existed the cre-
ation of the physical world and that embodiment was a consequence of sin
(even though Crouzel generally defends Origen’s orthodoxy).22 Edwards,
however, has argued that Origen only believed in the pre-existence of souls
in the sense of believing that souls come directly from the hand of God, and
that, in Origen, embodiment is not a consequence of sin.23 Though I am here
primarily interested in how Origen was read by later authors, it seems to me
that Origen at least floated the idea that the fall was a historical event that took
place between different spheres of creation with distinctive metaphysical limits
and possibilities; it is a fall from one sphere to another. It is, as it were, geo-
metaphysical. I have observed already that, for Origen, Christ’s soul is sinless
because, unlike other human souls, it has not fallen from God.24 The notion of
obedience is important in this narrative too, though it is less emphasized: souls
fell away from God because they transgressed. Origen also has a strong sense
of the guilt attending the first sin: so, in De Principiis, he defends the justice of
earthly inequality on the basis that we are all, at root, responsible for our
circumstances, because the position to which we fell was determined by the
gravity of our first sin.25 This stands in contrast to Irenaeus’ idea of Adam and
Eve’s original vulnerability.26
18
Probably drawing on Clement of Alexandria; see Clement, Protrepticus, 11.111.
19
See the Greek text of Photius, Bibliotecha at Origen, De Princ., 4.2.7.
20
Origen, De Princ., 2.1.1. Compare De Princ. 1.6.2, on which he is building.
21
Origen, De Princ., 2.8.3: translation amended from G. W. Butterworth (Gloucester, Mass.:
Peter Smith, 1973).
22
Crouzel, Origen, pp. 205–9.
23
Edwards, Origen against Plato, pp. 89–94.
24 25
Origen, De Princ., 2.6.3. Origen, De Princ., 1.6.2.
26
Irenaeus’ view of original vulnerability is well illustrated by his claim that Adam and Eve
were children in Eden: Demonstration, 12 and 14.
Soteriology 171
Eustathius gives an account of the origins of human sin that is indebted to
Origen’s Commentaria in Romanos and reacting against his De Principiis:
Adam and Eve’s sin resulted not only in their mortality, but also in their
sinfulness, and both of these characteristics are inherited by the rest of the
human race. I observed in Chapter 3 that, for Eustathius, human souls inherit
pollution from their parents and Christ’s soul is uniquely preserved from this
pollution. Here is the relevant passage:
if [the Spirit] promises to dwell in other human beings, being satisfied to dwell
with the living souls, although they are not at all unpolluted . . . but indeed
Christ’s soul is undefiled, pure and unpolluted, having absolutely no trace of
sin, would it not much rather have dwelt with the divine spirit, because of the
superiority of purity and righteousness? For indeed the other holy men, who have
been brought forth from bodily intercourse, and are shabby temples that have
been shown forth, reaped the sweet smell of the Spirit by participation. And
Christ is the only one who became embodied by the Holy Spirit . . . 27
According to Eustathius, Christ’s soul is uniquely sinless because it has been
‘embodied by the Holy Spirit’ rather than ‘begotten through bodily inter-
course’. This narrative acts as an alternative to Origen’s fall of souls as it is
developed in De Principiis, and certainly as Eustathius would have understood
it. However, like Origen’s narrative, it posits a universal moral degeneration in
which Christ’s soul, uniquely, was not involved. It echoes Origen’s treatment
of inherited tendency to sin and Christ’s exemption from it Commentaria in
Romanos, although it is unclear whether Eustathius, like Origen, connects an
inherited sinful tendency with lust. Eustathius followed Origen’s Commen-
taria in Romanos in reinterpreting Irenaeus’ Adam–Christ typology to em-
phasize the effects of Adam’s sin on the rest of the human race and deployed
the idea that the human race inherits a sinful tendency from Adam as an
alternative to the fall of souls. Eustathius’ doctrine of the origins of sin is
largely Origenist—and it is drawn from an aspect of Origen’s theology that
owed a great deal to Irenaeus.
The idea of the fall had become influential by the early fourth century. It is
found not only in Methodius, but also Athanasius; though neither of them
apparently entertains the possibility of a geo-metaphysical fall as a historical
reality, they both adopt Origen’s terminology (using cognates of E) and
the metaphysical element of Origen’s idea is important in their use of it; they
both use the analogy of a fall between different metaphysical spheres to
describe human degeneration, retaining the term ‘fall’ as a metaphor.28 This
terminology is used by Athanasius in both his youth and old age, and is also
27
28
For Methodius, see his Convivium, 10.3 on humankind’s fall. For Athanasius, see his C. Ar.,
III.,10 on Lucifer’s fall and his C.G., 3–4 on the fall of humankind.

commonplace in the next generation.29 Eustathius talks about the ‘fall’ of the
devil, and, as we shall see, he uses the same proof texts as Origen. However,
there is no clear evidence that Eustathius deployed the language of ‘fall’ to talk
about the primeval degeneration of human beings. Nowhere in the extant
corpus does he offer an alternative noun for the primeval tragedy, and the
term ‘fall’, used in this way, would be unsurprising in Eustathius. I would like
to be clear that I see no good evidence that he consciously rejected it.
Nonetheless, it seems to me best to avoid using the term ‘fall’, with its specific
and significant cosmological implications, without clear proof of its use.
For convenience, I use the term ‘lapse’, rather than ‘fall’, in reference to
Eustathius’ thought;30 although its Latin root is equivalent to the Greek
Œø Ø, the English term does not carry quite the same cosmological
connotations.
ESSENTIAL TRANSFORMATION
The previous chapter examined Eustathius’ concept of progression from

łıåØŒ to ı
ÆØŒ and noted that it was embedded in a narrative that
focused on the difference between pre-lapsed humanity and eschatological
humanity. Nonetheless, in asserting that łıåØŒ people have now sinned,
Eustathius hints at a connection between a deficiency in the original condition
and the sin that caused a departure from it. The eschatological transformation
of the human being also involves transformation from the effects of sin, and
this is tied in with the defeat of the devil, who prompts human sin and holds
humankind in bondage. Bondage to the devil is tied up with the tendency to
sinfulness that is inherited from Adam and Eve.
THE DEVIL DEFEATED
For Eustathius, the lapsed condition constitutes bondage to the devil and
salvation is found in the devil’s defeat. This bondage is intimately connected
with the essential degeneration that humankind has undergone because the
devil is, in an important sense, responsible for this degeneration. The place
that Eustathius gives to the devil in the narrative of human history quite
29
See Gregory of Nyssa, In Inscriptiones Psalmorum, edited by James McDonough and
Paulus Alexander (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 1.7; Basil of Caesarea, De Spiritu Sancto, 19.
30
When I remark upon the wider patristic context of Eustathius’ theology of the lapse, this
often does refer to authors in whom the term ‘fall’ would be more obviously appropriate.
Soteriology 173
deliberately roots human degeneration in a wider context, outside of human
control. Eustathius’ soteriology concerns itself with the machinations of power
and their relationship to the circumstances in which they operate. ‘From the
New Testament through to the Cappadocians, the Christian felt himself to be
involved in the warfare between God and the devil, good and evil, light and
darkness, life and death, righteousness and sin.’31 Eustathius is no exception.
He believes that God and the devil are at war. When the devil tempted Christ
in the wilderness, the devil was ‘fighting against God, in his usual manner’.32
Humankind was created free, but became enslaved to the devil. Through
Christ, humankind becomes free once again. These images of enslavement
and freedom are especially close to both Irenaeus and Marcellus.33 Human-
kind is saved because Christ has defeated the devil and has therefore freed us
from bondage to him. The redemptive narrative is also, as so often in Christian
theology, a political narrative.34
The Tyranny of the Devil and the Kingship of Christ
In Eustathius’ view, the devil wields malevolent power over humankind. For
example, Eustathius refers to ‘the serpent’s tyrannical rule’.35 Furthermore,
this malevolent power is bound up with the devil’s role in the lapse: the devil is
‘the sower of death’.36 These motifs are fairly common patristic ways of talking
about the devil. The image of the devil as tyrant is found in both Origen and
Eusebius.37 In the Pseudo-Asterian Homiliae in Psalmos, the devil is dubbed
‘the first sower of folly [Içæ Å]’, and I have already noted that, according
to Methodius, the devil taught Adam and Eve to sin.38 Eustathius’ phrase
‘sower of death’ is especially forceful in laying blame for human mortality at
the feet of Lucifer, but it stands within a very broad tradition.
31
Frances Young, The Use of Sacrificial Ideas in Greek Christian Writers (Cambridge, MA:
The Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1979), p. 142. See for example Irenaeus, 5.21.1; Origen,
De Princ. 3.2, Commentarii in Evangelium Joannis, 2.4, Comm. in Rom., 1.18.(6).
32
Engastrimytho, 10.14. Here, as in many other instances, Eustathius sees this as asymmetric
warfare. This is one of many tensions in Eustathius’ soteriology, as this section shall demonstrate.
33
For bondage to the devil in Irenaeus, see A.H., 5.21.1. For Marcellus, see fragments K107
and K110. Parvis, Marcellus, p. 32, compares A.H., 5.21.1 and K110.
34
See Oliver O’Donovan, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the Roots of Political
Theology (Cambridge: CUP, 1996), pp. 1–5 and Graham Ward, The Politics of Discipleship:
Becoming Post-Material Citizens (London: SCM Press, 2009) on the political nature of redemp-
tive discourse.
35 36
D32:58–9 [Ariomanitas]. D22:11–12 [Ariomanitas].
37
Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos, PG 23:1228, lines 36–7; Origen, Contra Celsum, 1.1.
38
Pseudo-Asterius, Homilia in Psalmos, 25.13; compare also Didymus of Alexandria (who,
we have seen, may well have been familiar with Eustathius’ work), Fragmenta in Psalmos,
fragment 584.

It becomes clear from the immediate context that Eustathius does not mean
to suggest that human sin played no part in creating the current human
situation, but he does also hold the devil responsible for human sin. Unsur-
prisingly, Eustathius thinks that the first human sin occurred when Eve and
Adam ate the fruit from the tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden, and that
the devil tempted Eve: ‘[J]ust as, masked as the serpent, he slunk up to Eve, at
[the crucifixion] the blood-thirsty one roused the murderous thief, so that,
shooting poisonous words from the cross, he might offer many people a sign
[e Iæç ŒÆ’KŒE ŒÆØæF ØªØæ ºÅ › Æƒ
æ, ‰ e F
Zçø Zçø Kd B ¯hÆ , ¥ ‘KŒ H łÅº ø f Nºı
Iø ºªı KØçÆb ÆæåØ ªæØ
Æ E ººE].’39 Eve’s temp-
tation is an archetype of the devil’s relationship to humanity, to which the
penitent thief ’s temptation is compared. The devil’s sin, then, was prior to
human sin, and prompted human sin. Although humanity became corruptible
and mortal through its own sin, the devil is blamed for ‘the sin of the first-
formed’.40 In succumbing to the devil’s temptation, humankind came under
his power and remains in thrall to him until Christ defeats him. Eustathius
sees a tension in the nature of the devil’s power—he is, in one sense, entirely
under God’s power, and yet he has usurped God’s power. He is a tyrant, and
yet his power has a kind of awful legitimacy. The devil’s power over human
beings was forcefully felt in Hades, where he literally held prisoner the souls of
the dead. Christ’s descent to Hades therefore has a prominent place in
Eustathius’ soteriology. Travelling to Hades in his soul, Christ stormed the
gates and freed the human souls imprisoned there, leading them to paradise.41
This is an important idea in both Engastrimytho and Ariomanitas, and Eu-
stathius’ treatment of it is very similar in both of these works. In Engastrimytho,
he writes that ‘Christ . . . established his victory trophy against the enemy,
dragged off the captives as his plunder and ascended, in body, high into [the]
heavens’.42 In Ariomanitas, Christ similarly ‘leads the captives captive’ from
Hades.43 As he leads them out of Hades, Christ ‘leads the human race
into paradise’.44 Christ’s descent had become important to soteriology by the
39
D27:31–4 [Ariomanitas]. The epitomizer seems to have omitted something, because it is
unclear what the thief offers a sign of. The phrase could also be translated ‘the blood-thirsty one
roused the murderous thief at that time, just as, masked as the serpent he slunk up to Eve, so that,
shooting the poisonous words from above, he might offer many people a sign’. The final clause in
the sentence could then refer to Eve, not the thief. However, ‘from the cross’ seems to make most
sense of the phrase KŒ H łÅº ø—literally, ‘from the high places’.
40
D22:9 [Ariomanitas]. Though Eustathius refers to the devil tempting Eve, the sin ‘of the
first-formed’ is presumably Adam’s sin—Eustathius refers to Adam as ‘the first-formed’ (see
‘Genesis 2: The Soul Vivifies the Body’ in Chapter 3).
41 42
See Engastrimytho, 17.9. Engastrimytho, 20.5.
43
D28:8 [Ariomanitas] after Ephesians 4.8, and Psalm 67.18 (LXX, Masoretic text Psalm
68.18).
44
Soteriology 175
fourth century, and Eustathius’ account is in many ways typical.45 There are
unusual aspects of Eustathius’ account—the Origenist idea that the soul of
Christ is an agent in the descent, and the idea that Christ’s soul is simultan-
eously with the penitent thief in paradise;46 these have important Christo-
logical implications, but do not really change the way that Eustathius’
narrative of Christ’s descent reflects on humanity’s bondage to the devil.
Like Origen, Eustathius thinks of human souls in Hades as the devil’s
prisoners—he describes them as ÆNå
ºøı, ‘prisoners of war’.47 The idea
is that those in Hades fought the devil and lost, and now their commander has
come to rescue them.
The devil’s power is a key paradigm by which Eustathius depicts the lapsed
state. Consequently, salvation involves a shift in the power relations in which
human beings are implicated. This shift occurs in two respects, which are
somewhat in tension. First, the power relationship between humankind and
the devil is reversed: through Christ, humankind binds the devil. Second,
Christ replaces the devil as ruler over the human race. Eustathius firmly
believed that the human being of Christ would reign, eschatologically, as
king: ‘[Christ] the human being justly takes up supervening glories, having
also been furnished with power, duly receiving the highest place and the
throne of the kingdom.’48 This completes Eustathius’ narrative of human
history, and shows us how far this narrative casts soteriology in a political
mould. The devil will be replaced by Christ as ruler: his crown is removed and
given to Christ.49 Eustathius offers Ezekiel 21:25–7 in evidence: ‘thus says the
lord: “remove the mitre and take off its crown. It will not be the same. You
have brought low the high thing having brought high the low thing. I will
designate it a wrong thing, until the one who owns it comes, and I shall give it
to him”.’ There are two implications to note here: first, the devil, ‘the tyrant’,
will be ruled over by humankind, whom he once held captive; second, Christ
wields authority over human beings, in place of the devil’s tyranny. This
picture of Christ’s human kingship is very closely mirrored in both Irenaeus
and Marcellus.50
It is vital that the devil is vanquished by a human being—hence Eustathius
emphasizes Christ’s humanity as soteriologically important. This emphasis is
45
Compare Irenaeus, A.H., 4.27.2; Origen, Homilia in Leviticum, 9.5. Remi Gounelle, La
descente du Christ aux enfers: institutionnalisation d’une croyance (Paris: Institut d’études
Augustiniennes, 2000) and Hilarion Alfeyev, Christ the Conqueror of Hell (New York: St
Vladimir’s Theological Press, 2009), pp. 43–101 both argue that, by the fourth century, a
fleshed-out, soteriologically important concept of Christ’s descent to Hades had developed.
46
Compare Athanasius, Letter to Epictetus, 5–6, where Athanasius focuses on the Word’s
descent to Hades and Eusebius, D.E., 10.8.74, where Eusebius suggests that Christ won in Hades
because he was not (completely?) human.
47
D28:6 [Ariomanitas]; Origen, Fragmenta in Lucam, 100.2.
48
D100:5–6 [Arianos].
49
D32:74–81 [Ariomanitas]. 50
See ‘Christ’s Kingdom’ in Chapter 6.

shared with Irenaeus, Methodius, and Marcellus.51 I argued in the last chapter
that Eustathius regards Christ as both a typical and an archetypal human
being. There is certainly a tension between Christ’s typicality and his unique-
ness, but when Eustathius writes of Christ as saviour, it is Christ’s identity with
other human beings that he is keen to establish. So, the Word takes up a
human being in order to ‘punish the devil . . . through the same human race’.52
Similarly, Christ’s soul is a ransom ‘for the souls of the same race (a
›
ªE . . . łıå )’.53 Christ vanquishes the devil on behalf of the human
race, and in a sense the rest of the human race shares in the power that he has
gained. Nonetheless, the human being of Christ is exceptional, and when he
defeats the devil he claims his proper place as king. Correspondingly, Eu-
stathius presents the devil’s relationship to humanity as a perversion of
Christ’s relationship. This is particularly emphatic in his interpretation of
Psalm 73.13–14 in which he contrasts the life-giving qualities of Christ’s
body with the poisonous qualities of the devil’s body.54 With reference to
Christ’s body, he evidently has the Eucharist in mind:
[I]f Christ crucified gives to us the exact representation of his body so that, once
we have partaken of the sacred food, we may inherit incorruptible life, it follows
that, conversely, when the many-shaped serpent dies, he furnishes food from his
body to those who have fled eternal light . . . 55
Eustathius’ use of Psalm 73.13–14 to contrast the devil’s body with the
Eucharist draws on Origen and Methodius, and is later taken up by Athana-
sius.56 This reading of the text is dismissed—though not impolitely—by
Eusebius.57 This passage assumes an inverse parallel between Christ and the
devil. Eustathius juxtaposes the devil’s ultimate pathos simultaneously with
Christ’s pathos on the cross and with Christ’s military victory, which is,
ironically, achieved largely by the cross. The current, perverse scenario will
ultimately be inverted and, when it is, the devil (and his followers) will be
punished. In placing a description of Christ on the cross beside a description
51
See for example Irenaeus, A.H., 3.18.1; Methodius, Convivium, 1.6; Marcellus, Contra
Asterium, K119.
52
53
54
Psalm 73:13–14 (LXX; Masoretic text Psalm 74), which Eustathius quotes, reads, ‘You
crushed the heads of the dragons upon the water. You smashed the dragon’s head. You gave him
as food to the people in Ethiopia.’
55
D32:28–34 [Ariomanitas]. His reference to the many-shaped serpent echoes Revelation
12.2.
56
Origen, De Oratione, 17; Methodius, De sanguisuga ad Eustochium, 4; Athanasius, Epistula
1.5.
57
Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos, PG 23:864, noted by Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius,
p. 103. Eustathius’ place amongst these different interpreters is discussed in ‘Christ’s Kingdom’
in Chapter 6.
Soteriology 177
of his violent victory over the devil, Eustathius embraces a paradox that is also
important to Irenaeus’ theology. ‘Strength is made perfect in weakness.’58
The devil’s power is an evil to be corrected, and it is both pathetic and
perverse. Christ ‘defeats all the body guards of the arch-plunder [IæåØºÅ Æ]’
and so frees the human souls in Hades.59 Highly related ideas about illegitimate
diabolical power appear in several earlier sources. Irenaeus writes that sin was
ºfi ı Æ ŒÆd
c Æ Øºı Æ—‘robbing and not reigning as king’. Clement
of Alexandria similarly refers to the devil as a ŒºÅ and ºfi —‘thief and
robber’.60 These authors convey the same sense of illegitimacy that we find
in Eustathius, in highly related terminology. However, the term IæåØºÅ Æ
is evidenced nowhere else in the corpus of Greek literature catalogued on
Thesaurus Linguae Graecae, and the highly related IæåØºfi —‘arch-plunder-
er’—is a very rare word.61 The unusual term IæåØºÅ Æ betrays a typically
Eustathian flourish of semantic imagination.62 In any case, he implies that the
devil has somehow robbed power from God or Christ, or possibly from the
human race—that the devil has kidnapped humankind. Nonetheless, the devil’s
power over humanity is in some manner legitimate; occasionally, Eustathius
couches it in legalistic terms in which it is the proper consequence of human sin.
He claims that humanity was ‘sold to the penalty of the curse [fiB Œfi B
IæA]’.63 The idea of penalty implies that humanity finds itself in slavery as a
proper consequence of its actions.
There is a dialectic running through Eustathius’ soteriology between the
devil’s power and his pathos, which corresponds to a vision of humankind as
both culprit and victim. This reflects a wider tendency in early Christian
soteriology to intertwine narratives of guilt and human victimhood in the
drama of salvation.64 The prisoner of war motif is ambiguous with respect to
these two poles. Prisoners of war have fought courageously, but they have lost
an open battle, and they are held prisoner justly enough. We can elucidate this
tension in Eustathius by returning to Origen’s use of the notion of prisoners of
war; though deploying this motif, he also refers to fallen people as the devil’s
soldiers:
58
2 Corinthians 12.9. Irenaeus quotes this passage at A.H., 5.3.1.
59
60
Irenaeus, A.H., 3.18.7; Clement of Alexandria, Misc., 1.17. See John 10.8: ‘[Jesus said] “all
who came before me were thieves and ºfi Æ” ’.
61
Though it is recorded by Aelius Herodianus, e.g. De Prosodia Catholica, edited by
Augustus Lentz, Grammatici Graeci, vol. 3.1. (Hildesheim: Olms, 1965), p. 545. It also appears several
times in Josephus (e.g. Antiquitates Judaicae, 20.5; De bello Judaico, 2.275). Most of its instances post-
date the fourth century; the word occurs several times in fifth-century hagiography (e.g. Antonius,
Vita Symeonis Stylitae senioris, 20.1; Anonymous, Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, 10.19).
62
Recall his use of
ºıæªÅŁ to mean ‘limb-formed’ at D19a:17–18 [Ariomanitas].
63
D70:19 [In Proverbia 8.22].
64
Compare Athanasius, De Inc., 6.6, where Athanasius juxtaposes human carelessness and
demonic deceitfulness as possible causes of the fall.

We who were once hostile to God, obeying the enemy and tyrant, the devil, now
have peace indeed with God, if we have thrown away [the devil’s] weapons and
taken up Christ’s sign and the banner of his cross, yet through our Lord Jesus
Christ who reconciled us to God through the recompense [hostiam] of his
blood.65
Origen’s picture is fleshed out a little later in Commentaria in Romanos where
he describes death as an invading tyrant; importantly for the present purpose,
he suggests that death succeeded in invading through ‘collusion with the
sentry’.66 When deploying military metaphors, Origen consistently suggests
that we started out as God’s soldiers, but he paints divergent pictures about
what happened next; were we captured, or did we betray our commander?
A similar tension can be found in Eustathius’ thought, and it requires only a
little conjecture to conclude that Eustathius also specifically deploys the
prisoner of war motif in this way.
Eustathius’ reference to Christ as a ‘ransom from evil’ fits well with the
prisoner of war image and places humanity’s relationship to the devil in a
legalistic framework (I expand on this theme when discussing Eustathius’
ideas about Christ’s death). It is primarily this legalistic concept that underlies
Eustathius’ occasional suggestion that humanity is rightly held captive. Sig-
nificantly, it combines an emphasis on the devil’s role in the lapsed order with
a sense that humanity is responsible for its lapsed reality. There is an inverse
correlation between the extent of the devil’s power and its legitimacy; where
the devil is weak and basically subject to God, he can only have acquired
dominion over humankind by right.
Eustathius takes up a tradition stemming from Origen in interpreting Isaiah
14.9–15 as referring to the devil’s fall, and he identifies within it an ambiguity
about the devil’s power.67 Here is the passage, which Eustathius quotes in full
in Ariomanitas:
Hades beneath is provoked by meeting with you. All those who have been great
rulers of the earth have risen up together against you, those that have raised up all
the kings of nations from their thrones. All will answer and say to you ‘you have
also been taken, just as we have. And you are numbered among us. Your glory
and your great rejoicing have come down into Hades.’ They shall spread corrup-
tion over you, and the worm shall be your covering. How has Lucifer, who rose in
the morning, fallen from heaven? He that sent [orders] to all the nations is
crushed into the earth. But you said in your heart ‘I will go up into heaven,
I will set my throne above heaven’s stars. I will go up above the clouds. I will be
65 66
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 4.8.(1). Origen, Comm. in Rom., 5.1.(31).
67
On Origen’s use of this passage, see his De Princ., 1.5.4–5. For a similar interpretation in
Athanasius, see his C. Ar., III.17. Origen has several other discussions of the devil’s fall, for
example, Contra Celsum, 6.43.
Soteriology 179
like the most high.’ But now you will go down into Hades, and into the
foundations of the earth.68
Eustathius also applies this text to the devil’s fall in Engastrimytho, but begins
the quotation later, so that the description of the imprisoned kings is not
included.69 In both works, the devil’s sin was his attempt to be equal to God: as
quoted here, the devil had said, ‘I will be like the most high’. Eusebius had
suggested the same reading in Demonstratio Evangelica—though he would
offer a considerably different interpretation in Commentaria in Isaiam.70 At
least for Eustathius, this interpretation coheres with his view that the devil’s
power over the current world order is a perversion of God’s.
Eustathius sees an initial ambiguity in scripture about whether the devil is
being punished now, or whether his punishment is yet to take place: ‘on one
hand, the prophets all speak in agreement in saying where, having been
condemned, the devil spends his time. On the other, they sometimes an-
nounce the punishments set before him as if they are describing future
events.’71 He identifies an apparent inconsistency and seeks to resolve it.
Eustathius believes that this inconsistency, like all apparent inconsistencies
in scripture, is ultimately elucidating.72
Unfortunately, the extant text leaves an uncertain impression of how Eu-
stathius resolved scripture’s initial ambiguity about the devil’s fall. The wider
context of the discussion appears to be cosmological: he is examining the
nature of ‘Tartaros’. His analysis of quotations about the devil and Hades
begins after he has described Christ’s descent to Hades:
And if some think this is the hollow in the lowest parts of the earth, they must say
in which and what kind of part the souls are shut up. For until the resurrection its
own place has been assigned to each, and I think that no one doubts that the place
under the earth is different from the tombs. But if someone feigns ignorance, let
him examine closely the voices of the sacred writings.73
We cannot dissociate the claim that the devil is imprisoned in Hades from
the claim that Christ defeated the devil and, in doing so, freed humanity:
Eustathius uses texts that mention ‘Tartaros’ to describe the devil’s imprisonment
68
LXX. The quotation is interspersed through D29:2–16 [Ariomanitas].
69
70
Eusebius, D.E., 4.9. In Commentaria in Isaiam, edited by Joseph Ziegler (Berlin: Akademie-
Verlag, 1975), pp. 103–4, Eusebius gives a two-tiered interpretation: first, he lays a heavy
emphasis on its historical sense—it does tell the story of the fall of Babylon; second, he writes
that this corresponds to the fall, not of Lucifer, but of another angel, the one guarding Babylon.
For Eusebius, the historical earthly events mirror otherworldly ones, but these are contempor-
aneous with them, not primeval.
71
72
See ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works—Engastrimytho—Engastrimytho and
Eustathian Exegesis’ in Chapter 2.
73

in Hades in order to maintain that Christ did, in fact, descend to Hades to free
the souls that were there. Specifically, in his discussion of Hades in Arioma-
nitas, he is trying to establish that Hades is a specific place to which one might
descend and cannot be identified simply with the grave. This excludes a
potential retort to Eustathius’ Christological argument: it was simply Christ’s
body, rather than his soul, that descended to Hades.74 The fact that, prior to
Christ’s advent, humanity was in bondage to the devil is the starting point for
this argument: Christ freed human souls, Eustathius claims. He then describes
Christ’s victory in Hades and only then goes on to describe how the devil came
to be in Hades. He is trying to establish that the devil must have been in Hades
because wherever the devil was, that is where his captive human souls were.
One side of his puzzle is the devil’s dominion. On the other side of the puzzle,
Eustathius evidently connects the devil’s status as prisoner with God’s domin-
ion because, in addressing this tension, he continues: ‘it says “the lair is made
of sharp points, and the sea’s gold under him is as a multitude of clay. He
makes the deep boil like a cauldron. He has dominion over the sea as over an
unguent box and over Tartaros of the deep as a prisoner of war.”’75
Eustathius is hinting at a certain tension between God’s ever-actualized will
and God’s eschatologically actualized will in the variety within what he takes
to be scriptural testimonies about the devil’s fall and imprisonment. This
exposes an ambiguity about the devil’s role in the lapsed order. We might
wonder whether, in synthesizing the prophets’ apparently disparate claims
about the devil, Eustathius concludes that the devil was imprisoned by God in
Hades when he fell, but that he was not defeated then. Christ defeated the devil
when he descended to Hades—and perhaps must yet complete his victory on
earth. Even if we reject this particular reconstruction, it is clear that, when he
identifies a paradox arising from scriptural statements about the devil’s pun-
ishment, Eustathius depicts the devil’s power as multivalent. This is part of a
wider self-qualifying tendency in Eustathius’ discourse on the devil: at times,
he sees the devil’s power as legitimate—but it cannot be entirely so, because it
is immoral.76 At others, he sees it as illegitimate—but, again, he finds this
picture problematic because the rightful wielder of the power currently held by
the devil is God, and it ought to be impossible to wrest power from God. This
is the result of an attempt to understand how the devil is in power now, despite
the fact that everything is subject to God. The devil’s dominion is not absolute.
74
D28:17–20. This is not likely to be an argument actually hailing from the pro-Arian camp,
given the dominance of the idea that Christ descended to Hades; Eustathius brings up what he
takes to be a ridiculous alternative to his position as a rhetorical device.
75
D29:34–7, quoting Job 41.22–4, LXX. Methodius also refers to Tartaros, at De Sanguisuga,
3.1, quoting Proverbs 25.15: ‘Hades, and love of a woman, and Tartaros, and earth not filled with
water and water and fire will not say it is enough,’ which may signal a shared interest in the same
collection of passages.
76
Recall that the devil’s power is ‘the penalty of the curse’ D70:19 [In Proverbia 8.22].
Soteriology 181
It is also not simply an inversion of Christ’s eschatological rule, but rather, a
perversion. Christ rules in power and glory. The devil, tragically, has power,
but he wields it from a humiliated position. The devil wields power over a
lapsed human race; he himself has also fallen. His fallen state is a warped state.
Eustathius’ picture of the devil’s power both utilizes and is shaped by the
models of power available to him. His ambivalence reflects the sensibilities of
early Christian political theology, which fostered a similar ambivalence to-
wards the legitimacy and justice of any power other than God’s. Eustathius’
conceptual resources for articulating power are shaped by his perception of
power in the late Roman Empire.
Political Power in Patristic Thought
The cosmos of the Greco–Roman imagination teemed with supernatural

power wedded to earthly power.77 Some patristic authors suggest that this
marriage is, if not an unhappy one, at least profoundly unhealthy, connecting
imperial power with the devil; for example, in Irenaeus’ view, imperial power
set the stage for the devil.78 Conversely, Christology is also connected to ideas
about the emperor, though almost always in a context where the analogy
between Christ and emperor is supposed to be imprecise. For example,
Athanasius, arguing that the image of God, Christ, can also be God, writes
that ‘[the emperor’s] image might indeed say “I and the emperor are one. I am
in the emperor, and the emperor is in me”’.79
Nor may we simply speak of patristic writers as being ‘opposed to’ or ‘in
favour of ’ the Roman Empire. Even the most positive descriptions of earthly
authority tend to emphasize the derivative nature of earthly authority from
divine authority.80 Among the most negative we are likely to find a qualifying
sense that earthly rulers are under divine sovereignty and are therefore
ordained by God. This tends to correspond with a belief, or at least a suspicion,
that, for all the faults of earthly government, the world would be worse without
it. Irenaeus’ notion that the emperor paves the way for the antichrist is so often
77
The social and political practices of the Roman Empire are replete with examples; oaths to
gods were often required upon taking up office, as in the Flavian charter of Salpensa; the emperor
cult also, quite pointedly, blends the categories of divine and human power [see Douglas
Edwards, Religion and Power: Pagans, Jews and Christians in the Greek East (Oxford: OUP,
1996), p. 50, and Chapters 4 and 5, respectively].
78
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.26.
79
Athanasius, C.Ar., III, 5. See Lester Field, Liberty, Dominion and the Two Swords: On the
Origins of Western Political Theology (180–398) (London: University of Notre Dame Press,
1998), pp. 220–8.
80
See Clement of Rome, First Letter to the Corinthians, 61, where Clement claims that God
gave earthly rulers power.

rightly noted for following in the anti-imperial tradition of John’s Apoca-
lypse.81 Nonetheless, he can also write that
[e]arthly rule . . . has been appointed by God for the benefit of the nations—and
not by the devil, who is never at rest at all, and does not love to see even the
gentiles conducting themselves in a quiet way. This is so that under fear of it,
people might not eat each other up like fish, but, by the establishment of laws,
they might hold down the great wickedness of the gentiles. And in this way,
earthly rulers are God’s ministers.82
Here, earthly authority is a consequence of human sin, but its institution is an
act of divine mercy, helping to rein in the consequences of sin. Tertullian very
similarly argues that God restrains pagan savagery through juridical vio-
lence.83 Although earthly power is legitimate for both Irenaeus and Tertullian,
there are conditions placed on its legitimacy. In the same passage, Irenaeus
says that earthly authority should be respected where it is doing what is right: a
person’s obligation to submit to authority is contingent upon the authority’s
morality, but it is not quite clear that the authority’s legitimacy is the same
thing, or is contingent in the same way. We may suspect that Eustathius,
likewise, consistently views the devil as a tyrant, and a tyrant to be resisted—
the ambiguity rests on the legitimacy or otherwise of his power of humankind.
In the 320s, the relationship between the church and the state was extremely
uncertain. As I observed in Chapter 1, the ever-shifting relations between
church and empire had undergone especially large fluctuations within living
memory, and a number of the leaders of the church of the 320s had personally
suffered violence, to varying degrees, at the hands of the imperial governance.
This shaped collective Christian self-definition, as is repeatedly evidenced in
the discourse of the Constantinian Church.84 The ‘Constantinian Revolution’
then offered the church much. However, the church was soon to learn that it
also demanded much.85
We have seen that Eustathius was disappointed by the compromise that
Constantine’s intervention had produced at Nicaea. He must have remained
conscious that this scenario was not the violence that he had witnessed, and
perhaps experienced, under Constantine’s rival emperors some thirteen years
previously, but nor was it unambiguously positive. The earlier experience of
persecution, though inevitably casting Constantine’s behaviour in a favourable
light, was also likely to render the church suspicious of the empire. Whatever
81
See Oliver O’Donovan and Joan Lockwood O’Donovan, introduction to Irenaeus, From
Irenaeus to Grotius: A Sourcebook in Christian Political Thought (Cambridge: William
B. Eerdmans, 1999), pp. 15–16.
82 83
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.24.2. Tertullian, De Anima, 56.8.
84
Recall for example Athanasius’ reference to ‘Asterius the sacrificer’, noted in ‘Life before
Antioch’ in Chapter 1.
85
See Williams, Arius, pp. 236–9.
Soteriology 183
he was feeling before Nicaea, its course clearly led Eustathius to be dubious
about imperial involvement in the church. Eustathius does not obviously
connect imperial power with the devil’s power, and it is unlikely that he
intended an extended and explicit analogy between the two, but it makes
sense that the ambivalence that he felt about imperial power would have
provided conceptual resources for his writing about the devil’s power.
THE S TRUGGLING SINNER
Struggling against the Devil
The devil’s ambiguous power over humankind is manifest in his power over
each human being. Again, his power is not absolute, because the human being
can, and sometimes does, struggle against the devil. However, the human
being can only triumph in this struggle with the Spirit’s help. Underlying
Eustathius’ account is a view of human agency supported by the Spirit which
finds parallels in Origen, though Eustathius has a greater sense that we are
trapped than Origen did. Eustathius’ notion that human beings may struggle,
but not triumph, without the Spirit is evident from two discussions in Ario-
manitas: first, one about the thieves crucified with Christ and second, one
about Paul’s use of the terms łıåØŒ and ı
ÆØŒ (which we came across
in Chapter 4).
Eustathius contrasts the penitent thief with the (continuously) blasphemous
thief, juxtaposing the Spirit’s influence with that of the devil. In one fragment
he writes, ‘I, for my part, would not say that the wrong-doer broke out with the
cry of the best confession without the aid of God, as nor was the other [wrong-
doer] without the enemy spirit resonating in him.’ A little later, he claims ‘each
utters words through each spirit and, whilst one was aroused from the divine
breath, the other was aroused from the influx of devilish works’.86 Further
along in the same fragment, Eustathius employs the same Spirit–devil oppos-
ition again when he describes the thief ’s struggle with the devil prior to
repentance, and how the Spirit enabled the thief to triumph. The Spirit does
not prompt the human being to virtue, in a mirror image of the devil tempting
the human being to sin; rather, the Spirit strengthens the human being so that
he or she can be virtuous. Sin often results from weakness. We are too weak to
resist the devil without God’s help. In cases where we are seeking to do good,
the Spirit completes our agency.
86
D26:4–7, D27:14–17, respectively [Ariomanitas].

Christ intervenes for the thief because he was struggling against the devil:
‘seeing that one of the criminals had been locked in a struggle
[ ı
ºª
] with the traps of the evil one, [Jesus] took for himself the
fearless soul’.87 However, the thief is described as saving himself after this
intervention: ‘the fruit of your lips, though the very last, supplied a release
from evil for you’.88 The Spirit enhances human agency, rather than replacing
it. Nor does the Spirit restore something that had been entirely lost. The
individual who is attempting to resist the devil is evidently not absolutely in
bondage to him. The struggle in which the thief is engaged is not a necessary
and constant feature of the lapsed state; both thieves were originally blas-
pheming, so the struggle cannot simply refer to the bondage to the devil in
which we all find ourselves.89 This thief, in particular, struggled, and he is
described as ‘fearless’ for doing so, suggesting that he could, rather, have been
fearful and therefore not struggled. The thief ’s attempt to resist the devil
preceded the intervention of Christ and the Spirit.
Eustathius conveys a strong sense of grace when he writes of the Spirit
strengthening the penitent thief: ‘when munificent Jesus . . . saw that one of the
criminals had been locked in a struggle with the traps of the evil one, he took
for himself [KÆØæEÆØ] the fearless soul from among those who bore the traps
of death’.90 The phrase ‘munificent Jesus’ has a strong devotional tone, more
especially because Eustathius only refers to Christ as ‘Jesus’ thirteen times in
his extant writings and seven of these instances are direct biblical quotations.91
Subsequently, Jesus bestows the Spirit upon the thief, and the thief wins his
fight with the devil. This passage is significant to Eustathius’ view of human
freedom in several ways: the thief, before he has repented, is struggling against
the devil, rather than working on the devil’s behalf. However, he is incapable of
winning his struggle—and therefore repenting—without the Spirit. He is
thrashing in a trap. Eustathius may well have in mind Psalm 124.7 (LXX):
‘Our soul has been rescued, like a sparrow from the fowlers’ snare; the snare is
broken and we are rescued.’92 There is clearly a sense of Christ’s decision to
help the thief here—he ‘took [the thief] for himself ’—and a strong emphasis
on Christ’s mercy. This suggests that the thief has lost the ability to do the
87
88
D27:89. In the epitome, the author is ‘addressing’ the thief and so uses the second-person
singular.
89
D27:1–43. There is also the sense that the devil is particularly attacking the thief who will
repent.
90
91
He also refers once to ‘Jesus Christ’, [D92a:4, D92b:1] quoting 2 Timothy 2.8. This instance
occurs within the epitome, but the unusualness of it suggests that it is Eustathius’ wording;
whatever the relationship of the epitome to the original text, it is clear that this is not the
epitomizer’s usual mode of presenting the text.
92
Compare Athanasius’ letter of Easter 338 [letter 10], section 10, where this verse is
alluded to.
Soteriology 185
right thing, and needs God’s help to regain it. He apparently has not, however,
become devoid of the power of moral differentiation, because he is aware that
he ought to resist the devil.
The thief ’s struggle prior to Christ’s intervention seems to echo Romans
7.19: ‘I do not the good I want to do, but the evil that I do not want is what
I do.’ Origen discusses Romans 7:14–25 and writes that will [voluntas] is easier
to convert than action.93 The concept of IŒæÆ Æ—roughly ‘weakness impair-
ing ability to act on conviction’—though nowhere referred to, lurks suggest-
ively behind Eustathius’ picture. Plato famously wrestled with the problem of
whether it was possible to sin knowingly.94 In Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethica,
IŒæÆ Æ is the state of someone whose reason is rightly directed, but whose
passion is both wrongly directed and stronger than their reason.95 Plotinus
carries on this discussion of ‘weakness [I ŁØÆ] in the soul’.96 The text does
not allow us to chart Eustathius precisely within these waters, but we should
note that a rich and well-established discourse on the possibility, or otherwise, of
acting against one’s better judgement was available to him and that, therefore,
his account of the thief ’s struggle should not be taken to be unreflective.
Eustathius elsewhere shows a more mundane sense of the pressures under
which moral decision-making is placed in the lapsed world order. In describ-
ing Joseph’s treatment by his brothers, he claims that ‘Reuben and Judah took
the best counsel together, if it comes to that, for they were holding out against
savage men’, as Simeon and Levi had already committed a massacre.97 Reuben
and Judah are excused on the basis that their actions are constrained by their
bloodthirsty brothers—they have both sought to make the best of a bad
situation. However, Eustathius’ praise of them is lukewarm—he is not happy
to commend their actions. This coheres with the idea of sin as a result of
bondage to the devil. Sin is performed under some degree of compulsion, but
there is still responsibility and some volition in a sinful action.
Eustathius’ ambivalence about the relationship between human guilt and
the devil’s power probably reflects the ambiguous nature of Œ Ø—roughly,
‘willing’ or ‘voluntary’—action in Hellenic discourse. A well-known passage
from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethica offers a good example.98 Aristotle claims
that some actions are ‘mixed’—partly Œ Ø and partly IŒ Ø. He gives
93 94
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 6.9.(9). See in particular Plato, Protagoras, 358d.
95 96
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethica, 1145a16. For example, Plotinus, Enneads, 1.8.
97
D121a, quote D121a:2 [In Joseph]. According to Genesis 37: 21–8, most of Joseph’s
brothers wanted to kill him. Reuben suggested putting him in a well instead, intending to rescue
him later, and Judah suggested selling him into slavery rather than killing him. The latter took
place. Eustathius interprets Judah’s suggestion as an attempt to save Joseph’s life. According to
Genesis 34:25–9, Simeon and Levi commit a massacre in revenge for the rape of their
sister, Dinah.
98
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethica, 3.1, 1110b15–17. Nemesius, De Natura Hominis, section
30, relays this passage, so it is reasonably likely that Eustathius was also aware of it.

the example of a sailor throwing goods overboard in a storm—the sailor would
not normally want to throw goods overboard, and he is only doing so because
his options are constrained by the storm, so his action is IŒ Ø. He has
however, decided to throw the goods overboard and it is what he wants to do
given the situation he is in—so in this sense his action is Œ Ø. Philoponus
can write that Alexander of Aphrodisias, uncomfortable with some implications
of Aristotle’s thought, confesses them both ¼Œø and Œ.99 Of more imme-
diate relevance to Eustathius’ picture of bondage to the devil, the response of a
subject living under a tyrant could be placed in the same category—hence the
ambiguous response to the authority of tyrannical rulers. So, Epictetus claims
that someone threatened by a tyrant, if they are really concerned for their
æÆæ Ø (roughly, ‘power of choice’), will refuse to be coerced.100 The
Christians’ attitudes to those of their number who sacrificed to the pagan
gods under duress illustrate this well: evidently, those who did so were unwilling
apostates—and yet apostates they had opted to be.101
A simultaneous belief in the crippling nature of human circumstance and
the reality of various moral possibilities developed in a Christian context
between the doctrines of the fall—which both emphasizes this crippling
circumstance and links it to human sin—and the Spirit—who may lift the
person from the storm that is constraining their moral possibilities. For
Eustathius, doing the right thing involves deciding to be helped by God.
This could give the impression that a person must simply decide between
the devil and the Spirit. However, Eustathius tends to see the rejection of the
devil and the acceptance of the Spirit as distinct events. A person is presented
with the option either to follow the devil or not, or to follow the Spirit or not,
rather than being presented with both simultaneously. So, the penitent thief
first decided to struggle against the devil and only then received the Spirit.
That Eustathius regards the reception of the Spirit as involving a decision is
evident from his discussion of Paul’s use of the terms ı
ÆØŒ or łıåØŒ:
The apostle tends to call human beings ‘soul-like’ inasmuch as, when they sin
through the soul, the fellowship [ŒØøÆ] of the divine Spirit is turned away,
and ‘spiritual’ inasmuch as, through divinely inspired citizenship, they partake
[ŒØøF Ø] in the Holy Spirit, accepting its plenty.102
So, a person needs the Spirit to resist the devil, but must first decide to do so.
The implication is that there are two distinct moments of deliberation
99
Philoponus, In de Anima, 159, 10–15, introducing Alexander, Fragmenta, 14–16e.
100
Epictetus, Dissertationes, 1.19.9.
101
During Eustathius’ lifetime, the church had the task of working out the status of those who
had sacrificed during the so-called Great Persecution. See canons 1 and 2 of the Council of
Ancyra, 314, which allow apostate clerics who had subsequently repented and been subject to
persecution re-admittance to the order whilst removing their sacramental responsibilities.
102
Soteriology 187
involved when someone under the devil’s power makes the right decision: the
first, against the devil, and the second in favour of the Spirit. In temporally
differentiating these two decisions, Eustathius wants to avoid the suggestion
that the person is simply torn between the devil and the Spirit, able only to
submit to one or the other. The moral struggle cannot be adequately described
in terms of rival tempters. Also, some of the native moral agency that God
originally bestowed on Adam remains in the lapsed human being.
A related passage in Origen’s Commentaria in Romanos has striking simi-
larities but also, important differences, with Eustathius’ treatment of the
penitent thief. Origen describes the soul, torn between the spirit and the
flesh.103 Then he writes that
the devil and his angels and all the evil spirits in the heavenly regions together
with all the principalities and powers and rulers of the infernal parts of this
world . . . support the flesh in its lust against the spirit. But on the other hand, all
the good angels support the spirit as it struggles against the flesh and attempts to
summon the human soul, which is intermediate, to itself . . . The Lord himself
also lends his support, inasmuch as he even laid down his own life for his sheep.
But out of both sides’ support, the discipline of choice [favoris] is preserved. For
the matter is not done by force nor is the soul moved in either of the two
directions by compulsion.104
Origen also has the idea that we are caught in a moral struggle, and that
otherworldly, spiritual forces stand on each side of it. I have already noted that
Eustathius does not follow Origen in characterizing the moral struggle as one
between the spirit and the flesh. Origen’s tripartite anthropology involves a
substantially different interpretation of references to the ‘spiritual’ state—the
spirit is not an external agent—and this partly explains Origen’s depiction of
angels and devils, rather than the Spirit and the devil—as rival cheerleaders in
a moral struggle. Origen does rather suggest that the soul is simply torn
between the flesh and the spirit, but this does not reduce the agent’s choice
to submission to one of two rival tempters—the choice is between different
aspects of the agent, which represent different ethical possibilities. Because
Eustathius does not adopt a tripartite anthropology, the question is differently
put for him: a decision for the Spirit is not a decision within oneself.
Origen’s insistence that there is ‘no compulsion’ in the person’s choice at
least places much more emphasis on liberty of indifference than we find in
Eustathius. It is not clear that Origen thinks that a lack of compulsion means
that our choices are unfettered by circumstance. In De Principiis, he writes that
someone who fails to resist temptation cannot argue that they had no choice,
because ‘someone who had more understanding and discipline’ as a
103
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 1.18.(5)
104
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 1.18.(6–7), amended from the translation of Thomas P. Scheck.

consequence of different previous experiences would have resisted tempta-
tion.105 This suggests that we are to some extent trapped by our experience.
Eustathius, then, has moved less far from Origen’s view of moral struggle than
it initially appears. Nonetheless, there is a difference in emphasis: Eustathius
has a greater sense of human victimhood than Origen. Perhaps an Origenist
doctrine of the fall has been modified by an Irenaean sense of original
vulnerability, contributing to the inefficacy of our moral efforts. The result is
a picture of human agency after the expulsion from Eden that is arguably more
negative than that drawn by either of those earlier thinkers.
In seeing good moral orientation as acceptance of the Spirit, Eustathius does
not mean to limit our self-direction to the ability to submit. Eustathius’
theology of the Spirit blends a Pauline concept of partaking in the Spirit
with Stoic ethical theory. His picture of the reception of grace makes most
sense if we suppose that underlying it is a concept of decision-making as assent
[ ıªŒÆ Ł Ø] or otherwise to a particular proposition or impression. Such a
concept of decision-making was very common in Stoic philosophy.106 It is
echoed, notably, by Origen.107 The parallel is inexact; in Stoic philosophy one
might assent to ideas, impulses, or propositions. Eustathius is instead talking
about assent to an external, sentient agent—the Spirit. Nonetheless, Stoic
ethical theory provides a framework for his discussion. Seen in this light,
assent to the Spirit is not an inactive reception, but involves deliberation and is
potentially a decisive moral act.108
Although a comparison with Stoic ethics has its uses, it also has its limitations;
the Pauline language of partaking, or fellowship [ŒØøø], that Eustathius
uses to talk about the Spirit is more dynamic and cooperative than the Stoic
language of assent.109 The fact that he is talking about the Spirit both enables
and requires this. Through the concept of assent, Stoic ethics offers a picture of
what we are doing when we make a decision, and it is a picture that shows a keen
awareness that our actions are situated in, and reacting to, a particular context.
For patristic thinkers, relationship with God was integral to this context.
The Spirit fulfils, rather than overrules, human agency. After Christ has
intervened on his behalf, the thief, imbued with the Spirit, repents, and it is
said to be his own repentance that saves him: ‘the fruit of your lips, though the
very last, supplied a release from evil for you’.110 Here, it is the sinner’s human
105
Origen, De Princ., 3.1.4 (translation from the Greek text in Philocalia, chapter 21).
106
See Zeno, Fragmenta, 68, line 5. A discussion can be found in Susanne Bobzien, Deter-
minism and Freedom in Stoic Philosophy (Oxford: OUP, 2001), pp. 240–1.
107
Origen, De Princ., 3.1.1: ‘clearly assenting is up to us’. Translated from the Greek,
Philocalia, chapter 21.
108
Frede surveys the development of the concept of deliberation, in relation to assent, in
Stoicism in his A Free Will, pp. 31–48.
109
See Philippians 2.1–2, as noted in ‘Adam and Christ’ in Chapter 4.
110
Soteriology 189
action that is soteriologically efficacious, but this can only be human action
brought to fulfilment by God’s help. Correspondingly, Eustathius depicts
Christians as engaging in a struggle, evoking a strong sense of the individual’s
substantial and genuine moral agency in a context where the person is already
strengthened by the Spirit. He uses the athletic games as a metaphor to
describe the Christian’s struggle. It is unclear whether he has in mind mar-
tyrdom and persecution, of which, as we have seen, he was keenly conscious,
or ascetic practice, which was an important feature of fourth-century Chris-
tianity.111 The games were commonly deployed as a metaphor for moral
striving in both Christian and pagan Greco–Roman literature—in Plato,
Paul, Irenaeus, and Eusebius among others.112 For Eustathius, as for these
other writers, the games were a present reality.113 As in the games at Antioch
or Rome, so in the games of spiritual struggle, there are rewards for those who
win: ‘the prizes for the best athletes lie displayed’.114 Immediately following
this Eustathius refers to the time when ‘each rightly contending
[IªøØ
Ø] is honoured’.115 This extended metaphor clearly casts the
‘contender’—the spiritual athlete—as responsible for his or her own victory.
One suspects that something has been lost from the text that might clarify
what constitutes ‘rightly [K
ø] contending’. Eustathius is probably allud-
ing to 1 Corinthians 9.25: ‘Everyone contending is temperate in all things, they
in order that they may receive a corruptible crown, we an incorruptible one.’ If
so, he might plausibly mean that one has to be struggling for the right things,
and in the right direction. Irenaeus quotes this passage and draws from it the
importance of struggle; for him, it is tied up with the need for our autonomy,
and has a theodical element: ‘The apostle has enjoined us to love God so that
we may take this [prize] ourselves by striving [±ªH]. For otherwise . . . our
good would make no sense, not resulting from trial.’116 There is little to
suggest that Eustathius makes the theodical connection that Irenaeus does,
but he does share the sense that rightly struggling has intrinsic value. By
claiming that everyone who contends rightly is honoured, Eustathius recog-
nizes a degree of victory, or at least credit, in moral effort.
111
Methodius’ Convivium—a big influence on Eustathius—offers a good example. Consider
also Athanasius’ Vita Antonii, written much later in the fourth century.
112
Plato, Resp., 403e–404a; Philippians, 3.12–14; 1 Cor. 9.24–37; Irenaeus, A.H., 4.37.7;
Eusebius, P.E., 7.8.36; Athanasius, Epistula 14 (Easter 342), 5; see Gillian Clark, ‘The Health of
the Spiritual Athlete’ in Health in Antiquity, edited by Helen King (London: Routledge, 2005),
216–29. Canons 1 and 2 of the Council of Ancyra, 314 refer to the persecutions under Diocletian
and his successors as contests.
113
Elaborate games were held at Antioch through the fourth century. See Glanville Downey,
‘The Olympic Games at Antioch in the Fourth Century A.D.’, Transactions and Proceedings of the
American Philological Society, 70 (1939), 428–38.
114
115 116
D32:89–90 [Ariomanitas]. Irenaeus, A.H., 4.37.7.
Moral Struggle and the Humanity of Christ
Eustathius’ Christology structures his account of the relationship between

grace and human action. His account of grace rests on a dilemma found in
both Irenaeus and (though less emphatically) Origen: human beings must save
themselves, but are unable to do so. This corresponds to his insistence that, in
Christ, humankind extracts itself from its own dire predicament. However,
Christ’s humanity is only able to do this because it is united with God.
Christ’s Contingent Goodness

Eustathius’ attitude towards ethical and spiritual struggle suggests a concern
with ÆP Ø. This is speculative because the term is not evidenced in
his extant writings. However, a careful comparison of Eustathius with Euse-
bius confirms this impression, and suggests that we can place his ideas about
moral struggle within a wider conversation involving Eusebius, Methodius,
and Origen. In Eusebius’ work, there is a clear and persistent line of
thought about self-direction and choice, echoing both Origen and Methodius.
Eusebius uses the term ÆPæÆæ Ø, first evidenced in Methodius.117
We have seen that Eustathius shares Origen’s and emphasis on Adam’s
disobedience.118
Following Uthemann, I have already suggested that Eustathius and Euse-
bius share a concern for Christ’s contingent goodness—goodness that is
neither compelled nor necessarily arises from the agent’s nature, and is in
this sense voluntary.119 Eustathius’ psychology, and Eusebius’ logos-theology,
both draw on Origen’s idea that Christ’s soul is sinless by choice.120 Recall that
Eustathius argues that the logic of pro-Arian Christology is that Christ did not
‘give up his own body willingly [Œı ø]’.121 In a Latin fragment from
Arianos–De Fide–In Proverbia 8.22, he writes that the human being of Christ
‘decided willingly [censuit sponte] to sustain the passion of death’.122 Similarly,
Eusebius writes of Christ submitting to the Father ‘by [his] own choice and
willingly’.123 Eusebius tells us how Christ’s voluntary goodness links in with
117
See Eusebius, P.E., 6.6.4; D.E., 9.4.3; Methodius, De Res., 1.38. I am indebted to Lyman,
Christology and Cosmology, p. 102, for this comparison.
118
The focus on Adam’s disobedience is less prominent in Eusebius, but see P.E., 7.8.11.
119
See ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works—Ariomanitas’ in Chapter 2. There is
insufficient material to determine precisely how Eustathius envisages the inner psychological
processes by which someone might opt for a given course of action; he cannot be located within
the very complex discussion about the concept of will in ancient sources. See Albrecht Dihle, The
Theory of the Will in Classical Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982); Michael
Frede, A Free Will: Origins of the Notion in Ancient Thought (London: University of California
Press, 2007).
120 121
Origen, De Princ., 2.6.5. D15a:1–2.
122 123
D93a:1–2 [Arianos]. Eusebius, D.E., 10.8.61.
Soteriology 191
his wider view of human agency when he writes that ÆP Ø is ‘for
choosing good things’.124 Eustathius’ emphasis on moral struggle, and his
similar focus on Christ’s willing goodness, makes most sense if we suppose
that he and Eusebius both think that human goodness is recovered through
Christ’s right exercise of ÆP Ø.
Christ’s willing or voluntary goodness is thus a battleground in Ariomani-
tas. For Eustathius, Christ’s willing sacrifice is emphatically the gift of a human
being; at least in his anti-Arian works, it is pointedly the human being of
Christ, rather than the Word, who dies. According to Eustathius, a ‘soulless’
Christ cannot fulfil the criteria for human goodness. I have argued that he does
not want Christ to be immutable, voluntarily or otherwise. We might also
suppose that, for Eustathius, a soulless human body united with the Word
cannot have the right kind of human ÆP Ø.
Christ’s Strengthened Humanity

Eustathius’ understanding of how it is that Christ’s humanity is able to be a
saviour to the human race is shaped by a belief that lapsed humanity is unable
to save itself: that is why God had to assume a human being. Eustathius’ sense
that we are weakened by the lapse coheres with the way in which Christ
overcomes lapsed nature for Eustathius. Christ is perfect because he is
‘strengthened’ by the Spirit. The implication is not that union with the Spirit
removed temptation from Christ—why would he require strength if that were
the case?—but that the Spirit enabled Christ to withstand temptation. By
uniting with ¼Łæø, God renders human willpower what it should be,
and thereby enables ¼Łæø to save itself. The same picture is evident in
his descriptions of individuals struggling against the devil, or becoming
ı
ÆØŒ: the Spirit strengthens the person, and in doing so enables him
or her to make the right decision and therefore to defeat the devil and move
towards a ı
ÆØŒ state.125
Predictably, Eustathius’ conception of humanity’s role in Christ’s salvific
actions developed as he ceased to see the Word as an agent of Christ’s acts. In
comparative terms, humanity becomes a greater agent of its own salvation as
Eustathius’ delineation between the actions of Christ’s humanity and those of
the Word becomes greater. However, this dynamic is complicated by a
persistent belief that Christ’s humanity can only perform salvific actions
because it is helped by the in-dwelling Word.
The contrast between the roles given to Christ’s humanity in Eustathius’
early works and in his anti-Arian works is pointed. As we saw in Chapter 2, in
124
Eusebius, P.E., 6.6.50.
125
Eustathius’ term for the Spirit’s action on Christ—ŒæÆÆØøŁd—may be indebted to
Methodius, who frequently refers to KªŒæ ØÆ as a virtue. See Methodius, Convivium, 6.3.16.

Engastrimytho, Eustathius sometimes describes Christ’s actions as God’s ac-
tions. For example, with reference to Christ’s temptation in the wilderness,
Eustathius asserts that ‘the Lord silenced the avenging spirit by long-sufferance,
for it is proper to God to bear everything patiently’.126 In Ariomanitas and
Arianos, Christ’s actions are human actions. Christ’s humanity was nonetheless
already important in Eustathius’ earlier thought. Very significantly, Christ’s
human soul is the principal agent of the journey to Hades and paradise,
‘strengthened by the divine Spirit’ as it is in his anti-Arian works.127 In his
earlier writings, God and humanity effect human salvation together. In his later
writings, it is barely an exaggeration to say that Christ’s humanity performs
every salvific act.128 God strengthens and is united to the human Jesus, but the
human being is the agent of any given action, as Eustathius’ soteriology requires.
Salvation is a human act enabled by God. Any given salvific act cannot occur
without God, but it is not efficacious unless a human being is its agent.
Eustathius’ later soteriology therefore has a high view of intrinsic human
potential, but this potential is dependent on God for realization.
Eustathius sometimes describes God’s union with Christ’s humanity as if it
made the human Jesus a kind of superman. The most striking instance is the
omnipresence of Christ’s human soul. We have seen that Eustathius casts
Christ’s human soul as a mediator between God and the physical world, in an
Origenist fashion, and that this has two implications: first, the soul’s humanity
is integral to its disembodied actions and, second, as human, Christ’s soul is
superior to other human souls. Christ’s soul was not only in Hades and
paradise simultaneously while his body was dead, but also was in heaven
with the Word while his body was on earth. Evidently, it was simultaneously
vivifying his living, walking, talking body. Eustathius bases his argument on
John 3.13: ‘No one has ever ascended to heaven, except the one who came
from heaven, the son of ¼Łæø, who is in heaven.’129 Eusebius of Caesarea
conversely argues that it is Christ’s divinity that has come down from heaven
in his Commentaria in Psalmos.130 Difficulty in dating either Ariomanitas or
Commentaria in Psalmos precisely makes it difficult to establish who is
responding to whom, but these two passages are probably part of one Christo-
logical conversation.131 Eustathius, for his part, wants to get at the fact that it is
126
127
Engastrimytho, 17.10. Compare D21:11–12 [Ariomanitas].
128
Recall that ‘the human being of Christ’ must have descended to Hades [D28:4–7, Ario-
manitas] and entered paradise [D21:28–30, Ariomanitas], and will be the one who receives the
eternal throne of the kingdom [D100, whole fragment, Arianos].
129
Quoted in D20:2–4 [Ariomanitas].
130
Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos, PG 23:793.
131
Dates for completion of Eusebius’ Psalms commentary vary from 325 to after 330. For a
summary, see Michael Hollerich, Eusebius of Caesarea’s Commentary on Isaiah: Christian
Exegesis in the Age of Constantine (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), p. 8, note 34.
Soteriology 193
a human being who came from heaven before the ascension and must
therefore have gone to heaven before the ascension—while Christ was on
earth. He emphasizes the humanity of Christ’s soul in talking about its
extraordinary omnipresence. At the same time, he extols the superiority of
Christ’s humanity. Christ can be in Hades and paradise at the same time ‘by
the excellence of [his] soul’.132
The unique strength and power of the human being of Christ is efficacious
within Eustathius’ soteriology because Christ opens up paths in which others
can follow: he has stormed the gates of Hades, and unlocked paradise, so no
one else needs to be able to do these things. However, this power and glory is
repeatedly declared to be reliant on the help of the Word who is united with
the human being.133 The Word’s strengthening of Jesus partly points forward
to eschatological humanity. We have already seen that a Pauline and Irenaean
idea of Christ as archetypal humanity was important to Eustathius, and there
is a sense that everyone will, like Christ, be strengthened by the Word.134 It is
perfectly possible that Eustathius believed that all human souls would even-
tually achieve omnipresence, as Christ’s soul did. As I observed in Chapter 4,
Eustathius sees an imperfect comparison between the way in which the Spirit
is united with Christ and the way in which the Spirit is united with
ı
ÆØŒ Christians. The belief that the souls of all ı
ÆØŒ people,
eschatologically, are omnipresent would cohere with the idea that Christ was
the ‘first fruits of the resurrection from the dead’, which Eustathius deploys.
This would affirm the salvific agency of Christ’s humanity in one sense: it is a
completed human being that saves the rest of the human race, not because he
is superhuman, but because he is more human than other human beings (yet)
are. However, the extent to which Christ’s humanity has no more divine help
than the rest of humanity is also the extent to which humanity intrinsically
needs God’s help.
Eustathius’ sense that lapsed humanity retains some freedom, and that its
lack of freedom resides primarily in weakness, gives coherence to his under-
standing of Christ’s full humanity. As observed in Chapter 4, Eustathius’ view
of the union between the human being and the Spirit gives the impression that
God bolsters the person continually. His soteriology generally has a strong
awareness of God’s gracious gift, and humanity’s need for it, alongside his
conception of humankind as at considerable distance from God. So, the whole
chain of soteriological events, in which a human being is to act, starts with
God’s decision to save humanity. Significantly, Eustathius spells this out at the
same time as emphasizing Christ’s humanity; it is not an alternative thesis.
132 133
Engastrimytho, 18.4. Engastrimytho, 17.10; D21:11–12 [Ariomanitas].
134
In Origen also, the strengthening of Christ’s soul by union with God finds a parallel in
wider human perfection through union with God. See De Princ., 3.6.3 for the soul’s eventual
union with God.

Hence his reading of Romans 5.15 simultaneously accentuates Christ’s hu-
manity and the Son’s decision to become incarnate:
‘For if we many have died by the transgression of one human being, how much
more the grace, and the gift in the grace of Jesus Christ abounds in the many.’135
Therefore assuredly, in the transgression of the first-formed, the death coming
from sin hurled on, great and incurable. But the child of God . . . having determined
to punish the devil, the sower of death through the same human race, bore the whole
human being, in order that . . . he might hold sway in incorruptible life.136
The Child of God decided to train a prize fighter. Christ’s decisions, made
while he is strengthened by his union with God, fulfil Eustathius’ criteria for
human, contingent, willing goodness. This tells us that human freedom is
supposed to be located in receiving help from God—that is, in grace.
WEAKNESS AND THE ORIGINS OF S IN
Eustathius’ ideas about what distinguishes Christ’s humanity from the rest of
humanity elucidate his view of the origins of sin. Christ is preserved from sin
in two respects. First, his soul is uniquely unpolluted. This draws on the
Origenist idea that Christ’s soul, uniquely, had not fallen, but does not require
belief in the pre-existence of souls. Second, Christ is strengthened by the Spirit.
As we saw in Chapters 3 and 4, it is the Spirit that ultimately renders the
resurrected Christ ı
ÆØŒ—the first new human being, contrasted, not
with current, sinful humanity, but with the sinless humanity of pre-lapsed
Adam. This latter contrast raises a problem that was so famously to vex
Augustine: how did sin start? How did sinless people sin?137 We have seen
that Eustathius connects the łıåØŒ condition with sinfulness, and hints at
something deficient in the pre-lapsed condition that enabled sin. The sense
that the Spirit strengthens the resolve of the sinner to bring them to repent-
ance suggests an Irenaean resolution: original humanity was weak, and there-
fore could not resist the devil.
Moral Opportunity after the Lapse
The current life is an arena for moral struggle. Here, people struggle with the
devil and the Spirit comes to their aid. The devil’s power over human beings is
not absolute. Consequently, the current life is a window of opportunity as well
135 136
Romans, 5.15. D22:10–15 [Ariomanitas].
137
See for example Augustine, De Libero Arbitrio, 1.2.
Soteriology 195
as a time of bondage. This opportunity no longer exists in Hades. The penitent
thief, though enslaved to the devil, is enabled to be victorious in a struggle. In
Hades, captive souls must simply await Christ’s rescue. Now, we may be
partial architects of our own salvation. Correspondingly, our current moral
status is laced with ambiguity. In the current life, we are denizens of an
oppressive and evil regime, but we have some capacity to resist it.
Christ, by contrast to the rest of us, is a human architect of human salvation
in Hades too. In this life, Christ’s superior moral strength is manifested in the
fact that he is able to win his battle with the devil. It is a reasonable conjecture
that, in Hades, it is manifested also in the fact that Christ is, simply, able to
struggle.138 Here, in this life, everyone can struggle. The current world order,
in a sense, is neither the devil’s dominion nor God’s dominion; it is a
no-man’s-land where there is all to play for. I have noted that, for Eustathius,
God’s will is in one sense ever-actualized and in another actualized only
eschatologically; similarly, the devil’s will is both currently actualized and
actualized only in Hades, the realm of the dead.
In describing conflict with the devil, Eustathius paints a picture of a battle
won by Christ, yet still fought by each Christian, and finally ended when
Christ becomes king. Eustathius’ interpretation of Psalm 73.13–14 (LXX), in
which the devil’s body is an inversion of the Eucharist, offers a good example.
The verse, which we have come across before, reads: ‘You crushed the heads of
the dragons upon the water. You smashed the dragon’s head. You gave him as
food to the people in Ethiopia.’139 Eustathius takes the smashing of the
dragon’s heads to refer to Christ’s destruction of the devil when he went to
Hades: so he also cites Isaiah 27.1 as evidence of Christ’s victory over the devil:
‘the lord will bring the holy and great and strong sword upon the dragon, the
unjust serpent, and will destroy the dragon on that day’.140 He then argues that
these verses also refer to baptism—variously the ‘lather’ [ºıæ] or the
‘water’ of regeneration [ÆºØªª Æ]—in which ‘the devilish troupe gets its
head broken daily’.141 The final destruction of the devil is eschatological:
138
This may be implied in Eustathius’ disagreement with Origen over Christ’s soul being
confined to Hades. Origen’s claims that Christ, when in Hades, was above ‘with respect to
æÆæ Ø’: In 1 Regum 28, 8.2–3. Everyone, Eustathius retorts, ‘even those who have made no
effort to lead a righteous life’, were above ‘with respect to æÆæ Ø’ because everyone wants to
be delivered from Hades: Engastrimytho, 17.7. Admittedly, Eustathius is not so much addressing
the question of moral agency as claiming that moral agency is not at issue. Nonetheless, this
rather implies an especially large disjunction between moral preference and ability to act on it, in
Hades. There, those in bondage to the devil see their bondage for what it is, but cannot respond.
139
The quote appears in the epitome as, ‘You crushed the heads of the dragons upon the
water. You smashed the dragon’s head . . . ’ (D32:16–18), but Eustathius, a little further down,
refers to the principal dragon as having many heads (D32:21).
140
141
D32:46–7 and D32:22–3 respectively [Ariomanitas]. Compare Titus 3.5 and Methodius,
Convivium, 9.6.

‘when he has come from heaven a second time, the lord, will slay the remnants
of the hurtful tyranny, then the prophecy will be fulfilled: “Where death, is
your sting, where Hades, your victory?”’. Here, Eustathius interprets 1 Cor-
inthians 15.55 eschatologically. Origen had interpreted this verse as referring
to Christ’s total, eschatological victory in Commentaria in Romanos, and as
referring to Christ’s descent to Hades in Peri Pascha;142 though wanting to
give due care to both phases in the drama of salvation, Eustathius opts for the
former interpretation, at least in his extant writings.
It is difficult to establish whether the feeding of the devil’s body to the
‘Ethiopians’ is also an eschatological event; Eustathius seems to imply that the
devil’s army—which is inedible—was destroyed in Hades, but that the devil
himself—who is edible—is yet to be fed to the sinners, and yet to be completely
destroyed.143 Nonetheless, he also repeats the phrase ‘you crushed the heads of
the dragons’ when talking about the destruction of the tyrannical remnant
eschatologically.144 Psalm 73.13–14 applies, in full, again. The apparent con-
fusion reflects the wider tension in Eustathius’ soteriology about when salva-
tion is achieved. So, whilst Christ bound the devil when he descended to
Hades, Christian martyrs have nonetheless fought the devil within Eustathius’
lifetime. Eustathius thus has a profound sense of an ongoing battle with the
devil taking place now, yet connected both to the coming of Christ and
Christ’s eschatological reign. Psalm 73.13–14 offers a pattern enacted in
Christ’s descent to Hades and in baptism, and to be enacted finally
eschatologically.
I have observed that the ‘inverse Eucharist’ interpretation of Psalm
73.13–14 echoes both Origen and Methodius, but is eschewed by Eusebius.
Much of Eustathius’ exegesis with respect to the devil is, however, very close to
Eusebius’. First, in Demonstratio Evangelica, Eusebius writes that the smash-
ing of the dragon’s heads took place in ‘a spiritual sea’. He then quotes Job
38.16–17: ‘And did you go to the source of the sea, having walked in the tracks
of the deep? And do the gates of death open for you in fear, and the locked
gates of Hades cower in fear when they have seen you?’ He follows this only
with the remark that, walking on water, Christ symbolized ‘something unsay-
able’—he does not tell us what it is. However, given the reference to Hades
within the text from Job, it is very likely that he means that Christ symbolized
his descent to Hades.145 Eustathius also applies Job 38.16–17 to Christ’s
142
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 5.3.(6); Peri Pascha, 48.
143
The feeding of the devil’s body to those who want it is relayed in the future tense: ‘as the
inedible bodies are pounded together [ ıæÆØ] whole, so the one bearing the edible body
will be given out [KŒŁ ÆØ] as meat’ (D32:26–8 [Ariomanitas]); he does immediately elab-
orate on this by referring to the Eucharist, so the future tense could simply indicate the prophet’s
voice, looking forward to the Eucharist.
144 145
D32:84–5 [Ariomanitas]. Eusebius, D.E., 9.12.
Soteriology 197
descent to Hades.146 Second, Eusebius’ interpretation of Isaiah 27.1 in his
later Commentaria in Isaiam echoes Eustathius’ interplay between Christ’s
first advent, the church’s present life, and the eschaton as the moment of
Christ’s victory: the devil was defeated during Christ’s first coming, but not
killed; he will be killed in the consummation.147 However Psalm 73.13–14 is
absent from the discussion in Commentaria in Isaiam. In the next chapter,
I will explore the possibility that Eusebius is engaging closely with Eustathius’
text at this point. For now, suffice to note that Eustathius is drawing on an
Origenist tradition found, to some extent, in both Methodius and Eusebius.
In line with the idea that Christ’s final victory is yet to come, Christians are
fighting a battle with the devil. The struggle between the (soon to be) penitent
thief and the devil is part of a continuing war between humankind and
the devil, stretching both backwards and forwards across human history.
Eustathius therefore contextualizes the thief ’s experience by referring first to
Paul’s advice about distinguishing between true and false spirits, and then to
Eve’s temptation.148 In one sense, Christ has won the battle, but in another it
continues; just as Christ replays Adam’s fight with the devil, and wins, we must
imitate Christ’s fight with the devil. The war is played out partly in martyr-
dom. Eustathius places Christ’s death at the centre of a cosmic conflict that
spans the whole of history. The deaths of martyrs and prophets are a pale
reflection of Christ’s death. The relevant passage is from a fragment in the
epitome of Ariomanitas:
Many righteous people have been killed, and many prophets have been mur-
dered, and many martyrs have been tortured during interrogation. They have
been burnt through with sharp strokes, just like the bodily strength of the old
chief priest Eleazar, at the victory feast of the seven brothers and their mother, not
one of whom fell from brotherly virtue. But who beheld any of these incredible
narratives with wonder? For when who had died, did such great winds disrupt the
entire earth, that, being shaken root and branch, it moved out of the inmost parts,
and the light of day changed into night as the sun failed? When who had died did
the steward see that the rocks were broken?149
The connection between Christ and the martyrs initially seems weak, since
Eustathius is contrasting them. This might indeed have been the case had this
passage primarily addressed martyrdom. However, placed within its own
context, it shows that Eustathius associates martyrdom with Christ’s death.
This passage is intended to refute the idea that someone else was crucified in
place of Christ. No one else’s sacrificial death has had the effect that Christ’s
had, Eustathius argues. What was so special about this other person, crucified
in place of Christ, that it had these unique consequences? Martyrdom is
146 147
D28:23–6 [Ariomanitas]. Eusebius, Commentaria in Isaiam, p. 172.
148 149
D27:9–34 [Ariomanitas]. D15a:7–18 [Ariomanitas].

almost incidental to his argument and it is for that reason that the reference
suggests a connection between Christ’s death and martyrdom. In claiming that
Christ’s death was unique, Eustathius compares it with deaths that are other-
wise comparable—deaths of the same kind. The battle with the devil, taking
place in human history, is played out in the blood and dirt of the arena.
The invocation of martyrdom and confession to describe conflict with the
devil in some ways suggests a negative attitude to imperial power, though
Eustathius never uses it explicitly to contrast either the church and the empire,
or the church and the world.150 Here, his concept of the devil’s power is
connected to earthly power (though not necessarily to Constantine’s power).
His ambivalence about the power of the devil reflects a wider ambivalence
about the current world order. This can elucidate the way that his ideas about
the devil’s power echo much patristic discourse on imperial power, such as
that offered by Irenaeus and Tertullian. Though Eustathius does not group
together the devil and the emperor, nor does he see them as operating in
entirely separate spheres. His sense of our enslaved circumstance is connected
to his observation of the world around him, and a sense of its contribution to
human slavery, and this brings human power structures into the question of
the devil’s power.
SUFFERING AND THE TRAGEDY OF HISTORY
We have seen that, in Eustathius’ view, one may struggle against sinfulness, as
the thief did, before repenting. However, Eustathius does not seem to identify
this with a struggle against the lapsed condition of which sinfulness is a part,
because he evidently does not think that one may struggle against suffering in
an equivalent way. This rather implies that suffering is an intrinsic part of
lapsed nature, whereas there is a sense in which sin remains contingent. We
might suppose that, for Eustathius, susceptibility to sin is an intrinsic part of
the lapsed condition, a necessary consequence of a ‘polluted’ soul. Whilst
suffering and sin are both aspects of the lapsed state, they relate to it differ-
ently. It also corresponds to Eustathius’ wider picture of human agency in the
lapsed order. Although humankind apparently retains some ability to decide
rightly, it has lost the strength and incorruptibility that it had before the lapse,
and will have yet more with the resurrection. There is no question of resisting
suffering. Suffering is therefore simply part of the current human condition. It
is contingent upon the lapse, but is out with human control, whereas sin is, in
some sense and to some degree, under human control.
150
Contrast Minicius, Octavius, 37.1, according to whom the martyr ‘establishes liberatum
against kings and princes’.
Soteriology 199
These anthropological ideas are paralleled in Eustathius’ Christology: Christ
is sinless—his soul is ‘unpolluted’—but he suffers.151 With respect to suffering,
Christ is unremarkable. By contrast, Christ is morally perfect. This difference
manifests itself in a saviour who is weak, and suffers, but does not sin.
There is nothing remarkable about this view if, by suffering, we mean either
physical pain, or an involuntary emotional reaction to misfortune. However,
Eustathius’ conviction that full grief is a morally appropriate response to
misfortune opens up questions about suffering and about the proper human
relationship to lapsed reality that had not previously been in the forefront of
Christian ethics, largely because Christian ethics had tended to be especially
influenced by Stoicism. It is impossible to ascertain how far Eustathius intends
to engage these questions. However, because he is a relatively early example
of a growing tendency in Greco–Roman Christianity to find grief morally
appropriate, the implications of his position, however conscious or otherwise,
are important to charting the development of Christian thought on the subject.
For the Stoics, suffering is under our control, because we do not have to be
grieved by misfortune; we can choose not to mind it.152 The Stoic antipathy
towards grief is evidenced in the common Stoic belief that, unlike other
passions, grief has no eupatheic equivalent—that is, no morally appropriate
counterpart.153 Richard Sorabji persuasively argues that we can see a move
away from this position as early as Origen, despite the fact that he regards grief
as sinful; the Stoic concept of æ ŁØÆ—involuntary initial reactions to
external factors, such as misfortune—is deployed to refer to bad thoughts,
that is, temptations, which are less distinct from emotion than first move-
ments, and not necessarily sinful.154 This allows for a kind of eupatheic
counterpart to grief—temptation to grief. I suspect that this shift has a lot to
do with a belief in the tragedy of the fall, which problematized the Stoic idea
that one should bow to providence, because the world, after all, is as it is
supposed to be. From Origen’s point of view, and from Eustathius’, the world
is not how it is supposed to be. For Origen, then, it is reasonable to react to this
fact, but he has not allowed us to lament.155 Eustathius does. His conviction
that grief is morally appropriate suggests both that we fully engage with the
151
See ‘The Lapse’ in this chapter and ‘The Passionate Soul and the Passionate Self ’ in
Chapter 3, respectively.
152
See for example Epictetus, Enchiridion, 14.
153
As reported by Cicero, Tusculanae Disputationes, 4.14 (VI).
154
Richard Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Tempta-
tion (Oxford: OUP, 2002), pp. 343–56; he cites Origen, De Princ., 2.3.4.
155
Origen’s concern to preserve the justice of the current world order—souls fell to different
levels depending on the gravity of their previous sins—perhaps stems from a similar instinct, as
does his belief that the world has teleological value. See Origen, De Princ., 1.6.2 and ‘The Lapse’.

world, as it is, and that we engage with it as something that is not as it
should be.
Describing the suffering of the penitent thief on the cross, Eustathius says
that the thief ’s pain is outweighed by his joy: ‘He is unmindful of death and
wounds and suffering’ because ‘he has escaped tyrannical hostility’.156 Eu-
stathius’ description of suffering in these terms may, justifiably, dismay both
those who regard Christianity’s frequent focus on suffering as masochistic,
and those who urge a focus on the uniquely liberating capacity of a suffering
God.157 However, this is not a glorification of suffering. Rather, the intrinsic
evil of the suffering is implied in the juxtaposition with a greater good. The
world is not as it should be, but, for the penitent thief, it just got better. Does
Eustathius imply here, as he does with reference to Christ’s grief, that the
world’s deficiencies ought to be lamented? The attitude to suffering here
initially looks more akin to Origen’s, in his treatment of Christ’s death,
which we came across in Chapter 3. The thief does suffer, but he does not
feel grief about this, because he has a correct understanding of reality. The
kind of grief that the thief avoids is exactly the kind of grief from which Origen
wishes to protect Christ. This is in sharp contrast to Eustathius’ picture of
Christ, which stresses the reality of Christ’s grief, as I argued in Chapter 3.
Eustathius’ dominant picture of grief is as a natural part of human experience,
a proper response to a distressing situation. However, the comparison between
Eustathius’ depictions of grief in Christ and the thief respectively is imperfect;
the thief is happy because his situation has been materially improved—
Christ’s has been materially worsened. Furthermore, the thief merely seems
to think that his sufferings are outweighed by his blessings, not that they are
not, in themselves, worthy of lament. The apparent resemblance to Stoicism
turns out to be misleading. Eustathius’ description of the thief ’s inattention to
his ‘present pains’ echoes a common trend in ethical discourse which tended
to see I ŁØÆ as good, at least in relation to suffering, and was indebted to
Stoicism. However, there is nothing that places this passage logically at odds
with Eustathius’ descriptions of Christ’s suffering, which clearly cast sorrow as
morally appropriate.
In Chapter 3, I touched upon similarities between Eustathius’ treatment of
Christ’s grief and Athanasius’. Gregory of Nyssa also seeks to carve out a
positive space for emotional experiences—probably including grief—but his
affirmation of these experiences is much more cautious than Eustathius’—he
engages sympathetically with a Stoic ethical framework, and the term ŁÅ,
strictly speaking, always carries a negative connotation for Gregory: once
156
D27:51–2 and D27:64–5 [Ariomanitas], respectively.
157
For example, Dorothee Soelle, Suffering, translated by Everett Kalin (Philadelphia: Fort-
ress, 1975); Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God, translated by Richard Wilson and John
Bowden (London: SCM, 1974), respectively.
Soteriology 201
rehabilitated, ŁÅ have become ›æ
Æ—impulses.158 Gregory has a signifi-
cantly different anthropological structure to Eustathius, but does share some
of his ethical sensibilities about the importance of emotion to human life. In
the early fourth century, Lactantius is a Latin voice attacking the Stoic ideal of
I ŁØÆ; this is later to be taken up by Augustine.159 In Eustathius and
Gregory—two thinkers who are in many ways very different—we see that
the question was philosophically important in Greek Christianity.
Like most Christian thinkers in antiquity, Eustathius believes that suffering
can act as an aid to moral improvement. He sometimes depicts suffering,
particularly suffering in martyrdom, as a trial: ‘For the judge would not have
displayed the victory wreaths, unless there were rough struggles.’160 Specific-
ally, here, suffering is an organized trial, a wrestling match, of which God is the
judge. In this respect, Eustathius draws on a very common theme in Greco–
Roman thought, which had readily been adopted by Christianity. He echoes
the suggestion, found in both Irenaeus and Origen, that the world is an
arena designed by God for human improvement.161 Like Origen, he may
also be drawing on ideas in medical practice, in which painful procedures
were thought, ultimately, to cure.162 This coheres with a developmental
158
Rowan Williams made this argument with reference to De Anima et de Resurrectione in
his ‘Macrina’s Deathbed’. He identifies an apparent discrepancy between Macrina’s initial
attitude towards Gregory’s grief—she permits him to express and develop it—and her later
condemnation of grief and other passions. She then qualifies her view, allowing that something
very akin to passions can be good, but these are termed ›æ
Æ. Williams argues that the reader is
supposed to interpret the text dialectically, and allow Macrina’s permissiveness of Gregory’s grief
to modify her apparently total rejection of the emotion later in the dialogue (see esp. p. 232).
Williams then notes that Macrina is apparently dismissive of Plato’s chariot metaphor as a way
of thinking about the soul, but that it is also suggested that Macrina operates with reference to
just such an analogy (Phaedrus 246a–254e; see De Anima et de resurrection, edited by Andreas
Spira (Leiden: Brill, 2014), p. 33, lines 14–17, for Macrina’s dismissal of the metaphor). J. Warren
Smith agrees that Gregory rehabilitates emotion, but argues that grief is not included in this
rehabilitation and that Plato’s chariot metaphor is not intended to permit grief in his ‘Macrina,
Tamer of Horses and Healer of Souls: Grief and the Therapy of Hope in Gregory of Nyssa’s De
Anima et De Resurrectione’, JTS, 52, no. 1 (2001), 37–60, doi: 10.1093/jts/52.1.37. He also argues
that Williams mistakenly does not ‘distinguish the physical distress of grief from the psycho-
logical phenomenon itself ’ (p. 49). A full consideration is beyond the scope of this monograph.
I am sympathetic to the idea that Gregory wants us to read the discussion dialectically, and that
grief has at least a morally ambiguous place in this scheme. Gregory claims that his reason had
been taken by passion (De Anima, p. 5, line 12). As Williams notes, Gregory’s grief is informative
to him, enabling him to debate Macrina (De Anima, p. 7, lines 3–7). Gregory’s grief is an active
partner in helping him to regain his reason; it does not simply subside. This suggests that
Gregory’s grief, like his other passions, might ascend. Both Williams and Smith detail Gregory’s
Stoic sources.
159
Lactantius, Divinae Institutiones, 6.15. Augustine develops a critique of Stoic attitudes to
emotion in Civitate Dei, books 5, 9, 14, and 19. See for example 9.4–19.
160
161
See Irenaeus, A.H., 4.39.1 and Origen, De Princ., 3.6.1. Edwards, Origen against Plato,
p. 105, notes that both thinkers see the world as a ‘gymnasium’.
162
See Origen, De Princ., 3.1.13.

soteriology—at the beginning of history, humankind is łıåØŒ, and by the
end of history, we have become ı
ÆØŒ. History, then, must provide
some opportunity for improvement, and if suffering can provide such an
opportunity, history as progress may also be history as tragedy. Although we
must engage with the tragedy of history, history is not only a tragedy.
Eustathius’ agreement with Origen that suffering can be remedial elucidates
his disagreement with Origen over the proper reaction to suffering in other
instances. For Origen, the fall is a tragedy, but history is not similarly tragic.
Mark Scott aptly writes that, ‘[f]or Origen, the material universe functions
positively as a cosmic net that saves the soul from falling into oblivion.
Moreover, it serves as a springboard back to God’.163 We could say the same
of history. Consequently, for Origen, we must see the sufferings of our present
situation as the goods that they really are. Although this may be partly true for
Eustathius, he sees earthly life as the proper arena for the realization of human
potential. Consequently, the faults of history are faults that mar the world as it
should be. For Origen, this world’s apparent faults are intrinsic to its purpose.
An implication is that the world itself is an addendum to that other world
which must become, once again, as it should be.
C H R I S T’S DEATH AND RESURRECTION
Christ’s salvific death is woven into Eustathius’ wider narrative about the
archetypal human being defeating the devil in two respects: first, Christ is a
ransom to the devil, but a ransom that the devil cannot hold; second, Christ
goes through the death that the devil has sown and thereby overcomes it. His
death is salvific because he is resurrected. The notion of Christ’s death as a
ransom was very common amongst Greek (and Latin) patristic authors,
though Eustathius seems to be especially influenced by Origen. The idea that
Christ overcomes death finds close parallels both in Origen and in Athanasius’
De Incarnatione.
Christ’s death is also a sacrifice that purifies the sinner, and brings about
forgiveness. The concepts of ransom and purification converge in the notion
that the devil’s dominion warps human nature, and that therefore its destruc-
tion brings healing. The idea of purification also has the potential to address
the pollution that we have inherited from Adam (and Eve?) more directly than
163
Mark Scott, Journey Back to God: Origen on the Problem of Evil (Oxford: OUP, 2012),
p. 74. I differ from Scott in holding that, for Origen, the fall is tragic. See Scott, ‘Suffering and
Soul-Making: Re-thinking John Hick’s Theodicy’, The Journal of Religion, 90.3 (2010), 313–34,
doi: 10.1086/651707.
Soteriology 203
any other aspect of Eustathius’ soteriology, though this is never explicitly
drawn out.
In a passage from Ariomanitas, Eustathius talks about Christ’s death as
sacrifice in relation to the repentance and forgiveness of the penitent thief (this
is his most extensive extant treatment of Christ’s death):
And if, when you arrived at the vineyard late, the fruit of your lips, though the
very last, supplied a release [º Ø] from evil for you, by declaring a confession
loved by God, the reward [I
Øc] of Christ’s words became an eternal healing
for you. And forgiveness, as if from a vessel for holy water, gushes out like a
spring from the God-bearing body and purifies you. And the precious blood that
has been cleansingly secreted from the tree of life marks you with a seal. And
perhaps also the pouring out of the blood which had hastened from the dead
limbs became a vital ransom [ºæ] for you. For when you confessed Christ
king, you carried before you the streams of blood falling in drops through all the
holes.164
Here, the concept of ransom and the highly related concept of release sit
alongside ideas about cleansing and forgiveness. It is plausible that these ideas
co-exist without mechanical synthesis; however, there are good reasons for
thinking first, that the concept of ransom has pride of place here and, second,
that it is linked to the concepts of forgiveness and purification through a
metaphor of baptism.
A Ransom Defeating Death
In Engastrimytho, Eustathius uses the otherwise unattested term IÆºıæFÆØ

to describe Christ freeing the souls in Hades;165 this may simply be a rare
word, but it is equally likely that it is Eustathius’ own invention—Christ
ransomed the souls in Hades and led them to paradise, so he literally
IÆºıæFÆØ—‘ransoms [them] upwards’. Eustathius develops the concept
of ºæ to work in concert with his understanding of Christ’s descent to
Hades and ascent to Paradise; he has not simply accepted this common idea,
but infused it with theological vision.166
The idea of Christ’s sacrifice as a ransom to the devil helps to explain how
Christ’s death freed humankind from bondage to the devil. Christ paid a
ransom to buy back the ‘prisoners of war’. This sense of ºæ is found in
Origen. He discusses it, probably together with the derivative term
164 165
D27: 87–97 [Ariomanitas]. Engastrimytho, 18.2.
166
Clement, Paedagogus, 1.9; Origen, Commentaria in Mattheum, 16.8; Eusebius, DE, 1.10;
Athanasius, De Inc., 21.7; Gregory of Nazianzus, Orationes, 30.20, and Gregory of Nyssa, Oratio
Catechetica, 22 all use ºæ with reference to Christ’s death.

Iºæø Ø, in Commentaria in Romanos. He treats them synonymously.167
Origen’s starting point is Romans 3.24: ‘Through the Iºæø Ø which is in
Jesus Christ.’ An Iºæø Ø, Origen writes, is what is paid to enemies for the
release of captives: ‘Conquered by sin as if by war, they were being held captive
by the enemies of the human race.’ We have already seen that Eustathius, like
Origen, describes human beings as ‘prisoners of war’.168 For both of them,
Christ’s ransom buys humankind from the devil.
Eustathius seems to have the idea that it is specifically Christ’s death that
acts as a ransom (as opposed to, for example, his blood, which is purifying).
So, in Engastrimytho, it is Christ’s soul, on entering Hades, the place of the
dead, that is a ransom for other souls—‘souls of the same race’.169 Christ’s soul
descends to Hades, as the souls of the human dead are wont to do, and in
descending becomes a ransom for the other human souls. Christ’s soul enters
the place of the dead as a ransom, but it does not remain there. Instead, it
storms the gates. Christ, here, is a ransom that cannot be held.170 Christ
defeats not only the devil, but also death.
When developing the motif of Christ defeating death, Eustathius uses a
framework and terminology that are very close to those of Athanasius’ De
Incarnatione (which is more or less contemporaneous with Ariomanitas).171
According to Eustathius, Christ must ‘partake of the grave’ because he must go
through death in order to overcome it.172 Athanasius similarly writes that
Christ ‘fulfils [ºØH ÆØ]’ death, and thereby brings about death’s destruction
[IÆæ Ø], and also that ‘it was necessary for death to precede resurrec-
tion’.173 Both Eustathius and Athanasius, drawing on Paul, write that Christ
167
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 3.7.(14). This passage is only preserved in Rufinus’ Latin, where
the term is redemptio. I suspect that the underlying Greek term is Iºæø Ø because this is the
term used in Romans 3.24, Origen’s starting point here. However, a little later, in a passage
preserved in Greek, Origen cites 1 Peter 1.18–19: ‘KºıæŁÅ . . . by Christ’s precious blood’; and
Proverbs 3.24: ‘the ºæ of a man’s soul is his wealth’. For the relevant Greek fragments, see
Jean Scherer, Le commentaire d’Origène sur Rom. III.5–V.7. (Cairo: L’Institut Français d’Arch-
éologie Orientale, 1957), pp. 124–232, 154.
168
‘The Devil Defeated—The Tyranny of the Devil and the Kingship of Christ’, in this
chapter.
169
170
Similarly, Origen describes death as binding souls in Hades: Com.in Rom., 5.1.37.
171
For a summary of views on the date of De Incarnatione, see Gerald Donkers, The Text of
Apostolos in Athanasius of Alexandria (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), p. 18, note
46. As I have noted in Cartwright, ‘Athanasius’s Vita Antonii as Political Theology: The Call of
Heavenly Citizenship’, JEH, forthcoming, I am inclined to follow Barnes, Athanasius, pp. 12–13
and Parvis, Marcellus, pp. 60–3, and date De Inc. to 325–7. The work seems too advanced to be
written before the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy, but there is no evidence to place it late in
Athanasius’ life. Michael Slusser, ‘Athanasius, Contra Gentes and De Incarnatione: Date and
Place of Composition’, JTS, 37, no. 1 (1986), 114–17, doi: 10.1093/jts/37.1.114, argues persua-
sively that Athanasius did not write the work during his first exile.
172
D28:32 [Ariomanitas]. See ‘Eustathius the Origenist: The Disembodied Soul’ in Chapter 3.
173
Athanasius, De Inc., 22.2 and De Inc., 23.1, respectively.
Soteriology 205
is the ‘first-fruits of the resurrection of the dead’.174 Eustathius’ reference to
‘incorruptible life’, again, is close to Athanasius, according to whom Christ
renders the human body ‘incorruptible’.175 The two men also connect Christ’s
victory with the cross, referring to the cross as a ‘trophy’.176 Much of
this language also echoes Irenaeus, for whom Christ’s death ‘destroyed
death . . . ended corruption . . . and gave incorruption’.177
For Eustathius, it is necessarily the human being of Christ who defeats
death. This is evident from Eustathius’ analysis of Christ leading the penitent
thief to paradise. Here, as I have noted, he argues that Christ must have had a
soul to lead the thief to paradise. His argument for Christ’s human soul in this
instance is different from usual. Most often, Eustathius argues that, if Christ
does not have a human soul, then the Word must be the agent of a given
action. He then portrays this as variously absurd, impossible, or soteriologi-
cally redundant.178 In this instance, however, the hypothetical alternative
agent is the penitent thief. Eustathius applies the term ‘first fruits of the
resurrection of the dead’ to Christ’s ascent to paradise. He then argues that,
if Christ’s soul did not go to paradise, it was not Christ, but the penitent thief,
who was ‘the first fruits of the resurrection’. The presence of Christ’s divinity
on the journey to paradise is irrelevant if one is trying to work out who is ‘the
first fruits of the resurrection’ because it is axiomatic that these verses apply to
a human being. Christ’s death is a lynchpin in his narrative of Christ reliving
and therefore renewing human experience. His death therefore has value in
that it is part of his taking on humanity.
In dying, Christ partakes of an aspect of human experience. Origen argues
that Christ’s death is efficacious for salvation because, unlike Adam, Christ
could not be held by death.179 In partaking of death, Christ reworked it, to its
ultimate destruction. It is in this vein of thought that, in Engastrimytho,
Christ’s soul is a ‘ransom’ for the other souls. It is significant that it is
specifically Christ’s soul here that is a ransom for the other souls in death
because it indicates a clear parallel between Christ’s experience and typical
human experience. This parallel is also found in the notion that it is specific-
ally his soul that has entered Hades, the place of the dead. Eustathius’
expansive comments on Romans 5.15 are important here: the devil tempted
Eve to sin. Adam and Eve sinned and, consequently, became mortal. Death is
therefore part of the way in which the devil has dominion over humankind.
174
D21:10–11 [Ariomanitas]; Athanasius, De Inc., 22.2. See 1 Cor. 15.20, Col. 1.18.
175
Athanasius, De Inc., 22.4.
176
Engastrimytho, 20.5; D16b:3, D27:43 [Ariomanitas]; D64abc:9–10 [In Inscriptiones Titu-
lorum] and Athanasius, De Inc., 24.4.
177
178
See ‘The Nature and Context of Eustathius’ Works—Ariomanitas—Anti-Arianism and
Opposition to Logos–Sarx Christology’ in Chapter 2.
179
Origen, Comm. in Rom., 5.1.(37).

There is a sense that it is by overcoming death that Christ defeats the devil,
which parallels the idea that he overcame the devil by obedience, in place of
Adam’s sin. Christ defeats the devil by negating the effects of his dominion. It
is in Christ’s resurrection that death is finally overcome, and the spiritual
[ı
ÆØŒ] state achieved.
Purification and Forgiveness
We now turn to the theme of purification in relation to Christ’s death.

Eustathius writes that Christ’s blood ‘purifies’ [±ªÇø] the penitent thief.
The assertion that Christ’s blood ±ªÇø recurs in Ariomanitas, again specif-
ically with a æØæÆÅæø—‘a vessel for sprinkling holy water’.180 The idea of
Christ’s blood as sacrifice, though more prominent in the Western church,
appears in Justin and Origen and other Greek Christian writers.181 Eustathius
here specifically (though perhaps coincidentally) echoes the Epistle of Barna-
bas, where it is also declared that Christ’s blood ±ªÇø.182 The term ±ªÇø
also connotes baptism; Justin uses it to denote the remission of sins in baptism,
and Methodius uses the term simply to mean ‘baptize’.183 There are good
reasons for thinking that this is also part of Eustathius’ meaning. Let us return
to Eustathius’ interpretation of Psalm 73.13–14:
Christ, having arrived at the innermost parts of the deep by Spirit and soul,
subdued the wild beasts. And, through this same image, yet also now the many-
headed serpent is destroyed in the waters of rebirth, and, in short, the devilish
troupe gets its head broken daily by the pure lather.184
Baptism somehow re-enacts Christ’s descent to Hades, which, in turn, is
connected with cleansing. Eustathius then contrasts ‘Christ who was hung
on the cross [who] gives us the exact representation of his body’ with the devil
and his poisonous body.185 Eustathius’ discussion of Christ’s descent to Hades
has a liturgical and sacramental dimension, which also seems to be behind his
association between a æØæÆÅæø and Christ’s blood. There is a strong
suggestion that baptism is death and resurrection with Christ (following, for
example, Origen).186 Though this is admittedly speculative, we might suppose
that Eustathius characterizes the penitent thief as receiving a ‘baptism of
180
181
Justin, Dialogue cum Tryphone, 13; Origen, Comm. in Rom., 4.8.(1).
182
Epistle of Barnabas, 5.1.
183
Justin, Dialogue cum Tryphone, 86.6; Methodius, Convivium, 8.9.
184
185
Compare D130 [miscellaneous], where Eustathius refers specifically to Christ’s ‘limbs’ in
the Eucharist, echoing his description of Christ on the cross.
186
Origen, Homilia in Jeremiam, 19.14.
Soteriology 207
blood’.187 The claim that Christ’s blood ‘marks [the thief] with a seal
[ çæÆªÇØ]’ echoes the assertion in other Greek patristic authors that baptism
marks with a seal.188 Elsewhere in Ariomanitas, Christ’s blood is again said to
mark with a seal. In this case Eustathius cites Ezekiel 9, in which the prophet is
told to go through Jerusalem, smiting those who do not have Christ’s mark.189
Christ’s ‘seal’ is also referred to several times in John’s Apocalypse, and this
may be in the background.190 If so, it would fit with the apocalyptic tone of
Ezekiel 9. Perhaps, in a sense, it is on being baptized that the penitent thief
receives forgiveness [Iç Ø].191
Eustathius also has some sense that it is in descending to Hades that Christ
brings about forgiveness, though this is much less emphatic. He says that
Christ ‘IØÆØ the souls . . . removing the fetters of punishment’.192 The term
IØÆØ is part of the theme of release—but, when held together with the
reference to punishment, it also suggests acquittal or forgiveness.
The association between Christ’s descent to Hades and forgiveness is
stronger in Irenaeus, according to whom Christ descends in order to bring
Iç Ø of sins.193 This is significant because the soteriological role of Christ’s
death in Irenaeus is, generally, rather close to that in Eustathius; Irenaeus also
applies Ephesians 4.8—‘he led the captives captive’ to what was achieved
through Christ’s death. It is here that he claims that death is destroyed.194
However, Irenaeus says only that this was accomplished ‘by [Christ’s] pas-
sion’, whereas, in Eustathius, the destruction of death and leading of captives
captive are at the heart of Christ’s journey to Hades. Eustathius, retaining
many of Irenaeus’ soteriological concerns, gives the journey to Hades much
more work to do. Remission of sins, interestingly, becomes less closely asso-
ciated with the descent to Hades than in Irenaeus. The difference between
them is partly indicative of how the narrative of Christ’s journey to the dead
had grown wings by the fourth century. Again, Eustathius is drawing on an
Origenist theology indebted to Irenaeus—in this case, on Origen’s treatment
187
See Cyprian, Epistle, 73.22 and Origen—perhaps Eustathius’ source? —Exhortatio ad
Martyrium, 30. For a discussion of the concept of a baptism of blood in the early church, see
Ernst Dassmann, Sündenvergebung durch Taufe, Buße und Martyrerfürbitte in den Zeugnissen
frühchristlicher Frömmigkeit und Kunst (Münster: Aschendorf, 1973), pp. 153–71.
188
See for example Epiphanius, Ancoratus, 8.7; Cyril of Alexandria, Commentaria in Lucam,
PG 72: 500:11–12.
189 190
D43:7–26. Rev. 3.2, 7.3, 14.1, 22.4.
191
For references to Iç Ø of sins in baptism, see Justin, Dialogue cum Tryphone, 14.1;
192
D28:29–30–32 [Ariomanitas].
193
Irenaeus, A.H., 4.27.2. In Demonstration, 78 it is simply to bring ‘salvation’ to the dead,
without further comment [translated by John Behr (New York: St Vladimir’s Theological Press,
1997)].
194

of the descent to Hades, which had woven Irenaean themes about the devil in a
more developed narrative of the soul’s disembodied existence.
Propitiation?
It is worth noting that the idea that Christ’s sacrifice procures forgiveness,
prima facie, adds something to Eustathius’ soteriology that otherwise scarcely
features in the extant text—propitiation (though the term ƒºÆ
is attested
nowhere in Eustathius). Through forgiveness, the relationship between God
and the thief is changed. Not only is humanity to blame for its situation, but
apparently, it is the status afforded by this blame that is the problem. We
should not assume that this implication was unintentional on Eustathius’ part,
because the thief ’s change of status is key to the allusion to the vineyard,
which is central to the entire passage. The concept of propitiation jars with
Eustathius’ recurring references to Christ as a ransom.195 Propitiation does
not address what Eustathius generally considers the lapsed condition to
involve, in that God’s wrath does not feature prominently in any strand of
Eustathius’ soteriology. Even where he refers to the temptation of Eve, this is
in the context of humanity’s struggle with the devil, rather than human
guilt.196 Humanity is guilty, and must be forgiven, but it is the fact of
human sinfulness per se, and not of human guilt before God, that Eustathius
sees as the fundamental problem.
In fact, where Eustathius talks about forgiveness, he implies that it helps to
alter the sinner’s essential state.197 Accordingly, ‘the reward of Christ’s
words’—Christ’s forgiving words—‘became a healing’. Similarly, forgiveness
is said to purify the thief. Forgiveness is a result of Christ’s sacrifice, but it is
also part of a causal chain within which its purpose is to transform its
195
Gustav Aulén, Christus Victor: An Historical Study of the Three Main Types of the Idea of
Atonement, translated by Arthur Herbert (London: SPCK, 1969), famously argued that it was
typical in the early church to view Christ’s death as both a ransom to the devil and a propitiating
sacrifice to God, dubbing this the ‘Classic Theory of Atonement’. However, as Young, Sacrifice,
p. 184, notes, Aulén fails to demonstrate a coherent relationship between these two ideas; he
merely establishes their frequent co-existence.
196
See D27:32–4 [Ariomanitas] and ‘Conflict with the Devil and the Current World Order’ in
this chapter.
197
Origen also refers apparently anomalously to propitiation. An especially clear example is
found at Comm. Rom., 4.8; however, he is exegeting Romans 5.1–2: ‘having been justified by
faith, let us have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we also have
access through faith to this grace in which we stand’. Young plausibly suggests that, for Origen,
propitiation does not mean that God’s attitude has changed—rather, the sinner’s attitude has
changed and, with it, the appropriate divine response in her, Sacrificial Ideas, p. 171. However, in
Eustathius, the causal logic of propitiation is the other way around; whereas in Young’s reading
of Origen, a change in the sinner causes a change in God, Eustathius implies that a change in
God’s attitude causes a change in the sinner.
Soteriology 209
recipient. This coheres to some extent with Eustathius’ idea that a human
being is transformed by the Spirit, in the sense that a disjunction between the
human being and God would prevent this transformation. God’s forgiveness,
then, could be thought to enable subsequent transformation by the Spirit.
ADAM, E VE, AND CHRIST
Eustathius’ references to the lapse are scattered across his writings and it is
never discussed at much length. I have observed that Eustathius has a strong
sense of an original humanity, and its original encounter with the devil, that
must be reworked. I want to observe that the roles of Adam and Eve in the
lapse were a likely topic of discussion for Eustathius, and in what can be
gleaned of his thoughts on the subject, Eve sometimes appears as a more
natural focal point of the original encounter than Adam. Eustathius’ picture of
typical humanness should be seen partly in this context.
Eustathius’ concept of Christ as ‘new ¼Łæø’ is heavily indebted to a
tradition stemming from and utilizing Paul, and is often expressed in direct
quotation of Pauline passages, so it is Adam with whom Christ is directly
paralleled. However, Eustathius refers to the devil as the ‘sower of death’ but
singles out Eve, rather than Adam, as the one in whom this death was sown:
[I]f, because they are set alight by the spirit of the devil, the false prophets,
speaking evil, charge Christ with evil, clearly, just as, masked as the serpent, he
slunk up to Eve, the blood-thirsty one roused the murderous thief at that time, in
order that, shooting the poisonous words from the cross, he might offer many
people a sign.198
Eustathius presents the devil’s temptation of Eve as the archetype of the devil’s
current relationship to humanity. In this passage, he is focusing on a specific
case of the devil tempting an individual—the (soon to be) penitent thief. He
wants to explain how the thief came from blaspheming Christ to repentance,
and he invokes the direct interference of the devil to explain the thief ’s
blasphemy. This is not an unusual thing, Eustathius feels. Rather, this is how
the devil has operated since he first ‘slunk up to Eve’ and roused her to sin, and
thereby ‘sowed death’.199 Eve is not a vehicle for the sin of Adam, nor is her sin
ancillary; she is compared to the penitent thief being tormented by the devil as
he hangs on the cross because she is the first participant in humankind’s long
struggle against the devil. It is impossible to tell whether, elsewhere, Eustathius
198
199
These are paraphrases of Eustathius adjusted for the syntactical context. See my earlier
discussion on defeat of the devil.

makes a clear distinction between Adam and Eve, in their relation to the lapse.
Both Irenaeus and Origen do. Irenaeus depicts Mary as the second Eve,
obedient where Eve was disobedient, parallel to Christ as second Adam,
obedient where Adam was disobedient.200 Origen takes a similar approach
in Contra Celsum, though he does not expand on the soteriological implica-
tions: Eve’s disobedience affects women as Adam’s does men.201
In Commentaria in Romanos, it is specifically Adam from whom sin is
inherited. Origen asks why Paul singles out Adam, rather than Eve, as the one
in whom we have all died when it is Eve, rather than Adam, who sinned first.
He concludes that this is because our ancestry is from our fathers, not our
mothers.202 He then claims that we were all in the loins of Adam (as we saw at
the beginning of the chapter).203 He notes that sin is said to come into the
world ‘through’ Eve, but ‘in’ Adam. Eustathius’ claim that human souls are
polluted ‘having come to be through bodily intercourse’ gives us no indication
of whether he thinks sin is inherited from the mother, the father, or both.
However, Origen’s discussion adds further weight to the probability that
Eustathius’ remarks about Adam and Eve are reflective on their respective
roles in the lapse.
If what remains of Eustathius’ reflection on this subject is taken as repre-
sentative of him, it suggests that he might distinguish the roles of Adam and
Eve rather less clearly than Irenaeus and Origen. For Irenaeus, Eve plays an
important part in the metanarrative of human history, but Christ does not
relate to Eve as he does to Adam. The way that Eustathius construes Eve’s
temptation within human history, by contrast, suggests that her humanity is
reflected and fulfilled in Christ’s humanity.
Both where he singles out Adam and where he singles out Eve, Eustathius’
narrative is shaped by the biblical texts with which he is working. It is Adam
whom Eustathius describes as the exact inverse of Christ, transgressing where
Christ was obedient, łıåØŒ where Christ was ı
ÆØŒ, because he is
quoting Romans and Corinthians, respectively. Similarly, his choice of Eve as
the archetypal failed warrior against the devil is presumably partly determined
by the fact that she is the one directly in contact with the devil in Genesis 3.
There is insufficient evidence to ascertain exactly how Adam and Eve relate to
each other in the context of archetypal human sin. Suffice to note that, in his
picture of original humanity, he regards Eve as important. This may be an
instance of laying blame at Eve’s feet (though not exclusively there). It also
looks as though his picture of the typical humanity that Christ takes up and
perfects is not exclusively androcentric.
200 201
Irenaeus, A.H., 3.22.4. Origen, Contra Celsum, 4.40.
202 203
Origen, Comm. In Rom., 5.1.(12–13). Origen, Comm. In Rom., 5.1.(14).
Soteriology 211
S U M MARY
Eustathius offers a vision of human history as a struggle against an unjust

tyrant—the devil. This vision is laced with ambivalence about the moral status
of humankind: we are held in bondage, and are therefore victims of the devil,
but we are also co-conspirators, albeit unequal, with the devil. This under-
standing of the human predicament has a strong political dimension: we are
locked within a perverse power relation with the devil, and Christ releases us
by destroying that relationship and introducing a new one, in which Christ is
king, and we share in his kingship. The politics of Eustathius’ soteriology is a
politics with a clear personal dimension, because the individual human being
is freed from the devil’s clutches with the Spirit’s help.
In Ariomanitas, Eustathius is appealing to a common soteriological narra-
tive and retelling this narrative in such a way as to explain why his Christology
is necessary to it. His retelling of this story marks an important moment in the
history of Origenism. We saw in the last chapter how Eustathius’ picture of the
Adam–Christ relationship was indebted to an Irenaean narrative of human
history that had previously been taken up, to a lesser extent, by Origen, and
placed within a radically different cosmology. Eustathius more nearly retains
Irenaeus’ cosmology, and, largely, his narrative of human history, but deploys
Origen’s concept of Christ’s human soul to explain how Christ brings this
narrative to completion. He also adapts Irenaeus’ narrative of human history
to include an Origenist sense of primeval tragedy.
Christ vanquishes the devil, humanity’s ancient foe, and so frees human-
kind from diabolical tyranny. This concept forms part of a much richer
tapestry in which humankind, its experiences, and potential are summed up
and fulfilled in Christ. Christ’s full humanity is therefore fundamental to every
aspect of Eustathius’ theology. In being what we will all become, Christ is the
first fruits of the New Creation. As such, he leads the way to the places to
which the rest of the human race will follow him—out of Hades, where human
souls are prisoners of the devil, into paradise. It is similarly because he is a
perfect human being that his ransom to the devil, or to death, is efficacious. It
is because he is human that death takes him with the human souls of the dead,
but because he is obedient that it cannot hold him, and he leads the human
race to paradise and rises from the dead, fulfilling human potential. Obedience
is a stage in the process of becoming ı
ÆØŒ, and Christ’s obedience is
directly contrasted with Adam’s transgression. Christ is without sin, but he
must go through human life and death as a mortal and corruptible human
being in order to destroy the death and corruption that the devil has sown.
Christ re-forms every aspect of human experience and emerges as the first
ı
ÆØŒ human being. In doing so, he creates a path on which we, like the
penitent thief, can follow.
Eschatology: The Human Kingdom
I now turn to Eustathius’ eschatology, drawing on the observations about the

resurrection of the body in Chapter 3 and those about Christ’s power in
Chapter 5. Unfortunately, the sources for Eustathius’ eschatology are both
sparse and difficult to interpret. My reconstruction is therefore necessarily
somewhat speculative. However, this topic is very important for two related
reasons: first, what can be demonstrated is very distinctive; second, Eustathius’
eschatology offers a window into Christian political self-understanding at
a highly significant moment in the history of church–state relations—during
the Constantinian Revolution—and it reveals a decidedly different negotiation
of the questions raised by Constantine’s involvement in the church than we
find in the political theology of Eusebius of Caesarea. Eustathius seems in some
ways to harp back to an earlier, millenarian tradition which is found more
clearly in Marcellus, and in others, to anticipate ideas that would find full and
famous expression in Augustine.
Most of the relevant material is found in relatively short fragments from
Arianos–De Fide–In Proverbia 8.22 and complemented by the more extensive
discussion about the resurrection, largely from Ariomanitas, that was explored
in Chapter 3. Many of the pertinent Arianos fragments are Christological,
focusing on Christ’s eschatological power and glory. Only four obviously
allude to an eschatological society, whilst five refer to Christ’s throne.1
Eustathius also refers to Christ’s ‘kingdom’ [ÆØºÆ] five times in Arioma-
nitas, four times when discussing the penitent thief, and once when writing
about Christ’s descent to Hades.2 Once in Ariomanitas, he refers to the
‘kingdom of the heavens’ when writing about eschatological reward.3 What
remains of Eustathius’ eschatology arises in an explicitly exegetical context.
Much of his discussion emerges from anti-Arian exegesis of passages taken to
1
D67, D69, D100, D103, and D62, D85, D100, D102, and D103, respectively.
2
D27:14, D27:83 and D26:18, D27:75. The last two both quote Luke 23.42: ‘Remember me,
Lord, when you come into your kingdom.’ At D28:63, Eustathius writes that, when Christ
descended to Hades, ‘the body guards of the arch-plunder melted and fell down before him,
not being able to withstand the strength of the kingdom’.
3

be Christological, and to refer, specifically, to Christ’s status in the eschaton.
He therefore shares many stock-phrases with Eusebius and Asterius, but
interprets them very differently. Like so much of his theology, Eustathius’
eschatology is particularly informed by the Psalms—and here there are espe-
cially interesting parallels to be found in Eusebius. Pauline passages, both
about the resurrection and about ‘heavenly citizenship’, are also important.
Eustathius often draws on apocalyptic passages from the Psalms and Ezekiel,
and John’s Apocalypse may underlie his readings here.
Eschatology is the fulfilment of soteriology: as soteriology is a story about
human history, eschatology is the story’s end. Eschatology renders human
history intelligible. Eustathius’ eschatology therefore reflects back on and
elucidates his soteriology. Where soteriology speaks to the gap between
human possibility and the current human state, eschatology speaks to how
human beings are supposed to be, and the world in which they are supposed
to live.
The eschatological kingdom is, for Eustathius, a corporeal kingdom and a
human kingdom. It is a human kingdom in the sense that it has a human
king—‘the human being of Christ’—and it is corporeal because it is human. It
must be corporeal in order to be a proper sphere for the realization of human
potential, since humans are intrinsically physical creatures. Human existence
within it will be radically different from, yet commensurable to, life within the
current world order. Correspondingly, Eustathius’ eschatology generally
emphasizes commensurability with the current world order, both in human
ontology—the resurrection body is the same in substance to, and very like, the
current one—and, to an uncertain degree, in human society—Christ will reign
in a society comparable to the current one.
Eustathius negotiates competing visions of the relationship between history
and eschatology in Irenaeus and Origen. He looks to the eschatological
kingdom as the fulfilment of human history. In this respect, he rejects Origen’s
view of history as eschatologically negated, in favour of a view central to
Irenaeus’ millenarian eschatology—that, in the eschaton, salvation is, in a
sense, brought into history. However, he has a stronger intuition of the
‘otherness’ of the eschatological kingdom than Irenaeus, and frequently refers
to Christ’s kingdom as eternal [ÆNØ ]. The eternity of Christ’s kingdom
makes most sense if we regard it as a way of accommodating his belief that
history is tragic in a significant way; this, as we saw in the previous chapter,
results from his taking on Origen’s sense of a primeval catastrophe whilst
rejecting his cosmology. Eustathius’ belief in the eternity of Christ’s reign
also gives him some shared ground with Eusebius, where Marcellus does not
have it.
As most of the eschatological fragments are concerned with Christ’s
eschatological kingship, they have important political implications. The nature
of Christ’s kingship is twofold—on one hand, Christ has authority over the
Eschatology 215
human race, but on the other, his is authority in part restored [reponenda] and
in part newly gifted to the human race. Both motifs suggest a certain lack of
faith in all forms of government in the current world order, and a sense that
eschatological authority is of a different, and superior, kind. This attitude to
earthly government is starkly in contrast to the one most often expressed by
Eusebius of Caesarea, and reflects the two men’s very different reactions to
the Constantinian Revolution, anticipating certain ideas that were to surface
in Athanasius’ Vita Antonii.4 It is also suggestive of Augustine’s contrast
between the heavenly and the earthly cities.5 Eustathius’ ideas about eschato-
logical authority place a question mark over the nature of Constantine’s
authority.
FOURTH-CENTURY CHRISTIANITY AND

THE P OLITICS OF E SCHATOLOGY
One of the most controversial aspects of Origen’s legacy was his putative
doctrine of spiritual resurrection.6 Relatedly, Origen’s soteriology in De Prin-
cipiis is the story of the soul’s salvation, and he hints at an ultimate end to
embodiment.7 Eschatology was correspondingly significant to the debate
around Origen’s legacy. This forms an important background to the antagon-
ism between Eustathius and Eusebius; I have already noted that Eustathius
took issue with Eusebius’ approval of Plato’s ideas about post-mortem judge-
ment. Eusebius, for his part, criticizes millenarianism—and particularly notes
Irenaeus as an exponent of it.8 This puts him sharply at odds at least with
Marcellus of Ancyra and Methodius, both of whom clearly espoused a belief in
the finite, earthly reign of Christ.9
4
See for example Vita Antonii, 81: ‘Christ is the only true and eternal emperor.’
5
For example, Augustine, Civitate Dei, 19.24.
6
See ‘The Resurrection of the Body’ in Chapter 3.
7
See Origen, De Princ., 3.6, in which he sets out his intention to add a little more to his
discussion of ‘the end of the world and the consummation’ (3.6.1) and goes on to discuss the
soul’s union with God (3.6.3). See also Contra Celsum, 7.3, where Origen refers to
I
ŒÆÆØ —final restoration. Mark Scott, Journey Back to God (Oxford: OUP, 2012),
pp. 60–7, argues that Origen did, indeed, envision an end to human embodiment. However,
Edwards, Origen against Plato, pp. 95–6 argues that, for Origen, souls must be embodied, citing
Origen’s claim that only God is completely bodiless (see De Princ., 1.6.4; 4.3.13).
8
Eusebius, H.E., 3.39.
9
See Methodius, Convivium, 9.3, and Marcellus, fragments K117, K119, K121, and K120.
These thinkers undermine the idea that belief in Christ’s thousand-year earthly reign was alien to
fourth-century Greek-speaking Christianity; for an example of which see Francis Dvornik,
Political Philosophy, Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: Origins and Background,
vol. 2 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Centre for Byzantine Studies, 1966), pp. 605–6.

Much like exegesis, whilst eschatology found itself at the centre of many
fourth-century debates, it defies easy categorization, and radically divergent
pictures of the end times can be found in one author. Though Eusebius
explicitly criticizes millenarian eschatology, and often suggests a ‘realized’
eschatology, in Commentaria in Isaiam his eschatology is more traditional,
involving Christ’s Second coming and the destruction of the devil;10 this is not
a sheer contradiction with his Constantinian works—his interpretation is not
actually millenarian, and he does shy away from some apocalyptic elements of
Isaiah: he gives no description of Christ’s descent, and also omits any mention
of Antichrist. Michael Hollerich thus cites Eusebius’ ‘dislike of millenarianism’
as a possible reason for the former omission (whilst observing that the
Isaiah commentary is a far cry from the realized eschatology often associated
with Eusebius).11 The Commentaria in Isaiam reveals breadth in Eusebius’
eschatological ideas, whilst also suggesting a basic consistency in his rejection
of millenarianism.
Athanasius’ eschatology also has a diversity of emphases across different
works, and at different times in his life. For instance, Contra Gentes is
extremely concerned with the soul’s return to God, but in Historia Arianorum,
in which Athanasius wishes to attack the pro-Arian emperor Constantius, he
strongly hints at a millenarian eschatology.12
Eusebius’ antipathy towards millenarian eschatology is connected to a
fallout over John’s Apocalypse: this book was regarded with some suspicion
in the eastern church following first Origen’s allegorical interpretation of it,
and then Dionysius of Alexandria’s claim that it ought only to be interpreted
allegorically. Eusebius of Caesarea refers to it as a ‘disputed book’ and Gregory
of Nazianzus omits it from his list of canonical books.13 Evidently, Origen’s
take on John’s Apocalypse, in connection with his eschatology, featured in
early fourth-century arguments about him: according to the Apologia, Origen
cites the Apocalypse on the first and second resurrections.14 Pamphilus brings
this to the reader’s attention, presumably, to assuage the doubts of those who
may not have been happy with his allegorical reading of the book. However,
even in these terms, different strands of thought could be readily woven
together. Anyone hoping to chart proximity to millenarian eschatology against
10
Eusebius, Commentaria in Isaiam, pp. 228 and 174–6, respectively. For Eusebius’ sense that
the kingdom of God is here, see his repeated references to living in a ‘new’ age at D.E., 1.4–5.
11
Hollerich, Eusebius’s Commentary, p. 198.
12
Athanasius, C.G., 30 and Hist. Ar., 74, 78, respectively.
13
Eusebius, HE, 7.25.4–5 (where Eusebius remarks on Dionysius); Gregory of Nazianzus,
Carmina dogmatica, PG, 37.471–4. Timothy Manor demonstrates this development in Eastern
attitudes to John’s Apocalypse in his ‘Epiphanius’ “Alogi” and the Question of Early Ecclesias-
tical Opposition to the Johannine Corpus’ (PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh, 2012),
pp. 159–62.
14
Pamphilus, Apologia, 137, citing Revelation 20.6.
Eschatology 217
levels of allegory in exegesis of John’s Apocalypse may be confounded by
Methodius’ Convivium: he both allegorizes parts of the Apocalypse and
interprets it eschatologically, in a millenarian direction. So, he gives an
extensive allegorical interpretation of John’s Apocalypse 12—in which a
woman gives birth to a son—as referring to the church re-forming human
beings, and specifically to baptism.15 This interpretation is presumably an
alternative to an eschatological one, because it is specified that the child to
whom the woman gives birth is not Christ, with no further explanation as to
how this passage might tie into eschatological or Messianic readings. However,
in the next book of Convivium, Methodius not only refers to Christ’s thou-
sand-year reign on earth, but also interprets other parts of the Apocalypse
eschatologically.16
As we saw in Chapter 5, Eustathius participated in a political discourse that
drew analogies between God’s power, human power, and the devil’s power,
and was ambivalent partly because the implications of such analogies are
highly ambiguous and multivalent. Within this discourse, the eschatological
kingdom reflects in diverse ways on the current world order. Political concerns
are thus an important factor in shaping complex and shifting eschatologies—
as with Athanasius’ Historia Arianorum, or Eusebius’ Constantinian works.
It is difficult to establish, in both biblical and patristic texts, how close is the
analogy between Christ’s or God’s power and human power, and what the
implications of this closeness are. To define the ways in which eschatology
reflects on current political structures, we must ask how commensurable the
eschatological order is to the current order. Millenarian eschatology, by
looking to an earthly eschatological society, provides a vision of a commen-
surable eschatological society.
The commensurability of the eschatological order with this one enables
eschatological society to act as a model for present society, even if it is
acknowledged that lapsed society will always fall short of this model. It
is possible to look to a commensurable eschatological order, and see there
what society should be like. Millenarianism must, like non-millenarian eschat-
ologies, imply the contingency and transience of earthly rule, and the closeness
of the comparison in millenarianism often has the effect of driving this
implication home especially sharply. It also offers a critique, and a suggestion,
another way of being on earth. The commensurability of eschatological vision
with the current world order vests this vision with particular resources to
comment upon earthly power and authority whether or not the authority
involved in the vision is part of what is commensurable. The idea that life is to
be entirely different in the eschaton either reflects entirely negatively on the
15
Methodius, Convivium, 8.4–12.
16
See Methodius, Convivium, 9.3 and 9.5. I here differ from Patterson, who rejects the
interpretation of Methodius as a millenarian: Methodius, p. 106.

present—the eschaton does represent objective perfection, but the present
offers no opportunity to strive towards the perfection we see in the esch-
aton—or suggests that the eschaton does not provide an archetype for human
society at all—if life is so different now, we may expect that human interaction,
including structures of power and authority, will also be different, and the
sharp contrast between the eschaton and the present does not reflect on the
moral status of either of them.
It is presumably on account of its ability to comment on the present that
Christian communities in the pre-Christian Roman Empire often saw the
anticipation of a reign of Christ on earth as making a challenging political
statement to imperial power. For example, this was clearly a use for which
Irenaeus deployed the Apocalypse, and Lactantius espouses millenarianism in
his fiercely anti-Diocletian Divinae Institutiones.17 However, in the later
fourth century, millenarianism was sometimes redeployed to reflect positively
on the emperor. For example, Jerome suggests that the fall of the Roman
Empire might hail the Antichrist.18
It is clear, then, that we are not only trying to chart short and fragmentary
texts, but that we are trying to do so within muddied waters. Nonetheless,
several important facts can ground our investigation: Origen’s legacy was
partly about the perceived otherworldliness of his eschatology; prominent
amongst those from whom Eustathius took the torch, and amongst those to
whom he passed it, were thinkers who looked to an earthly kingdom of the
just—and for Irenaeus and Athanasius, at least, this had an important political
dimension. Eusebius, one of Eustathius’ principal antagonists and a staunch
supporter of Constantine, had declared his dislike of millenarian eschatology.
All of this offers an important context to Eustathius’ emphasis on the human
reign of Christ. I will suggest that, in light of this context, his emphasis has a
political dimension.
C H R I S T’S KI NGDOM
Eustathius has a concept of a corporeal, and human, eschatological kingdom

[ÆØºÆ] of Christ, in a reality that is, in important respects, strongly
continuous with the present reality. His terminology for Christ’s eschatologic-
al kingship is very similar to Marcellus’—and is deployed in aid of similar
17
See Irenaeus, A.H., 5.36.3; Lactantius, Divinae Institutiones, 7.24. See ‘The Devil Defeated:
Political Power in Patristic Thought’ in Chapter 5.
18
See Jerome, Commenatria in Ezekielem, XI.36.38. I draw on Gerbern Oegema, ‘Back to the
Future in the Early Church: The Use of the Book of Daniel in Early Patristic Eschatology’ in The
Function of Ancient Historiography in Biblical and Cognate Studies, edited by Patricia Kirkpa-
trick and Timothy Goltz (London: T and T Clark, 2008), pp. 152–61, 161.
Eschatology 219
theological principles. This corresponds closely to their roles within the ‘Arian’
controversy; much terminology they share not only with each other, but also
with Asterius and Eusebius, and they seek to carve out a particular meaning
and particular context for this terminology to support a largely shared theo-
logical vision against that of their pro-Arian counterparts. Marcellus and
Eustathius both diverge from Eusebius and Asterius in believing that Christ,
the human being, reigns eschatologically. This partly reflects a shared debt to
Irenaeus (though placed within a much more divisive Christological frame-
work). In Marcellus at least, it is part of a millenarian eschatology. There are
reasons for thinking that Eustathius, too, wanted to depict Christ’s reign as
earthly, though he does not espouse belief in a finite reign of Christ.
The Kingdom Advances
In Ariomanitas, Eustathius has the idea that Christ’s kingdom is advancing;

that is, it is in a state of becoming. Here, the heavenly kingdom is invoked in
the context of struggle with the devil. First, the penitent thief ‘confesses the
power of the kingdom of Christ’.19 Second,
all the body guards of the arch-plunder melted and fell down before [Christ],
being unable to withstand the strength of the kingdom, as Paul indicates: ‘every
knee will bow to Christ, not only in heaven and on earth, but also under the
earth.’20
The kingdom here seems to extend to every sphere of created reality and
advances with the economy of salvation. As the passage quoted from Paul
apparently refers to an eschatological event—when all will confess Christ—it
seems to be specifically ‘under the earth’ that is subjected to Christ’s kingdom
at the time of his death and descent to Hades. Is earth yet to come? In the last
chapter, I identified a tension between God’s will as ever actualized and God’s
will as eschatologically actualized in Eustathius’ thought. In particular, Christ
has already accomplished victory in Hades. This tension applies to Christ’s
kingdom—it is something that begins to advance even now, but is not fully
established until the eschaton.
Eschatological Kingship and Christology
The eschatological fragments from Arianos–De Fide–In Proverbia 8.22 address

the eschatological establishment of the kingdom. These fragments focus a
good deal on Christ’s eschatological kingship—speaking of it as a future
19 20
D27:14. D28:61–4.

event—but give virtually no description of his kingdom. This is a natural
consequence of the reasons for which this work is quoted. What remains of it
is preserved largely by Theodoret of Cyrus and Severus of Antioch, both of
whom are interested in Eustathius’ Christology, not his eschatology. Recurring
in Theodoret’s fragments is the claim that ‘the human being of Christ’, rather
than the Word, received or will receive authority.21 Eustathius’ argument is
exegetical and brings out the disagreement about whether certain passages are
to be applied to the Word or to Christ’s humanity: he is involved in a
discussion about biblical passages that suggest (or, at any rate, were read to
suggest) that Christ will receive authority, glory, and honour from the Father,
or from God. He is arguing that they do not mean that the Son receives these
things from the Father, having not had them before. The central point is that
all of these properties are intrinsic to the Son, and that therefore the Son holds
them eternally.
Eusebius can agree with Eustathius on much of what is not Christological
here. I have already highlighted his own deliberate ambiguity about when
God’s will is achieved.22 Eusebius also frequently cites biblical passages as
referring to Christ’s K ıÆ; among them is Philippians 2.10 (quoted in
Eustathius in the previous sub-section)—but, unlike Eustathius, he applies it
to the Word, not to the humanity of Christ.23 Exegesis similar to Eusebius’ is
found in both Arius and Asterius: in his letter to Alexander, Arius claims that
the Father ‘gave [the Son] the inheritance of everything’ and ‘gave subsistence
to his glories’;24 according to Athanasius, Asterius distinguishes between
power that is proper [YØ ] to God and the power of those ministering his
will, such as Christ.25 Athanasius also writes that Arius and Eusebius (the text
itself is unclear about which Eusebius) apply verses about reward and promo-
tion to the Word of God, and so subordinate the Word to the Father.26
Athanasius lists Philippians 2.10 as one such text; Eustathius is probably
engaging directly in this argument in both Ariomanitas and Arianos. His
focus on eschatology in Arianos may reflect the fact that he has an interest
in emphasizing the eschatological nature of these passages—if he can establish
that Christ has not even yet received the authority, glory, and power promised
in the passages, this makes it harder to attribute them to Christ’s divinity.27
21
See D93a/b, D100 [Arianos].
22
‘Weakness and the Origins of Sin—Moral Opportunity after the Lapse’ in Chapter 5.
23
Eusebius, Commentaria in Isaiam, p. 311.
24
This letter is preserved in Athanasius, De Synodis, 16.
25 26
Athanasius, C.Ar., II.18.37. Athanasius, C.Ar., I.37–8.
27
There are good reasons for thinking that some of his opponents applied the contested
verses, not to the Word incarnate and resurrected, but to the Word existing before the creation of
the world. For example, Marcellus, fragment K104, claims that Asterius believes that ‘pre-cosmic’
authority and glory were given to the Word.
Eschatology 221
Underlying his exegesis is, therefore, a picture of what the eschaton will
look like.
I have already noted that exegetical arguments between Eusebius and
Eustathius sometimes hinge on the meaning of the word ¼Łæ
;28 this
pattern can be seen in their respective treatments of eschatological passages.
For instance, whilst Eustathius writes that glory and authority will be received
by the human being of Christ, Eusebius writes that when Daniel refers to the
glory and authority to be received by the ‘Son of ¼Łæ
’, he means that they
will be received by the Word, who is called ‘Son of ¼Łæ
’ because
he ‘appeared in the flesh’;29 we should therefore consider that Eustathius’
repeated, carefully defined use of the term ¼Łæ
in reference to Christ is
fundamental to the eschatology of his anti-Arian works.
Continuity and Discontinuity in the Eschaton
Like Marcellus, Eustathius thinks that Christ, the human being, reigns escha-
tologically.30 The eschatological kingdom is a human kingdom, with a human
king. Clearly, then, Eustathius also believes that Christ’s kingdom will be
corporeal. As the resurrection body is decidedly corporeal, the world in
which resurrected human beings are to live must also be so. This conclusion
is necessitated by the emphatic claim that ‘the human being of Christ’ will be
ruler over this kingdom. Eustathius does not regard a soul without a body as a
human being, and uses the title ‘the human being of Christ’ to designate
Christ’s full humanity within precisely this framework—the human being of
Christ has a human body and soul. It is especially unlikely that Eustathius fails
to carry the implications of his psychophysical anthropology through into his
eschatology, since he particularly emphasizes the embodied nature of human
beings when talking about eschatological judgement: the whole person, body
and soul, must be judged because, if only the soul is judged, then the one who
is judged is not the one who performed the actions under judgement.31
Furthermore, Eustathius explicitly refers to Christ’s body in the context of
Christ’s kingship: ‘the human being, gracefully having been made a temple of
justice from limbs and dwelling with the most sacred Word, has inherited by
excellence the everlasting throne’.32 Eustathius maintains his vivid picture of
resurrected physicality in his depiction of the glorified Christ. The king is
physical, and so must the kingdom be.
28
‘The Self: Body and Soul’ in Chapter 3.
29
Eusebius, H.E., 1.2.25–6. See Daniel 7.13–14.
30
For example, Marcellus, Contra Asterium, K119. See Parvis, Marcellus, p. 58.
31
D46 [Ariomanitas]. See ‘The Resurrection of the Body’ in Chapter 3.
32
D102:7–9 [Arianos].

It is less immediately clear whether Eustathius’ eschatological kingdom is,
like Irenaeus’ eschatological kingdom, ‘a social and political reality, not just a
physical one’.33 There is insufficient evidence to ascertain whether Eustathius
offered a detailed picture of the workings and governance of the eschatological
society. What does recur in his thought is the belief that our current identity is
very largely continuous with our eschatological identity. I argued in Chapter 3
that Eustathius reacted against a theology of the resurrection that emphasized
discontinuity between the resurrection body and the current one. He stresses
continuity between current humanness and eschatological humanness in such
a way that human identity is located in the present life. This is part of a wider
rejection of Origen’s theology of embodiment, not only with regards to the
resurrection, but also with regards to human origins. This suggests that the key
to eschatological society ought to be identifiable in current society.
Eustathius does imply an ‘otherness’ to the eschatological kingdom, by
deploying scriptural passages referring to heaven to describe it. However, in
these instances, he most often also wants to imply a sense of continuity
between earthly life and heavenly life. He writes that Christ’s throne is ‘pre-
pared . . . in heaven’ and that ‘we are citizens of heaven’.34 Similarly, in Ar-
iomanitas, he writes of ‘the glory of the kingdom of the heavens’ as something
that lies before those engaged in moral and spiritual struggle.35 In Ariomani-
tas, there is some sense of continuity together with otherness: this heavenly
glory is for earthly struggles. In both passages from Arianos, the purpose of the
quotation is Christological. In the first instance, Eustathius refers to Christ’s
throne in heaven as an example of a phrase that should be applied to ‘the
human being of Christ’ rather than to the Word: ‘for [the power of the throne]
does not need to be restored to the Omnipotent, to the one who has his own
sceptre, nor to the Word who has the royal power itself, which the Father also
has, but this is to be said about Christ: “The Lord prepared his throne in
heaven”’.36 His quotation does not tell us much about his concept of the
eschatological kingdom, except that it is a human kingdom, as opposed to a
divine kingdom. Earth and heaven become, in a sense, connected.
When he refers to our heavenly ‘citizenship’, Eustathius is quoting Philippians
3.20, and, at least most immediately, is interested in a later part of the quote,
for its relevance to the congruence between Christ’s resurrection and our own.
Here is the relevant fragment:
That the body has the same form as the human body, he teaches us more clearly,
writing to the Philippians: ‘We are citizens’ [Paul] says, ‘of heaven, out of which
we received a saviour, the lord Jesus Christ, who will change our body of lowliness
33
This is Denis Minns’ observation about Irenaeus in his Irenaeus, p. 145.
34
D103:6 [Arianos], quoting Ps. 102.19 and D69:2–3, quoting Philippians 3.20 [Arianos–In
Proverbia 8.22–De Fide], respectively.
35 36
D39:48–9. D103:3–8 [Arianos].
Eschatology 223
to become conformed to the body of his glory.’ And if, changing the lowly body of
human beings, he conforms it to his own body, the slander of the enemies is
revealed . . . to be obsolete.37
Eustathius is trying to prove that ‘the body has the same form as the human
body’.38 ‘The body’ could here be referring either to Christ’s body, or to the
resurrected bodies of other human beings. This passage makes most sense if
we take it that the body referred to here is Christ’s. In D68, which is also from
Arianos–De Fide–In Proverbia 8.22 (and, like D69, from the In Proverbia 8.22
collection of fragments), Eustathius specifies that we are conformed to ‘the
human express image having been made bodily by the Spirit, bearing the same
number of limbs as all the rest, and clad in similar form to each’, rather than to
‘the bodiless spirit of wisdom’.39 D69 is probably from the same discussion.
The emphasis on Christ’s physicality in D69 contributes to the impression that
these fragments are drawn from one piece of argumentation about our bodies
being like Christ’s. It is evident that Eustathius refers to Christ’s resurrected
body for several reasons. First, this fits into the wider pattern of his soteriology
as outlined in Chapters 4 and 5: Christ fulfils humanity and does so, partly, by
going through death to defeat death. Humanity is fulfilled only after Christ has
defeated death.40 Second, the description of Christ’s body as ‘glorious’ makes
most sense if Eustathius (and Paul) has the resurrected body in mind. The
passage is about the similarity between Christ’s resurrection body and ours.
Eustathius’ reference to the Christians’ ‘heavenly citizenship’ is part of an
argument that we become conformed to the human being, Christ, rather than
to God the Son.
The ‘slander’ of which he accuses his opponents here is presumably the
claim cited in D68 that we are conformed to the ‘bodiless Spirit of Wisdom’;
Eustathius is alluding to Origen’s doctrine of spiritual resurrection, and
imputing it to pro-Arian ‘soulless’ readings of Christological passages. The
point of bringing this up in an anti-Arian argument is to affirm the full
humanity of Christ. It is very similar to Eustathius’ argument, in Ariomanitas,
that referring to Christ as
ıÆØŒ does not imply that the Spirit acted for
the soul in him. Both arguments imply that the same ontological categories,
with the same experiential implications, continue into eschatological exist-
ence. The purpose of this quotation, far from being to locate the eschatological
kingdom in an otherworldly context, is to emphasize continuity between
earthly and heavenly identity.
37
D69 [In Proverbia 8.22], quoting Philippians 3.20–1.
38 39
D69:1. D68:11–15 [In Proverbs 8.22].
40
Humanity is not even fulfilled immediately upon Christ’s resurrection, because Christ’s
eschatological kingship is part of the perfection of humankind, as I argue in ‘Freedom and
Perfection’.

Philippians 3.21 is also cited in Pamphilus’ Apologia, alongside 1 Corinth-
ians 15.43–4, in a passage in which Origen is affirming the bodily resurrec-
tion;41 this adds further weight to the idea that Eustathius’ argument here is
apiece with his argument about the
ıÆØŒ body of 1 Corinthians 15 in
Ariomanitas. I have already suggested that Eustathius may have taken on the
Apologia to deploy it against Eusebius. If he did, it is surely significant that
both of these passages are cited by Eustathius when he is talking about the
resurrection; he is engaging partly with the Apologia. Interestingly, Eustathius
begins the quote earlier, with Philippians 3.20, so that a description of our
heavenly citizenship is included. If we take it that Eustathius is engaging,
rhetorically, with Apologia, he appears to be invoking a social and political
dimension to the resurrected life, and implying that, if Origen is to take on a
doctrine of physical resurrection, he must also eschew other over-spiritualiz-
ing elements to his eschatology.
Eustathius does not, in any case, deploy passages about the heavenly
kingdom to construct an otherworldly eschatological vision. We may simply
conclude that Eustathius does not, after all, locate the kingdom in heaven,
given that heaven is never the point of the quotation. However, this apparent
juxtaposition of the ‘heavenly’ kingdom with its emphatically corporeal,
human, king may, equally, be deliberate on Eustathius’ part. These passages
may, to Eustathius’ mind, anticipate heaven having come down to earth, as in
the final chapter of the Apocalypse.42 Evidently, if Eustathius does believe that
Christ will reign in heaven-on-earth, he does not mean to imply that heaven-
on-earth will be unrecognizable as the earth on which we are living. Christ
reigns qua human being; as in his ontology, so in his analysis of human
society—what we are now is to be fulfilled, not superseded.
Apocalyptic
It was mentioned in the previous chapter that Eustathius’ image of the ‘seal’ of
Christ’s blood—apparently a metaphor for baptism—draws on apocalyptic
passages from Ezekiel and John’s Apocalypse. Eustathius’ interpretation of the
crushing of the dragon’s head in Psalm 73.13–14 as referring to Christ’s
death—specifically his descent to Hades—to baptism, and to Christ’s eschato-
logical defeat of the devil also has an apocalyptic ring. Eustathius may mean to
indicate some kind of demonic reign prior to Christ’s victory: Christ feeds the
devil’s body to those still unrepentant and then removes the devil’s crown—he
41
Pamphilus, Apologia pro Origene, 137. Compare also Origen, De Oratione, 30.
42
See Rev. 21.1–3.
Eschatology 225
feeds the devil’s body to those who still regard the devil as king.43 Methodius
refers to a ‘kingdom of the Antichrist’ prior to Christ’s victory.44 Does
Eustathius have a similar idea? My suggestion is speculative, because it is
not quite clear exactly how Eustathius envisages the events of Psalm 73.13–14
being enacted in each context. Frustratingly, this passage does not allow us to
reconstruct Eustathius’ eschatology in any detail. It is, however, an example of
his using apocalyptic passages in an eschatological context.45
It may be significant that in Commentaria in Psalmos, Eusebius rejects the
inverse Eucharist interpretation of the crushing and eating of the dragon’s
heads, arguing that the passage instead refers to the destruction of Pharaoh’s
army in the Red Sea. When he dismisses it, Eusebius dubs the inverse
Eucharist interpretation ‘figurative’.46 I observed in Chapter 2 that, in early
fourth-century debate over Origen’s legacy, the term ‘allegorical’ could func-
tion as a rhetorical device.47 Eusebius may well be deploying the term ‘figura-
tive’ in this way here: the interpretation of which he is dismissive is that of
Origen, Methodius, and Eustathius; we have seen that Eustathius often sought
to turn Origen against Eusebius. Perhaps Eusebius decided that two could play
that game. His remark may be a jibe at the ‘figurative’, Origenist interpretation
given by Eustathius. Eusebius is straying rather close to another baptismal
interpretation for this to be the aspect of Eustathius’ exegesis that bothers him,
because the crossing of the Red Sea is also read as a type of baptism in some
patristic texts;48 eschatology is more likely to be his target. He suggests that
Eustathius’ eschatological interpretations of apocalyptic passages are in fact
the figurative ones; Eustathius must allegorize scripture to arrive at eschato-
logical interpretations of apocalyptic passages.
Eusebius also, like Eustathius, connects Psalm 73.13–14 with Isaiah 27.1 as
evidence of Christ’s victory.49 It may therefore be significant that Psalm
73.13–14 is absent from Eusebius’ careful exegesis of Isaiah 27.1 in his Isaiah
43
D32:28–88 [Ariomanitas]. The connection between apocalyptic and baptism finds a
comparison in Methodius’ Convivium: I have noted that Methodius interprets Rev. 12—in
which a woman gives birth to a son—as referring to the church re-forming human beings, and
specifically to baptism (Convivium, 8.4–12). Like Eustathius, he echoes Titus 3.5—the lather of
regeneration (8.6). In the next section of Convivium, Methodius interprets Rev. 20.6 eschatolo-
gically. Methodius and Eustathius read apocalyptic scripture as having both present and
eschatological referents.
44
Methodius, Convivium, 6.4.
45
Though not an exclusively eschatological context; Christopher Rowland, The Open Heaven,
A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity (London: SPCK, 1982), has valuably
highlighted the fact that ‘apocalyptic’ need not be eschatology—the heavens reveal their secrets
in many other contexts in Jewish and Christian literature. My references to apocalyptic eschat-
ology should not be taken as a conflation of all apocalyptic with its eschatological variety.
46
Eusebius, Commentaria in Psalmos, PG, 23:864.
47
See Margaret Mitchell, ‘Patristic Rhetoric on Allegory’.
48
See for example Jerome, Epistula, 69.6.
49
Eusebius, Comm. in Psalmos, PG, 24:1088.

Commentary. Here, as I have observed, his eschatology has much in common
with apocalyptic eschatology, but shies away from some aspects of it. Is it
possible that he found Psalm 73 too apocalyptic a passage to cite in an
eschatological context? I do not wish to reduce Eusebius’ alternative interpret-
ations to hurried reactionary constructions; they have a clear, positive theo-
logical motivation, being testament to the importance he gave to God’s
working in history. Furthermore, they show a careful originality of thought.50
Nonetheless, it is worth considering whether Eusebius’ and Eustathius’
very different approaches to this passage are connected; perhaps Eusebius is
reacting against an apocalyptic interpretation on which Eustathius is drawing;
perhaps Eustathius’ apocalyptic use of this passage, either here or in an
earlier, now lost work, contributed to Eusebius’ decision to go down a
different route.
Christ’s Eternal Reign
The strong parallel between Eustathius and Marcellus—the government of the

eschatological kingdom is human government—also hints at a millenarian
context for Eustathius’ eschatological fragments: specifically, an earthly reign
of Christ. Nonetheless, Eustathius rejects one aspect of this idea that is striking
in Marcellus. For Eustathius, Christ’s eschatological kingdom is eternal: ‘the
human being . . . has inherited by excellence the everlasting throne’.51 Similar-
ly, he refers to the apostles as ‘preachers of the everlasting kingdom’.52 He
therefore evidently rejects the classically millenarian idea that Christ’s earthly
reign will be finite, and followed by the reign of God the Father.53
There are many possible reasons for Eustathius’ position on the eternity of
Christ’s reign. The contrast with Marcellus is suggestive of a Christological
and soteriological motivation. In avoiding the idea of an end to Christ’s reign,
Eustathius also avoids the most problematic element of Marcellus’ theology:
his belief that the incarnation would end. Marcellus suggested that this
would happen when Christ’s reign was finished, and the Word would return
to the Father.54 By contrast, Eustathius regards Christ’s kingship as eternally
dependent on the incarnation: ‘he will rule all creation alike by means of
his union with the divine Word’ and ‘he has been appointed to be jointly
50
According to Eusebius, the Ethiopians are the birds that ate the corpses of the Egyptian
army, an interpretation which draws creatively on Homer, as Aaron Johnson observes in
‘Eusebius and Memnon’s Ethiopians’, Classical Philology, 102, no. 3 (2007), 307–10, <http://
www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/529476>.
51 52
D102:9 [Arianos]. D67:34 [In Proverbia 8.22].
53
On which see Irenaeus, A.H., 5.36.3. and Minns’ discussion in his Irenaeus, pp. 142–4;
Lactantius, Divinae Institutiones, 7.24.
54
Fragments K117, K119, K121, and K120.
Eschatology 227
enthroned with the most divine Father because of God dwelling in him
continuously’.55
Marcellus and Eustathius share a sense that Christ’s humanity, rather than
the Word, reigns, and this has the effect of emphasizing human autonomy
over intimacy with God—humanity has its own kind of value, distinct from
the divine.56 For Eustathius, we have seen, the human Christ’s authority and
power is dependent on his union with the Word. Humanity is fulfilled by
union with God for Eustathius, as for Athanasius; the difference between them
lies in what each understands this union to constitute. In Eustathius’ view, it is
not an Athanasian, divinized, human being who rules eternally, but it is a
human being strengthened and bolstered by the Word.57 Human beings need
God’s grace, though not ontological union with God, to be fully human, and
this grace continues eternally.
The eternity of Christ’s reign stands as a sharp reminder of the transience
and fragility of the emperor’s rule, and a reminder that would be all the more
felt at a time when imperial power changed hands so quickly, and violently.
Recall that in Arianos, Eustathius claims that ‘[e]verything that has a begin-
ning also has an end. Everything that ends is corruptible’.58 This claim could
simply be an attack on the idea that the Word had a beginning. However,
Spoerl wonders whether this passage has an eschatological context. She very
tentatively suggests that Eustathius might share Marcellus’ belief that the
incarnation would end.59 The evidence of this claim, which Spoerl herself
acknowledges to be highly ambiguous, is much less compelling than Eustathius’
repeated descriptions of the eschatological kingdom as eternal. He might,
nonetheless, be referring to the eschaton in some sense. This passage could
refer to the end of the current, transient world order, and its replacement with
an eternal world order, which is possible because of Christ’s union with the
Word. Asserting the eternity of Christ’s reign must have some bearing on how
far this reign is commensurable with the present reigns of kings and emperors.
In both John’s Apocalypse and Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses, the earthly reign
of Christ is, in a significant sense, part of human history, prior to the final
end that will be brought about with the ‘new heaven and the new earth’.60
This seems to me to contribute substantially to the way that Christ’s reign
reflects negatively on particular manifestations of human power, in both texts.
Rather a lot may rest on how Eustathius stands in relation to this framework. If
he shares its sense of a final end of history, this has the effect of removing
Christ’s reign from history, which makes it less commensurable with the
55
D103:6–7 [Arianos] and D62:2–3 [Inscriptiones Titulorum].
56
I made a similar argument about the sense in which Eustathius and Marcellus understand
God’s image in Cartwright, ‘The Image of God’, pp. 80–1.
57
On Athanasius, see De Inc., 54.3 and C.Ar. 1.39, and ‘Adam and Christ’ in Chapter 4.
58
D108 [whole fragment]. 59
Spoerl, ‘Two Early Nicenes’, p. 136.
60
See Irenaeus, A.H., 5.35 and Rev. 21.1–3.

emperor’s reign. If, conversely, he shares the sense that Christ’s reign is histor-
ical, he has extended this historical reign forever, magnifying its importance. Is
Eustathius throwing down a gauntlet in remarking on the transience of this
world order?
FREEDOM AND PERFECTION
Eschatologically, we will be sinless, and we will be free. This might be

considered a truism of Christian theology, and it is certainly Eustathius’
view. The coexistence of freedom [KºıŁæÆ] and perfection tells us that
freedom is not a liberty of indifference; both where he couches soteriology
in political terms and where he couches it in terms of essential transformation,
Eustathius implies, to some degree, the ultimate negation of moral deliber-
ation between various options: in being transformed, the person conforms to
the Spirit whilst, in the story of cosmic politics, we all become subject to
Christ. Eschatologically, the person always makes the right decision. This is
bound up in a view of freedom as the ability to decide and act rightly, which was
typical in philosophical as well as theological discourse in antiquity. In Christian
discourse at least, this is, specifically, the freedom to be most oneself.
After being resurrected from the dead, ‘no one sins at all anymore’.61
Eschatologically, the ambiguity about the unique sinfulness of lapsed nature
and the original propensity to sin is resolved: eschatological humanity has no
propensity to sin. Here it is unclear whether humanity eternally retains the
capacity to sin. Salvation is salvation from a lapsed, sinful nature, so a vision of
salvation is a vision of sinlessness.
Similarly, Eustathius apparently depicts humans as subject in the eschaton.
Ultimately, the human being of Christ receives authority over creation. Christ
becomes ruler, replacing the devil. Eustathius regards Christ’s authority as an
important aspect of his kingship. ‘The human being of Christ’ receives ‘a
sceptre of eternal authority (imperii)’.62 It may look as though bondage to the
devil is replaced by bondage to Christ; however, the prevailing motif within
Eustathius’ political soteriological narrative is not so much submission to
Christ as liberation (¼çØ or KºıŁæÆ) from the devil. Insofar as Eustathius
is concerned with wrong government, he is concerned with it because it means
that human beings are not free. The devil, sin, and death, as variously
interrelated, enslave humankind and it is in submission to Christ that human-
kind is free of this enslavement. Eustathius explicitly connects Christ’s defeat
61 62
D47:8–9 [Ariomanitas]. D90:2–3 [Arianos].
Eschatology 229
of the devil with humankind’s universal submission to Christ (we have come
across part of this passage before):
Then, the loosening locks having been suddenly prised up, the gates being broken
asunder, and giving the release [¼çØ] by a royal gift, and reaping the freedom
[KºıŁæÆ] by an amnesty, all the body guards of arch-plunder melted and fell
down before him, not being able to withstand the strength of the kingdom, as
Paul indicates, ‘every knee will bow to Christ, not only in heaven and on earth, but
also under the earth.’ 63
Eustathius’ association of the lapsed state with enslavement is typical of
patristic thought.64 As we have seen, he also makes an equally unremarkable
connection between the lapsed condition and moral imperfection. There is a
corresponding, profound, connection between moral perfection and freedom.
This is evident in Eustathius’ tendency to depict struggle with the devil as
moral struggle; when the battle is won, and the person is free from the devil,
the person is moral. In considering this idea, we should cast our minds back to
Eustathius’ picture of the penitent thief struggling on the cross, and to his
conception (indebted to Paul, and mediated through Irenaeus, Origen, and
Methodius) that Adam became enslaved through disobedience.
The link between freedom and moral perfection reflects a very common
way of understanding freedom in ancient thought: broadly, freedom is free-
dom to make the right decision. Here we have the famous Stoic assertion: ‘only
the wise person is free’.65 Some ancient sources nonetheless show a concern
with liberty of indifference.66 Many patristic thinkers regard self-direction as
necessary for the attainment of ultimate freedom, and some ability to do
otherwise is often a heavily implied corollary of this idea. So, according to
Irenaeus, humankind needed to start out ÆP Ø in order to reach the
freedom of perfection eschatologically. Unless humanity had started out with
ÆP Ø , the freedom of perfection would not be genuine.67 This involved
the potential for sin. Origen similarly thinks that we had to progress from
image to likeness so that we could acquire goodness for ourselves.68 His
speculations about the original equality of souls before they sinned strongly
63
D28:58–65 [Ariomanitas], emphases mine.
64
Marcellus, fragment K107; Perpetua, Passio Pertuae, 17.1; Cyprian, De Lapsis, 2, 35 and De
Dominica, 20.
65
For an ancient discussion of this Stoic concept, see Cicero, Paradoxa Stoicorum, 5.34. Also
see Frede, A Free Will, p. 87.
66
For example, as noted by Frede, A Free Will, p. 96, Alexander of Aphrodisias, De Fato,
XXXVIII, objects that Stoics regard actions as ‘up to us’ even if we are forced to do them, and
thus undermine the notion of freedom.
67
See Irenaeus, A.H., 4.37.1. Irenaeus also suggests that we need actually to sin, because we
learn not to sin in the same way that we learn that some foods are bitter—by tasting.
68
Origen, De Princ., 3.6.1.

imply that we originally had liberty of indifference.69 Methodius hints at a
similar idea in De autexousio by invoking self-direction to explain how God is
not the author of evil.70 Eustathius may share aspects of this idea: it would fit
well with his similarly developmental soteriology, and would give a wider
anthropological–soteriological grounding to his conviction that Christ’s
obedience must be contingent, which, I have suggested, links in with a wider
conversation about ÆP Ø action in Methodius and Eusebius.
It is not clear that Irenaeus thinks that our ÆP Ø choices, even
initially, are unfettered choices. He does suggest that if Adam and Eve had
not sinned, they would have progressed to perfection in paradise, which
implies that they could have opted not to sin.71 On the other hand, he explains
their sin partly by the fact that they were children, which gives the impression
that the decks were stacked against them.72 The liberty of indifference implied
in ÆP Ø is relative; it is freedom straining to get out, by definition a
feature of imperfection. This can elucidate how Eustathius might think of
liberty of indifference. The logic of his worldview requires that, in the lapsed
order, liberty of indifference is a consequence of the moral ambiguity of that
order, because the devil would, if he could, limit our options just as much as
they appear to be limited eschatologically, so that we always did the wrong
thing. Liberty of indifference in the lapsed state is therefore always freedom in
a state of becoming. The freedom of moral perfection is achieved when this
becoming is complete. This helps us to see how freedom from the devil can be
identified with moral perfection. Where slavery is slavery of the person’s own
desires, understanding, preferences, or intuitions, being freed from this slavery
and therefore being allowed to do the right thing, is being allowed to decide to
do it. The sense that, given this permission, the person will decide rightly
depends on a conception of eschatological humanity as morally good; it makes
morality a character attribute, so that ability to make the wrong decision is not
a prerequisite for self-direction.
On one level, the idea of Christ as king seems to be coming from a rather
different place because the person’s desires and choices appear to be an
irrelevance. Of course, one will be allowed to do good during Christ’s reign,
but it does not follow that one will decide, Œıø , to do it. Christ’s kingship
creates a space, free from the devil’s tyranny in which we can exercise our total
freedom. It is not obviously concerned with the bondage that the lapse has
wreaked upon our desires, or with how to free those desires. In a society where
government could be highly volatile, good government appears to be a blessing
indeed, and a freeing blessing. Nonetheless, in this context, it is freedom from,
whereas the freedom granted by the perfection of our moral orientation is
freedom to.
69 70
Origen, De Princ., 1.6.2. Methodius, De autexousio, XVI–XVII.
71 72
Irenaeus, Demonstration, 15. Irenaeus, Demonstration, 12 and 14.
Eschatology 231
Eustathius’ remarks about Christ’s eschatological rule also contain a more
radical suggestion: that the human race receives authority through Christ’s
reception of it. It is one of the ways in which Christ fulfils human potential.
Eustathius particularly emphasizes the idea that Christ, the human being,
receives authority. A very similar treatment of Christ’s K ıÆ is found in
Marcellus: ‘[the Word] assumed the human being so as to prepare him to
receive the first-fruits of authority’.73 This parallels Eustathius’ application of
the term ‘first fruits’ to Christ’s humanity. Eustathius’ distinctive way of
referring to Christ’s humanity—‘the human being of Christ’—gives this notion
a particular emphasis: it is not simply qua human being that Christ will reign,
but Christ the human being, as opposed to the Word. Correspondingly, Christ
is said to win the prize so that humanity may gain ‘power, honour, and
glory’.74 His argument about Christ’s human reign in Arianos probably
contains a similar soteriological thread to that so often found in Ariomanitas:
‘the human being of Christ’ must be the one who receives the kingdom,
because otherwise, humankind does not receive authority.75 This gives a less
hierarchical picture of the eschatological society.
This authority is sometimes depicted as a promotion from the original state:
when humanity receives power, honour, and glory, at least part of this is
something quam nequaquam prius haberat ‘which it had by no means held at
first’.76 However, Eustathius also suggests that, when Christ receives authority
from God, it is ‘restored’ to him, implying that humankind possessed such
authority prior to the lapse.77 This is, admittedly, a little ambiguous. The
relevant fragment is as follows:
For one who has the throne of the kingdom does not prepare another fate for
himself, but for one who does not yet have the power of the throne. Therefore, this
passage clearly concerns the human being of Christ. And these things were
neither going to be restored [reponenda sunt] to the Omnipotent, who has his
own sceptre, nor to the Word who has the royal power itself, which the Father
also has, but this will be said to Christ: ‘The Lord prepared his throne in heaven.’
For he will rule all creation together by means of his union with the divine Word.
Eustathius denies that power is to be restored to the Word. Recall the main
theme of the Arianos fragments: that the Word’s properties are eternal and
intrinsic, as opposed to acquired. In many other fragments, Eustathius con-
trasts the Word’s intrinsic power with the human being of Christ’s acquired or
contingent power. If that is the paradigm here, he means to say that power will
not be restored to the Word—he has it already—but to the human being of
Christ.
73 74
Marcellus, Contra Asterium, K108. D93:3–4 [Arianos].
75
See especially D90, D100–3 on Christ’s reception of authority.
76 77
D93:45. D103:4 [Arianos].

The idea that authority is ‘restored’ to humankind in Christ coheres with
the list of attributes that Adam is said to have received when God breathed
Adam’s soul into his body: ‘he walks and breathes, he governs, he reasons, he
acts, he has control’.78 This is presumably a reference to Adam and Eve’s
lordship over creation: ‘[God said] “Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds
of the sky and over the herds and over all the earth, and all of the reptiles that
creep on the earth.”’79 The connection between Christ’s authority and Adam
and Eve’s authority particularly suggests that authority is restored to all
human beings. Irenaeus similarly writes that humanity ‘was free and master
of himself . . . in order that he should rule over everything upon the earth’.80
Further, the authority that God gives to Adam and Eve in Eden is not
authority over other human beings, but over creation. In this picture,
human beings are eschatologically subject to no one, because God has dele-
gated power to them. In submitting to Christ, we share in his authority.81
A little later, he clarifies that ¼Łæ
was ‘secretly appointed’ as lord,
because those he was lord over were fully grown, whilst he was a child.82
This weaves the concept of authority into Irenaeus’ developmental
soteriology—the implication is that human authority will not be complete
until humanity is complete. This provides a possible framework for under-
standing Eustathius’ sense that eschatological authority is both restored and
newly gifted to humanity in Christ—and sheds light on Marcellus’ idea that
Christ received the first fruits of authority.
A similar line of thought can be found in Gregory of Nyssa, for whom the
idea that human beings are created as rulers is fundamental, and refers to the
human power of self-direction—each human being is a natural ruler of him or
herself; in light of this power, slavery is unnatural.83 Gregory develops and
emphasizes the ethical implications of this idea far beyond what is evidenced
in Eustathius. Also, Gregory’s preferred term for the self-directing power
bestowed upon humankind—ÆP Ø —is not evidenced in Eustathius.
However, I have suggested that he probably was concerned with the concept.
Eustathius’ writings are replete with such references to Christ’s K ıÆ: the
Word ‘allotted such great increase of K ıÆ to the human being who
contained him’ that he could ‘traverse heaven and earth’84; Christ entered
78 79
D61:8–9 [Ariomanitas], emphasis mine. Genesis 1.28 (LXX).
80
Irenaeus, Demonstration, 11, translated by John Behr (New York: St Vladimir’s Theological
Press, 1997).
81
This echoes Rev. 20.4, in which the martyrs are said to share Christ’s thousand-year reign
on earth. See Oliver O’Donovan, ‘History and Politics in the Book of Revelation’, 25–47, p. 44.
82
Irenaeus, Demonstration, 11.
83
See Gregory, De Opificio Hominis, 4.1 for his interpretation of Genesis 1.28; Homilia in
Ecclesiasticam, 4.335.11–336.5, for the implications of innate human authority for slavery.
84
Eschatology 233
Hades ‘with unconquerable K ıÆ’.85 Holding Eustathius’ emphasis on
Christ’s human authority together with his designation of ‘ruling’ as one of
the faculties bestowed on Adam, his references to Christ’s K ıÆ look like the
seeds of an idea similar to Gregory’s and also adumbrated in Irenaeus and
Marcellus: humans were created to be self-ruling.
GO D’S AUTHO RITY, CHRIST’ S AUTHORITY,

AND HUMAN AUTHORITY
When writing of Christ’s kingship in Arianos–De Fide–In Proverbia 8.22,

Eustathius depicts Christ’s eschatological authority as deriving legitimacy
from its relationship to God’s authority, and believes that this is a relationship
that other human authority cannot share. Christ’s incommensurable authority
is, however, placed in a political framework that is in other respects compar-
able to the present one. The validity of comparison is necessary to the contrast.
In In Melchisedech, probably written shortly before the outbreak of the
‘Arian’ controversy, Eustathius seems to imply a connection between Christ’s
authority and other human authority. The remaining fragments of this letter
cast Melchizedek as a type of Christ (as I noted in Chapter 2): ‘Melchizedek,
putting on the image of the type of Christ, and wearing visibly the seal of his
royalty, resembled Christ.’86 It is significant that one of the ways in which
Melchizedek resembles Christ is by bearing ‘the seal of his royalty’. Melchize-
dek’s royalty is analogous to Christ’s, though we do not know how close this
analogy is supposed to be. In any case, the implication is that Melchizedek’s
kingship looks forward, prophetically, to Christ’s kingship, and can therefore
inform us about Christ’s kingship. Significantly, Melchizedek’s typological
relationship to Christ seems to have a soteriological dimension that connects
it to Christ’s relationship to the human race: as Melchizedek is a type or image,
Christ is the archetype, echoing the idea that we are conformed to Christ.
Though we would admittedly be extrapolating considerably from fragmen-
tary evidence, which does not obviously have an intended political context, we
could reasonably posit a twofold understanding of Melchizedek’s authority;
Melchizedek’s authority may, in part, be the authority that we will receive in
Christ in a state of becoming. It also seems to foreshadow Christ’s authority
and mediatorial position, and therefore suggests that human authority can
reflect Christ’s unique, eschatological authority over the human race. If this is
85
D22:18–19. Compare D28:57 [Ariomanitas]. It may be significant that Gregory also uses
K ıÆ to refer to human self-direction, though not frequently (Gregory, Contra Fatum, PG,
45:148B–149A).
86
D113. Translation follows Rucker, Florilegium Edessenum, reprinted in Declerck, Eustathii.

the case, it does not imply a belief in the divine appointment of human
government in general—Melchizedek is exceptional, and in large part because
he is exceptionally good: according to Eustathius, he has achieved ‘the peak of
righteousness’.87 It does, however, suggest that the current world order has the
potential to host human authority that is comparable to Christ’s because it is
in some sense derivative from Christ’s.
Arianos, conversely, gives the impression that a radical disjunction inter-
venes between Christ’s authority and human authority in this world order,
which may reflect a hardening towards imperial authority in the wake of
Nicaea. In Arianos, Eustathius implies that the way in which Christ’s reign
receives legitimacy finds no equivalent in the lapsed world order. Christ
receives his authority from God. In contrasting the acquired authority of
‘the human being of Christ’, with the authority of God, both Father and
Word, which is intrinsic and eternal, Eustathius construes Christ’s acquisition
of authority as both extraordinary and eschatological. A human king will rule
over the eschatological kingdom, receiving his authority from God. Eustathius’
view of humanity’s eschatological authority finds a parallel in his anthropo-
logical conception of God’s image: human destiny is properly at a distance
from God. However, because Christ’s authority is received from God, it is
nonetheless dependent on God. Eustathius’ emphasis on the authority of the
human being invites a comparison with the authority of other human beings
more than a similar emphasis on divine authority would.
Underlying the claim that Christ receives authority from God is the idea
that human authority is derived from God.88 We have seen that Eustathius
connects Christ’s authority with the authority given to Adam and Eve by God,
and lost, presumably in the lapse. The idea that authority lost at the lapse is
restored to humankind when it is bestowed on Christ implies that no commen-
surable authority has existed within the lapsed world order. Christ receives
authority ‘by means of his union with the divine Word’—that is, because of
the incarnation. This underlines the uniqueness of Christ’s derived authority.
It is difficult to see how human authority within the lapsed order could
stand other than in negative contrast to Christ’s authority.89 We need not
conclude that Eustathius completely rejected the legitimacy of human authority
within this world order, but he seems to implicitly reject any identifi-
cation between such authority and Christ’s. It is this divinely derived human
authority that has either been absent since the lapse, or has never yet existed.
87
D115cd:5–6.
88
See Romans 3.16 and the treatment of it in Irenaeus, A.H., 5.24.2, and ‘The Devil Defeated’
in Chapter 5.
89
This should be distinguished from being diminished by contrast, which, it seems to me, is a
necessary consequence of belief in Christ’s eschatological reign.
Eschatology 235
Eustathius is not apparently attacking the emperor; however, he does seem
to be rejecting a description of human authority favourable to Constantine.
The concept that authority will be restored to humankind in Christ has
other implications for the nature of authority, already touched on. Our
eschatological authority relates to our current authority as our future,
ıÆØŒ condition relates to our current condition: it is in a state of

becoming, which must wait until the eschaton for fulfilment. Let us consider
the idea that Christ acts as a delegate for humanity. Could an earthly ruler
wield delegated authority connected to Christ’s in this state of becoming?
I suspect not, because such an analogy would rely on a misinterpretation of the
tension between Christ as unique and Christ as typically human. In the
tension between the bestowal of authority on Christ and the bestowal of
authority on all humanity, the former, more hierarchical suggestion derives
from a desire to see Christ reign, the latter from a desire to see all of humanity
restored and promoted. The rule of another individual human being fulfils
neither of these desires (though it may aid them).
We saw in Chapter 5 that Eustathius draws an inverse parallel between
Christ’s power and the devil’s power. Although his images of demonic power
and its ambiguous legitimacy draw on structures of imperial power, he does
not want to ally the devil’s power with the emperor’s power, unlike the author
of the Apocalypse. Christ overthrows and binds the devil; he supersedes the
emperor. Eustathius’ ideas about Christ’s kingship are suggestive of a sense
that the authority of the empire is wanting. It is part of what is held back by the
lapse, not part of what is, even now, reaching forward to Christ’s kingdom.
These ideas do not suggest an attack on imperial power, so much as a refusal to
give it a prime place in the narrative of salvation, worked out in history.
Eustathius’ use of the Pauline motif of ‘heavenly citizenship [
ºıÆ]’
correspondingly places the heavenly kingdom at odds with earthly power. It
suggests that Christians owe their political allegiance to God rather than
earthly rulers. This corresponds to his idea that Christ’s authority is qualita-
tively superior to any human authority in this world order.
It should be acknowledged that
ºıÆ might not refer to citizenship;
rather, it often refers simply to ‘way of life’.90 Although to claim that ‘our way
of life is in heaven’ would still have implications for the way of life on earth, it
would not actively invoke the political dimension of this life as the idea of
citizenship does. However,
ºıÆ did have primarily social and political
connotations into the post-classical period, and among Christian writers.91
90
See Tatian, Oratio adversus Graecos, 19.
91
Despite a shift in the implications of the related term
ºØÆ, which became much less
political, particularly in Christian writers, after the Hellenistic period. Hollerich, Eusebius’s
Commentary on Isaiah, pp. 105–16, surveys the usage of the terms
ºıÆ and
ºØÆ in
Hellenistic, Jewish, and Christian Greek.

Eusebius of Caesarea frequently refers to the church as a ‘Godly
ºıÆ’
when talking about the church as a social structure.92 There are important
differences with Eustathius: despite frequent use of the term
ºıÆ to
describe the church in his Commentaria in Isaiam, only once in this work does
Eusebius quote Philippians 3.20, and his usage is not eschatological, but is part
of a discussion of the sometime ‘Godly
ºıÆ’ of Israel.93 So, even in this
work, which is much more eschatological than most of Eusebius’ theology, the
ºıÆ is not eschatological—and therefore not in waiting to supersede

the state. However, he and Eustathius can agree that the word has political
connotations. Furthermore, it seems to me that ‘citizenship’ is, indeed, the best
translation in Eustathius because the other instance in which Eustathius uses
biblical ‘heaven’ imagery is unashamedly political: it refers to Christ’s throne.
It is a reasonable supposition that Eustathius conceived of citizens of heaven to
correspond to the king in heaven, who will reign on earth, or in heaven come
down to earth.94
HISTORY AND ESCHATOLOGY
Eustathius stands at an important moment in the development of Christian

thought on the relationship between eschatology and history. Drawing on the
earlier portions of this chapter, I will briefly sketch what we can determine
about his ideas on the subject.
He negotiates the twin legacies of Irenaeus and Origen, divided so funda-
mentally on this question, against the backdrop of the Constantinian Revolu-
tion, and all the uncertainties and hopes for the possibilities of history that it
brought. He upholds a view of embodiment and earthly life largely typical of the
Irenaean tradition, in self-conscious opposition to an Origenist focus on the soul
and the intelligible realm as the ultimate locus of human identity and fulfilment.
Two radically different views of history hail in the theologies of Irenaeus
and Origen: for Irenaeus, eschatology is not only the fulfilment of history, but
is also the fulfilment sometimes in the sense that it is the outcome, or
culmination, of history.95 For Origen, at least in De Principiis, eschatology is
92
See Eusebius, D.E., 4.17.21; 6.24.6; Commentaria in Isaiam, 2.3.
93
Eusebius, Commentaria in Isaiam, 342.
94
Relatedly, Athanasius will complain that the ‘Arians’ treat the church as a
ºØÆ of the
senate in Hist. Ar., 78. Compare also Athanasius, Vita Antonii, 14.7.
95
The causal relationship between history and eschatology in Irenaeus is ambiguous. The
idea of progression from creation, through history, to the eschaton suggests that eschatology is
the outcome of history. However, his theology of recapitulation might suggest that history is
replayed in the eschaton. See Oliver O’Donovan, Resurrection and Moral Order: An Outline for
Evangelical Ethics, 2nd edn (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans, 1994), p. 65.
Eschatology 237
the negation of history. We have seen that, in the most controversial portions
of his work, Origen suggests that embodiment, at least in its current, earthly
form, is a consequence of the fall. Embodiment, however, is not the catastro-
phe for Origen. It is a means of redressing the catastrophe and bringing fallen
souls back to God. History, correspondingly, is also a salve, a means of
undoing the catastrophe. I observed in the last chapter that Eustathius accepts
Origen’s belief in a primeval catastrophe whilst rejecting the cosmological
framework within which Origen articulated this belief. Eustathius’ rejection of
Origen’s cosmology plays out in his belief that eschatological reality must, in
some sense, be continuous with present reality—that is, eschatology must be
continuous with history. For Eustathius, history is more pointedly tragic,
precisely because of its commensurability with the original condition. What
we see in the evils of history is the perversion of that condition, not the road to
its return.96 Although the eschaton, as for Irenaeus, fulfils history, it must do
more to redeem and heal it.
We might reasonably wonder whether Eustathius’ greater sense of the
‘otherness’ of the eschatological kingdom stems from a desire to view eschat-
ology as the fulfilment, and therefore the redemption of history, where Irenaeus
more often sees history as the fulfilment, and therefore culmination of history.
For Eustathius, history is a perversion of earthly life as it should be, so the life
of the eschaton will see earth healed by heaven. It should be noted that such a
tightrope between otherworldliness and continuity is not the only way of
seeing history as redeemed; millenarianism arguably provides unsurpassed
resources to express anger at the evils of history, and Irenaeus can be seen to
deploy it in just this way when he refers to the resurrection of martyrs in this
creation: history is brought into the eschaton, where it is healed, so that its
evils do not hold sway.97 The route that we can tentatively trace in Eustathius
is, however, one that would come to dominate Christian political discourse,
finding expression again in Augustine.
S U M MARY
The sources leave many aspects of Eustathius’ eschatology ambiguous, but we

might wonder whether their author had also done so. He was a follower of
Irenaeus with an Origenist streak involved in an argument about Origen’s
96
See ‘Suffering and the Tragedy of History’ in Chapter 5.
97
The martyrs’ bodies must be resurrected in the same creation in which they were killed:
Irenaeus, A.H., 5.32.1. It is ambiguous how far this is an outcome of history—resurrection is the
outcome of the martyrs’ death—and how far a replaying of it—the martyrs have another chance
at their earthly lives.

view of embodiment and the supposed otherworldliness of his eschatology. By
the time of writing his anti-Arian works, he was severally disappointed and
therefore thoroughly confused about the possibilities for the church within
history, a pilgrim in the earthly kingdom. It is amidst this confusion that he
invokes the Christian’s heavenly citizenship; the kingdom in a state of becom-
ing, that may help us even now; and the eternal, eschatological reign of Christ.
Eustathius also has some sense of otherness when writing of Christ’s
kingdom; it is a reality continuous with this one, but it is also a reality with
which this one stands in contrast. In rejecting the possibilities of the current
world order Eustathius did not want to promote an otherworldly vision of
human fulfilment, and so give up on history altogether. He repeatedly sought
to maintain significant continuity between this world order and the one to
come, reinforcing many other aspects of his theology and, notably, his insist-
ence on the identity between the resurrection body and the current one. He
did not want to conceive of ultimate human identity as removed from the
world in which we currently live, having a strong sense that what we are
created to be is closely connected to what we are now.
Emerging from the fragmentary evidence is a picture of a corporeal, human
kingdom of Christ with a human king—a kingdom in which human govern-
ance works, unlike in this one. Because Christ’s authority is, emphatically,
human authority, it is implicitly placed in contra-distinction to other human
authority. Christ’s authority is authority restored to him on behalf of human-
ity, having been lost in Adam and Eve. This has two effects: first, it relativizes
the sense of eschatological subjection to Christ; second, it problematizes any
comparison with earthly authority, showing the contingent and partial nature
of its legitimacy. Christians are citizens of heaven, and look forward to the
reign of the king who came from heaven, in whose authority they will share.
Not only the authority of the empire, but also the social and political structures
of the lapsed world order are brought into question. We have the traces of an
eschatology negotiating the treacherous waters of the Constantinian Revolu-
tion, reaching back to Irenaeus in some ways, and forwards to Augustine in
others.
Conclusion
Eustathius’ anthropology negotiates the legacies of Irenaeus and Origen in the

context of the ‘Arian’ controversy and the Constantinian Revolution. He is a
piece in the jigsaw of fourth-century theology, one that has long been missing,
and his inclusion makes the whole picture much clearer. His theology is
important to understanding the interrelated roles of ideas about embodiment,
Christology, and soteriology in the early ‘Arian’ controversy, and how this
impacted their development in the middle and later ‘Arian’ controversy—for
example, in Marcellus of Ancyra and Gregory of Nyssa. In his soteriology and
eschatology, we see, if through a glass darkly, a negotiation of the Constanti-
nian Revolution that would prove important to the subsequent development
of Christian political thought. His belief in the inherited nature of sinfulness
and his affirmation of grief as morally appropriate mark important moments
in the development of Christian thought on both of these subjects.
Eustathius stands in a tradition strong in Asia Minor, shaped by the
theology of Irenaeus; he is convinced that the body is integral to humanness
and hopes for the redemption of history in a human kingdom. This vision of
human nature and history is opposed to that of Origen in important respects,
and the fundamental differences between these two traditions had already
come to a head in Methodius’ De Resurrectione. In De Resurrectione, it was
also evident how far these differences were about one’s view of embodiment.
Eustathius champions a view of embodiment and, therefore, of history, held in
opposition to Origen and his legacy and to the Platonism with which Eu-
stathius associates it. However, like Methodius, Eustathius is also indebted to
Origen in significant ways. His critique of Origen is, like Methodius’ own,
complicated. It is also often independent of Methodius. He not only rejects
anthropological ideas that Methodius shared with Origen—such as the loca-
tion of God’s image in the soul, rather than the body—but also follows Origen
in ways that Methodius does not—in the doctrine of Christ’s human soul, and
the soul’s corresponding mediating role. Because of his complex engagement
with these two traditions, his anthropology sheds fresh light on the roots of the
Origenist controversy and the role of Origen’s legacy in shaping fourth-
century theology.

Eustathius gives a psychophysical account of the human being that
affirms the innately physical nature of humanness and relates this both
to the emotional and to the intellectual areas of human experience. For
him, this leads to the conclusion that both soul and body are part of
the image of God. In locating God’s image partly in the human body,
he holds together the flesh-affirming theology of Irenaeus with a more
introspective reflection on human existence, and negotiates the soul–body
relationship more successfully than many of the later thinkers who would
develop discourse on the intellectual and emotional aspects of human
experience.
In his discussions about embodiment, he is engaging in a contemporary
debate about Origen’s legacy. At least after the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ con-
troversy, Eusebius of Caesarea is his primary antagonist in this debate. Aris-
totle’s legacy provides a framework for Eustathius’ account of the body–soul
relationship, which locates the self in embodied existence and experience. His
debt to Aristotle’s legacy is an example of creative engagement with philoso-
phy in theological discourse—and it helps us to see how often Aristotle’s
legacy, in its diverse forms, had been important to that engagement. For
Eustathius, it offers an alternative to the Platonizing anthropology he finds
in Origen and Eusebius.
Eustathius’ view that the body is integral to the self corresponds to a view
that human identity is to be sought in our current context; for him, the
eschatological kingdom is a corporeal and human kingdom, redeeming rather
than transcending our current existence. This location of human identity in
the current life is, among other things, a concern that human identity should
be human, as such. This comes across most clearly in his treatment of the
disembodied soul. The soul traverses intelligible realms, apart from the body,
but it is a human soul, and these are human realms—Hades and paradise—in
which the soul partakes in human occupations. He is unapologetically Orige-
nist in his discourse on the soul between bodily death and resurrection. He
vests a great deal of importance in the activity of the disembodied soul and
does occasionally equate the disembodied soul with the self, despite his
protestations to the contrary. Here he is drawing on a very common patristic
collection of narratives about souls in Hades and paradise respectively, and
this leads him to a different place than his more explicitly philosophical
reflections on the human being in the present life. He also implies, though
he does not state, that the soul mediates between God and the human body.
The place of this discourse within his anthropology is elucidated by his
Christology. In general, his doctrine of Christ’s human soul, which he shares
with Origen, is important in articulating the reality and fullness of Christ’s
humanity; with reference to the disembodied soul, Eustathius uses not only
Origen’s Christology, but also, in a limited way, his anthropology, to reclaim
the intelligible realm as a realm with human components. This undoubtedly
Conclusion 241
leads to a picture of the soul that is jarringly different from the one we are
painted elsewhere, but it is not disconnected from his wider concerns.
Eustathius’ determination to demarcate a human sphere within which the
soul, as well as the body, operates, reflects a keen awareness of the ontological
chasm between God and creation. His divisive Christology might appear to
cast this chasm in especially stark, and therefore especially negative, terms,
and this is indeed partly the case. However, it is also an attempt to find a
positive space for human nature, on the created side of this divide. If Christ the
creature cannot be God, as such, he shall not be a demi-God, as Eustathius
takes the pro-Arians’ Christ to be, but a full human being. A sense of
disjunction between humankind and God recurs in many areas of his the-
ology: his highly divisive Christology, and related sense that the Spirit
strengthens, rather than imbues, the human being; his claim that humanity
is not a ‘true’ image of the Son, as the Son is of the Father; his belief that it is
‘the human being of Christ’ who will reign eschatologically, placing eschato-
logical society at a distance from God. This disjunction does strongly reflect
the near universal rejection of Origen’s cosmology by the early fourth century,
in favour of a worldview that placed God, definitively, on one side of a
temporal–eternal divide, and everything else on the other. However, even a
cursory glance at the theology of Athanasius should remind us that a radical,
and necessary, disjunction between God and humankind is not an inevitable
consequence of this metaphysics. As has often been remarked, but more rarely
explored, Eustathius represents an alternative anti-Arian perspective.
Eustathius’ soteriology largely falls within a broad, well-established trad-
ition in which humanity is bound by the devil and freed by Christ, the Second
Adam. Both Irenaeus and Origen offered this narrative, in different ways.
Eustathius, then, retells a common story, but his retelling represents an
important moment in the development of this discourse for three reasons.
First, he is representative of the decline of a basically optimistic narrative of
human history, in favour of Origen’s doctrine of the fall, but, like many of his
contemporaries, he wishes to incorporate Origen’s negativity about the
reasons for the current world order without espousing the fall of souls.
A key element in Eustathius’ soteriology looks to progress beyond the original
condition. This is, however, held together with a strong sense of the lapse, and
its catastrophic consequences. As an alternative to Origen’s fall of souls, but
drawing on his Commentaria in Romanos, Eustathius posits inherited sinful-
ness; both his debt to and departure from Origen are particularly stark because
he shares his doctrine of Christ’s human soul and, like Origen, must exempt
Christ’s soul from the otherwise universal moral degeneracy. In this doctrine
of inherited sinfulness, he anticipates a negotiation and possible resolution of
Origen’s legacy which was famously made by Augustine.
Second, his belief in Christ’s human soul gives him particular resources for
exploring the connection between Christ and the rest of humanity. It both

allows him to articulate the relationship between Christ’s humanity and ours
as one in which Christ is the archetype on which we are modelled, and to
explore the relationship between Christ’s experience and normative human
experience. This casts the relationship between the lapsed world order and our
sin in a new light, which enables Eustathius to see grief as potentially morally
good and, in some cases, morally necessary. In both of these respects, Eu-
stathius gives an early example of ideas that would recur, with resounding
significance, in the theology of the late fourth century; the former, in the
Cappadocians’ emphasis on Christ’s full humanity and the latter, in August-
ine’s reflections about grief.
Third, Eustathius wrote at a time of great uncertainty for the relationship
between the church and the empire, and this impacted the political undertones
with which patristic soteriology had always been replete. His ambivalence
about imperial authority helps to shape his retelling of the story of the devil’s
power and the eschatological kingdom. Throughout Eustathius’ theology,
there is a desire to ground the fulfilment of human potential in observable
reality. In his anthropological ontology, what the human being was created to
be must be commensurable with what the human being is now. His eschat-
ology is consistent with this: he has a concrete vision of a perfect society
commensurable to the current one. This enables his eschatology to reflect a
sense of discomfiture with the current world order and, more concretely, his
dislike of the manner of Constantine’s involvement in the church.
Eustathius’ anti-Arian theology importantly elucidates the ‘Arian’ contro-
versy and the role of Origenism within it. On one hand, the Christology of
Ariomanitas sheds light on the role of a soteriological–Christological nexus in
the discourse of the 320s. In particular, it reveals the fundamental importance
of Christ’s humanity, suffering, and moral agency in that discourse. On the
other, the connection between this nexus and the theological argument about
embodiment shows the question of embodiment to have been important in the
fallout that resulted from a rejection of Origen’s cosmology. Furthermore,
Eustathius’ anthropology represents an important moment in the develop-
ment of Christian theology. His doctrine of Christ’s human soul would be
taken up, in its anthropological, soteriological, and Christological dimensions,
in reflections by the Cappadocians, for whom Eustathius’ claim that the Son
did not take up ‘half a perfect human being’ is an axiom and, through them,
become woven into the fabric of Christian teaching. His affirmation of grief as
a morally appropriate emotion represents a turning-point in attitudes to grief
within Greco–Roman Christianity, which had until the early fourth century
typically regarded IŁØÆ as an ideal. It was to be taken up a little later by
Marcellus of Ancyra and, at the end of the fourth century, by Augustine. This
is one of several of the most distinctive elements of his theology which
anticipates famous aspects of Augustine’s theology: his ambiguous view of
the relationship between the current world order and the eschatological
Conclusion 243
kingdom adumbrates certain elements of Augustine’s distinction between the
earthly city and the city of God, and his belief in inherited sinfulness, as an
alternative to the fall of souls, resembles Augustine’s doctrine of original sin.
His theology of God’s image, in locating the image in both soul and body,
claims him strongly as a theologian of the body as well as one who made a
highly significant contribution to Christian discourse on the soul.
Bibliography
Abbreviations
Primary Literature
Athanasius
C. Ar. Orationes Contra Arianos
C.G. Contra Gentes
Hist. Ar. Historia Arianorum
De Inc. De Incarnatione
Athenagoras
De Res. De Resurrectione
Eusebius of Caesarea
H.E. Historia Ecclesiastica
P.E. Preparatio Evangelica
D.E. Demonstratio Evangelica
V.C. Vita Constantini
Irenaeus
A.H. Adversus Haereses
Methodius of Olympus
De Res. De Resurrectione
Origen
De Princ. De Principiis
Comm. in Rom. Commentaria in Epistula ad Romanos
Philostorgius
Socrates
Sozomen
246 Bibliography
Theodoret of Cyrus
Secondary literature
ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt
BZ Byzantinische Zeitschrift
CPG Clavis Patrum Graecorum
CPL Clavis Patrum Latinorum
CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum
CUP Cambridge University Press
GCS Die Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei
Jahrhunderte
GS Schwartz, Eduard, Gesammelte Schriften (Berlin: Walter de
Gruyter, 1938–63)
JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies
JEH Journal of Ecclesiastical History
JETS Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society
JTS Journal of Theological Studies
OUP Oxford University Press
PG Patrologia Graecae, edited by Jean-Paul Migne (Paris: 1857–66)
PL Patrologia Latina, edited by Jean-Paul Migne (Paris: 1857–66)
RHE Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique
SC Sources Chrétienne
SCM Student Christian Movement Press
SP Studia Patristica
SPCK Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge
VC Vigiliae Christianae
ZAC Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum
ZKG Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte
ZNW Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft
1. Primary Sources (with editions and translations cited)

The Works of Eustathius
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by Albrecht Fabricius, Fragmente ex libris
Eustathii Antiocheni deperditis in Bibliotheca Graeca, VIII (Hamburg: Georg Olms,
1717), 66–89.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by André Galland, Fragmenta ex libris
S. Eustathii episcope Antiocheni deperditis in Bibliotheca veterum Patrum, IV (Venice:
Ex typographia Joannis Baptistae Albritii Hieron. Fil., 1768), 548–83.
Bibliography 247
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by Gottlieb Harles, Bibliotheca Graeca, 9
(Hamburg: Georg Olms, 1804), 131–49.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by J. P. Paulin Martin, Analecta sacra
Patrum antenicaenorum ex codicibus orientalibus collegit, 4 (Paris: Typographeo
Veneto mechitaristorum sancti Lazari, 1883), 210–13, 441–3.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by Jean Baptiste Pitra, Analecta Sacra
Spicilegio Solemensi parata, 2 (Paris: Typographeo Veneto mechitaristorum sancti
Lazari, 1884), xxxviii–xl.
Eustathius of Antioch, De Engastrimytho contra Origenem, edited by Albert Jahn, Des
h. Eustathius Erzbischofs von Antiochien Beurtheilung des Origenes betreffend die
Auffassung der Wahrsagerin I. Kön. (Sam.) 28 und die bezüngliche Homilie des
Origenes aus der Münchner Hds. 331 ergänzt und verbesset mit kritischen und
exegetischen Anmerkungen (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1886), PG, 18, 614–74.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by Ferdinand Cavallera, Saint Eustathii
Episcopi Antiocheni in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham homilia christologica. Nunc
primum e codice groviano edita cum commentario de fragmentis eustathianis;
accesserunt fragmenta Flaviani I Antiocheni (Paris: Picard, 1905), of which the
Syriac includes a Latin translation.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by Ignaz Rucker, Florilegium Edessenum
anonymum (Munich: Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaf-
ten, 1933).
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by Michel Spanneut, Recherches sur les écrits
d’Eustathe d’Antioche (Lille: Facultés Catholiques, 1948), of which the Syriac includes
a Latin translation.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, Felix Scheidweiler, ‘Die Fragmente des Eustathios
von Antiocheia’, BZ, 48 (1955), 73–85, doi: 10.1515/byzs.1955.48.1.73.
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, translated by Luise Abramowski and Alan Goodman,
in A Nestorian Collection of Christological Texts (Cambridge: CUP, 1972), an English
translation of select Syriac fragments.
Eustathius of Antioch, De Engastrimytho contra Origenem, edited by José Declerck,
Eustathii Antiocheni, patris Nicaeni, opera quae supersunt omnia (Turnhout: Brepols,
2002).
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, edited by José Declerck, Eustathii Antiocheni,
patris Nicaeni, opera quae supersunt omnia (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), of which
the Syriac includes a French translation, sometimes reproducing Ignaz Rucker’s
French translation (1933) and sometimes from Michel Spanneut’s Latin translation
(1948).
Eustathius of Antioch, De Engastrimytho contra Origenem, edited and translated by
Rowan Greer and Margaret Mitchell, The Belly-Myther of Endor: Interpretations of 1
Kingdoms 28 in the Early Church (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006).
Eustathius of Antioch, Fragmenta, PG, 18, 676–706.
Pseudo-Eustathius, Homilia in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham, edited by Ferdinand
Cavallera, Saint Eustathii Episcopi Antiocheni in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham
homilia christologica. Nunc primum e codice groviano edita cum commentario de
fragmentis eustathianis; accesserunt fragmenta Flaviani I Antiocheni (Paris: Picard,
1905).
248 Bibliography
Pseudo-Eustathius, Homilia in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham, edited and translated
by Michel van Esbroeck, Les plus anciens homéliaires géorgiens: etude descriptive et
historique (Louvain-la-Neuve: Publications de l’Institut Orientaliste de Louvain,
1975), Georgian with French translation.
Pseudo-Eustathius, Homilia in Lazarum, Mariam et Martham, edited by José De-
clerck, Eustathii Antiocheni, patris Nicaeni, opera quae supersunt omnia (Turnhout:
Brepols, 2002).
Other Ancient Literature

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Alexander of Alexandria, Henos Somatos, in Athanasius Werke, III: Urkunden zur
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Alexander of Alexandria, He Philarchos, in Athanasius Werke, III: Urkunden zur
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Hayduk (Berlin: Reimer, 1891).
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Aristotelicum, 2 (pt 1) (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1893).
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Duckworth, 2004), English translation.
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2005).
Ancyra, Council of (314), Canons in Discipline générale antique (IVe-IXe s.), edited by
Périclès Pierre Joannou, 1(pt 2) (Grottaferrata: Tipografia Italo-Orientale S. Nilo,
1962–4) 56–73.
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Fragmenta, rev. edn, vol. 3 (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1968).
Anonymous, Anonymi refutation eius quae resarcinata et fallaciter nominate est
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Index
Acacius of Caesarea 144, 159–60 anthropology 112, 136, 158; see also idols
Adam 3, 5, 8, 83, 98, 100, 102–4, 122–2, Arianism according to 25, 58, 59 n. 126, 66,
141–3, 145–59, 163, 166–74, 187, 220, 236 n. 94
190, 194, 197, 202, 205–6, 209–101 on Asclepas of Gaza’s deposition 25
see also: Adam–Christ typology in on Asterius the Sophist 12 n. 61, 82 n.
various listed authors 84, 220
Albinus 88 n. 48, 113 on Christ’s death and resurrection 202–5
Alexander of Alexandria 7, 12–13, 15, 17, 19, on Christ’s emotion 111–13, 139, 200–8
24, 44–6, 57, 67, 70–1, 144, 220 eschatology 216–18
He Philarchos 12–13, 16, 59 n. 126, 67, on Eustathius 11–12, 20, 23–4, 27
144–5, 147–8 exegesis of Prov. 8.22 70
Alexander of Aphrodisias 77, 88 n. 48, 90, exegesis of Psalm 73.13–14 176
93–7, 186, 229 n. 66 on the fall 171, 177 n. 64, 178 n. 67
IÆŒçÆºÆøØ 3, 154 on idols 87–9, 100, 142 n. 2
Ancyra, Council of (314) 13, 186 n. 101, 189 image theology 142 n. 2, 147
n. 112 on incarnation 157, 167, 227
Antioch, Council of (324) 14–17 on Roman Empire 181, 215–18, 236 n. 94
theology and terminology 19, 47, 48, 61, writings:
64–5, 144, 111, 147 n. 26 Contra Arianos 19 n. 42, 59 n. 126, 66,
Antioch, Council of (379) 80 n. 15 112, 116 n. 199, 171 n. 28, 178 n. 67,
IŒÆ
ÆØ 3, 155, 215 n. 7 181, 220, 227
anthropology 80–1, 83, 89–90, 94 n. 83, 101, Contra Gentes 87–9, 92 n. 74, 100, 112,
103, 132 136, 147, 171 n. 28, 216
Aristotle 86 n. 42, 88 n. 48, 102 n. 132, De Decertis 12 n. 6, 70 n. 164
138–9, 240 Epistula ad Epictetum 175 n. 46
in Commentary tradition: 77–9, 93–7 Easter 338 letter (10) 184 n. 92
ethics 185–6 Easter 342 letter (14) 189 n. 112
physiology 106–7 see also Alexander of Historia Arianorum 11, 12, 13, 20, 23,
Aphrodisias; Peripateticism; 25, 216, 217, 236 n. 94
Plotinus De Incarnatione 147, 157, 158, 177 n. 64,
Aristotelianism, see Peripateticism 202–5, 227
Arius of Alexandria 4, 6–7, 12–13, 16, 18, De Synodis 59 n. 127, 220 n. 24
57–8, 59, 62, 66, 67, 117, 124 n. Vita Antonii 153 n. 54, 189 n. 111, 215,
237, 220 236 n. 94
Exile,18 n. 37 Athenagoras 102, 118–20
Return from exile,23–4, 28–9 Audians, Audius 143
Writings: Augustine of Hippo 158 n. 82, 167, 194,
Letter to Alexander 220 201, 213, 215, 237, 238, 241, 242
Thalia 59 Ayres, Lewis 4, 7, 66, 147 n. 27
see also Constantine, Letter to Arius and
Alexander Barnes, Michel 66 n. 155, 67 n. 160
Arius Didymus 90 Barnes, Timothy 11 n. 4, 18 n. 37, 19, 21, 23 n.
Asclepas of Gaza 20–2, 25–6 63, 69, 28–9, 63 n. 143, 176 n. 57,
Asterius the Sophist 12 n. 6, 59, 182 n. 84, 204 n. 171
214, 219–20 Basil of Caesarea 51, 172 n. 29
defence of Eusebius of Nicomedia 22 Body, the see also soul
image theology 144, 148 dead body 127–8
Athanasius of Alexandria 5, 13, 21, 26, 41, 52, image of God and 141, 143–4, 150, 153,
92 n 74, 116 n. 199, 163, 241 158–63
280 Index
Body, the (cont.) on Origen 13, 53, 75–6, 81
as instrument of the soul 80, 98, 104–5, on Plato and Platonism 65, 77 n. 4, 79, 81,
112, 137, 162 85, 91, 94, 118, 120, 138, 152 n. 46,
resurrection of 53, 75, 82, 85, 88, 93, 100–1, 224, 240
118–125, 129, 131–3, 138, 154–5, political theology 213, 215–18, 236
157, 213–14, 215–16, 221–4, 237, on self-direction 190–1, 230
238, 240 writings:
weakness of 121–2 Chronici Canones 21–2
Burgess, Richard 14–15, 21–2, 25–7 Commentaria in Isaiam 179, 197, 220, 236
Commentaria in Psalmos 63, 84–5, 103
Chrysostom, John 45, 153 n. 54 n. 134, 173, 176, 192, 216, 225–6
Cicero 110 n. 169, 199 n. 153, 229 n. 65 Contra Marcellum 14, 58, 147
Clement of Alexandria 88 n. 48, 103 n. 134, Demonstratio Evangelica 63–4, 108–9,
152 n. 46, 158 n. 79, 170 n. 18, 177, 137, 147 n. 25, 159–60, 175 n. 46,
203 n. 166 179, 190, 196, 203 n. 166, 236
Clark, Elizabeth 7 n. 18, 143 n. 10 De Theophania 63
Clark, Gillian 121, 189 n. 112, Ecclesiastica Theologia 63–4, 159–60
Constantine 6, 9, 11, 12 n. 7, 16, 20, 22, 23, 27, Epistula ad Euphration 147 n. 30
29, 30–1, 32, 213, 215, 218, 235, 242 Historia Ecclesiastica 13, 53 n. 98, 65 n.
Letter to Arius and Alexander 15, 31 153, 103 n. 136, 123, 215–16, 221
Letter to Arius (summoning him from Preparatio Evangelica 65, 77 n. 4, 79, 81,
exile) 23–4, 29 90, 91, 94, 101, 120, 189, 190–1
at Nicaea 7, 17, 19, 30, 182, 198 Vita Constantini 15, 27
cross/ crucifixion, Christ’s 61, 63, 111, Eusebius of Nicomedia 13, 16 n. 29, 18 n. 37,
114–15, 119, 168, 176, 178, 191, 62, 116 n. 199
197, 202–9 Asterius’ defence of 22
Crouzel, Henri 129 n. 251, 132, 170 exile and return 23–4, 27–9
Eustathius of Antioch
Damascius 90 n. 58 accession to Antioch 14–16, 20, 22, 26–7
Declerck, José 2 n. 3, 31 n. 102, 33–74, Christology 35, 72–3, 80, 122–5, 126–7,
78 n. 9, 80 nn. 13, 15, 104 n. 141, 118 133, 136–8, 141, 149, 156–7, 160,
n. 206, 134 n. 271 163, 166–7, 190–4, 199, 211,
Del Cogliano, Mark 149, 159 n. 85 219–21, 240–2
devil, the 87, 166–9, 172–89, 191, 194–8, death 31–2
202–6, 208, 209–10, 211, 216, 217, deposition 15, 16, 19, 20–31
219, 224–5, 228–30, 235, 241, 242 exegesis 35, 54–7, 70, 71
fall of 172, 178–80 writings:
Didymus of Alexandria 36, 115 list of Eustathian writings 33–4
Contra Ariomanitas et de
Edwards, Mark 3 n. 12, 77 n. 5, 129 n. 251, Anima 37–8, 57–66, 75–6, 79–93,
132, 170, 201 n. 161, 215 n. 7 98–106, 108–11, 113–15, 118–28,
emotion 5, 8, 19, 35, 59–60, 63–4, 66, 67, 79, 133–8, 150–2, 153, 155–7, 159–60,
n. 110, 105–6, 109, 110–17, 139, 165, 167–8, 171, 173–7, 178–80,
185, 240, 242 183–7, 188–9, 190–1, 192–4, 195–8,
emotive responses to suffering 198–202 200–1, 203–8, 209–10, 211, 213,
Epictetus the Stoic 113 n. 184, 186, 199 n. 152 219, 220, 221, 222, 223–5, 228–9,
Epiphanius of Salamis 99, 143–4, 207 n. 188 231, 232–3
Eusebius of Caesarea 5–6, 7, 13–17, 18 n. 37, Engastrimytho Contra Origenem 37,
20–9, 62, 84–6, 90, 173, 214 53–7, 75–6, 78 n. 9, 79 n. 10, 83–6,
on Aristotle 79, 97, 139 88, 92, 122 n. 225, 125, 126–8,
Christology 63–4, 75–6, 110–11, 124–5, 128–33, 134, 136, 138, 157, 165, 173,
137–8, 192, 219–21 174, 176, 179, 191–3, 195 n. 138,
eschatology 215–18, 225–6 203–5
exegesis of Psalm 73.13–14 176, 196–7, De Hebraisimo 47–8, 73
225–6 In Inscriptiones Titulorum 39–40,
image theology 144, 159–60 68–9, 88, 176, 227
Index 281
In Joseph 48, 73, 185 Hanson, Richard 116 n. 97, 144 n. 14
In Melchisedech 13, 35, 44–6, 55, on Arianism and Eustathius’
70–1, 233–4 Christology 59–60, 62
Oratio coram tota Ecclesia 47, 71–3 on the Council of Nicaea 19
In Proverbia 8.22–Contra Arianos–De on Eustathius’ deposition 20–5, 27–9
Fide 40–4, 69–70, 85, 116, 144 n. on fragment D79 17–8
188, 146, 148, 158, 165, 175, 190, Hick, John 158 n. 82, 202 n. 163
192, 213, 219–20, 221–3, 226–8, history, concept of 3, 6, 9, 155, 158, 165–6,
231, 233–4 172, 175, 197, 210, 211, 226, 235
In Psalmum 92–In Inscriptiones and eschatology 214, 227–8, 236–7, 238
Psalmorum Graduum 38–9, and suffering 198–202
67–8, 92
In Samaritanam 48–9, 73 Iamblichus 78, 81, 93 n. 81, 94, 95,
Secunda Oratio Coram Tota 96 n. 101, 97, 119 n. 211, 129,
Ecclesia 47, 71–3 133–4, 135, 137
De Tentationibus 46–7, 71 Irenaeus 2–3, 5, 6, 56, 65, 88 n. 48, 201,
Eve 142, 154, 169, 170–2, 173, 205, 209–10 205, 211
Adam–Christ typology see on
fall/ lapse, the 3, 6, 122–4, 136, 142, 166, recapitulation and Adam–Christ
167–73, 177–8, 186, 188, 191, typology
209–10, 241–2 see also the devil, anthropology 76, 100, 103, 105, 118, 121–2,
fall of 123, 129, 156–7, 158 n. 81 see also
lapsed/fallen condition 155–7, 175, 183–8, image theology; self–direction
194–8, 228–31, 234–5, 238 see also on Christ’s descent to Hades 207
cross/ crucifixion, Christ’s; history, on the devil 173, 175–7, 181
concept of: and suffering eschatology 120, 175, 214, 215, 218, 219,
Frede, Michael 188 n. 108, 190 n. 119, 229 222, 226 n. 53, 227, 236–7, 238,
n. 65 239–40, 241
free will see on self-direction in various listed on the fall/lapse 167–71
authors image theology 141, 142–3, 151, 162, 163
political theology 181–2, 198 see also
Galen 80, 83, 86, 88 n. 48, 89–90, 94–5, eschatology
96–7, 104 n. 141, 105, 107, on recapitulation and Adam–Christ
109 n. 163 typology 154–5, 163, 166,
Gerson, Lloyd 77, 85 n. 37, 94 n. 83, 168–71, 210
105 n. 147 on self–direction 189, 190, 229–30, 232–3
Gill, Christopher 84 n. 27
Greer, Rowan 54 n. 103, 126 n. 243, John of Damascus 37, 43, 47–8, 106 n. 150,
127 n. 246 115 n. 189
Gregg, Robert 4–5, 59–60, 61 n. 134 Jerome 11–12, 14, 21–2, 33, 45, 46, 51–2, 53 n.
Gregory of Nazianzus 39, 166 n. 3, 203 n. 98, 71, 115, 124, 218, 225 n. 48
166, 216 Justin, Martyr 206, 207 n. 191
Gregory of Nyssa 2, 37, 52–3, 99 n. 114, 136 n.
277, 172 n. 29, 203 n. 166, 239 Karamanolis, George 77, 96 n. 102
anthropology 80 n. 15, 87–9, 91, 105,
107–8, 117 n. 205, 162, 203 n. 166, Loofs, Friedrich 2–3, 15 n. 22, 43, 52 n. 91
232–3, 239 Lyman, Rebecca 1 n. 1, 64 n. 148, 190 n. 117
Christology 166 n. 3
on emotion 113, 200–1 Marcellus of Ancyra 2–3, 51–2, 60, 66, 70, 229
Grillmeier, Aloys 35, 71, 72, 73 n. 64, 239
Groh, Dennis 4–5, 61 n. 134 Adam–Christ typology 151–2, 154, 231–2
anthropology 100, 121 n. 218, 159–60, 162
Hades, Christ’s descent to 76, 126–7, see also image theology
133–4, 137, 192–3, 195, 203–5, on Asterius the Sophist 220 n. 27
207–8, 211, 213, 219, 224, 232–3 Christology 111 n. 173, 231–2
see also soul, disembodied on Christ’s grief 111, 242
282 Index
Marcellus of Ancyra (cont.) eschatology 155, 196, 214, 215, 216, 218,
eschatology 175, 213–14, 215, 218–19, 221, 236–8 see also resurrection of
226–7, 231–3. See also: Adam– the body
Christ typology Eustathius’ attack on 13, 65, 75, 126 see also
and Eusebius of Caesarea 63, 64 n. 149, Eustathius of Antioch: writings:
159–60 Engastrimytho
image theology 141, 143–4, 147, 159–60, exegesis 54–7, 99, 216
162 see also Adam–Christ on the fall 83, 118, 123–4, 138, 167–72, 194,
typology 202, 210, 211
on recapitulation see Adam–Christ fall of souls, the see fall, the
typology image theology 141, 142–4, 145, 146–7,
soteriology 166, 173, 175–6 see also 149, 160, 162–3, 229
Adam–Christ typology; eschatology resurrection of the body 118–20, 123, 129,
Melchizedek see Eustathius: writings: In 132, 138, 223–4
Melchisedech on self–direction 183, 185, 187–8, 190, 229
Methodius of Olympus 3, 8, 13, 53–4, 88 n. see also Christology
48, 91, 103 n. 134, 153, 176, 180 n. soul, the 85, 126, 128 see also Christology;
75, 189 n. 111, 191 n. 125, 195 n. the fall; resurrection; transmigration
141, 196–7, 206, 239 of souls
anthropology 75–6, 85–6, 100, 118, 119, transmigration of souls 81, 83
122 n. 224, 125, 128–33, 138 see also writings:
image theology; self–direction Commentaria in Joannis 168 n. 9, 173 n. 31
cosmology and metaphysics 116, 128–33 Commentaria in Mattheum 64 n. 147, 115,
eschatology 155, 215, 217, 225 203 n. 166
on the fall 168–9, 171, 173 Commentaria in Romanos 3, 154, 157,
image theology 141, 143, 160–1, 162, 163 166–72, 173 n. 31, 178, 185, 187,
on self–direction 190, 229–30 196, 204–6, 208 n. 197, 210, 241
Minns, Denis 121 n. 221, 143 n. 3, 158 n. 82, Contra Celsum 81, 173, 178 n. 67, 210
222 n. 33, 226 n. 53 Dialogus cum Heraclide 110
Mitchell, Margaret 11 n. 3, 54 n. 103, 55 n. Exhortatio ad Martyrium 207 n. 187
106, 56–7, 225 n. 47 Homilia in 1 Regum 54–7, 84, 134, 195
n. 138
Navascués, De Patricio 2 n. 6, 61 n. 133, 90–1, Homiliae in Exodum 93 n. 79
92–3, 101 n. 127, 111 n. 171, 153 n. Homilia in Jeremiam 103, 157 n. 75, 206
49, 156 n. 69 Homilia in Leviticum 175
Nemesius of Emesa 81, 94, 95 n. 95, 107 n. 1 Homilia in Genesim 143 n. 5
156, 109, 112 n. 175, 185 n. 98 Fragmenta in Lucam 175
Nicaea, Council of (325) 4–5, 7, 12 n. 7, 13, De Oratione 176, 224 n. 41
16–19, 23, 26, 28–9, 30, 41, 42, 57, Peri Pascha 196
66, 69, 72, 182–3, 234 De Principiis 3, 56, 61 n. 135, 85, 91, 92 n.
Creed of 19, 57, 67 74, 93, 99, 107–8, 123–4, 129 n. 251,
originally to be held at Ancyra 17 133–4, 136–7, 143 n. 5, 146, 170–1,
Numenius 88 n. 48 173 n. 31, 178, 187–8, 190, 193 n.
134, 199 nn. 154, 155, 215, 229–30,
O’Donovan, Oliver 173 n. 34, 182 n. 81, 236–7
232 n. 81, 236 n. 95 Selecta in Psalmos 100, 129
Olympiodorus 128 n. 250 Origenism, explanation of term 7
›Ø 19
Origen of Alexandria 88 n. 48, 154, 157 Pamphilus 53, 76 n. 2, 85–6, 118, 120,
cosmology 1–7, 91, 93, 116–17, 134, 144, 216, 224
211 see also the fall Parvis, Paul 14–16, 25, 29, 31, 148 n. 35
Christology 61–2, 64, 72, 99, 123–4, Parvis, Sara 2 n. 6, 4, 12 n. 7, 13 n. 14, 47 n. 66,
125, 133–4, 166, 175, 193 57–8, 59 n. 126, 65 n. 154, 66, 111 n.
n. 134, 211 173, 116 n. 199, 147 n. 26, 148, 151
on Christ’s grief 64 n. 147, 115, 199–200 n. 42, 159 n. 83, 173 n. 33, 204
on the devil 176, 177–8, 204 n. 171, 221 n. 30
Index 283
on Council of Nicaea 325 16–19 Severus of Antioch 35, 39, 42, 43, 68, 69, 220
on Eustathius’ deposition 21–5, 27–9 Socrates (philosopher) 119, 152 n. 46
passions see emotion Socrates Scholasticus 14 n. 19, 21, 24, 25 n. 77,
Patterson, Lloyd 3, 53 n. 97, 100 n. 122, 155 n. 26 n. 82, 27, 29 n. 97, 31–2
63, 161 n. 90, 217 n. 16 Sorabji, Richard 84 n. 27, 94 n. 88, 96 n. 96,
Paulinus of Tyre (bishop of Antioch) 14–16, 113 n. 183, 199
21, 22, 26, 30–2 soul
penitent thief 55, 126–7, 175, 183–5, 186, 187, Christ’s see Eusebius of Caesarea:
188, 195, 197, 198, 200, 203, 205–9, Christology; Eustathius of Antioch:
211, 213, 219, 229 Christology; Hanson, Richard: on
Peripateticism 8, 78–9, 86, 89–90, 93–7, 101, Arianism and Eustathius’
103, 135, 139 see also Alexander of Christology; Origen of Alexandria:
Aphrodisias; Aristotle Christology
explanation of the term 77 disembodied (including between death and
Philo of Alexandria 92 n. 74, 109–10 resurrection) 76, 84, 93, 96 n. 101,
Philogonius, bishop of Antioch 13–16, 70 126–38, 139
Philoponus, John 95, 97, 128 n. 250, 186 form of the body 78, 86–97, 128–33,
Plato 88 n. 48, 116 n. 199 135, 161
as read between Eusebius and Eustathius 5, vivifies body 89, 102–4, 109, 134, 192
65, 75, 78–9, 79–82, 97, 118–20, Spanneut, Michel 33, 34, 38, 40, 41, 44, 48–9,
138–9, 215 51–2, 73
as read by the commentators 77–8, 95 n. Spoerl, Kelley 61 n. 132, 63 n. 140, 65, 98 n.
93, 96, 134 n. 237 108, 106–8, 111 n. 173, 122 n. 225,
writings 147, 150, 227
Phaedo 82, 119–20 Stead, Christopher 117
Phaedrus 82, 201 n. 158 Stoicism 64 n. 147, 86, 92–3, 107, 110–1, 113
Protagoras 185 n. 184, 114–5, 135, 149 n. 36, 188,
Respublica 79 n. 10, 112 n. 175, 189 199–201, 229 see also Arius
Theatetus 152 n. 46 Didymus; Cicero; Seneca
Timaeus 91, 107 n. 157
Platonism (explanation of term) 78–9 Tertullian 58 n. 123, 102, 136 n. 277, 182, 198
Middle Platonism (explanation of Theodoret of Cyrus 11–13, 14, 16 n. 29, 21,
term) 78–9 24, 25 n. 78, 26 n. 82, 27, 100 n. 119,
Neoplatonism (explanation of term) 78–9 143 n. 6
Plotinus 77, 79, 85, 88, 91, 101, 105–6, 109 n. source for Eustathian fragments 17, 33,
164, 117 n. 204, 133–4, 135, 144–5, 35–42, 66, 67–9, 220
147, 152 n. 46, 185
on Aristotle 94, 96, 105, 132 Uthemann, Karl-Heinz 16–17, 61–2, 73, 76,
on emotion 105–6, 112–13 99 n. 112, 112 n. 179, 122 n. 227,
Plutarch 134 124, 190
ıÆ ØŒ 122–4, 153–7, 163, 172, 183, 186,
191, 193, 194, 202, 206, 210, 211, Vitalis of Antioch 13, 70
223, 235
Porphyry 78, 96–7, 103 n. 135, 129, 134–5 Wiles, Maurice 58 n. 123, 59–60
Proclus 90 n. 58, 119 n. 211, 129 n. 252 Williams, Rowan 4, 12 n. 7, 14 n. 15, 16 n.
28, 24, 26, 28, 91 n. 69, 96 n. 98,
Remes, Paulina 84 n. 27, 85 n. 37, 113 n. 183 117, 132 n. 265, 182 n. 85,
201 n. 158
Scheidweiler, Felix 31, 34, 38 n. 21, 44, 52
Scott, Mark 202, 215 n. 7 Young, Francis 54–5, 57, 142 n. 2, 144 n. 11,
Serdica, Councils of (343) 20–2, 25–7, 31, 173, 208 nn. 195, 197
51–2, 59, 62 łıåØŒ 91, 122–4, 153–7, 163, 172, 183, 186,
Sellers, Robert 14 n. 21, 34–5, 38, 40 n. 30, 194, 202, 210
45–8, 52, 72, 73
Seneca 113 n. 184, 115 see also Stoicism Zahn, Theodor 2
Scriptural passages
(references to the Hebrew Bible are to the LXX)
Genesis 1.26–7 142–3, 150, 152 n. 46, 159 Romans 5.1–2 208 n. 197
see also image theology in various Romans 5.12 169
listed authors Romans 5.14–15 168–9, 194, 205
Romans 7.19 185
Genesis 1.28 232 Romans 8.29 41, 142, 152–5
Genesis 2.7 85, 102–4, 109–10 1 Cor. 4.4 142
Genesis 3 210 1 Cor. 9.24–7 189
Genesis 8.6 142 1 Cor. 15 118, 123–4
Genesis 34.25–9 185 n. 97 1 Cor. 15.15 196
Genesis 37.1–28 185 n. 97 1 Cor. 15.20 118, 205 n. 174
Exodus 20.4 142 n. 2 1 Cor. 15.43–49 122, 153–5, 224,
I Kingdoms 28.3–25 37, 54–5, 84, 92, 126–7, 1 Cor. 15.55 196
129–31 2 Cor. 12.9 177
III Kingdoms 9.3 99 n. 114 Ephesians 4.8 174, 207
Job 38.16–17 196 Philippians 2.1–2 156 n. 72, 188
Job 41.22–4 180 n. 109
Ezekiel 9 207 Philippians 2.8 168
Ezekiel 21.25–7 175 Philippians 2.10 220
Isaiah 27.1 195, 197, 225–6 Philippians 3.12–4 189 n. 112
Psalm 22.1 see Matt. 27.45 Philippians 3.19–21 222–4, 236
Psalm 67.18 see Ephesians, 4.8 Colossians 1.15 142 see also image theology in
Psalm 73.13–14 176, 195–7, 207, 224–6 various listed authors
Psalm 124.7 184 Colossians 1.18 205 n. 174
Proverbs 3.24 204 n. 167 2 Timothy 2.8 184 n. 91
Proverbs 8.22 41, 44, 69–70, Titus 3.5 195 n. 141, 225 n. 43
Proverbs 25.15 180 n. 75 Hebrews 1.3 16, 46, 144 n. 14, 145,
Isaiah 14.9–15 178 148–9
Isaiah 27.1 195, 197, 225–6 Hebrews 7.3 49 n. 75
Ezekiel 9 207 1 Peter 1.18–9 204 n. 167
Ezekiel 21.25–7 175 Revelation 3.2 207 n. 190
Daniel 7.13–4 221 Revelation 7.3 207 n. 190
Revelation 12 217
2 Maccabees 6 197 Revelation 12.2 176 n. 55
Wisdom 7.2 103 Revelation 14.1 207 n. 190
Revelation 20.4 232 n. 81
Matthew 27.38–44 see penitent thief Revelation 20.6 216 n. 14, 225 n. 43
Mark 15:27–32 see penitent thief Revelation 21.1–3 224, 227 n. 60
Luke 23.40–43 see penitent thief Revelation 22.4 207 n. 190

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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 18/6/2015, SPi

OXFORD EARLY CHRISTIAN STUDIES

THE OXFORD EARLY CHRISTIAN STUDIES series includes scholarly volumes on

The Theological Anthropology of

2 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

4 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

6 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

8 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

LIFE BEFORE ANTIOCH

Eustathius’ life prior to the outbreak of the ‘Arian’ controversy is shrouded in

12 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

14 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

It has become conventional to date Eustathius’ accession to the See of

16 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

THE COUNCIL OF ANTIOCH 324

The creed produced at Antioch was strongly anti-subordinationist and, as Sara

THE COUNCIL OF NICA EA

At Nicaea, Eustathius was a crucial ﬁgure in Alexander’s anti-Arian alliance

18 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

20 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

Eustathius’ Deposition: the Scholarship and Evidence

Asclepas of Gaza and the Evidence of Serdica

Eusebius of Caesarea’s Chronici Canones

22 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

Asterius’ Defence of Eusebius of Nicomedia

The Empress Helena

Eustathius’ Deposition or the Return of Pro-Arian Exiles:

24 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

The Reasons for Eustathius’ Deposition

Eustathius’ Deposition: Analysis

26 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

28 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

30 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

32 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

The Evidence, Content, and Context

34 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

EDITIONS AND CRITICAL NOTES

THE TRANSMISSION OF THE F RAGMENTS

36 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

De Engastrimytho Contra Origenem

Engastrimytho is an exegetical treatise on 1 Samuel 28:3–25 (LXX 1 King-

Contra Ariomanitas et de Anima [D1–D61]

This work is preserved largely in the aforementioned epitome, found in codex

38 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

In Psalmum 92—In Inscriptiones Psalmorum Graduum

In Inscriptiones Psalmorum graduum [D82–D84]

In Inscriptiones Titulorum [D62–64, D129?]

• D62 is preserved in Theodoret’s Eranistes. Theodoret introduces it as ‘Of

40 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

In Proverbia 8.22—Contra Arianos—De Fide

We apparently have fragments from a further three anti-Arian works. I will

In Proverbia 8.22 [D65–D81, D124, D126]

42 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

Contra Arianos [D89–D108, D125]

De Fide [D109–D112, D128]

44 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

Whilst Bishop of Beroea, Eustathius wrote to Alexander of Alexandria, at his

46 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

D117 is preserved in Syriac in the miaphysite Florilegium Edessenum and is

Oratio coram tota Ecclesia [D119] and Secunda oratio

• D119a is attested in Greek in the thirteenth-century codex Florilegium

48 The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch

In Joseph [D121, D122]