THE FILIOQUE EMPEROR

The greatness of a genius ruler is largely determined by the magnitude of his historical consequence. Such a criterion works wonders with the historical legacy of Charlemagne, who, at the first sight already, appears to have been a one-man show, having created a colossal European empire that fell apart upon his death, and could never be reconstituted again, no matter how many times and how ardently this would be tried since.

But Charlemagne’s enormous effect on the history of Western Civilization becomes apparent as soon as we start digging beneath the thin crust. Here was a bona fide superhero who single-handedly brought to life the Holy Roman Empire (which somehow managed to last until superseded by the Napoleonic Empire); who is the secular force behind the birth of Roman Papacy as we know it today; who used to be fully credited with the creation of the First German Reich (this particular achievement, understandably, “went underground,” following the collapse of the twentieth century’s Third Reich), who though himself illiterate established the system of European education which proved extremely effective even throughout the Dark Ages of Europe; who was the prime mover behind the great split of Christianity between the East and the West; who, utterly amoral and disorganized in his own life, very successfully promoted morality and political order throughout a hopeless Europe; who was many other things too, and most remarkably, remains more modern in Western psyche than scores of European potentates who lived many centuries after him…

This entry obviously makes no attempt at recreating the events of Charlemagne’s life just for the edification of its reader, which no original entry should do, but is designed to promote and develop a particular point of personal interest to its author. In this particular case, I am specifically focusing on the unexpected historical role of Charlemagne as a religious divider, what I call the Filioque factor, that he is largely responsible for.

The unauthorized addition of the Filioque clause to the Nicaean Creed actually dates back to 587 AD when it was done locally in Toledo, Spain, under the shaky Jesus-centered homiletic logic that the Son cannot be deficient in anything: if the Father has it, Jesus must have it too! This argument, though, never amounted to much, not even to a provincial heresy, until Charlemagne (who must have seen it as a smart political move, aimed at establishing either religious supremacy over, or at worst religious independence of Rome from the East-dominated Council of Bishops) would become its vocal champion, inspired by his own spiritual advisors professing it. Ironically, it was not properly legitimized by Charlemagne’s grateful but politically weak client Pope Leo III, surviving exclusively by the power of his protector’s sword, yet hesitant to embrace the questionable novelty. To Leo III, filioque was at best acceptable, but not mandatory and it took another two hundred years to make it the official Roman Catholic dogma in 1014 under Pope Benedict VIII. Predictably the epic Great Schism, between the Rome-dominated Western Church and the Eastern Churches, took place shortly thereafter, in 1054, with both sides anathemizing each other.

A few words about the theological implications of filioque.

The seemingly odd question of whether the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father alone or from both Father and Son, is of great theological, and I’d even say philosophical, curiosity, and, in this matter, I am standing rather with the Orthodox Church than with the doctrine of Roman Catholicism, because of the following fairly obvious reasoning:

 “Now, when all the people were baptized, it came to pass, that Jesus, also being baptized, and praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Ghost descended in a bodily shape, like a dove, upon him, and a voice came from heaven, which said, Thou art my beloved Son; in thee I am well pleased.” (Luke 3:21-22)

In this chronologically-first Trinitarian appearance of the Holy Spirit from heaven, it is clearly proceeding from the Father, if such a dependence can be established at all. To insist on further dependence of the Holy Spirit on both the Father and the Son invites the logical conclusion of a complete dependence of one part of the Christian Godhead on the other two, thus denying the Spirit’s individuality and alleged co-equality, and even the possibility of independent existence, undermining the very concept of the Trinity turning it instead into a Duumvirate, as if the theology of the Trinity were not difficult in itself already.

It is my bold opinion, for which I have no proof, except for my strong belief that it must be true, that the said Filioque clause is so weak in its theological foundation that it would never have survived the scrutiny of an authentic Council, like that of Nicaea, and would have been declared a heresy by an overwhelming majority of Christian bishops. The fact that it would become the Roman Catholic creed, and later survive intact in the theological bloodbath of the Reformation, suggests to me not the power of the Filioque argument, but rather the legendary strength of Charlemagne’s sword, allegedly capable of slicing the horseman and the horse in half with a single blow. Still it is ironic that all his other accomplishments notwithstanding, Charlemagne’s most enduring legacy is vested in the Papacy; and his lesser-known strong involvement in theological wars as the sword-wielding promoter of the Filioque clause well justifies my dubbing him The Filioque Emperor.