Chrysostom & Icons: An Unexpected Twist at the 7th Ecumenical Council
Ancient manuscripts reveal a fascinating historical puzzle hidden for centuries
Time-travel to the 8th century B.C. and face one of the most intense episodes in biblical history. Tremble in awe as the mighty Angel of the Lord single-handedly strikes down 185,000 enemy soldiers — an army that dared to mock God and threaten His people.
Jerusalem is surrounded. The situation is hopeless. The king can do nothing but pray. There is no battle, no dramatic counterattack — only a quiet, sleepless night. And by morning, the entire Assyrian army lies dead.
No human hand accomplished this. This was an act of God — breaking into history in a single, devastating moment (2 Kings 19:35; Isaiah 37:36).
Now fast forward more than a thousand years to the age of the Early Church Fathers.
In the late fourth century A.D., an influential bishop stands before an icon depicting this very event. He does not see mere paint or wax. He sees the Angel of the Lord. He sees Scripture made visible. He sees theology rendered in color.
As he reflects, his mind turns to something familiar from everyday life in the Roman world: the images of the emperor.
When an imperial delegation entered a city, it often brought with it an image of the emperor. The people would bow and show honor to it, just as if the emperor himself were there. Though he was not physically present, his likeness served as an official representation of his authority. Thus, they honored neither wood nor stone, but the emperor himself.
And so the bishop draws the parallel.
As he gazes upon the sacred image before him, he does not admire wax, wood, or paint. He honors the Lord Himself — the One who struck down 185,000 soldiers in a single night, the Defender of His people, the God who acts in history with irresistible power.
He sees that everything in creation — the clouds, the earth, the sea — serves God. But more precisely, it serves man, who is created in the image of God.
Man is formed from clay. Yet creation does not honor mere clay. It honors the heavenly form reflected in man.
If Roman citizens honor the emperor through his image, and if creation itself honors God by serving the image of God, then how fitting it is for this bishop—and for all Christians—to honor holy icons: images of God and His saints, where biblical events and eternal truths are made visible in living color.
Leap forward four hundred years into the 8th century. The year is 787, and you are joining a vast gathering of illustrious bishops - The Holy Fathers of the 7th Ecumenical Council. They have convened in the city of Nicaea to issue a ruling for the Church, and for the Empire. Is it appropriate to paint religious images? Is it appropriate to give honor to images of Christ and the Saints, and to use such images in the context of worship and prayer?
To settle the issue, the bishops at this Council look not solely to the desires of the Empress, nor only to their own private opinions, but more importantly, they look to the teachings of great saints who have gone before them — early Fathers with a proven track record of guiding the Church faithfully towards Christ.
For the Holy Fathers of the Seventh Council, one of the most illustrious saints cited is St. John Chrysostom.
St. John was one of the most revered and influential bishops of the early Church. Known for his extraordinary preaching — so powerful that he was given the title “Chrysostom”, meaning “golden-mouthed” — he devoted his life to proclaiming the Gospel with clarity, moral urgency, and fearless honesty. He called both clergy and laity to repentance, challenged corruption at the highest levels of society, and defended the poor with unwavering conviction. His homilies on Scripture shaped generations of Christian thought, and his legacy remains so central to the Church that one of the most widely celebrated liturgies in the Christian world bears his name. For the Fathers of the Church, Chrysostom was not merely a gifted speaker, but a trusted witness to apostolic faith and practice.
Throughout the Second Council of Nicaea, the bishops did not speak in vague generalities. They appealed to specific authorities, quoting revered Fathers whose words carried decisive weight in the life of the Church. Among these, the voice of John Chrysostom rang out with particular force. Not once, but repeatedly, his words were read aloud before the assembled bishops—presented as clear testimony that the veneration of images was not a novelty, but something deeply rooted in the tradition of the Church. In particular, three passages attributed to Chrysostom were set forth as evidence.
This first passage says that if we show honor to an image, we show honor to the person who is depicted, and that creation itself honors man, because man is made in the image of God.
Symeon the most devout monk, presbyter and hegumen of Chora produced a volume. On receiving it, Niketas the most God-beloved deacon and notary of the sacred patriarchal consistory read out:
Our holy father John Chrysostom on the foot-washing:
Everything was created for the glory of God and for our use, the clouds to provide rain, the earth for the abundance of crops, the sea for the prosperity of merchants. Everything ministers to you, O God, or rather to the image of the Master. For when imperial figures and images are carried into a city and are greeted with praise by magistrates and the people, what they honour is not a panel or a picture moulded in wax but the form of the emperor. So too the creation does not have respect for the shape made of clay but the heavenly form.1
This second passage tells us that dishonoring an image is tantamount to dishonoring the person depicted.
Also the blessed John Chrysostom archbishop of Constantinople on the parable of the sower:
‘If you insult the imperial robe, do you not insult the one who is robed? Are you unaware that, if someone insults an image of the emperor, he extends the insult to honour to the prototype? Are you unaware that, if someone demolishes a wooden image or a bronze statue, he is not condemned for effrontery towards lifeless matter but put to death for raising his hands against the emperor? Injuries inflicted on the lifeless matter that bears the image of the emperor are an injury to the emperor himself.’2
The third passage, repeated multiple times throughout the Seventh Council, refers to a religious image depicting a famous Old Testament event.
Theodosios the most devout hegumen of the monastery of Saint Andrew, Nesios produced a volume of the same Saint John Chrysostom, asking for it to be read. Antony the monk took it and read out:
A sermon of our father Saint John Chrysostom, that the Old and New Covenants have a single legislator and on priestly dress, which begins ‘The gospel of Christ’s kingdom was announced in advance by the prophets’ and continues further down: I myself have come to love depiction in wax that is full of piety. For I saw on an image an angel routing ranks of barbarians. I saw hordes of barbarians being trampled down and David declaring truthfully, ‘Lord, in your city you will annihilate their image.’
The most holy patriarch said: ‘If the one who had a mouth more precious than gold uttered the words, “I myself have come to love pictures moulded of wax”, what should we say about those who hate them?’
Basil the most sacred bishop of Ankyra said: ‘When he says “I have come to love”, who dares to say the opposite?’
John the most devout monk, presbyter and representative of the eastern patriarchs said: ‘Who is this angel if not the one of whom scripture says that the angel of the Lord struck down in one night one hundred and eighty-five thousands of the Assyrians who were encamped around Jerusalem?’
Nikephoros the most sacred bishop of Dyrrhachion said: ‘But may the Lord be merciful to us for the offences we committed over the sacred images.’3
Of course, the bishops at Nicaea did not treat these quotations as minor comments from some obscure writer buried in a dusty manuscript collection. They presented them as the words of one of the greatest saints and teachers in Christian history. Again and again, the council introduces the passages with titles of deep reverence: “our holy father John Chrysostom,” “the blessed John Chrysostom, archbishop of Constantinople,” and “our father Saint John Chrysostom.” After the famous “wax image” quotation is read aloud, Patriarch Tarasios appeals directly to Chrysostom’s towering authority, declaring: “If the one who had a mouth more precious than gold uttered the words, ‘I myself have come to love pictures moulded of wax’, what should we say about those who hate them?” Another bishop responds, “When he says ‘I have come to love’, who dares to say the opposite?”
The point is unmistakable. The council was not merely collecting interesting theological opinions. It was invoking the immense prestige of the Golden-Mouthed Father himself, presenting these quotations as decisive patristic testimony in favor of holy icons.
The reasoning is clear. The intentions are respectable. And the quotations are genuinely helpful.
There’s only one problem.
None of these quotations are actually from St. John Chrysostom.
These quotations come from Severian of Gabala – one of St. John Chrysostom’s most prominent persecutors.
Toward the end of Chrysostom’s life, Severian had emerged as one of the chief ringleaders in the campaign against him. He helped stir suspicion against the saint, aligning himself with powerful enemies who resented Chrysostom’s fearless preaching, moral reforms, and public rebukes of corruption. At the infamous Synod of the Oak, Severian played a leading role in the effort to condemn Chrysostom and drive him from power, and the synod ultimately ruled that the saint should be deposed and exiled. Yet public outrage soon forced a temporary reversal, allowing Chrysostom to return briefly to Constantinople. The persecution, however, continued. Severian and his allies renewed their attacks, while tensions between Chrysostom and the imperial court—especially Empress Aelia Eudoxia—escalated further. Finally, the combined pressure of ecclesiastical hostility and imperial politics led to a second and permanent exile. Driven from his see, subjected to brutal travel conditions, and cut off from much of his flock, Chrysostom finally died in exile after years of sustained persecution.
And yet, nearly four centuries later, the bishops at the Seventh Ecumenical Council repeatedly appeal to Severian’s writings, believing they were quoting Chrysostom himself.
The irony is difficult to miss. The bishops at Nicaea condemned their opponents for misquoting the Fathers — while unknowingly doing the same thing themselves.
Throughout the Seventh Ecumenical Council, the bishops sharply criticized the iconoclasts of the 753 Council of Hieria for misusing and misquoting the Fathers, presenting themselves instead as faithful guardians of authentic patristic tradition. And yet, while condemning their opponents for mishandling earlier authorities, the bishops at Nicaea repeatedly appealed to quotations they sincerely believed came from St. John Chrysostom — even though those quotations actually originated with Severian of Gabala, one of Chrysostom’s fiercest detractors. Patriarch Tarasios himself invoked the authority of “the one who had a mouth more precious than gold,” while unknowingly praising the writings of Chrysostom’s enemy. The episode does not necessarily suggest bad faith on the part of the council fathers, but it does reveal how deeply human and historically vulnerable the conciliar process could be.
How did this happen?
How did writings by Severian of Gabala get confused with writings by St. John Chrysostom? And how did the Fathers of the Seventh Ecumenical Council make such a mistake?
This kind of misattribution was not rare in the ancient world. Sermons were copied by hand. Titles were lost. Marginal notes became headings. Anonymous works were sometimes assigned to famous authors. A text preserved in one collection under its true author’s name could appear in another collection under someone else’s name. And if a sermon sounded sufficiently “Chrysostom-like” — biblical, moral, eloquent, and useful for preaching — later scribes might have had little reason to question a heading that said “John Chrysostom.”
There is evidence that by around the end of the sixth century — roughly two hundred years before the Seventh Council — a number of Severian’s sermons had already been absorbed into the vast body of writings circulating under Chrysostom’s name.
The true origin of many of these writings can now be identified through several converging lines of evidence. Some of these homilies survive in manuscript traditions that explicitly attribute them to Severian rather than Chrysostom. Multiple ancient witnesses independently connect these texts with Severian. Theodoret of Cyrus quotes material from one of these sermons in a way that links it to Severian’s literary tradition, and later evidence from Rome shows that Pope Hadrian I possessed manuscripts in which certain writings were correctly identified as Severian’s. Scholars have also analyzed the florilegia — collections of patristic excerpts used in theological controversy — tracing how these quotations circulated, migrated, and were reassigned over time.
When all of this evidence is considered together — manuscript attribution, parallel textual traditions, ancient citations, and the history of the florilegia themselves — the picture becomes difficult to ignore. Multiple lines of historical evidence converge toward the conclusion that several of the most important “Chrysostom” quotations used at the Seventh Ecumenical Council were in fact written by Severian of Gabala.4
Once Severian’s writings entered the manuscript stream under Chrysostom’s name, the error could spread easily. Evidence suggests that these texts passed through a common manuscript ancestor connected with a major library such as the Patriarchal Library of Constantinople. The mistake did not need to happen everywhere. It only needed to happen once, in an influential enough place, and then it could be copied again and again.
In all likelihood, the bishops at Nicaea were being quite honest. They were doing something most of us do on a regular basis: trusting the books in front of them. A volume was brought forward. The heading said “John Chrysostom.” A deacon read it aloud. The bishops accepted it as Chrysostom. They had no reason, in that moment, to imagine that the “Chrysostom” volume on the table actually contained sermons from Chrysostom’s old enemy.
The modern equivalent is painfully familiar. Someone posts a fake quotation online and attributes it to C. S. Lewis, Dostoevsky, Einstein, or St. Augustine. Then it gets copied by blogs, quoted in sermons, shared on social media, printed in devotional books, and repeated by well-meaning people who never intended to deceive anyone. After enough repetition, the attribution begins to feel like common knowledge. But common knowledge can still be wrong.
That appears to be what happened here. Severian’s words entered the manuscript stream under Chrysostom’s name, the error spread through ecclesiastical books, and by the time the Seventh Council gathered in 787, the Fathers were reading Severian while sincerely believing they were hearing the golden mouth of Chrysostom.
What difference does it make?
If one’s primary concern is whether holy icons should exist in the Church, then these historical curiosities make no difference at all. The Fathers of the Seventh Ecumenical Council defended the veneration of icons, and one may believe they reached the correct conclusion regardless of whether these particular Chrysostom quotations were genuine or not.
The issue becomes more significant, however, for those who hold an extremely strong view of conciliar inspiration or infallibility. The bishops at Nicaea appear to have acted sincerely and in good faith. They were trusting the manuscript traditions available to them. But the fact remains: the quotations were misattributed. The bishops believed they were appealing to the authority of St. John Chrysostom when in reality they were citing the writings of Severian of Gabala.
This does not suggest that the council reached a false doctrinal conclusion. Good and faithful bishops can arrive at correct conclusions while still making mistakes in historical scholarship, manuscript attribution, or rhetorical argumentation. But it does suggest that ecumenical councils operated through profoundly human processes. The Fathers debated, investigated sources, trusted manuscripts, evaluated authorities, and sometimes inherited the textual errors of earlier generations.
That reality sits uneasily with theories that treat every aspect of conciliar proceedings as though they functioned with the same kind of direct divine inspiration Christians traditionally associate with Holy Scripture. The Holy Spirit was aware of the true authorship of these texts, even if the bishops themselves were not.
Perhaps, then, the events at Nicaea are best understood not as a mechanically flawless process, but as something more human and more historically grounded: sincere bishops struggling through imperfect sources and inherited traditions, yet nevertheless arriving at conclusions which were compatible with the Gospel and the received traditions of the Church.
1 Richard Price, trans., The Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea (787), Translated Texts for Historians 68, vol. 1 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2018), 311.
2 Price, Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea, 166.
3 Price, Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea, pp. 264-265.
4 Karl-Heinz Uthemann, “Severian von Gabala in Florilegien zum Bilderkult,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 66, no. 1 (2000): 5–47.
Well, maybe “Some of these homilies survive in manuscript traditions that explicitly attribute them to Severian rather than Chrysostom” those manuscript “traditions” are just wrong?
And I do worry about the Abraham Lincoln quote going around online—about the Internet!