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This ancient “tale of two mothers” concerns far more than theological semantics—it is the difference between a God who sends and a God who comes.
At a former church I attended, the pastor—whom I love—would often remind us about Christ: “No one else is coming for you.”
Granted, we have already been saved, and the pastoral power of his words may lie in the flexible play of verb tenses—for our redemption and reconciliation, indeed, no one else is coming—or rather, has come.
All was–is–will be done by God. But setting aside the concerns of my fifth-grade grammar teacher, a simple question lingers from the pastor’s proclamation: Who saved us? What is his nature?
And what of his mother—how shall we name her?
These seemingly simple questions draw us into a fifth-century conflict—one that still speaks to theology today. The goal of this reflection is not to rival historians or theologians who can describe the controversy with greater precision, but to offer a brief reflection that seeks, as Martin Luther often did, the devotional and pastoral heart of the matter. After all, any such attempted rivalry would make the best of times very much the worst of times for me—I’m no match.
At its root, this is a tale of two mothers—not two different women, but two different ways of naming one, for those names reveal what we believe about Christ himself.
In the early fifth century, Cyril of Alexandria and Nestorius of Constantinople wrestled over how to speak of Christ’s person. Nestorius, eager to protect the fullness of Christ’s humanity (and not denying his divinity), taught that Mary should be called Christotokos—“Christ-bearer”—rather than Theotokos, “God-bearer.” Cyril objected, insisting that the language of Christotokos risked dividing Christ into two persons, one divine and one human, thereby undermining salvation itself as confessed in the early creeds.
When I first learned of the conflict, my reaction was much the same as, perhaps, many: What’s wrong with the name “Christ-bearer”? It sounds pretty awesome! After all, “Christ” is not a surname but a confession—our Lord and Savior—and we are taught to approach Scripture Christologically. Though not the best of comparisons, were I brash enough, I might have called my own mother Matthaios-tokos!
But as I learned, this was no semantic hard-scrabble; it was an essential dispute—unlike the later scholastic abstractions that so often obscured rather than illuminated the Gospel, and against which Luther himself reacted. Those medieval tangles are enough to make Springsteen’s bird on a wire stop singing. And as G. K. Chesterton observes in Orthodoxy, such tangles often lead not to holiness but to madness. Against this, we are grateful for the Reformation—helping the bird not only sing again, but take flight once more in the clear air of the gospel.
Back to the squabble: not a mere quibble, like two sparrows skirmishing for seed. Subtle as the distinction seems, and earnest as both patriarchs were in affirming the full divinity and humanity of Jesus, the question lay in how those two realities—the divine and the human—are joined, and how they are spoken of. Are the two natures fully united in one hypostasis—a single person, as Cyril maintained—or merely co-present, as Nestorius’s language suggested?
The dispute culminated at the Council of Ephesus (431 AD), where the Church affirmed that the one born of Mary was truly God incarnate—the same Lord who saves. This was an important theological victory, because even with the best intentions, Christotokos tends toward a separation—a cooperation of natures—that could empty the incarnation of its saving depth. When rightly reflected upon, this ancient “tale of two mothers” concerns far more than theological semantics—it is the difference between a God who sends and a God who comes.
Properly understood, Theotokos aligns perfectly with the Christian confession of the one person of Christ—true God and true man—who is born, who is crucified, and who is risen. As Martin Luther stated, “Mary is rightly called the mother of God, for she gave birth to him who is God.” (Sermon on John 14:16, Luther’s Works 24:107; cited at CatholicBridge.com)
Coming back to the words of my former pastor: I keep hearing the who of that sermon line—no one else is coming for you—and I realize how the fifth century still whispers it back. Of that ancient controversy, let us reflect on how Scripture alone illuminates why Cyril was the victor, and the Trinitarian implications of his victory. Simply:
I Am Who I Am (Ex. 3:14).
Before Abraham was, I am. (John 8:58).
I am he (John 18:5-6)—egō eimi.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—in union. And the name of Christ: a confession of our God who comes.
