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by Eric J. Scheske
This Saintly Sketch is the second of three that feature the Cappadocian Fathers: St. Basil, St. Gregory of Nazianzus, and St. Gregory of Nyssa.
St. Gregory of Nazianzus calls to every man who prefers obscurity over fame and quiet labor over a brilliant career. He also calls to the talented man who is called in so many conflicting directions that he does many things well but doesn’t do them the best. Throughout history, all his accomplishments have been accorded second rank to the accomplishments of other saints: He is often referred to as “Gregory the Theologian,” but the patron saint of theologians is properly Augustine or Alphonsus Liguori. He was the first Christian poet, but the patron saint of poets is Cecilia. His rhetoric rejuvenated orthodox Christianity in the face of the heresy of Arianism, but the patron saint of orators is John Chrysostom. He was one of the first Christian writers to emphasize style, but the patron saint of writers is Francis de Sales. He was a student for over a dozen years, but the patron saint of students is Thomas Aquinas and the patron saint of learning is Ambrose.
He isn’t even the greatest saint of the obscure region of Cappadocia, that honor going to St. Basil or St. Gregory of Nyssa. Of the three Cappadocian Fathers, Gregory is probably the least.
Early Life
Gregory was born around 329. His parents were members of the Cappadocian landed aristocracy and devout Christians. His father was bishop of Nazianzus.
As a youngster, he greatly enjoyed schoolwork. He first studied in Caesarea, then Palestine, then Alexandria, and then at the home of philosophy, Athens (his “golden city”), where the most promising students still studied. In Athens, for instance, Gregory became friends with an intelligent and talented young man named Julian, an individual who would later renounce his Baptism by taking a bath in bull’s blood, become the last emperor to persecute Christians, and be known to posterity as “Julian the Apostate.” It was also in Athens that his friendship with St. Basil blossomed. Said Gregory: “In Athens I sought for eloquence, and I found happiness, because I found Basil.”
Gregory loved his studies. He came to desire only three things: To love God, to study, and to speak and write. He had no desire for action. When, after nearly fourteen years as a student, at age 30, someone back home asked him what he planned to do with all his learning, he just shrugged his shoulders and said he had a lot more studying to do.
But his book years were over. While visiting back home in Nazianzus, he realized that his parents needed him. So, out of love and loyalty, he abandoned Athens and stayed in Nazianzus, thus giving up his formal learning.
Active and Passive Lives
Gregory didn’t make the transition from student life to “real life” very well. He still yearned for Athens and criticized the relative backwardness of Nazianzus. The entertainment and allures of the real world didn’t hold him like they hold most men. He had taken a vow of chastity and poverty, and he followed a regimen of rigid asceticism: sleeping on the ground, wearing poor clothes, living on bread and water, and spending half of the night in prayer and meditation.
But the pressures of everyday life also beckoned, so during the day he managed his father’s estates and supervised the workers. He hated it, complained bitterly about it, and (unsurprisingly) wasn’t very good at it.
He became fascinated with and drawn to the efforts of Basil to establish a monastery. After jousting with Basil about the proper place for the monastery (Gregory wanted a place called Tiberina; Basil wanted Ibora; Basil, as always, prevailed), Gregory came to love the place and became a member of the community. He loved to be near Basil, writing to him: “You are my breath, more than the air, and so far only do I live as I am in your company and with your image.” Together, at the monastic retreat, they composed an anthology of Origen’s writings that they called The Philokalia (meaning “Love of the Beautiful”).
Gregory had spent almost two years there when he went to Nazianzus for a visit. Things then changed drastically for him—for the worst, as far as he was concerned. In 362, members of a local congregation at Nazianzus carried him to the local church and compelled him to become a priest.
It was normally an honor. But not for Gregory. He fled to Basil at the monastery and stayed there for months, agonizing over his situation. Basil intensely urged him to accept the priesthood. Gregory finally relented and went home to assume his priestly duties.
But he had some explaining to do first. People were whispering about his flight, saying bad things about him (including the outrageous allegation that he was afraid of Julian, the apostate emperor). He explained and defended his flight in his Apologeticus de fuga, a work that displayed Gregory’s insight and literary skill, a work that the great twentieth-century patrologist Johannes Quasten called a “complete treatise on the nature and responsibility of the priestly office.”
After refuting the rumors, Gregory explained the nature and duties of the priesthood, at one point exclaiming: “A man must himself be cleansed before cleansing others; himself become wise, that he may make others wise; become light, before he can give light; draw near to God before he can bring others near; be hallowed, before he can hallow them.” He explained that he didn’t think he fit the part, and that’s why he fled. He also explained that he returned out of love for the people of Nazianzus.
He was a priest for about eight years, until 372, when Basil (now Bishop of Caesarea), ordered Gregory to become bishop of Sasima, a little village unworthy of its own diocese but Basil was trying to shore up his boundaries against the Arian Emperor’s and Arian Patriarch of Constantinople’s efforts to undermine him. Gregory disliked his position and disliked Sasima. He resented Basil for ordering him to take the position and their friendship was wounded. After a brief stay, Gregory essentially ignored the appointment and stayed in Nazianzus to help his aging father administer his diocese.
Then, in a short period of time, Gregory’s father, mother, beloved brother, and sister (all dedicated Christians) died. Gregory was shaken. He became ill, and fled to Seleucia. There he heard of Basil’s death and wailed that he had never mended their friendship.
During this time (approximately 375-379), Gregory completely withdrew from the world and followed the solitary life of contemplation. His life, which had alternated between studies and contemplation and the active life of a diocesan priest, now looked like it was settling in favor of contemplation.
But around Easter in 379 he showed up, in all places, in the hub of the Empire, Constantinople. He was a changed man, on fire with the faith, ready to re-organize and lead the orthodox Christians of the Capital who had suffered at the hands of the Arians. Because all the churches were in the hands of the Arians, he set up a “house church.” He preached frequently and eloquently to his congregation, which grew large as people flocked to hear the scholar and brilliant lecturer.
Here he preached the sermons that would earn him the distinctive title, “the Theologian.” The sermons, known as The Five Theological Orations, defended the Church’s teaching against heresies. They were so masterful that they, along with some of his other speeches from this period, were studied for years in the schools of rhetoric. But, more importantly, they were so good that the new emperor, Theodosius—who just recently expelled the Arians from the churches and forced the Arian patriarch of Constantinople to vacate the see—learned about his abilities. Theodosius took an imperial guard and escorted Gregory to the Hagia Sophia, where the people shouted “Gregory for Bishop! Gregory for Bishop!” Theodosius turned to Gregory and asked if he would accept the position as Patriarch of Constantinople. Gregory—hesitatingly—accepted, and the humble little ascetic lecturer immediately became one of the most powerful men in the world.
He would hold the position for only a few months. At the Second Ecumenical Council at Constantinople (381), Gregory’s title as Bishop of Constantinople was challenged on grounds that he could not hold two bishoprics at the same time (he was still officially Bishop of Sasima) and bishops were prohibited from transferring between diocese (by Canon 6 of the Council of Nicaea, a rule designed to discourage ambitious, career-climbing priests).
Later Life and Death
Gregory fades from history at this point. He resigned in disgust (the challenge to his title was motivated by politics), gave a farewell oration, left Constantinople, and settled in Arianzus, the town of his birth.
Now the push and pull was finally over. The ascetic student who was forced to oversee his father’s estates could now study and practice asceticism in quiet. The temporary monk could now be a full time hermit. The orator who captivated audiences now became silent. The only public trait left over from his earlier life: His writing. He wrote ceaselessly—letters to friends, verses on his life, tracts on doctrine.
His writings—both of these later years and his earlier years—contributed greatly to the Church’s theology, especially its understanding of the Trinity, which Gregory helped define by giving clear definitions of the divine Persons. Gregory also contributed greatly to the Church’s understanding of Christ’s nature. His doctrine, which convincingly explained that Christ was fully human and fully divine, was instrumental in securing orthodoxy’s victory at the Council of Ephesus (431) and the Council of Chalcedon (451). He also contributed to Mariology, making Mary’s role as Mother of God (“Theotokos”) an undeniable tenet of Christian doctrine.
Gregory led the quiet life of asceticism and writing for about eight years, dying in 389 at the age of sixty.
Gregory and The Modern Man
Gregory speaks volumes to would-be saints in the modern age. Here is a man who wanted to pursue God but also understood his moral duties, a man who desired the spirit but consented to put his face in the mud, a man who wanted to study but knew he had to serve. And he didn’t do it with the serene state of mind that we tend to impute to the saints. He ridiculed his hometown when he realized he couldn’t return to his studies in Athens; he despaired when he was made a priest; he complained bitterly and neglected his duties when made a bishop. And in this he is a man, like us: sinful, but with aspirations to holiness. Torn throughout life, but mended in the end and knitted into one of the Church’s greatest saints.
Eric J. Scheske is an attorney in Sturgis, Michigan, where the small town practice of law leaves time for reading and writing.