Was Papal Supremacy Apostolic? A Historical Inquiry

This study is not intended as an attack on Catholics or a dismissal of the sincerity of those who hold to papal supremacy. Many faithful Catholics have embraced this doctrine with genuine devotion to Christ. The aim here is historical and theological clarity, not controversy. Within the Christian tradition, the pursuit of truth has always required careful examination of origins, developments, and assumptions, even when long-established institutions are involved.

Much of the scholarship examined in this work does not arise from anti-Catholic sentiment. Francis Dvornik, a Catholic priest and respected historian, approached these questions not to undermine faith but to understand how Church authority functioned in its earliest centuries. His work, together with the testimony of the early ecumenical councils, provides a historically grounded framework for examining Roman primacy as it was originally understood. (see attached pdf)

This study argues that papal supremacy, as later defined and dogmatized, was not divinely instituted in its fully developed form but emerged gradually through historical processes. By examining the Council of Chalcedon, earlier councils, and the ecclesial context of the first millennium, it becomes clear that Roman primacy was generally understood in collegial and honorific terms rather than as universal juridical authority. Byzantine sources sometimes speak of the Bishop of Rome as more than merely “first among equals,” but they do not support the later concept of absolute papal supremacy.

Dvornik situates this issue within its broader historical and political context, showing how early Church structures adapted to the organization of the Roman Empire and how differing Eastern and Western mentalities shaped later interpretations of authority. He also places his work within the ecumenical climate following the Second Vatican Council, noting that gestures such as the meeting of Pope Paul VI and Patriarch Athenagoras, and the mutual lifting of the excommunications of 1054, created a more favorable atmosphere for dialogue, even if they could not by themselves heal the deeper rupture finalized after the events of 1204.

As a Christian, I hold that honest engagement with history does not weaken faith but refines it. What follows is an attempt to present this history carefully and respectfully, allowing the sources themselves to speak, in the hope that truth may serve as a foundation for deeper understanding.

The Council of Ephesus, held in 431, was convened to address a Christological controversy, not a dispute over church governance or papal authority. Its purpose was to resolve disagreements concerning how Christ’s divinity and humanity are united, particularly in response to the teachings of Nestorius, Patriarch of Constantinople. The immediate issue was the title Theotokos, “God-bearer,” applied to the Virgin Mary. Nestorius objected to the term because he feared it confused Christ’s divine and human natures, while his opponents, especially Cyril of Alexandria, argued that rejecting the title undermined the unity of Christ’s person. What was at stake, therefore, was the doctrine of the Incarnation, not the supremacy of Rome.

The historical setting of the council is important. Ephesus unfolded amid intense theological, political, and personal rivalries. There were delays in the arrival of bishops, rival synods meeting separately, disputed procedures, and repeated imperial interventions. The final outcome was not the result of a single decisive authority but of a complex conciliar process shaped by regional power, theological traditions, and imperial enforcement. This reflects a Church still governed through synods of bishops rather than through centralized papal control.

If papal supremacy had been divinely instituted and universally recognized in the fifth century, one would expect the Bishop of Rome to function as the final juridical authority at such a council. His judgment would be decisive and uncontested, councils would derive their authority from papal confirmation, and doctrinal disputes would be resolved by appeal to Rome as the supreme arbiter. None of these features appear at Ephesus. Authority is exercised collectively by bishops, the most influential figure is Cyril of Alexandria rather than the pope, the legitimacy of the council is contested during and after its sessions, and the emperor, not the pope, plays a decisive role in enforcing its decisions. Rome is respected and consulted, but it does not govern the council, and there is no appeal to Petrine supremacy as a governing principle.

This conciliar pattern aligns naturally with the ecclesiology already expressed at the Council of Nicaea in 325, especially in Canon 6. That canon affirms the authority of major sees according to ancient custom and limits their jurisdiction to defined regions. Alexandria is granted authority over Egypt, Libya, and Pentapolis, and Rome is mentioned only by analogy, as having similar customary authority in its own region. Antioch and other provinces are likewise told to retain their privileges. The canon assumes a Church ordered by regional jurisdiction, synodal consent, and majority decision-making, not by universal papal jurisdiction.

The Council of Ephesus operates squarely within this Nicene framework. Alexandria exercises strong regional influence, Constantinople’s growing prominence creates tension, and no see is treated as universally sovereign. Even the disorder and controversy surrounding the council make sense only in a Church governed by conciliar custom rather than papal monarchy. Canon 6 already presupposes disagreement and provides mechanisms for resolving it without recourse to a supreme pontiff.

A divinely instituted system of universal papal supremacy would be expected to be clear, consistent, and universally acknowledged from the beginning. What emerges instead, at Nicaea and again at Ephesus, is a Church structured by custom, geography, and synodal consensus. Papal supremacy as later defined does not arise from this system but develops after it. Ephesus therefore does not simply fail to support papal supremacy; it presupposes a different model of church authority altogether, one already articulated in the Nicene canons.

As readers move from the historical background of the Council of Ephesus into a broader perspective, the work of Francis Dvornik provides an essential interpretive lens. Dvornik does not approach the councils as isolated theological events, but as expressions of how authority actually functioned in the early Church. His research shows that what we see at Ephesus; contested authority, regional influence, synodal decision-making, and imperial involvement; is not evidence of disorder within a divinely instituted papal system, but evidence that such a system did not yet exist.

Dvornik explains that early ecclesiastical organization followed what he calls the principle of accommodation. The Church adapted its structures to the political divisions of the Roman Empire, organizing authority regionally around major civil centers. This principle was already operative before Nicaea and was formally confirmed by it. As Dvornik notes, the bishops of the East “were much more under the influence of the old principle of accommodation” than of any theory of apostolic or Petrine jurisdiction . This directly confirms the ecclesiology assumed by Nicene Canon 6, where Rome and Alexandria are treated as parallel cases of customary, territorial authority rather than as superior and subordinate sees.

Within this framework, Roman primacy was real, but it was understood historically and practically, not juridically or absolutist. Dvornik repeatedly stresses that the Byzantines “had not the slightest intention of denying the Primacy to Rome,” yet they understood that primacy as compatible with regional autonomy and conciliar governance . Rome was first in honor, not a universal administrator of the Church.

This distinction is crucial for interpreting Ephesus. When Rome does not function as the decisive authority at the council, this is not a rejection of Roman primacy; it is a reflection of what primacy meant at the time. Dvornik makes clear that in the East, apostolic origin did not automatically confer jurisdictional supremacy, since many important sees; Jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria, and Ephesus itself; were apostolic in origin. Because apostolicity was widespread, it “never took very deep root in the ecclesiastical organization of the East,” where accommodation to political structure remained the dominant principle .

This explains why Ephesus operates exactly as Nicene Canon 6 would lead us to expect.

Alexandria exercises decisive regional influence, Constantinople’s position is contested, Rome is respected but not supreme, and the emperor plays a central role in enforcing decisions. Dvornik explicitly warns against reading later papal claims back into this period, noting that attempts by later popes to replace the principle of accommodation with a principle of apostolic and Petrine jurisdiction created tensions precisely because this was not how the Church had previously been ordered .

Dvornik also reinforces an important negative point for readers: the absence of papal supremacy at Ephesus cannot be dismissed as oversight. If such supremacy were divinely instituted and universally acknowledged, it would have appeared clearly in the councils. Instead, as Dvornik observes, Rome’s primacy was “granted to its bishop by the councils and the emperors,” not exercised as an independent, supra-conciliar authority . This statement is especially significant because it comes from a Catholic historian explaining Catholic history.

Taken together, Dvornik’s analysis confirms that Ephesus stands firmly within the same ecclesiological world as Nicaea. Both presuppose a Church governed by synods, regional jurisdictions, and received authority, not by a divinely mandated papal monarchy. Papal supremacy, as later defined, does not emerge from this system; it develops when the Western Church gradually abandons the shared framework of accommodation and conciliarity.

Thoughts:

If papal supremacy were divinely ordained, it would not be presented as parallel to the authority of Alexandria, nor grounded in administrative custom or historical precedent. A divinely instituted supremacy would transcend geography and would not be limited by territorial jurisdiction. Yet the canon does precisely the opposite. It explains Rome’s authority by analogy with other regional sees, roots it in established practice, and assumes defined boundaries of jurisdiction. In doing so, it treats the Bishop of Rome as a regional patriarch within a conciliar order, not as a universal monarch ruling the Church by divine right.

When readers turn from Ephesus to the Council of Chalcedon (451), they encounter not a reversal of the earlier conciliar model but its most explicit articulation. Chalcedon confirms that the Church of the fifth century still understood authority in historical, conciliar, and territorial terms rather than as a universal papal monarchy.

First, it is essential to note that Chalcedon was not convened by the pope but by the emperor. The council itself states that it was summoned “by decree of your most religious and Christ-loving emperors Valentinian Augustus and Marcian Augustus” . Pope Leo initially opposed the council altogether and preferred that bishops simply sign his letter rather than meet in council. This alone undermines any claim that ecumenical authority flowed from papal initiative. The Church continued to understand the emperor, not the pope, as the one who convoked councils.

Second, although Leo’s Tome is received with honor, it is not treated as self-authenticating or juridically binding by virtue of papal authorship. The Definition of Faith explicitly states that Leo’s letter was accepted “because it is in agreement with great Peter’s confession” and because it accords with the faith already received . The council does not say the Tome is authoritative because Leo is pope; it is authoritative because it conforms to the Nicene faith. Doctrinal authority remains conciliar and creedal, not papal.

Third, the Definition of Faith explicitly subordinates itself to earlier councils. Chalcedon declares that “pre-eminence belongs to the exposition of the right and spotless creed of the 318 saintly and blessed fathers who were assembled at Nicaea” and that the decrees of Constantinople and Ephesus remain in force . This continuity matters. A Church that believes papal supremacy to be divinely instituted would not ground its authority in prior conciliar tradition in this way. Chalcedon presents itself as a guardian of inherited consensus, not as an executor of papal will.

Fourth, the canons of Chalcedon overwhelmingly reinforce a regional and synodal structure of authority. Canon 9 directs clerics to appeal first to their own bishop, then to the provincial synod, and only afterward, in limited cases, to either the exarch or Constantinople . Canon 17 follows the same pattern. Rome is conspicuously absent from these judicial structures. There is no canon granting universal appellate jurisdiction to the pope.

The most decisive evidence comes in what is traditionally known as Canon 28. The council explicitly explains Roman primacy in political, not Petrine, terms. It states that “the fathers rightly accorded prerogatives to the see of older Rome, since that is an imperial city” . The canon then applies the same reasoning to Constantinople, granting it “equal prerogatives” because it too is an imperial capital. This is a direct application of the same principle found in Nicene Canon 6: ecclesiastical rank follows civil importance.

Canon 28 also defines jurisdiction territorially. Constantinople is given authority over specific dioceses; Pontus, Asia, and Thrace; and no others . This territorial limitation is fatal to papal supremacy. A divinely ordained universal jurisdiction cannot be grounded in geography, political status, or administrative convenience.

Rome’s reaction further strengthens this conclusion. The Roman legates explicitly rejected Canon 28, and Pope Leo later refused to ratify it, even while accepting the council’s doctrinal decrees . This shows that the canon was not an innovation but a genuine expression of conciliar consensus that Rome opposed. The conflict is not between Chalcedon and heresy, but between two competing principles of authority: conciliar accommodation versus emerging papal centralization.

Finally, the council itself acknowledges that papal approval is not constitutive of its authority. Emperor Marcian formally promulgated the council’s decisions, and Leo later ratified the doctrinal definitions while rejecting Canon 28 . This selective reception demonstrates that papal confirmation was not understood as the source of conciliar legitimacy.

Taken together, Chalcedon confirms everything already seen at Nicaea and Ephesus. Authority is conciliar, jurisdiction is territorial, primacy is historical and honorific, and Rome is treated as a regional patriarch whose privileges arose from imperial status. Papal supremacy, understood as universal and divinely instituted jurisdiction, is not only absent from Chalcedon; it is contradicted by the council’s own reasoning.

This does not mean that Rome lacked honor or influence. It means that the Church of the fifth century did not understand that influence in the categories later required by papal supremacy. Chalcedon therefore stands as the clearest conciliar witness that papal supremacy was not a doctrine received from Christ and the apostles, but a development that emerged only after the conciliar order of the early Church began to fracture.

Quote from: The letter of Pope Leo to Flavian, bishop of Constantinople, about Eutyches

"So it is on account of this oneness of the person, which must be understood in both natures, that we both read that the son of man came down from heaven, when the Son of God took flesh from the virgin from whom he was born, and again that the Son of God is said to have been crucified and buried, since he suffered these things not in the divinity itself whereby the Onlybegotten is co-eternal and consubstantial with the Father, but in the weakness of the human nature. That is why in the creed, too, we all confess that the only-begotten Son of God was crucified and was buried, following what the apostle said, If they had known, they would never have crucified the Lord of majesty. And when our Lord and Saviour himself was questioning his disciples and instructing their faith, he says, Who do people say 1, the son of man, am? And when they had displayed a variety of other people's opinions, he says, Who do you say I am ? --in other words, I who am the son of man and whom you behold in the form of a servant and in real flesh: Who do you say I am? Whereupon the blessed Peter, inspired by God and making a confession that would benefit all future peoples, says, You are the Christ, the Son of the living God. He thoroughly deserved to be declared "blessed" by the Lord. He derived the stability of both his goodness and his name from the original Rock, for when the Father revealed it to him, he confessed that the same one is both the Son of God and also the Christ. Accepting one of these truths without the other was no help to salvation; and to have believed that the Lord Jesus Christ was either only God and not man, or solely man and not God, was equally dangerous,"

As readers consider Pope Leo’s language about Peter, an important clarification is required. The question is not whether Leo honors Peter; he clearly does. The real issue is what Leo understands Peter’s “rock” to be, and whether that understanding corresponds to the later Roman Catholic claim of papal supremacy. Leo’s words can only be used responsibly if they are read on their own terms, without importing later definitions into his theology.

The later Roman Catholic claim is not simply that Peter confessed Christ or held a prominent role among the apostles. It is that the Church is built on Peter himself as a continuing juridical foundation, such that Peter’s successors possess supreme authority by divine right, independent of conciliar judgment, because the Church rests on Peter’s office as such.

This is why Leo’s statement is so significant: “The firmness of that faith which was praised in the prince of the apostles is perpetual; and as that remains which Peter believed in Christ, so that remains which Christ instituted in Peter.” What Leo explicitly identifies as permanent is Peter’s faith; “that which Peter believed in Christ.” Only secondarily does he speak of what Christ “instituted in Peter,” and even then he binds it inseparably to the faith Peter confessed. In Leo’s framework, faith precedes office. The institution does not exist as an independent source of authority; it endures only insofar as the confession endures.

If the Church were built on Peter himself as a juridical rock in the later Roman sense, Leo’s reasoning would be reversed. Peter’s confession would endure because of his office. Instead, Leo states that whatever Christ instituted in Peter endures only as long as Peter’s faith endures. Authority is therefore conditional upon fidelity to the confession, not guaranteed by office alone.

This same principle governs how Leo understands his own authority. He does not claim correctness simply because he occupies Peter’s chair. On the contrary, he explicitly places himself under Peter’s doctrine when he says, “I desire to follow the faith and preaching of the blessed Apostle Peter in all things.” Peter functions here as a doctrinal standard, not as an absolute ruling office. Leo presents his authority as legitimate only insofar as it conforms to Peter’s faith. In a system of papal supremacy, the pope is the doctrinal measure. In Leo’s theology, the apostolic confession is the measure, and the bishop of Rome must conform to it.

The Council of Chalcedon confirms that this is how Leo’s authority was understood by the Church. When the bishops acclaim, “Peter has spoken through Leo,” they are not declaring papal infallibility or unconditional supremacy. The Definition of Faith explains why Leo’s Tome is received: it is accepted because it “agrees with the confession of the great Peter.” The order is decisive. Peter’s confession comes first; Leo is received because he aligns with it. If the Church were built on Peter himself as a juridical monarch whose successors possess unconditioned authority, there would be no need to test Leo’s teaching at all. His Tome would be authoritative simply because he was Peter’s successor. Instead, Chalcedon examines, judges, and then receives it. This shows that the Church was not resting on Peter’s office as an unconditioned foundation, but on the apostolic faith to which even Rome’s teaching was accountable.

Even Leo’s language about Peter “ruling” does not establish papal supremacy in the later sense. Leo never defines Peter’s rule as universal jurisdiction, immunity from correction, or supremacy over councils. Peter functions as a focal point of unity and orthodoxy. This is why Leo can speak of Peter as “living” in Rome only insofar as Rome remains faithful to Peter’s confession. That is a conditional understanding, not an absolute guarantee. A Church built on Peter himself as a juridical rock would not allow Peter’s presence and authority to depend on fidelity. Leo’s logic makes fidelity to the confession the decisive criterion.

The conclusion for readers, then, is not that Leo diminishes Peter’s importance. It is that Leo defines Peter’s foundational role in a way that does not align with later papal supremacy. Peter is foundational as a confessor and witness. The rock is the apostolic confession of Christ. Authority endures only as it remains faithful to that confession. Bishops, including the bishop of Rome, participate in Peter by fidelity to the faith Peter confessed.

This is why Leo can be tested by a council, why Canon 28 can contradict Roman claims, and why Chalcedon can accept Leo’s doctrine while rejecting the expansion of Roman jurisdiction. That combination is incompatible with a model in which the Church is built on Peter himself as an absolute juridical foundation.

As readers turn to the Council of Chalcedon itself, an important question naturally arises: did the Church of the fifth century understand doctrine as something open to later addition, or as something already fully delivered and guarded? Closely reading the acts and Definition of Faith of Chalcedon gives a remarkably clear answer. The council does not present itself as creating new doctrine, nor as authorizing future innovations. Instead, it explicitly teaches doctrinal sufficiency, finality, and submission to Scripture and the received apostolic faith.

In the Definition of Faith, Chalcedon states plainly that the Nicene Creed already contains everything necessary for the Christian faith. The council declares, “This wise and saving creed, the gift of divine grace, was sufficient for a perfect understanding and establishment of religion” (p. 6). This is a striking claim. The creed is not described as partial, provisional, or awaiting completion. It is said to be sufficient for a “perfect understanding and establishment” of the faith. Chalcedon understands itself not as extending doctrine beyond this creed, but as defending and clarifying it against misunderstanding.

The council then goes further and draws an explicit boundary against doctrinal innovation. After setting forth its Christological definition, Chalcedon decrees: “Since we have formulated these things with all possible accuracy and attention, the sacred and universal synod decreed that no one is permitted to produce, or even to write down or compose, any other creed or to think or teach otherwise” (pp. 6–7). This is not a marginal or rhetorical statement. It is a formal conciliar prohibition against the creation of new creeds or new doctrinal formulations that go beyond what has already been received.

Chalcedon also makes clear how it understands its own authority. It does not claim originality or doctrinal creativity. Instead, it explicitly subordinates itself to earlier councils, above all Nicaea. The Definition of Faith opens by affirming that “pre-eminence belongs to the exposition of the right and spotless creed of the 318 saintly and blessed fathers who were assembled at Nicaea” (pp. 5–6). The council then adds, “We have proclaimed to all the creed of the 318; and we have made our own those fathers who accepted this agreed statement of religion; the 150 who later met in great Constantinople” (p. 5). Chalcedon understands itself as standing in continuity with, and under the authority of, the earlier ecumenical councils, not as surpassing them.

This understanding of doctrinal continuity is reinforced when Chalcedon explains the work of the Council of Constantinople. That council, Chalcedon says, did not add anything new to the faith but clarified what was already believed: “Not introducing anything left out by their predecessors, but clarifying their ideas about the holy Spirit by the use of scriptural testimonies” (p. 6). Legitimate doctrinal clarification, for Chalcedon, consists in explaining the apostolic faith more clearly through Scripture, not in introducing new dogmas. This definition of doctrinal development is tightly bounded and explicitly non-creative.

The authority to which Chalcedon consistently appeals is Scripture itself. In Pope Leo’s letter, which the council receives precisely because it agrees with the apostolic faith, error is described not as disobedience to Rome but as departure from Scripture. Leo condemns his opponents by saying, “They do not refer to the sayings of the prophets, nor to the letters of the apostles, nor even to the authoritative words of the gospels, but to themselves” (p. 2). Again, Leo insists that proper understanding comes from immersion in Scripture, criticizing those who “had no desire to acquire the light of understanding by working through the length and breadth of the holy scriptures” (p. 2). Scripture is treated as the normative authority by which teaching is judged.

Even Leo’s own authority is explicitly framed in these terms. Chalcedon explains why Leo’s Tome is accepted, stating that “the letter of the primate of greatest and older Rome… is accepted because it is in agreement with great Peter’s confession” (p. 6). Leo’s teaching is not self-authenticating. It is received because it conforms to the apostolic confession preserved in Scripture and creed. The council does not say Leo is authoritative because he is pope; it says he is authoritative because he agrees with the faith already received.

Taken together, these statements form a coherent picture of how the Church at Chalcedon understood doctrine and authority. The faith is described as fully delivered. The Nicene Creed is declared sufficient. The composition of new creeds is forbidden. Later councils are praised for clarification through Scripture, not innovation. Scripture is treated as the supreme norm, and even the bishop of Rome is judged by his conformity to the apostolic confession.

For readers considering later claims of doctrinal development or papal supremacy, this raises unavoidable questions. A Church that understands doctrine as complete and guarded, rather than expandable, cannot easily accommodate later dogmatic definitions that claim divine revelation beyond what the councils themselves declared sufficient. On its own terms, the Council of Chalcedon presents a Church committed to preserving, defending, and clarifying the apostolic faith; not to adding to it.

In this light, Chalcedon stands not only as a Christological milestone, but also as a powerful witness to an early Christian understanding of doctrinal finality and scriptural authority that sits uneasily with later claims of open-ended dogmatic expansion.

When Chalcedon is set alongside Vatican I, the difference is not one of emphasis or tone, but of ecclesiological structure. The two councils operate with fundamentally different assumptions about where doctrinal authority resides and how it functions in the Church.

At Chalcedon, doctrine is treated as something already received and complete. The council explicitly declares that the Nicene Creed is “sufficient for a perfect understanding and establishment of religion,” and it forbids the composition of any new creed or the teaching of anything beyond what has already been handed down. Authority is custodial. The council understands itself as guarding, clarifying, and defending the apostolic faith through Scripture and inherited tradition, not as generating new dogmas. Even when clarification is necessary, Chalcedon insists that it involves “not introducing anything left out by their predecessors, but clarifying their ideas… by the use of scriptural testimonies.”

This structure governs how authority functions. Scripture stands as the normative standard. Councils are subordinate to earlier councils. Bishops, including the bishop of Rome, are received and judged according to their conformity to the apostolic confession. Leo’s Tome is accepted not because Leo holds Peter’s chair, but because it “is in agreement with great Peter’s confession.” Authority flows upward from the faith to the bishop, not downward from the bishop to the faith.

Vatican I operates within a radically different framework. Rather than emphasizing the sufficiency and closure of the received faith, Vatican I defines new dogmas as divinely revealed truths, most notably papal supremacy and papal infallibility. Where Chalcedon forbids the creation of new creeds, Vatican I introduces binding dogmatic definitions that had never been articulated as such in the first millennium. Where Chalcedon subjects episcopal teaching to conciliar and scriptural judgment, Vatican I asserts that the pope possesses “supreme, full, immediate, and universal ordinary power” over the whole Church, and that his ex cathedra definitions are irreformable in themselves, not by the consent of the Church.

The contrast is especially sharp when it comes to doctrinal authority. At Chalcedon, no single bishop is treated as the doctrinal measure. Even Rome’s teaching must be examined, tested, and received. At Vatican I, the pope becomes the doctrinal measure in certain circumstances, such that his definitions do not derive authority from reception or agreement with the episcopate, but from his office itself. This reverses the Chalcedonian order entirely.

Chalcedon also explicitly anchors doctrinal certainty in Scripture. Error is defined as departure from “the sayings of the prophets, the letters of the apostles, and the authoritative words of the gospels.” Vatican I, by contrast, grounds doctrinal certainty in the papal office when speaking ex cathedra, even when such definitions cannot be directly demonstrated from Scripture or conciliar precedent. What Chalcedon treats as the norm by which teaching is judged, Vatican I treats as something that can be definitively interpreted and closed by papal decree.

When read together, the difference cannot be reduced to “development.” Chalcedon defines legitimate clarification as explanation through Scripture without adding new content. Vatican I defines development in a way that allows new dogmas to be proclaimed as divinely revealed centuries later. Chalcedon closes the door to doctrinal expansion; Vatican I opens it.

For readers, the implication is unavoidable. If Chalcedon represents the ecclesiology of the undivided Church; where doctrine is fixed, Scripture is supreme, councils guard the faith, and bishops are accountable to the apostolic confession; then Vatican I represents a decisive departure from that model. The issue is not whether Vatican I is coherent within its own system, but whether that system can honestly claim continuity with the conciliar Church of the first millennium.

Seen in this light, Chalcedon does not merely fail to anticipate Vatican I; it actively contradicts the assumptions on which Vatican I rests. The Church that forbade the creation of new creeds, tested papal teaching, and grounded authority in Scripture and conciliar consensus is not the Church that later defined papal supremacy and infallibility as divinely revealed truths. The difference is structural, not incidental.

At this point, a predictable objection arises: even if the early councils do not explicitly teach papal supremacy, this does not disprove it, because doctrine can “develop.” According to this view, later definitions; such as those of Vatican I; are legitimate unfoldings of truths implicitly present from the beginning. On the surface, this appears to reconcile Chalcedon with later papal dogma. On closer examination, however, the appeal to development fails on both historical and logical grounds.

The first problem is that the ecumenical councils themselves define what legitimate development is, and they define it in a way that excludes the later Roman claim. Chalcedon explicitly states that the Nicene Creed is “sufficient for a perfect understanding and establishment of religion,” and it forbids the composition of any new creed or the teaching of anything beyond what has been received. It praises Constantinople not for adding doctrine, but for “not introducing anything left out by their predecessors,” and for clarifying the faith “by the use of scriptural testimonies.” For Chalcedon, development means explanation and defense, not expansion. A doctrine that was previously unknown, undefined, or even resisted cannot later be declared divinely revealed without violating Chalcedon’s own standard.

The second problem is logical. Development presupposes continuity of identity. A doctrine can develop only if it preserves the same essential meaning while becoming clearer. But papal supremacy does not clarify an earlier belief; it replaces the earlier ecclesiology with a different one. The councils of the first millennium operate on conciliar authority, territorial jurisdiction, and the subordination of all bishops; including Rome; to Scripture and received creed. Vatican I operates on universal papal jurisdiction and irreformable papal definitions. This is not organic growth; it is structural inversion. When authority flows in the opposite direction, identity has changed.

The third problem is historical reception. If papal supremacy were truly implicit in the apostolic faith, it would have surfaced naturally and consistently in the life of the Church. Instead, we see the opposite. Councils test papal teaching, popes reject canons, emperors convoke councils, and bishops appeal to synods rather than Rome. Even Pope Leo’s authority is explicitly conditional on agreement with Peter’s confession. Development cannot explain centuries of absence, resistance, and contradiction. A truth essential to the Church’s constitution does not remain latent for a millennium.

The fourth problem lies in Leo’s own theology. Leo does not present Peter as a juridical monarch whose successors rule by divine right. He presents Peter as foundational because of his confession of Christ, deriving stability from Christ as the “original Rock.” Authority endures only as long as fidelity to that confession endures. That is not an undeveloped form of papal supremacy; it is a different principle altogether. Development cannot reverse the priority of faith over office without ceasing to be development.

The fifth problem is the role of Scripture. The councils consistently treat Scripture as the final doctrinal norm. Error is defined as deviation from “the sayings of the prophets, the letters of the apostles, and the authoritative words of the gospels.” Vatican I, by contrast, grounds doctrinal certainty in the papal office itself under certain conditions, even when such definitions cannot be demonstrated from Scripture or conciliar precedent. A doctrine that shifts the locus of authority from Scripture and conciliar reception to a single office is not developing the earlier faith; it is redefining it.

Finally, the appeal to development fails because it contradicts the councils’ own self-understanding. Chalcedon does not present itself as one stage in an open-ended process of dogmatic expansion. It presents itself as guarding a faith already complete. To claim that later councils may define new dogmas as divinely revealed is to override Chalcedon’s explicit prohibition by appealing to a theory that Chalcedon itself would not recognize.

For readers, the conclusion is not that the Church’s understanding never deepened, but that the early Church drew clear boundaries around how it could deepen. Clarification was permitted; invention was not. Explanation through Scripture was necessary; the creation of new articles of faith was forbidden. Papal supremacy, as defined at Vatican I, crosses that boundary. It does not clarify what Chalcedon taught; it contradicts the assumptions on which Chalcedon operated.

The development-of-doctrine argument therefore does not rescue papal supremacy from the conciliar evidence. It requires redefining development in a way that the ecumenical councils themselves explicitly reject. If Nicaea, Ephesus, and Chalcedon represent the Church of the first millennium, then papal supremacy is not their maturation, but their replacement.

The aim of this study has not been to disparage Catholics or to question the sincerity of those who believe in papal supremacy, but to test a historical and theological claim: whether papal supremacy, as later defined, can honestly be presented as divinely instituted and clearly taught by the Church’s earliest authoritative sources. If truth matters for Christians, then it matters especially here, because claims about the Church’s constitution are not minor interpretations; they shape how authority, doctrine, unity, and conscience are understood.

The controlling evidence in this inquiry has been the ecumenical councils themselves, because they represent the highest public authority of the early Church. If papal supremacy were part of the apostolic deposit in the later Roman sense; supreme, universal, immediate jurisdiction by divine right; it would be expected to appear clearly and consistently in the councils that defined the faith for the whole Church. Instead, what emerges across Nicaea, Ephesus, and Chalcedon is a coherent and persistent ecclesiology that does not merely omit papal supremacy, but operates according to principles incompatible with it.

Nicaea’s Canon 6 is decisive because it reveals how early jurisdiction was understood. It does not speak of a universal monarch in the Church; it confirms “ancient customs” of territorial governance. Alexandria is granted authority over Egypt, Libya, and Pentapolis, and this is explained by analogy: “since the like is customary for the Bishop of Rome also.” Rome is presented as a parallel case of customary, regional authority, not as a unique source of universal jurisdiction. Antioch and other provinces are told to retain their own privileges. The canon presupposes a world of regional patriarchs, metropolitans, synods, and majority decision-making; not an ecclesiology in which one see governs all others by divine right.

Ephesus fits perfectly within this Nicene framework. The council is not convened to define church government but to defend Christology, and it functions through synodal process, regional influence, contested procedures, and imperial enforcement. The fact that rival synods could form, that legitimacy could be disputed, and that imperial authority could be decisive demonstrates the real structure of authority operative in the fifth century. Whatever honor Rome possessed, it does not appear at Ephesus as the kind of universal juridical authority that later papal supremacy requires. The early Church’s practical governance was conciliar, not monarchical.

Chalcedon then makes the underlying principles unmistakable. It too is convoked by the emperor, not the pope, and it grounds its doctrinal certainty in Scripture and the inherited creed. It explicitly states that the Nicene Creed is “sufficient for a perfect understanding and establishment of religion,” and it declares that “no one is permitted to produce… any other creed or to think or teach otherwise.” It praises earlier clarification precisely because it involved “not introducing anything left out by their predecessors, but clarifying… by the use of scriptural testimonies.” This is the council’s own definition of legitimate doctrinal development: explanation and defense of what is already received, not the creation of new dogmas.

Even Leo’s authority is presented in this Chalcedonian framework. His Tome is accepted not because a papal office is treated as a self-authenticating source of doctrine, but because it “is in agreement with great Peter’s confession.” Leo himself interprets Peter in the same way. Peter is blessed for confessing Christ rightly, and his stability is derived from Christ as the “original Rock.” Peter is foundational as a confessor and witness of apostolic faith, not as an unconditioned juridical monarch. Authority is shown to be accountable to the confession, not above it. Chalcedon tests, judges, and then receives Leo precisely because doctrine is measured by the apostolic faith, not determined by office alone.

Canon 28 brings the ecclesiology of the first millennium into sharp focus. It explains Roman prerogatives in political terms; because Rome was an imperial city; and applies the same logic to Constantinople because it is New Rome. It assigns jurisdiction territorially. Whatever else one concludes from this, it is difficult to reconcile with the later claim that Rome’s authority is divinely grounded in Petrine succession as universal and immediate jurisdiction over every church everywhere. A supremacy of divine right should not be explained by imperial status, duplicated by administrative precedent, or bounded by territorial limitations.

At this point the appeal to “development of doctrine” is often raised as a rescue. But the councils themselves define the limits of development: not adding what was not present, but clarifying by Scripture what was already received. Development requires continuity of identity. What Vatican I later defines; universal ordinary jurisdiction and irreformable papal definitions grounded in office; does not clarify the conciliar model; it reverses its logic. The early councils place Scripture and inherited creed as the norm, and councils and bishops as accountable to that norm. Vatican I places a single bishop, under certain conditions, in a position to deliver irreformable judgments not dependent on conciliar consent. That is not the maturation of Chalcedon’s ecclesiology; it is a different structure of authority.

The historical question, then, is not whether the bishop of Rome held honor, influence, or even a kind of primacy. The councils show that Rome did. The question is whether that primacy was understood as universal juridical supremacy divinely instituted from the beginning. On the evidence of the councils, the answer is no. The early Church’s authority was conciliar and creedal; its jurisdiction was territorial and customary; and its doctrinal boundaries were guarded by Scripture and the apostolic confession. Papal supremacy, as later dogmatized, appears not as the explicit teaching of the first millennium but as a later development that exceeds the councils’ own stated limits for clarification.

This conclusion need not be wielded as a weapon. It can be held as a call to honesty. If the early Church did not teach papal supremacy in the form later required, then the doctrine must be defended on other grounds than appeal to the ecumenical councils as straightforward witnesses. For Christians who care about truth, that matters. Unity built on historical myth is fragile; unity built on reality, however difficult, is the only unity that can endure.

When Vatican I and Vatican II are placed side by side with the ecumenical councils of the first millennium and with Pope Leo I himself, the issue that emerges is not one of tone or emphasis, but of ecclesiological structure. The question is whether the later Roman Catholic definitions represent a legitimate development of the early conciliar Church, or whether they articulate a fundamentally different model of authority.

Vatican I states its position with exceptional clarity. In Pastor Aeternus (1870), the council defines papal supremacy as divinely instituted and universally binding:

“We teach and declare that, by divine ordinance, the Roman Church possesses a pre-eminence of ordinary power over every other Church, and that this power of jurisdiction of the Roman Pontiff is truly episcopal, immediate, and universal.”(Pastor Aeternus, ch. 3)

The council then draws the practical conclusion:

“Both clergy and faithful, of whatever rite and dignity, both singly and collectively, are bound to submit to this power by the duty of hierarchical subordination and true obedience.”(Pastor Aeternus, ch. 3)

Vatican I goes further by defining papal infallibility:

“When the Roman Pontiff speaks ex cathedra… he possesses, by the divine assistance promised to him in blessed Peter, that infallibility with which the divine Redeemer willed His Church to be endowed… and therefore such definitions of the Roman Pontiff are irreformable of themselves, and not from the consent of the Church.”(Pastor Aeternus, ch. 4)

These are not marginal claims. They assert universal jurisdiction, immediate authority over every church and bishop, and doctrinal definitions that are irreformable without the consent or reception of the Church.

Now place these definitions alongside the early councils.

Nicaea (325) establishes jurisdiction by ancient custom and territorial scope, explicitly parallelizing Rome with Alexandria: Rome’s authority is treated as customary and regional, not universal. Ephesus (431) operates entirely through conciliar process, contested synods, and imperial enforcement, with no appeal to a supreme papal court. Chalcedon (451) is even more explicit. It declares that the Nicene Creed is “sufficient for a perfect understanding and establishment of religion,” forbids the creation of any new creed, and defines legitimate doctrinal clarification as “not introducing anything left out by their predecessors, but clarifying… by the use of scriptural testimonies.”

Chalcedon also explains Roman primacy historically, not divinely: Rome was accorded prerogatives “because it was the imperial city,” and Constantinople receives equal prerogatives on the same basis. Jurisdiction is explicitly territorial. None of this coheres with a divinely instituted, universal, immediate papal jurisdiction.

Even Pope Leo I; so often invoked in support of later Roman claims; does not teach what Vatican I later defines. Leo repeatedly grounds authority in Peter’s confession, not in Peter’s office abstracted from that confession. He says:

“The firmness of that faith which was praised in the prince of the apostles is perpetual; and as that remains which Peter believed in Christ, so that remains which Christ instituted in Peter.”

Here, what endures is explicitly Peter’s faith. Whatever Christ “instituted in Peter” endures only insofar as that confession endures. Leo also places himself under that standard when he writes:

“I desire to follow the faith and preaching of the blessed Apostle Peter in all things.”

At Chalcedon, Leo’s Tome is examined, tested, and received only because it “agrees with the confession of the great Peter.” Leo’s authority is derivative and conditional, not self-authenticating. This is the opposite of Vatican I’s claim that papal definitions are irreformable “of themselves.”

Vatican II does not reverse Vatican I. It reaffirms it in a broader ecclesiological context. Lumen Gentium states:

“The Roman Pontiff, by reason of his office as Vicar of Christ and as pastor of the entire Church, has full, supreme, and universal power over the Church. And he is always free to exercise this power.”(Lumen Gentium 22)

And again:

“The college of bishops has no authority unless it is understood together with the Roman Pontiff, the successor of Peter, as its head.”(Lumen Gentium 22)

While Vatican II emphasizes collegiality, it explicitly conditions episcopal authority on papal headship. This differs fundamentally from the first-millennium councils, where councils act before papal ratification, emperors promulgate decrees, and Rome itself can reject canons (as Leo did with Canon 28) without invalidating the council.

At this point, the strongest Catholic counter-response must be addressed honestly.

The most serious Catholic argument is this: development of doctrine does not require explicit early formulation. The Church grows in understanding over time, guided by the Holy Spirit. Just as the Trinity and Christology were clarified over centuries, so too papal supremacy may have been implicit and later made explicit. Vatican I, on this view, does not contradict the early councils but articulates what they assumed without fully defining.

This argument deserves respect; but it ultimately fails for several reasons.

First, the early councils themselves define what legitimate development is. Chalcedon explicitly praises clarification that does not “introduce anything left out by their predecessors.” It forbids composing new creeds or teaching otherwise than what has been received. Development, as the councils understand it, is explanatory, not additive. Vatican I does not merely explain how Rome functioned; it defines new dogmas; universal jurisdiction and irreformable papal definitions; that the councils neither taught nor allowed to be taught.

Second, genuine development preserves identity. Papal supremacy does not preserve the conciliar identity of the early Church; it reverses its logic. In the early Church, Scripture and creed judge bishops; at Vatican I, papal office can deliver irreformable judgments without conciliar consent. Authority flows in the opposite direction. That is not maturation; it is structural transformation.

Third, if papal supremacy were implicit in the apostolic faith, it would not have been resisted, ignored, or contradicted for centuries. Yet we see councils judging popes, popes rejecting conciliar canons, bishops appealing to synods rather than Rome, and no doctrine of universal papal jurisdiction articulated or enforced in the first millennium. Development does not explain absence, resistance, and contradiction on a matter allegedly essential to the Church’s constitution.

Fourth, Leo himself cannot be enlisted as an undeveloped Vatican I. His theology makes fidelity to confession prior to office. Vatican I makes office decisive even without reception. These are not different stages of the same idea; they are different principles.

Finally, Vatican II itself acknowledges that the Church “moves forward toward the fullness of divine truth” (Dei Verbum 8). But Chalcedon explicitly declares the creed sufficient and forbids doctrinal addition. To appeal to an open-ended horizon of dogmatic definition is to adopt a theory of authority the early councils themselves did not recognize.

None of this means that Vatican I or Vatican II are incoherent within modern Roman Catholic theology. It means something more specific and more serious: they cannot be straightforwardly identified with the faith and ecclesiology of the undivided Church. The early councils and Pope Leo do not teach papal supremacy as Vatican I defines it, and the councils explicitly limit the kind of development Vatican I requires.

The issue, then, is not whether Rome later constructed a coherent system of authority. It is whether that system can honestly claim to be the same doctrine taught by Nicaea, Ephesus, Chalcedon, and Leo. On the evidence of the councils themselves, the answer is no.

This conclusion need not be an attack. It can be an invitation to clarity. Unity grounded in historical accuracy is stronger than unity grounded in retrospective reinterpretation. If the Church of the first millennium governed itself conciliarity, guarded doctrine as complete, and measured all authority by Scripture and apostolic confession, then that witness deserves to be taken seriously; even when it challenges later claims made in good faith.

John Henry Newman developed his theory of the “development of doctrine” to explain how later dogmatic definitions could claim continuity with the faith of the early Church. He was fully aware that many doctrines defined centuries later do not appear explicitly in Scripture or in the earliest conciliar formulations. His theory was intended to show how doctrine might grow without becoming something essentially different from what was originally given.

At the centre of Newman’s argument is a strict limitation: development must not alter the substance of the faith. He repeatedly appeals to the rule of Vincent of Lérins, that doctrine may develop only “in the same sense and the same judgment” (eodem sensu eademque sententia). Newman insists that a true development preserves “the same idea” over time. If the underlying idea itself changes, the result is not development but corruption.

Newman explicitly denies that the Church can introduce new objects of faith. Development, for him, is not the addition of something previously absent, but the unfolding of what is already present in the apostolic deposit. Later doctrine must therefore be recognisable as the same doctrine held earlier, even if expressed with greater clarity or precision. Continuity must be real, not merely asserted.

To safeguard this, Newman sets out criteria by which true developments can be distinguished from false ones. Among the most important are the preservation of type, continuity of principles, and conservative action upon the past. A genuine development must retain the essential nature of the doctrine, operate according to the same governing principles, and be able to account for earlier belief and practice without reinterpreting them against their own understanding.

This is where the theory fails to support doctrines that introduce new structures of authority. In the early Church, authority was consistently understood as being judged by fidelity to the apostolic confession. Bishops, including those of Rome, were subject to correction when they departed from the truth, and councils exercised judgment over teaching. Truth functioned as the measure of office, not the product of it.

Later doctrines that redefine authority as self-authenticating by virtue of office alone represent a change in principle, not a development of the same idea. When authority is no longer conditioned by confession and conciliar reception, but is instead said to guarantee truth by divine right, the type of authority has changed. According to Newman’s own standards, a shift in governing principle constitutes doctrinal mutation.

Newman’s theory also requires that later doctrine be able to assimilate earlier practice without violence. Yet doctrines that assert universal, ordinary jurisdiction by divine institution cannot account for the fact that the early Church judged popes, resisted them, and did not treat their authority as immediate or absolute. These historical realities must be explained away rather than integrated, which Newman himself regarded as a sign of corruption rather than development.

Although Newman ultimately submitted to later papal definitions, he acknowledged privately that such claims pushed development to its extreme limit. His acceptance was an act of ecclesial obedience, not the result of historical demonstration or patristic consensus. Submission, however, does not convert a failure of continuity into a successful development.

By Newman’s own criteria, a doctrine that introduces a new ecclesial structure, alters the principle by which authority is judged, and cannot be shown to exist in substance in Scripture or the early Church cannot be classified as legitimate development. It represents not the maturation of an original idea, but its replacement. In this way, Newman’s theory, when applied consistently, does not vindicate such doctrines but instead exposes the limits beyond which development ceases to be development at all.

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