David B. Couturier, OFM. Cap.
St. Bonaventure University
When the two hundred bishops arrived at the Roman Emperor’s villa in Nicaea, they did so with layers of anticipation, relief, and gratitude, as well as caution, concern, and trauma. They were grateful for the opportunity to come together as brothers, and relieved by Emperor Constantine’s new protection and generous hospitality. However, all of them carried the raw memories of the horrific physical and psychological abuse that they and their communities had experienced as Christians, especially during the recent reign of Emperor Diocletian.
Several of the bishops at the Council showed the terrible scars of having been beaten and tortured numerous times on orders of the previous Emperor Diocletian. Bishop Paphnutius of Thebes was there at the Council. He had his eye gouged out, his tendons cut, and his legs broken by orders from the emperor. Bishop Potamon of Heraclea in Egypt also had his eye gouged out when he refused to renounce the faith. Several more bishops had been imprisoned or sent into exile as Rome gasped its last breath of the ancient gods. Despite these initial tremors, Eusebius of Caesarea called the gathering at Nicaea a “glorious assembly.”
And this assembly was all about glory, precisely the glory that was revealed to us in the Gospel of John Chapter 1, verse 14: “And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.” It is to this glory that the Council members gave their undivided attention. They came to debate whether there was any limit to the Son’s glory, any diminution, curtailment, attenuation, or decrease in the glory of the Son because He is the Son and not the Father. The bishops wanted to know: does His glory shine as brightly and intensely as the glory of the Creator God in every light that shines in the sky, in every flower that blooms in earth’s fields, and every mountain that rises majestically to the heavens? If not, can we still pray to Him and depend upon Him as securely and as fully as previous generations had prayed to Him as redeemer, savior, and hope of the world?
The glory language in John brings us back to the mystical experiences of our Jewish sisters and brothers when they experienced what is called the shekinah (the divine presence) in the Old Testament. John says that the Word Jesus “dwelt among us” (actually in Greek: eskēnōsen, meaning “tabernacled”) recalls the tabernacle where God’s glory resided (Exodus 25:8-9). In other words, the phrase about the glory of Jesus, which we have seen, intentionally ties Jesus to the temple theology of the Old Testament, showing Him as the locus of God’s presence on earth. What the Jews had once said only of the Father, they would now speak of the Son with full and unequivocal voice. And as Johannes Schneider reminds us, the word doxa (glory) in John reflects God’s visible majesty and covenant faithfulness.1
There is a word that the Nicene Fathers use to express what they believe about Jesus. It is the Greek word homoousios, which means “of one substance.” It is a technical word, and some have criticized the Council Fathers for using it and straying from the original Jewish nomenclature. However, the reality was that the world spoke in Greek for all intents and purposes. It was the language of precision and order, the common language that could unite the Empire, or so they hoped! Besides this, as Rowan Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, tells us, “the adoption of homoousios was not simply a technical clarification; it was a pledge of trust that God’s self-revelation in Jesus Christ was utterly complete and trustworthy.” Rowan Williams calls homoousios “the radical word” of the Nicene Council. It is the Creed’s radical word of trust.
The Nicene Creed is all about our trust in God and God’s trust in us to be God’s image bearers in the world, no matter the times or the turbulences of history. Once again, Rowan Williams reminds us, “The creeds are not abstract formulas; they are declarations of trust in God’s work in history and invitations to live that trust.”
Let’s think about this dimension of trust in the Nicene Creed because we desperately need a resurrection of trust in our modern world.2
While the loss of institutional trust pervades our Western culture today, the “logic of trust” saturates the whole Nicene process and product. It is Professor John Milbank who highlights Nicaea’s achievement in presenting the Trinity as a “community of infinite trust.”3 For Milbank, the Trinity is not a set of abstract metaphysical properties but a relationship. The Father eternally begets the Son, and the Spirit proceeds from their mutual love. This ongoing relational dynamic is one of openness, freedom, and mutual affirmation. When Milbank speaks of “infinite trust,” he highlights how each person of the Trinity entrusts themselves to the others without reservation or fear of betrayal. There is harmony and peace within difference, without the price of domination or deprivation. This infinite trust is not contingent or limited but eternal and unbounded.
Nicaea is doing more than just untying a metaphysical knot or clearing up an ontological abstraction about divine identity. It can seem that way because the Council Fathers are trying desperately to be precise. The stakes are high for the ongoing unity of the Church now in its post-persecution period. The Council Fathers want to be precise, for sure, but let us remind ourselves that these men were first and foremost pastors, not technical theologians (in our sense of the term). Many of them were brilliant, no doubt. I am thinking of Athanasius of Alexandria, Alexander of Alexandria, and Eustathius of Antioch. These individuals were central to the debates that shaped the Nicene Creed, the cornerstone of Christian orthodoxy. Their intellectual contributions and theological insights had a lasting impact on the development of Christian doctrine. But they were pastors, bishops, and deacons of church communities, and they were responsible for the worship and prayer of their communities. They were maximally concerned about how their Christian communities prayed, to Whom they should pray, and how intensely and securely they could pray to the divine. They knew that God could not be understood (at least not perfectly), but God could and should be adored.
These bishops also oversaw the diakonia of the church, the community’s widespread and well-known love for the poor, and service to widows and orphans day in and day out. They knew the practical implications of their debates. They were not fighting for technical precision alone. Now that they were free to practice their faith without fear of persecution and now that Constantine was of the mind to make Christianity the state religion of the whole Empire, they were fighting for a worldview and a new social imagination.
The heroic ideal of Rome was a complex and evolving concept rooted in its cultural, political, and historical identity. It was influenced by Roman values, mythology, and historical traditions, and it embodied virtues that defined the exemplary Roman citizen, soldier, and leader. The heroic ideal of the Roman Empire had always been based on courage and bravery, power and domination. Rome’s tactics were always powerful, and its methods were brutal. Empathy and sympathy were considered signs of weakness, not wholeness.4
The Nicene Creed is a compact expression of a new social imagination, a totally new and strange worldview, one that the world had never seen or heard of before. It is a worldview that would overtake the assumptions of the ancient Roman and Greek world. Within a few hundred years, it would spread far and wide through the Empire from the Middle East to the British Isles, carried by Roman legions and commercial traders over land and on the seas. It would turn the scope of social imaginaries from might to mercy, from courage to compassion, focusing attention on the weak and vulnerable, the widows and orphans in the name of Jesus the Christ.
There is a curious phrase in the Nicene Creed that tells this part of the story.
“He was crucified under Pontius Pilate”
The historical record of Jesus of Nazareth outside of the Gospels and the Letters of Paul, Peter and John is quite meager. The sad fact is that we have very little historical data on most of the essential figures of ancient history. However, there are two things that are said of Jesus by historians of the day: (1) He was a man who did “great deeds,” he was known as a man of miracles, healings and exorcisms, and (2) He was sentenced to death by Pontius Pilate and executed by the Romans.
It is curious that the Nicene Creed mentions explicitly and forthrightly that Jesus “was crucified under Pontius Pilate.” As I have said, the creed is a very compact and concise statement. No other human person is mentioned except Mary, Jesus’s mother, and Pontius Pilate. There is no mention of Peter, James, or John. There is no word about Mary Magdalene, who first saw and announced Him as Risen. Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead, is not a witness in this primal text of Christian identity. But Pilate is in the creed in a very explicit way.
Is it not curious that the Council Fathers would have remembered and affixed Pilate’s name to our memory and our liturgical practice every Sunday for the next thousands of years? Why? Theologically, what can we make of this curious addition to our creedal formula and liturgical ritual? And what does it say to us about the pastoral nature of the Creed? The answer to this question will lead us to our task: what does it say about our ecumenical task today?
Our question, then, is why did the Council Fathers add the phrase, “he was crucified under Pontius Pilate?” Why remember him in a creedal formula by name? Wouldn’t it have been enough to say that Jesus was “crucified, died, and rose from the dead on the third day?” By that time, the gospels had been disseminated around the world. The manuscripts of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all referenced the brutal actors of that horrific Good Friday. Christians and Jews would certainly have remembered the shameful actions of Pilate, Herod, and Caiphas, along with the apostles who ran away. So, why remember Pontius Pilate and not Judas Iscariot?
Are the Council Fathers being a bit subversive and disruptive? After all, the Council Fathers had been invited cordially and with great hospitality by the new leader of the Roman Empire (Constantine). Why remind the churches around the Roman Empire, at this very sensitive time of ecclesial integration into the Empire, that one of their own Roman administrators, handpicked by Caesar himself, had sentenced the “Lord of life” to an excruciating torture and death? Perhaps the point is to remind Constantine that not only had Jesus suffered under Roman blindness and brutality, but so had they. So had the whole Church suffered intensely under persecutions across the Empire for generations.
The phrase about Pilate speaks to the extent of God’s self-giving love revealed in Christ’s suffering under the unilateral rule and regime of Pontius Pilate. As John Milbank says, “God’s life is one of eternal gift, of trust that gives itself wholly and receives wholly.”5 The statement is not simply a historical locator that marks a particular time, period, and place. It is more: a radical declaration of God’s solidarity with the blind and the lame, the weak and vulnerable, in the world of emperors and empires. It is a reminder of Christ’s sacrificial love as the means and model of our salvation. The heroic ideal of Christianity breaks through the brutality of the ancient world’s prescription for social stability. It is a declaration of the place of humility in the program of Christian leadership.
Every time we pronounce the creed and speak of Christ’s suffering under Pontius Pilate, we are reminded of how susceptible we are to the whims and the fancies of narcissistic leaders in every generation. Though he is “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God” and now reigns at the right hand of the majesty of the Ancient of Days, he once suffered under the dark powers of this world and the darkest forces of evil. Jesus was “under” Pontius Pilate, and there are many today who are under cruel regimes, vicious powers, greedy oligarchs, and narcissistic leaders.
Every time we speak this phrase on Sunday mornings, we are reminded of what it means to be under Pontius Pilate, whether in Jesus’ day or our own. Innocence notwithstanding, it is easy to be arrested, indicted, convicted, sentenced, and even executed when one is vulnerable or made so by social means. The creed is a loud reminder that “attention must be paid” as long as there are regimes in search of power and pride.
Ecumenical Trust and Sacrificing Love
Where does that leave us in our day as Christians who profess one faith and one baptism in Jesus Christ? What might the creedal phrase “he suffered under Pontius Pilate” mean for us in the greater Olean area and beyond, whether we serve in churches or supermarkets, in credit unions or universities? How can we move forward together, in one faith and one baptism, to meet the challenges of a world that suffers still “under Pontius Pilate?”
This short reflection proposes fundamental principles for a new attitude and action in ecumenism: ecumenical trust and sacrificial love.
First, we need to be witnesses of trust. As we have seen, our God is a community of infinite trust, and we are God’s image-bearers of that infinite trust. Again, let me quote John Milbank: “The Church, too, is a community where differences are reconciled not by force, but by trustful engagement and faithful dialogue.” As churches, we need to trust that God is calling us to a new unity in faith so that a world suffering alienation, isolation, and loneliness might find a new space of reconciling love.
Second, we are called to a sacrificing love in imitation of the Christ who suffered under Pontius Pilate for our good and our salvation. “He suffered under Pontius Pilate” reminds us of God’s willingness to embrace human weakness, vulnerability, and suffering for the sake of humanity. As Rowan Williams reminds us, “In sacrificial love, we find the courage to lay down our insistence on winning debates or holding onto our distinctions, and we take up the call to unity through humility and grace.” We will not arrive at unity through coercion or compromise but only through self-sacrificing love that mirrors the internal life of the Trinity as a community of infinite trust.
The question arises: Have we limited the goal of our ecumenism to mutual understanding, an exercise of theological awareness? Mutual understanding is essential for building strong, respectful, and productive relationships. Its ultimate goal is to create a harmonious environment where individuals or groups can thrive, collaborate, and coexist peacefully. Mutual understanding is a shared comprehension or agreement between individuals, groups, or parties. It involves the recognition, respect, and appreciation of each other’s perspectives, values, feelings, and intentions. This concept goes beyond mere communication; it requires active listening, empathy, and a willingness to bridge differences for a common purpose.
But doesn’t the “suffering under Pontius Pilate” require more of us? Does it not demand “sacrificing love” in the journey to unity? Do we understand one another enough to sacrifice love for and with one another?
Sacrificing love in the Christian life is profoundly transformative, requiring ongoing surrender, grace, and discipline. It is a response to God’s love for us and a reflection of Christ’s love for the world.
Sacrificing love requires the following elements in our ecumenical relations with one another:
1. Total Surrender to God
2. Selflessness
3. Forgiveness and Mercy
4. Willingness to Suffer for Others
5. Unconditional Love
6. Imitating Christ’s Example
7. Bearing the Cross
8. Commitment to the Community
9. Dependence on God’s Grace
10. Joy in Sacrifice
Conclusion
The question before us today is stark and challenging. Are we ready to do more than “understand” one another, to recognize and appreciate our positions, interests and insights, however necessary and important that virtue is in our relations with one another? Are we willing and able to take the next step and enter an experience of sacrificing love for one another? Tolerance as a form of sympathetic understanding is an Enlightenment virtue, not yet a Christian one. We are called to more because we have been loved beyond our wildest expectations and are the witnesses of a new creation that has broken the boundaries of male and female, Gentile and Jews, slave and free. Suffering love under Pontius Pilate is deeply transformative, requiring ongoing surrender, grace, and discipline. It is a response to God’s love for us and a reflection of Christ’s enduring love for the world.
1Johannes Schneider, in Gerard Kittel, ed. “Theological Dictionary of the New Testament” (TDNT), (Grand Rapids,MI: Wm. B Eerdmans, 1984), 233-255.
2David B. Couturier, “Trust and the Fraternal Economy: Efforts at Economic Reform in the Franciscan Tradition,” in Aaron Gies, ed., Trust: Franciscan Connections in Theology, Spirituality, Economics and Beyond (St. Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute Publications, 2025).
3John Milbank, The World Made Strange: Theology, Language, Culture. (New York: Wiley, 1997).
Reprinted on Catholicdigest.com with permission of the author.