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1,700 years later

In Nicaea,  the modern Turkish city of İznik, 1,700 years ago, the bishops of the Roman Empire laid the foundations of the Christian faith. Today, two contemporary leaders have brought the past back to the forefront of international attention. Pope Leo XIV and Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew stood together on the ruins of the ancient basilica of St. Neophytos, looking in the same direction, a moment of unity in a world that is increasingly moving away from it. The image of the two men lighting a candle in front of the icons of Christ and the Fathers of the Council seemed simple, almost deliberately grounded, but laden with the full weight of history.

The visit to Nicaea was not merely a symbolic tribute. For the Pope, the anniversary of 325 serves as an invitation to all Christians to ask again “who is Jesus Christ for us today,” raising questions of faith in communication with modern man in an attempt at unity that has not yet been achieved. For the Patriarch, as he emphasized in his speech, this return to the “cradle of faith” is an act of remembrance but also of continuity: “we are not here only to honor the past, but to give living witness to the same faith.”

In a polarized and conflictual geopolitical landscape, the joint presence of the two leaders in Turkey takes on broader significance, and the message of unity takes on an almost unconventional character, with the reminder of the need for coexistence coming to the fore. Nice became a stage where the past converses with the present, and where Christian unity—in a formal, symbolic form—once again claims a place in the public international arena. The fact that this moment is unfolding in Turkey, a country where Christian communities have shrunk dramatically, will lend even greater depth to the next chapters of communication between the two churches, with unity at the center.

What was the Council of Nicaea and what is it today?

The First Ecumenical Council of Nicaea in 325 AD was a moment when the Church, for the first and only time before the era of schisms, met united under the auspices of an emperor who had now turned decisively to Christianity. Nicaea is “the only assembly of all the organs of the ancient Church,” a point where the doctrinal foundations were formed that still define the faith of billions of people today.

The Emperor Constantine, who was then head of both the Western and Eastern Empires, convened the Council to address two fundamental issues. The first was practical: setting a common date for Easter so that Christianity’s greatest feast could be celebrated universally. The second, and more profound, was theological: to respond to the views of Arius (an Alexandrian presbyter), who argued that Christ was not fully God, but an entity intermediate between God and man. The Council decisively rejected this view. As Pope Leo XIV pointed out, recalling the spirit of that era, the central issue was whether God was indeed “The Council was held to respond to the Alexandrian priest Arius’ claim that Jesus was only an intermediary between God and humanity, saying He was not fully divine and ignoring the reality of the Incarnation. ” a position that remains fundamental to Christian theology. This conflict gave rise to the Nicene Creed, the formulation that states that the Son is “true God from true God… of one substance with the Father.” This text, as they remind us, continues to be a common point of reference for all Christians, despite subsequent doctrinal differences. It is perhaps the last common foundation before the slow, long journey towards the Schism of 1054, when East and West would finalise their separation.

For Bartholomew, the joint worship service was an act of returning to the “roots of the common faith,” with the Ecumenical Patriarch stating that the leaders “returned to this cradle of the Christian faith” and calling for “let us listen to all the voices of the faithful for unity.” His references to Nicaea were programmatic in nature, speaking of a “common sense of hope” after centuries of division, and of a living testimony of faith that transcends the ritual of remembrance. What gave particular weight to the moment was that the two leaders chose to speak by reciting the Symbol of Faith in its original form, “from the Father,” without the filioque—the point that for centuries embodied the doctrinal rift between East and West. Specifically, they “prayed the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed together, omitting the Filioque.”

These declarations embodied a broader symbolic message from the two leaders: that Christianity cannot appear fragmented at a time when the planet is being tested by war fronts, persecution, nationalism, and the systematic exploitation of faith. The image of a Pope and a Patriarch standing together in front of a basilica submerged in water for centuries but now exposed to light served as a visual metaphor for the need to rebuild a common theological horizon. Nicaea is the imprint of an era that seemed capable of articulating a unified creed before it split into branches, interpretations, traditions, and ultimately separate Churches. The fact that today Orthodox, Catholics, and Protestants continue to recite the core of the Nicene Creed demonstrates its enduring value but also explains why the 1,700th anniversary is not a typical commemorative ceremony, but a return to the roots of Christian identity.

The day after the historic prayer service, on Saturday, November 29, in Iznik, Leo XIV headed to the Phanar, where he entered the Patriarchal Church of St. George together with the Ecumenical Patriarch. The ceremony of Doxology, in the heart of the institutional seat of Orthodoxy, served as a practical recognition of the respect between the two Churches, but also as a confirmation of the historical importance of the Patriarchate, whose presence in Turkey has been shrinking century after century. Immediately afterwards, the Joint Declaration was signed at the Throne of the Patriarchal House. The moment had obvious diplomatic weight; the two leaders signed a text that sealed the symbolic resumption of the path of convergence, while offering the Turkish state an internationally promoted image of religious tolerance and hospitality, in a country where minorities have historically been marginalized. At the same time, the Pope took advantage of the program for meetings aimed at sending a broader ecumenical message. He visited the Blue Mosque and the Syriac Orthodox Church of Mor Ephraim, and in the afternoon he celebrated Mass in the entirely secular setting of Istanbul’s Volkswagen Arena.

Ankara used these moments as a soft power tool, the Pope’s presence in places symbolic of Turkish history—such as Sultanahmet or Istanbul itself—reinforced Turkey’s narrative as a “universal hub” where East and West meet. At the same time, the ceremonies at the Phanar and the meetings with Christian communities were presented internationally as proof that the country can coexist with its religious minorities, even though the reality of this coexistence is often fragile, with Greek Orthodox communities having shrunk dramatically during the 20th century; specifically, Greek Orthodox Christians made up about 30% of the city’s population, while today there are only about 1,500 left — a dramatic decline as a result of persecution, pogroms, and state discrimination.

The presence of the Patriarchs of Alexandria and America, numerous delegations, and representatives from more than 20 Churches allowed Turkey to appear as a meeting place for global Christianity. And while major intra-Orthodox rifts — particularly with the Russian Church — remain unresolved, the ceremonial setting of the visit gave the impression of a country acting as a mediator on the global religious stage. The absence of the Russian Orthodox Church from the ceremony was the biggest unspoken moment of the day. While more than 20 primates and representatives of churches stood alongside Pope Leo XIV and Patriarch Bartholomew, Moscow was conspicuous by its absence, confirming what many theologians and analysts know: the divide today is not theological; it is geopolitical. Patriarch Kirill, an ally of Vladimir Putin, has not only blessed but also theologically justified the war against Ukraine, proposing a “sacred” dimension to a purely political invasion. This stance makes any meeting on equal terms with the Pope impossible, who in Nice reiterated in the clearest possible terms: “We must strongly reject the use of religion for justifying war, violence, or any form of fundamentalism or fanaticism.”

Moscow’s absence from Nicaea is also a message to the Phanar that the Russian Church sees itself as the true heir to Orthodoxy, with millions of believers and strong political support. From Russia’s point of view, the Patriarchate of Constantinople has overstepped its role, especially after recognizing the autocephaly of the Ukrainian Church (2018). Moscow believes that the Phanar has “invaded” its canonical jurisdiction. In this climate, the joint appearance of Pope Francis and Bartholomew in Nice serves as an indirect confirmation of the authority of the Ecumenical Patriarchate — something that the Russian Church cannot accept without losing its image as the “leading force” of Orthodoxy.

The ceremony in Nicaea and the meeting in Phanar did not resolve the thousand-year rift, but they revealed the outlines of a new Christian landscape where unity is no longer understood as a dogmatic coincidence but as a common stance towards a world sliding into violence, the instrumentalization of faith, and geopolitical confrontations. Pope Leo XIV and Patriarch Bartholomew, praying without the filioque and signing a joint declaration, showed that “I believe” can once again serve as common ground, while the Pope’s appeals against fanaticism and the religious legitimization of violence drew a clear line between ecumenical discourse and Moscow’s state-sanctioned theology. At the same time, Turkey tacitly took advantage of the situation to project an image of religious tolerance, without substantially changing the reality of its tiny Orthodox communities. And yet, twenty-seven Churches stood together in Nicaea as a reminder that unity is not a fait accompli, but a slow, demanding process; a challenge that is renewed every time the Churches decide to speak to each other despite the wounds of history. In a century that demands religions to play a role of reconciliation rather than division, Nice 2025 was not a measured step; and perhaps this, in the end, is the only realistic path to unity.

However, this 1,700th anniversary of Nicaea should not be commemorated simply as a milestone, because a second reading must examine what has been inherited from that moment. Because Nicaea, among other things, was both a triumph of unity and the beginning of a new model of power, where the Church and the State “embraced” each other so closely that for centuries they could not be separated, giving the expression of the state a metaphysical substance.

At this meeting, the monotheism of the Kanon took the place of the old pluralism, not at the level of polytheism but at the level of ways of believing, of tolerance for disagreement. From that moment on, a tradition was born that would link the Christianity of faith with the correctness of the politics of the time, and which in several historical phases nurtured the logic of “one way,” of institutional monophony as a guarantee of stability. Polymnia Athanasiadi, historian, has shown with fascinating clarity in her book “The Rise of Monodoxy in Late Antiquity” that after Nicaea, the world became a place where disagreements were no longer treated as intellectual exercises, but as threats that must be subdued.

And this is a legacy that today’s anniversary cannot ignore. If there is anything worth remembering from 325, it is perhaps not only the possibility of confession, but also the danger that arises when confession becomes a tool of power. In our time, when grand narratives are once again seeking absolute legitimacy, Nicaea returns not only as a symbol of unity, but also as a reminder that any unity that fears pluralism risks becoming a mechanism of exclusion. Thus, the anniversary of 2025 calls not only for dialogue between Churches; it also calls for self-awareness of the very origins of Christian history, where agreement and normalization, fellowship and discipline were born simultaneously. Within this dual reality, the most fruitful tribute to Nicaea is to look at it without nostalgia, but with the awareness that unity only gains weight when it goes hand in hand with pluralism and political rationality.

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