In the lead-up to Easter 2024, work in London had been relentless, its demands leaving little space for contemplation. So, when the opportunity arose to escape to Ireland, I seized it, not merely for respite, but for the pleasure of reading a book and revisiting a theological dispute that has intrigued me for years. At its heart was a man named Morgan, better known to history by his Latin name, Pelagius, whose supposed heresy in the early fifth century set him at odds with one of Christianity’s intellectual titans, Augustine of Hippo.
I am convinced that Pelagius was Irish. Born around 360 AD, the particulars of his early life remain obscure, yet there are compelling clues. While in Rome, he wore the tonsure of the Celtic Church, a distinctive style, shaved from ear to ear, that differed from the Roman practice of shaving the crown. St Jerome, in his typically caustic fashion, dismissed him as Scoticae, a term that at the time referred to the Irish rather than the inhabitants of present-day Scotland. More significantly, Pelagius’ teachings resonate with the theological ethos that would later define Irish Christianity: an emphasis on asceticism, personal holiness, and the innate goodness of creation. These ideas were not incidental but foundational to his belief in human agency and moral responsibility.
His intellectual duel with Augustine would shape Christian thought for centuries. Augustine’s vision of humanity, steeped in the doctrine of original sin, prevailed, becoming the bedrock of Western Christianity. Pelagius, who championed the intrinsic goodness of human nature and our ability to choose righteousness, was denounced as a heretic.
At the core of their dispute lay a fundamental question: are we born condemned, or are we born free? Augustine, in The City of God, argued that Adam’s sin was not merely a cautionary tale but a stain inherited by all humanity. Without divine grace, preordained and bestowed only upon the elect, no one could hope to choose good. It was a doctrine that sought to explain the pervasiveness of evil but, in doing so, raised unsettling questions about justice. How could a just God condemn all of humanity for a sin committed by one man? And if people were inherently depraved, how did this align with the notion of divine mercy?
Pelagius, by contrast, rejected the idea that sin was a hereditary affliction. He saw in human nature not corruption, but potential. To him, grace was not an external force overriding our will, but rather a divine assistance that illuminated the path to virtue. Salvation, he argued, was not a unilateral decree but a cooperative effort, a synergy between divine guidance and human will.
Predictably, such optimism found little favour with the theological authorities of his time. Though initially defended by Pope Zosimus, Pelagius was ultimately condemned by the Councils of Carthage and Ephesus. Yet, his ideas lingered, their appeal resting in a vision of justice and personal accountability that Augustine’s deterministic worldview could not easily accommodate. Even now, in an age where moral responsibility is both scrutinised and evaded, Pelagius’ rejection of inherited guilt feels strikingly modern.
To understand Pelagius fully, one must consider the world that shaped him. The early Irish Church, emerging from a sophisticated Druidic tradition, was unlike anything in Rome. The Druids—priests, poets, and lawmakers—held an integrated vision of the cosmos, seeing divinity infused in all things. Julius Caesar, writing a few centuries before Pelagius, remarked on the Druids’ belief in an eternal soul and a natural moral order. Many of these learned figures later embraced Christianity, carrying with them an ethos in which faith was not an abstract system but a lived experience, woven into law, art, and daily life. It is within this intellectual milieu that Pelagius must be placed: a scholar-monk, shaped as much by Ireland’s ancient traditions as by the theological currents of Rome.
Today, Augustine’s tomb lies in Pavia, Italy, adorned with elaborate carvings by Giovanni di Balduccio. It’s a fitting monument to a man whose ideas triumphed. Pelagius, however, disappeared into history, his final resting place unknown. Some accounts suggest he died around 420 AD, possibly in the Middle East.
And yet, ideas have a way of outliving their architects. Pelagius’ rejection of original sin bears a striking resemblance to Stoic philosophy, which held that virtue arises not from external forces but from the exercise of reason and will. Like Epictetus, who taught that we cannot control circumstances but can govern our responses to them, Pelagius saw humans not as passive recipients of fate but as active moral agents. Marcus Aurelius, writing two centuries before Pelagius, believed in humanity’s innate capacity for virtue; Pelagius, too, saw in people not inherent depravity but the ability to choose the good.
The resonance between Stoicism and Pelagianism is more than coincidental. Both uphold the primacy of personal responsibility and the belief that character is forged through deliberate action. Just as the Stoics urged a life in harmony with nature and reason, Pelagius called for an alignment of human will with divine goodness. His is a legacy not of dogma, but of an enduring challenge: to see ourselves not as bound by the sins of the past, but as free agents, shaping the world through the choices we make.
Consilium 