One of the people most hated by Christians, through the history of their religion, is the Roman Emperor Julian. They refer to him as “the Apostate” because he’d been raised a Christian, but as an adult had rejected Christianity in favor of traditional Roman paganism. Subsequent Christian legend about him is harsh. But is any of that fair? It’s long past time to consider it.
Julian was born in 331 CE to a younger half-brother of Emperor Constantine the Great, who died in 337. The emperor’s three sons — Julian’s older cousins — succeeded him amid a bloodbath which took the lives of a number of their family, including Julian’s father (his mother had died a few years prior). He was left more or less a orphaned political prisoner, placed in the care of various functionaries. A few years after that he was shipped off to the district of Cappadocia (the hinterlands of eastern Anatolia).
During this time Julian had at least something of a typical education in the eastern Roman Empire. When he turned 18 he was able to move about, and spent time in Constantinople, Nicomedia, and then in Athens, learning all he could, wherever he went.
By this time, Constantius II — the only remaining son of Constantine — was now the sole Emperor, and he took note of young Julian, having him brought to Milan to be “under his thumb” while Julian’s half-brother Gallus was set up as Caesar (a kind of subordinate co-rule). Once again, Julian managed to remain out of the line of fire as Gallus rose in stature and became intolerable to the point that he was murdered.
Constantius called on Julian, then, to succeed Gallus as Caesar in 355 and take the reins of Roman forces in Gaul. This was yet another way of getting Julian away from the Imperial courts and those connected with them. Also, the Romans had suffered losses in Gaul and Germany and Julian was sure to get bogged down there.
How wrong Constantius was (and it certainly wasn’t the first time)! Despite having no military training or experience, Julian led Roman forces on a campaign of reconquest. Against the odds, with his own legions quite outnumbered, Julian led the recapture of Cologne, along with other territories. Constantius grew alarmed at Julian’s successes, but also had run into trouble in the east campaigning against the Persians.
He hoped to kill two birds with one stone, in early 360, by ordering more than half of Julian’s men —the best of them, at that — to venture east and participate in the wars against Persia. This turned out to be a mistake. Julian was beloved by his troops, in part because he lived, walked, talked, and ate among them. Their fondness for him likely explains their unexpected successes on the battlefield. At any rate, they would not leave, knowing Julian was being set up for assassination, and effectively broke out in rebellion over Constantius’s order, declaring Julian “Augustus” (or Emperor). Aside from angering Constantius, this didn’t change things initially. Julian and his legions remained in Gaul, continuing their campaign in Germany.
Almost a year later, though, the rival cousins repositioned their forces and yet another Roman civil war over the Imperium threatened to break out. That was headed off by Consantius’s death. Julian marched into Constantinople in late 361 as the one and only Emperor of the Romans.
As I noted, Julian had been born into an imperial family that had just become ostensibly Christian. Some of the caretakers (or prison wardens?) to whom he’d been entrusted, during his youth, were Christian clergy. He received as deep an education in Christianity as any layman of the era could have. During his stint in Nicomedia (in Anatolia at the eastern end of the Sea of Marmara) he’d served as a church lector. During his childhood he’d been tended to by, and learned from, well-respected bishops and other lights of the early 4th century Church.
It was around the time of his coronation that Julian shocked the Christians of the Roman Empire by revealing the truth: He was a pagan. He’d been initiated into the Eleusinian Mysteries. He’d been a student of Neoplatonic theurgy, which was esoteric even within the esoteric world of Neoplatonic paganism. He revered Helios (the sun) as a prime example of what the Divine was capable of, as well as Cybele, an Anatolian mother-goddess better known to Romans as Mater Magna.
A lot has been written of Julian’s apostacy (that is, his nurturing as a Christian only to reject Christianity subsequently). Christian historians since his time have conjured up numerous tales as to why it happened, some of them fanciful and involving diabolical forces. The truth of it is considerably drier and much more mundane than any of that.
Contrary to Christians’ common belief that Julian’s rejection of their faith was irrational, rash, based on ignorance, and (quite possibly) due to preternatural forces, he actually understood Christianity well and his criticisms of it are, for the most part, thoroughly logical (even if, to 21st century eyes, they appear quaint). He penned a treatise critiquing Christianity called κατα γαλιλαιων (kata galilaion) in his original Greek, Contra Galilaeos in Latin, or Against the Galileans (Julian’s name for Christians was “Galileans,” since they followed “Jesus of Galilee”).
Among the aspects of Christianity which Julian understood very well, was its reverence for martyrdom and the eagerness with which many Christians embraced the idea that they might be persecuted for Christ. So while he disliked Christianity, considering it dysfunctional and damaging to society, and wanted to reinstate traditional Roman and Hellenic religion, he never set out to persecute Christians violently or by bringing Roman justice down on them directly..
Among his first orders was forbidding Christians to teach the traditional subjects — rhetoric, philosophy, geometry, history, or traditional literature — since they did not (or so they claimed) believe in the veracity of the works of ancients such as Homer. He could see, very plainly, the hypocrisy of Christian instructors (mostly clerics, at that) acting as intellectual mercenaries, hiring themselves out to teach things they, themselves, dismissed as primitive or deluded. While it appears the Emperor didn’t consider this a severe sanction, since Christian teachers remained free to teach their own religion and theology, it did hit many of them in their wallets (or rather, coin-purses) since teaching students among the general public was a way for many Christians, especially clergy, to earn a living.
Among other strategies he pursued, in an effort to undermine Christianity, was to lend assistance to Arians. He ordered that Arian Christians be allowed to practice their faith and unraveled many of the sanctions that had been imposed on Arian clergy. In this regard, he went only slightly further than his predecessors; all of the sons of Constantine had been sympathetic to Arianism — much more than Orthodox/Catholic authorities approved of — and so too, near the end of his life, had Constantine their father. Julian simply went a little further with it, in the hopes of stirring up trouble within the Church hierarchy.
Julian also issued some rules to protect Jews. This too was a strategy to undermine Christians, who often profited from running Jews out of various towns or neighborhoods. No one should be fooled into thinking Julian had much regard for Jews; many of his critiques of Christianity were just as true of Judaism, and he had no more respect for it than he had for Christianity. He also had considered rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem and had even begun plans to do so, much to the Church’s chagrin.
At the same time that Julian tried to undermine Christianity, considering it detrimental to society, he also wanted something better for traditional Greco-Roman paganism. He set about to build a new institution; a Church of Theurgy (for lack of a better word). He recruited and appointed a new priesthood which he envisioned would one day replace what Christianity had become, over the past several decades through the Empire, and even longer in districts that had mostly converted to Christianity before the faith had been granted tolerance.
He took up the office of pontifex maximus and performed all of the many traditional rites that had been part of it. While his immediate predecessors had also retained that title for themselves, and occasionally let this be known, Julian worked at it to a degree not seen since Diocletian. He also reinstituted the pagan animal sacrifices that had fallen by the wayside over the past few decades.
Julian further thought traditional Greco-Roman religious tradition needed improvement. He handed down rules of conduct and appearance for his nascent Theurgic priesthood. It took some time for him to get this effort off the ground. Among the reasons for his difficulty in this regard is that his concept of “religion” had a lot to do with “philosophy,” and worked best for those with an education such as his own. There were few he could recruit who lived up to his standards.
Among the ways he tried to build his Church of Theurgy was by diverting funds that previously had been granted to the various Christian institutions. Bishops typically had treasuries intended for the relief of widows and orphans. Catechetical schools had funds to pay for instructors. Various Church entities (ranging from individual congregations to metropolitan sees) had funds that helped feed hermits, stylites, and assorted itinerant gadflies for Jesus. By Julian’s order, money that once had been placed in Church coffers, went to Julian’s own Church of Theurgy, and other causes.
This, of course, only further angered Christians — or, should I say, the Christian hierarchy, which in turn enflamed their believers against him.
Some two centuries prior to Julian, the Roman Empire had been ruled by Marcus Aurelius, who was in classical times (and still is) popularly known as “the philosopher emperor.” In addition to all of his other accomplishments, Marcus Aurelius had been a serious scholar and Stoic philosopher. Julian was aware of his reputation and accomplishments. Based, very likely, on his own experience as a scholar, Julian envisioned himself as a second “philosopher emperor” and cultivated that appearance. As Marcus Aurelius had done, Julian wore a beard (something Roman emperors hadn’t done for some time).
The comparison wasn’t one that Christians were fond of. They recalled that Marcus Aurelius had been a “Christian persecutor.” The degree to which Marcus Aurelius had actually persecuted Christians — above and beyond most other emperors — isn’t at all clear. It’s true that persecution of Christians rose through the period of his reign, but it’s also true that Christianity itself had grown during that same time. He certainly never instituted any programs such as had been carried out by Diocletian.
So, while the association might not have been a fair one, as with almost every other aspect of Julian and his reign, Christians took offense at the way Julian painted himself as a second Marcus Aurelius. In many ways, that’s exactly what he was — a scholar-ruler in the very same mold.
Fighting on the Persian front remained the problem it had been since the reign of Julian’s cousin and predecessor. Although he’d wanted to remain in imperial capital of Constantinople, Julian knew the eastern front needed his attention. He adjourned to Antioch, in order to gather information about the Persians and prepare for a campaign against them.
Antioch was a majority-Christian city, and it was only a matter of time before that became an issue. A tussle erupted over the remains of a saint who’d been interred on the grounds of a pagan temple, which Julian had ordered dug up (on the grounds that the saint’s remains being present had defiled it). The temple he’d tried to protect was burned down in a fire, presumably at the hands of Christians, and Julian ordered the city’s cathedral shut down.
It was at this point that Julian’s reputation as a “persecutor” of Christians and Christianity solidified. That reputation would last into posterity.
In particular, that reputation followed him during his campaign against Persia, which began in early 363. By June of that year he’d been wounded in battle. Although efforts were made to save him, Julian ended up dying the next day, or the day after. Christians, as one might expect, made much of that; Julian had been struck down not by a random Persian spear hurled in the heat of battle, but by the fury of the Almighty, offended as he was by Julian’s apostacy and his trashing of the saints.
The Emperor had been struck down amid what had, essentially, been a retreat. His army hastily appointed a successor as Emperor, one Jovian, a commander of the imperial bodyguard. He happened to be a faithful Christian. His first action was to work out something of a concession to the Persians so he could safely return to Constantinople with his legions (formerly those of Julian) in tow.
In terms of the period in question, this was considered shameful; but in light of Julian’s demise, not everyone cared very much. Certainly the Christians of the eastern Empire didn’t. A number of the Church’s hierarchs and assorted princelings, including St Athanasius (who’d hoped to be restored as Patriarch of Alexandria) met him at Edessa as he retreated for the capital. They fawned over him, and of course, being the obsequious Roman imperial apparatchik he was, Jovian obliged. He restored the favors that Christian hierarchs had enjoyed, and returned Athanasius to his office.
Despite his eagerness to get back to Constantinople and take up rule of the Empire, Jovian never made it, dying under mysterious circumstances (which grateful Christians somehow never managed to question in the same way they’d questioned Julian’s death).
Julian’s death was accompanied by the failure of all of his efforts. The Church of Theurgy he’d tried to build, withered and died within just a few years. The funds that had once been earmarked for Church coffers, that Julian had entrusted elsewhere, were ripped away and restored to the care of the Church’s princelings. Arian Christians had a harder time of things, as one of Jovian’s few official acts had been to remove some Arian bishops from their offices (that Julian had restored to them). Any hope of the Jews’ Temple being rebuilt, ended.
From this time on, Christianity’s trajectory was relentlessly upward, and traditional Greco-Roman paganism began to fade. Things would never be the same again. By the end of the century, most pagan practices would be outlawed, leaving Christianity the only religion standing — aside from Mithras, which still lurked among the Roman legions and, possibly, the aristocracy.
It almost goes without saying that Emperor Julian “the Apostate” is among the worst villains of history, as least in the eyes of Christianity. To hear them tell it, he personally slaughtered Christians by the thousand. He outlawed faith in Jesus of Nazareth. He razed churches in all corners of the Empire. He personally destroyed any and all outspoken Christians. He made the lives of downtrodden Christians miserable and deprived them of everything … including, in some cases, life. Further, he promoted the Forces of Darkness, including a preternatural cadre of devil-worshipping ur-priests.
Almost everything about Julian has been assailed by Christian writers, since his time. You name it, they whined and cried like little children about it. Julian was condemned as vain, and out-of-touch, and remote, and off-putting. He had an odd nervous tic, which was tilting his head while he spoke, which supposedly “proved” that he was controlled by demonic forces. He talked too much, which supposedly “proved” he couldn’t communicate with anyone. He’d dismissed a lot of the Roman officials he’d inherited from Constantius. He’d spent too much time in decadent, pagan Athens during his youth. He tried to help those filthy, diabolical Jews. He’d restored those Satan-controlled Arians to their offices and statuses. He robbed Christian coffers of their God-given money.
And on and on and on and on and on the accusations went. There was even a rumor Julian hadn’t been wounded in battle by a Persian spear, but assassinated by one of his own men who’d decided enough was enough and the Empire had to be relieved of his horrific oppression. Almost no one buys that — not even those who’d heard about it within a couple years of his death — but it was whispered throughout Christendom as “evidence” of Julian’s blasphemous villainy.
It's long past time for a fairer assessment of Julian’s reign, as short as it was (just two years). Perhaps the most important point to recall is that he’d never been raised to be Emperor, and even as it appeared he was on track to achieve high office — first as Caesar and ultimately as Augustus, or Emperor — he hadn’t done much to attain those offices. He’d been named Caesar by his cousin and, essentially, had no choice but to accept. Had he not, Constantius certain would have disposed of him. Much the same happened when Constantius died and he was named Augustus; had he turned it down, as one of the few remaining heirs of Constantine, he would also have been eliminated by whoever did take up the office.
It’s true Julian could be off-putting and didn’t relate well to the people — but he’d never been taught the skills of oratory that sons or heirs of rulers tended to have. He did have an odd tic. He did arrogantly present himself as a clone of the vaunted Marcus Aurelius. He did talk over the heads of a lot of people around him. It’s true he disliked Christianity and wanted it gone.
All of that, and more, is definitely true. Julian wasn’t the kind of guy you’d encounter in a bar somewhere and strike up a conversation over the most recent Super Bowl or the latest World Cup. He had uncompromising opinions about religion and many other topics. He was certainly vain and caved in to flattery.
What’s clear, based on a calm and objective assessment of his reign, is that Julian was no villain. Certainly he was no villain on the same scale as many other Roman emperors, including (and perhaps especially) his cousin and predecessor who’d contrived familial massacres, solely for the purpose of remaining in power. Julian never once issued any orders even remotely like that, to anyone. Even the angriest Christian storytellers who despised him never came up with any such tales about him.
I note, too, that some of those villainous emperors — who carried out massacres such as Constantius II did — had actually been Christians. Which Julian, I should note, wasn’t. This is something Julian’s Christian critics and disparagers have totally lost sight of, through the centuries after his fall and all of the many aspersions they cast on his memory. Something they can’t deny is that Julian, “the Apostate,” was actually more virtuous than a number of supposedly-devout Christian rulers of his era.
It's true Julian opposed Christianity … but he never did to it what his predecessors had done. He never overturned the Edict of Milan and outlawed the faith. He never jailed anyone for following it. He never took the kind of steps previous Emperors had undertaken to get rid of Christianity. Nearly all of the measures against Christianity that he did undertake, were against the clergy, especially the hierarchs, not lay Christians. While it’s hard to call him “tolerant” of Christianity, he certainly allowed it more freedom than other Emperors would allow paganism — such as Theodosius I who would take over, a couple decades after him.
We’re fortunate to know a good deal about Julian’s thinking, because he wrote quite a bit (again, in line with the emperor he tried to emulate, Marcus Aurelius) and some of that has survived. Among the more important of these works is the aforementioned Against the Galileans, but he wrote a series of orations as well as some correspondence. You can read those online, if you wish:
I will say it, in just one short sentence: Julian “the Apostate” proved himself more “Christian” an Emperor, than nearly all the other Christian emperors. Little more needs to be said of him, than that.
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