The First Christian Communities, 32 - 380 CE [1 ed.] 9781032357553, 9781032357560, 9781003328407, 103235755X

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The First Christian Communities, 32–380 CE

This concise history of how the Christian Church grew between 32 and 380 CE focuses on the anonymous Christians who formed diverse congregations as they guided their communities through the age of the Apostles, violent martyrdoms, and to the establishment of the Roman Church. Readers will understand why people converted to Christianity in the first three centuries and learn about the rich diversity of the early church as people interpreted the new religion in different ways. This book explores how Chris­ tian interactions with the Roman Empire led to violent persecutions and martyrdoms, and eventually the fourth-century establishment of the top-down Roman Church. Readers also become familiar with Christian texts during this period – some became Scripture, and some were rejected, but all were written to make sense of the Jewish and Christian experience in the Roman Empire. These written memories shaped the future of the church. It also explores how early Christian lives were shaped by the religious rituals and preaching of their new and changing faith. In addition, maps, illustrations, and charts of Christian texts help tell this fascinating story. The First Christian Communities, 32–380 CE is an accessible and valuable resource suitable for students working on Christian history, and Roman and Late Antique social, political, and religious history, as well as general readers who are interested in the origins of Christianity. Joyce E. Salisbury is a retired historian from the University of Wisconsin − Green Bay, USA, and has written many books on history and religion, including the award-winning Perpetua’s Passion, Rome’s Christian Empress, and The Beast Within: Animals in the Middle Ages. Salisbury also lectures for educational networks including Wondrium, the History Channel and PBS.

The First Christian Communities, 32–380 CE Quiet Christians, Visible Martyrs, and Compelling Texts

Joyce E. Salisbury

Designed cover image: Painting of Christ as the Good Shepherd fresco in the 2nd century Catacomb of Priscilla. The Good Shepherd was a popular image in these early centuries, showing Christ gathering his flock into the first Christian communities. Painting by Carmen Caswell. First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Joyce E. Salisbury The right of Joyce E. Salisbury to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Salisbury, Joyce E., author.

Title: The first Christian communities, 32-380 CE : quiet Christians, visible

martyrs, and compelling texts / Joyce E. Salisbury.

Description: Abingdon, Oxon : Routledge, 2024. | Includes bibliographical

references and index. |

Identifiers: LCCN 2023026176 (print) | LCCN 2023026177 (ebook) |

Subjects: LCSH: Church history--Primitive and early church, ca. 30-600.

Classification: LCC BR165 .S235 2024 (print) | LCC BR165 (ebook) |

DDC 270.1--dc23/eng/20230822

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023026176

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023026177

ISBN: 978-1-032-35755-3 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-032-35756-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-003-32840-7 (ebk)

DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407

Typeset in Times New Roman

by Taylor & Francis Books

Contents

List of figures Introduction 1 The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

viii

1

5

Charismatic Gifts 6

In Jerusalem and Galilee 7

The New Apostle Paul 10

Mission in the Ancient Cities 13

Overturning Jewish Law 16

Forging and Maintaining Communities 18

2 Death and Destruction Shapes the Communities, 60–96 CE

24

Nero Finds Scapegoats 27

The Destruction of Jerusalem 31

Problems under Emperor Domitian 35

Christian Communities Respond 38

3 Making Sense of this World: Christians Record Texts,

ca. 70–150 CE Christian Identity: Who were the Believers? 43

Charismatic Gifts 46

Gnostic Texts: Secret Knowledge Explains the End Times 47

Repudiating the Gnostics: The Gospel of John 51

Reinterpreting the End Times: Book of Revelation 54

Conclusion 57

41

vi

Contents

4 Christians Practice Their Faith

60

House Church Services 61

The Celebration of the Lord’s Supper 64

Baptism: The Initiation 65

Wandering Preachers and Charismatics 68

Guiding the Communities 69

Perceptions of the Romans 71

5 Clash between Romans and Christians, 2nd Century CE

77

Ignatius Defines Martyrdom 78

What Were the Charges? 81

Voluntary Martyrs 86

The Martyrdom of Polycarp 87

Justin Becomes a Martyr 91

6 Christians and Martyrs in Lyon, 177 CE

95

Christian Diversity 98

Trouble in Lyon 100

The Virtue of Sacrifice 101

Preliminary Questioning and Christian Responses 104

Trial and Death in the Arena 106

7 North Africa, Latin Texts, and New Martyrs, 180–212 CE

113

The Arrival of Christianity 114

Tertullian: The Father of Latin Christianity 116

Septimius Severus: a North African Emperor 120

North African Martyrs and a New Compelling Text 122

8 Linking Politics and Religion, 212–311 CE

131

One Empire/ One Religion 132

Third-Century Christian Growth 134

Escalating Persecution under Decius and Valerian 136

The “Great Persecution” 139

Did Torture Work? 142

9 Constantine Establishes the Church of Power, 306 CE–380 CE Constantine Comes to Power 149

The Church Acquires Property 154

149

Contents

vii

Jerusalem Becomes Christian Land 156

“Bond of the Common Mind” 158

Imposing Uniformity 161

Martyrs Made Visible 162

Ending the Age of Martyrs and a “Just War” 164

10 Controlling Memories and Texts

168

Eusebius, Constantine’s Historian 169

Selecting the Texts; Establishing Scripture 171

Reinterpreting Martyrdom 176

The Future: A Church of Good vs Evil 179

Bibliography Index

182

189

Figures

1.1 1.2 1.3 2.1 2.2 3.1 3.2 3.3 6.1 6.2 7.1 8.1

Map of Paul’s First and Second Journeys Map of Paul’s Third and Final Journeys Table of Paul’s Letters Witness Column in St. Peter’s Square, Rome Tomb of St. Thomas, Chennai, India Table of Early Gospels Table of Early Acts Table of Apocalyptic Texts Map of Lyon, ca. 170 Map of the Mediterranean, ca. 170 CE Perpetua Mosaic, Ravenna, Italy Image of Torture. Jean Milles de Souvigny, Praxis Crimis

Persequindi, Paris, 1441 9.1 Chi-Ro Symbol 10.1 Table of New Testament Scriptures

11

12

20

30

35

42

43

54

95

97

128

143

151

174

Introduction

How did Christianity spread during its formative first three centuries? I’ve studied and written about the church fathers who shaped and articulated Christian thought. I’ve written about the highly visible martyrs whose deaths shocked and impressed the witnesses, and I’ve written about the fourth-cen­ tury CE imperial church that dominated the Middle Ages. But all these are really effects of the spread of Christianity, not its cause. In other words, Church fathers articulated what existing Christians believed and perhaps shaped their ideas, but they didn’t cause them to believe. Christians were martyred because they had become visible, and sometimes just because they annoyed their neighbors. Martyrs didn’t cause Christianity to spread, it was a result of its spread. The fourth-century imperial church emerged as a result of the weight of numbers of Christians. So, what caused this slow development of the religion that became the Roman Church in the fourth century? This book grew from my curiosity about this question. Sociologists and historians have shown through statistical data that over the first centuries Christianity spread slowly and consistently, at about 40 percent per decade or about 3.42 percent per year.1 It’s one thing to chart such numbers, but who were these people? What were their motivations? What were they thinking? My goal here is to find the anonymous Christians who tenaciously persisted as they faced prejudice and persecution and they increased in numbers until the fourth century, when the Roman Empire became a Christian empire. How to find these silent Christians? I admit it’s hard because we have no records that directly record anonymous people’s conversions or their moti­ vations, so how can we look into this murky past? Here’s my approach. First, I can find where such Christians are mentioned in the surviving records. For example, when martyrs were imprisoned, fellow Christians showed up at prison bringing prayers and food, and some left town until it was safe to return. In these references we can meet the quiet Christians whose lives weren’t mentioned directly in surviving documents. In addition, Christian texts like the Acts of the Apostles tell of women and men who helped the apostles, who opened their homes as house churches, and gen­ erally appeared in the daily travels of the apostles. Such descriptions are easy to tease out. DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-1

2

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

A more complicated source of information about quiet Christians comes from Christian texts that claimed to describe the life and teachings of Jesus and his followers. As we will see in Chapter 10, some of these become accepted as Scripture, but there were many more that circulated among the communities. In Chapter 3, I will introduce some of these alternative texts: Gospels of Thomas, Mary and others, and Acts of Apostles purportedly written by John, Paul, Peter, and Thecla. These accounts were written on scrolls of parchment, circulated by travelers, read out loud during meetings, copied, and circulated again. Of course, a text, whether a letter or a sermon, was written by one person, so they offer the view of the author. However, texts are not one-way commu­ nications. Just as today, authors can write, but it takes readers to complete the communication. If a reader doesn’t choose any particular text, it means that that message isn’t accepted, and a reader will choose another text that is consistent with their beliefs or interests. Today, this means a reader will buy a book or not. In the ancient world, the measure of approval of any text was the frequency with which it was copied and circulated. When we have many versions of a text we can assume it was popular. Throughout history there were many texts that have been lost. While some were lost by chance, others were lost because no one cared enough to preserve them. This behavior on the part of readers is especially true of religious texts. Christian congregations were not blank slates waiting for religious informa­ tion. No, they had a particular view of God and the religious path, and chose to read and copy works that generally agreed with their faith. A text can move people’s ideas a little, but people usually have to start with the familiar, with their understandings and beliefs. By exploring the wide array of Christian texts from this period, we can get an idea of the varied beliefs of the quiet Christians who actively chose which texts they wanted to read, and there were always writers willing to produce a scroll to satisfy readers. The texts that survive bear silent testimony to readers who valued the works enough to copy them and save them, even when later in the Middle Ages, it was dangerous to do so. The texts also allow us to see the development of Christian ideas over time. For a familiar example, the Gospel of John built upon the other Gospels and added a Greek understanding of spirituality to explain more about Jesus. In the process, he changed the understanding of the Jewish wonder-worker of the Galilee. The accounts of violence against Christians and people’s reactions to it allow us to discover some of the important traces of silent early Christians. The periodic persecutions produced very visible martyrs, but the numbers of the dead were small compared to the growing numbers of quiet Christians. Nevertheless, the congregations had to react to this violence. This book explores the intersection between texts, violence, and the tens of thousands of anonymous Christians who brought about this religious revolution. This is a book of history, so its structure is chronological. Through this chronological approach, I can show the changes that came about during these

Introduction

3

centuries. I begin with the apostles as they move the Christian message from the Aramaic-speaking villages of the Galilee to the Greek-speaking cosmo­ politan cities of the empire. During these years we can follow the twists and turns of the Christian message as the faithful produced texts to explain the varied interpretations of Christianity that were emerging in the growing communities. During this stage (in Chapter 4), I trace the developing rituals that united the growing church in spite of the differences in belief that emerge in the diverse texts; sometimes what people practice is more important in defining identity than what exactly they believe. The next stage I describe is when Christians were visible enough to confront the power of Rome. Sometimes these confrontations grew out of misunderstandings among neighbors. Sometimes the violence grew over local disputes, but in all cases some people died, and died horribly. Wit­ nesses to these events produced more compelling texts to describe what happened, and these texts contributed to the growing understanding of Christianity. While I describe the martyrdoms, the accounts also reveal much about how Christianity spread from the east to the Latin west, to Gaul and North Africa. Through this new movement, texts were written in Latin instead of Greek and ideas from the west modified the Christian views that had been shaped in the east. Finally, the third stage is when Christianity gets tangled up with Roman politics. In the fourth century Emperor Constantine made Christianity a reli­ gion of power – and the powerful. In Chapters 9 and 10, I trace the dramatic changes the came about when the emperor decided to bring the diverse com­ munities of Christians into conformity of thought. In addition, Constantine’s historian, Eusebius, recast the past to explain the history of the church as leading in a direct path to Constantine. This pivotal text shaped the future’s understanding of the development of Christianity, leaving out the quiet Christians whom I argue were central to the story. In addition, in this chapter, I show how the many voices of early Christians were reduced by the estab­ lishment of a definitive canon of scriptural texts. Through these headline events, I suggest that it is necessary to remem­ ber the quiet Christians who were tenacious in their beliefs and responsible for the slowly growing numbers of Christians who eventually overwhelmed the empire. It is precisely these quiet Christians who will continue to hold their religious ideas even when Christians began to persecute each other for heresy throughout the Middle Ages. Similar communities of Christians have changed the church through the Reformation and continue to do so today. Since this is a work of history, I want to make a disclaimer: I can describe what happened, but I do not presume to know why things unfolded this way. Were these changes God’s plan for the rise of the church? Were these devel­ opments part of the human desire to unite their communities in larger spiri­ tual purposes? Or did people long to simply belong to a caring, meaningful group? I don’t know. The answer to these questions belongs to faith, not

4

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

history. But history can show us that the development of early Christianity was built largely from the ground up in the hope and longing of anonymous believers. We may no longer remember their names, but their contributions are with us still.

Note 1 Rodney Stark. The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 6.

1

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

Jesus of Nazareth was crucified in Jerusalem in about the year 33 CE, and three days later, his followers believed he arose from the dead and appeared to his apostles and other chosen ones. This account comes from the New Testa­ ment Biblical account called “Acts of the Apostles” purportedly written by the apostle Luke in about 90 CE. Luke says Jesus stayed with his followers for 40 days before they saw him ascend into heaven. As the Book of Acts relates, “as they were looking on, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight” (Acts 1:9) Before Jesus ascended, he told his apostles “before many days you shall be baptized with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 1:5). Of course, the veracity of this account is a matter of faith, but what we can say for sure was that some people believed it. Ten days after Jesus’s purported ascension into heaven, the apostles gathered together to celebrate Shavuot – the Jewish festival of Pentecost that comme­ morated Moses receiving the Torah on Mount Sinai. This was one of the holiest festivals and required gatherings in Jerusalem. However, on this day, something extraordinary appeared to happen. As Acts recounts: “Suddenly a sound came from heaven like the rush of a mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared to them tongues as of fire, distributed and resting on each one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.” (Acts 2:2–4) This event seemed to validate Jesus’s promise of a baptism in the Holy Spirit, and marked the first Christian community. Luke goes on to explain that they were speaking in foreign languages, but this is a later explanation (which I will revisit in a subsequent chapter). No, this was a new experience for these men, this was “speaking in tongues,” which is an ecstatic speaking in an unintelligible language during a religious trance-like state. Nineteenth-century scholars coined the term “glossolalia” to describe this ecstatic experience, and sociologists today use it to study this spiritual experience that the ancient world found surprising. DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-2

6

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

Charismatic Gifts Charismatic gifts had characterized the mission of Jesus, and continued after his ascension through the work of his Apostles and other followers. In the ancient world, miracles were the proof of the validity of any message or prophecy. With Jesus and the Apostles, the most prominent form of these gifts was through miraculous healings and exorcisms.1 A problem for the followers of Jesus was that there were a number of charismatic healers that appeared periodically through the Roman world. Priests of Asclepius could heal as could priests of Isis and various random wandering holy people. People in Palestine and Jerusalem might appreciate the cures, but these did not set followers of Jesus apart. Modern sociologists and scientists have done studies on glossolalia which shed some light on what these early religious communities might have experienced. There are two main findings of note: First of all, it seems that the minds of the ecstatics are engaged in a particular way that is different from normal language activity. In 2006 researchers at the University of Pennsylvania measured activity in the brain during episodes of glossolalia. The neuroimaging found decreased activity in the frontal lobes (associated with thinking, language and self-control), and an increase in older parts of the brain linked with emotions. The investigator claimed the decreased frontallobe activity demonstrated that “the subjects truly believe the spirit of God is moving through them and controlling them to speak.”2 These results are consistent with the texts in which people in the early religious communities fully believed the Spirit descended and spoke through them. Secondly, and most important for this study, is that glossolalia is most readily experienced in community. As people speak in tongues, others are inspired to join in. And in modern examples it doesn’t matter whether the speaker is a believer or not; simply the presence in a charismatic community was enough to stimulate an ecstatic experience.3 Further modern studies reveal that though glossolalia is an unconscious mechanism in which the speaker is in a trance, it is a skill learned in communities. If a group expects glossolalia, it will often appear. As one scholar wrote, “Even the character­ istic bodily motions accompanying dissociation and some aspects of modula­ tions in the utterances are specific to a particular group and even to the leader who has ‘taught’ the glossolalist.”4 These studies in no way diminish the Phenomenon as it is experienced by those who fall into a trance; instead, they show the deep connection between the community of the faithful and the apparent miraculous descent of the Holy Spirit. Since the early Christians depended on the proof of the presence of the Spirit, they needed to join in community. The quiet Christians who are the major focus of this book were those gathering together to share an ecstatic experience, and the community was necessary. As the Gospel of Matthew pro­ mised: “For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them” (Matt 18:20). The Christian church began in community because the best proof of the Spirit working through them came when they gathered together to

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

7

worship. As the Apostles preached – as Acts describes Paul saying he “moved from house to house” (Acts 20:20), they brought the charismatic gifts with them. While charismatic gifts – including glossolalia, healings, prophecy – remained central to the growing communities, we will see that these gifts are not without problems. But that story will unfold as time goes on. For now, in this first generation of believers, after the Apostles and their followers received the Holy Spirit at the Pentecost, they rejoiced in the certain belief that Jesus remained with them. Followers of Jesus had another certainty as well – they believed Jesus was returning imminently to introduce the “Kingdom of Heaven” or the “Kingdom of God.” The words “Kingdom of God” appear about 100 times in the Synoptic Gospels (the first three gospels), and remain important in the letters of Paul.5 The Gospel of Mark can serve as but one example, when he writes “The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent” (Mark 1:15). Believers were certain that the expression of the Holy Spirit in their communal meetings vali­ dated the belief that the end times were near.

In Jerusalem and Galilee The Apostles gathered in Jerusalem to proclaim the good news of Jesus’s mes­ sage and resurrection. Apparently, James led this group and he was proud to speak loudly in the forecourt of the great Temple calling Jews to come follow this new prophet. James the Greater (or elder to distinguish him from another James in the Bible) was called the “son of thunder,” for his fiery temper but also for the loud voice which resonated from his speaking platform. These followers of Jesus were not the only Jews offering various inter­ pretations of religious law and of appropriate Jewish life. Sadducees, who favored Temple worship, disagreed with Pharisees, who emphasized strict adherence to Biblical commands. Pharisees also disagreed among themselves, and groups like the Essenes withdrew to the wilderness to be left alone in their own brand of worship. As the scholar Paula Fredriksen beautifully articulated this Jewish diversity: “We have a better sense of how things worked if we imagine the Torah as a widely dispersed sheet music: the notes were the notes, but Jews played a lot of improv.”6 Such diversity did not yield acceptance; Jews fought bitterly among themselves. It didn’t take long for the enthusiastic followers of Jesus to be scorned. In about the year 36 CE, the followers of Jesus had sufficiently entered the quarrels of the Jews for violence to occur. Luke, in Acts, describes the death of Stephen, a follower of Jesus. While there is no independent evidence for Ste­ phen’s death, the account became important in the growing story of the early church. Luke says that Stephen, “a man full of faith and of the Holy spirit” (Acts 6:5) was accused of blasphemy. The Sadducees, who were attached to Temple worship, were angered that Stephen stressed Israel’s history itself over the Temple as the means to Israel’s salvation. When the Sadducees heard his words:

8

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE “they were enraged and they ground their teeth against him. But he, full of the Holy Spirit, gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God; and he said, “Behold, I see the hea­ vens opened, and the Son of man standing at the right hand of God.” (Acts 7:54–56).

The enraged crowd stoned Stephen to death. Stephen was the first martyr – sometimes called proto-martyr – and the account of his death in Acts shows that his testimony was linked to an ecstatic vision and prophecy. We will see this pattern continue through the early years of the Christian communities. This violence caused many of the followers of Jesus to leave Jerusalem to gain converts elsewhere, and we’ll follow their story below. The growing violence in Palestine was not simply among Jews; Rome was increasingly drawn into power struggles in the region, and these struggles caused another significant death among the Apostles. Herod Agrippa (grandson of Herod I) had recently been appointed to rule in the region. Agrippa killed “James the brother of John with the sword; and when he saw that it pleased the Jews, he proceeded to arrest Peter also” (Acts 23:1–3). (This decapitated body was purportedly miraculously discovered on the coast of northern Spain where it is buried under the pilgrimage church of Santiago de Compostela. But that is centuries in the future.) Peter escaped prison and Agrippa died shortly thereafter, so any persecution was not pursued. Peter left Jerusalem and the leader of the Jerusalem community of the fol­ lowers of Jesus was James – called James the Just or James the Lesser (younger) to distinguish him from the executed James the Greater. Before I turn to how the communities of the faithful were founded out­ side Jerusalem, I first want to talk about where communities were not founded. Most of Jesus’s mission took place in the Galilee, a region of Judea that was not directly controlled by the Romans during his lifetime. The Galilee is a hilly land full of agricultural villages. Josephus, a Jewish historian who wrote a history of the Jews in the first century, described the prosperous villages of the Galilee: “Their soil is universally rich and fruitful, and full of the plantations of trees of all sorts. The very many villages there are here are everywhere so full of people.”7 The villagers were prosperous with their production of olives, pomegranates and other crops. Most of the villages surrounded the Sea of Galilee, rich with fish that also provided food and exports. It was here on the shores of the Sea of Galilee that the Gospels tell us Jesus recruited some of his Apostles. He saw “Simon and Andrew the brother of Simon casting a net in the sea; for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them ‘Follow me and I will make you become fishers of men’.” He also called James and John his brother, who were in their boat mending nets, and they too followed him (Mark 1:17–20). Throughout his mission in the Galilee, Jesus performed healings and exorcisms.

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

9

Jesus’s message to the Galileans was reinforced by the language he spoke. He most likely preached in Aramaic, a language that had been used for cen­ turies throughout the Middle East. It was a language of trade and a general vernacular. Jesus probably spoke a Galilean dialect of Aramaic to bring his message to the villages he was addressing. During this time, Hebrew was the language of scholars studying and disputing in Jerusalem, and scholars sug­ gest that Jesus had some knowledge of Hebrew, but his was the language of the rural villagers. Some of the books of the Jewish scriptures were originally written in Aramaic and some in Hebrew. But Jesus’s preaching was directed to the people, mostly of the Galilee, and he spoke Aramaic to them. Jesus’s message was delivered in plain words of the people, and his many miracles, plainly drew the attention of the villagers, as crowds increasingly gath­ ered to Jesus. However, did these villages become communities that followed the risen Christ? No, they did not. The reason lies in the nature of village life itself. Peasants living in traditional villages were profoundly conservative. In their minds, the very existence of the village was testimony to the success of their communities – and they did see the village as a close-knit community in which everyone depended on everyone else (even if they didn’t always get along). They worshipped together at local synagogues and sometimes they acknowledged local spirits of fertility to ensure their crops. They kept the community cohesive through timeless rituals – they ate celebratory meals together, they celebrated by singing and dancing and even getting drunk together. In some villages, they ate meals in the cemetery to link the living and the dead in a reassertion that the village community remained strong. Villagers would certainly have been impressed by a healing holy man in their midst, but they would not have risked changing the views that had ensured the village’s survival from times beyond memory. Christianity would not come to the countryside in any meaningful way until long after the fourth century, which ends this book. In the sixth century and beyond, church leaders were still struggling to bring peasant villages into reli­ gious conformity.8 In fact, the word “Pagan” to designate non-Christians wor­ shipping old gods, derived from the Latin word for “rustic” or “country folk.” Instead, communities of Christ-followers would be established in the cities of the Roman Empire. Rodney Stark has written a classic work on the rise of Christianity in which he shows how the growth of the new religion was not mir­ aculous, but it could be explained by mathematical models of growth. Stark’s work has been controversial, but I agree in large part with his conclusion that Christian growth was a community matter: “It grew because Christians con­ stituted an intense community, able to generate the ‘invincible obstinacy’ … . And the primary means of its growth was through the united and motivated efforts of the growing numbers of Christian believers, who invited their friends, relatives, and neighbors to share the ‘good news.’”9 Stark’s work covers the growing num­ bers of Christians from these early centuries, and while he uses sociological methods, I approach the same issue from the historical sources: I want to explore the communities that grew so tenaciously. It wasn’t an easy or obvious growth,

10

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

there were ups and downs, but the quiet Christians whom Stark counts persev­ ered. To find them, we need to look not in the villages of the Galilee, but in the cities of the Roman Empire. Here, centuries of diaspora Jews had learned to speak Greek, instead of Aramaic. They read the Torah in Greek with the version called the Septua­ gint that had been translated in the third century BCE. All that the Apostles needed was a new visionary to bring the message of Jesus from the Galilean villages and the city of Jerusalem to the Greek-speaking Hellenistic cities. This visionary was the Apostle Paul.

The New Apostle Paul We first meet Paul under his Jewish name, Saul, in Acts during the account of the stoning of Stephen. Saul witnessed the event, and indeed supported the stoning (Acts 8:1). After Stephen’s death, Saul participated in a violent search for the followers of Jesus: “Saul was ravaging the church, and entering house after house, he dragged off men and women and committed them to prison” (Acts 8:3). Why did the Jew Saul persecute his fellow Jews who believed in the risen Christ? Saul, or Paul (I’ll follow the Bible in calling him by his Romanized name), was a well-born Jew from the city of Tarsus in Cilicia, an ancient prosperous city in modern Turkey. Remarkably, he was a Roman citizen, which was unusual for a Jew, though the wealthy city of Tarsus was a vibrant center of culture that fostered Jews, philosophers, and worshippers of many mystery religions. Like other educated men of his day, Paul spoke Greek fluently. He preached in Greek and wrote his famous letters in Greek. He read the Jewish Scriptures in the Greek version of the Septuagint. Though he was a cosmo­ politan citizen of a great Greek-speaking city, Paul was a trained and pious Jew. He had traveled to Jerusalem and studied under wise pharisees. Acts said he was “educated according to the strict manner of the law of our fathers” (Acts 22:3–4). The example of Paul revealed one of the deep divisions within Judaism: between those who spoke Aramaic and were deeply conservative (like the rural villagers in the Galilee) and Greek-speaking educated Hellenistic Jews from the growing cities. Regardless of religion, one of the oldest animosities in the world are between town and country. City-folk had disdain for country villagers and vice versa. In Judea, this became tied to religious beliefs – the urban Paul was disdainful of any beliefs that seemed to emerge from the uneducated country folk. Ironically, both conservative villagers and the highly educated Paul shared an animosity to religious novelty, and the followers of Jesus seemed to be bringing new, highly unorthodox ideas into the Jewish synagogues and even into the forecourt of the great Temple itself. But for Paul, all this changed in about the year 36 CE or so. Paul had asked the high priest for letters to the synagogues at Damascus so he could go there and continue his persecution of the followers of Jesus.

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

11

Armed with these letters, Paul approached the gate of the great city of Damascus, and according to Acts a miracle occurred: “A light from heaven flashed about him. And he fell to the ground and hears a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ And he said, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ And he said, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting; but rise and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.” Saul arose from the ground, but he was blinded, and his followers led him into Damascus (Acts 9:3–8). The followers of Christ had found a new Apostle, and the growing commu­ nities of the faithful were set on a new path. After his conversion in Damascus, Paul was baptized, spent some time in the wilderness, and returned to Damascus as a member of the community of Christ-followers. Some three years later, he returned to Jerusalem and met with James and Peter and according to Acts, “he attempted to join the dis­ ciples; and they were all afraid of him for they did not believe that he was a disciple” (Acts 9:26). Finally, James was persuaded and Paul and Barnabas left to take the message of Christ to the Hellenistic cities of the Greek east – a long way from the villages of the Galilee. From 46 CE to about 62 CE, Paul traveled with amazing energy and devotion, and the sources detail four major journeys. The map in Figure 1.1 shows the routes of Paul’s first two missionary journeys. Paul was joined by Barnabas from Cyprus, a Greek Jew who had converted to Christianity early on. Their first journey took about two years. They first stopped at Cyprus and traveled to a number of cities on the island. Then they sailed to the coast of

Figure 1.1 Map of Paul’s First and Second Journeys. Credit: K. Hansen

12

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

Lycia and traveled to the cities there. For his second journey, Paul parted from Barnabas and was joined by Silas from Jerusalem. As the Map in Figure 1.1 shows, they went further afield, traveling to the great cities of Asia Minor and Greece. Paul was a man of the city, and his mission took him along the trade routes through today’s Turkey, along the coasts where ships landed in the magnifi­ cent ports like Ephesus, to the sophisticated Greek cities like Athens and Corinth. Like all journeys in the ancient world, Paul’s were fraught with danger, and his desire to preach visibly increased the animosity he sometimes experienced. As he wrote in his letter to the Corinthians: Five times I have received at the hands of the Jews the forty lashes less one. [The Jewish penalty for those who preached unorthodox ideas.] Three times I have been beaten with rods [by Roman authorities dis­ missing troublemakers]; once I was stoned. Three times I have been shipwrecked; a night and a day I have been adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brethren; in toil and hard­ ship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food in cold and exposure. (2 Cor. 11:24–27) Paul’s third journey (shown in the Map in Figure 1.2) began from Antioch in 52 CE and lasted about six years. This journey was particularly hazardous; he fell ill for a while, and then he was imprisoned in Ephesus. During this

Figure 1.2 Map of Paul’s Third and Final Journeys. Credit: K. Hansen

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

13

journey he wrote many of his famous letters, that I will discuss later, and he was revisiting the congregations he had established on his earlier journeys. The impressive journeys covered over 10,000 miles, and the contributions of Paul have quite rightly yielded lots of scholarly and popular attention. However, I want to turn the historical lens away from the messenger and look at the less visible – and less vocal – recipients of his message. A prophet without a receptive audience is just a voice in the wilderness. Let’s look at the urban life where his words found a fertile ground.

Mission in the Ancient Cities Cities in the ancient world share many of the characteristics of cities today: They are crowded, unsanitary, filled with crime and always susceptible to fires. People living in cities – especially the large cosmopolitan cities that drew Paul – were often lonely, as people frequently are when surrounded by strangers. What a difference from the small villages like those in the Galilee where everyone was part of a community that extended from the past into the future. The population numbers seem small by today’s standards – Athens and Corinth might have had 90,000 people, Antioch about 200,000. (Rome was the outlier with about 1,000,000 people.) In spite of the size, people had to cluster together. The highest buildings were maybe three or four stories and often leaned against each other. The average population density in the cities may have been about 200 people per acre, similar to that of crowded slums in modern industrial cities.10 We can get a feel for these cities with their narrow streets as we walk through the medieval footprints of cities with winding streets that yield little light and no privacy. A person could walk the circumference of one of these cities in an afternoon.11 While the residences were crowded, dark and noisy, the real city life took place in the public spaces of the cities. Wealthy residents of these cities paid for public baths, temples, statues, shopping areas and other large public spaces. People’s public lives took place here, but they returned to their homes at the end of the day where they con­ ducted their private lives. When we see the remaining public buildings in these old cities, like the acropolis in Athens or the marble road of Ephesus it is easy to forget that most people lived crowded together with strangers on dirt paths that turned to mud in the rain. How did people form communities within these diverse, cosmopolitan cities where most people were strangers? The first way was to gather toge­ ther in neighborhoods shaped by immigrants, people from their own coun­ try, called ethnos in Latin. Everyone who did business in the cities had to speak Greek, but in the neighborhoods people might speak their own dia­ lects. (In modern cities we can see parallels in settlements of immigrants within large cities.) This was true of Jews of the Diaspora who had settled in their own sections of the cities. In Antioch, the southeastern quadrant part of the city was the traditional Jewish quarter, and in Alexandria, Egypt, two of the five formal divisions were Jewish.12

14

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

The Jewish quarters contained synagogues where the faithful gathered to worship, and many were elaborate, testifying to the wealth of the commu­ nities. The Syrian synagogue at Dura Europos is the oldest surviving. The final building dating from the third century, can serve as a magnificent example of one of these wealthy diaspora synagogues. Most surprising in this synagogue are the images that cover the walls. These pictures portray scenes from Hebrew scriptures that are painted in a Greco-Roman style, and offer a striking contrast to later synagogues that rejected any kind of images. How­ ever, the followers of Christ would bring this artistic sensibility into their own churches, but that was centuries in the future. In this first century, Jews gathered at these synagogues to pray, but the gatherings weren’t limited to Jews. In the Roman Empire, few people expected worship to be exclusive to one god; people hedged their bets by praying to many gods. That way all gods were appeased and no one risked angering any particular deity. Many non-Jews (whom the Jews called Gentiles) also showed their respect for the Jews’ god. Greek-speaking residents of these cosmopoli­ tan cities had no problem following the services in the synagogues since they were conducted in Greek. These gentile Jewish sympathizes were called “god­ fearers” and participated in many of the activities of their Jewish neighbors. Many Jews, too, participated in many aspects of gentile society. For example, Jews joined their Greek neighbors at the popular gymnasia where all exer­ cised and bathed. Synagogue inscriptions acknowledged the donations of god-fearing patrons, and gentile town councilors involved themselves in synagogue projects. Alex­ andrian gentiles joined Jews to feast together to celebrate the translation of Hebrew scriptures into Greek, a translation that had been commissioned by the gentile Egyptian King Ptolemy. One gentile city even minted a coin with the image of Noah’s ark.13 We’ll come back to these synagogues with their pious Jews and god-fearing Greeks in a moment, but first I want to mention another way people in the ancient cities organized themselves into communities. People not only define themselves by their ethnic roots, but as important was their work. Like today, people often first asked what job you held and gravitated to those who are engaged in similar work. The cities themselves grew up with this principle in mind. Jewelers lived along one street, and tentmakers another, and sections of the cities were named after the trades: In Rome, there was a Linenweavers’ Quarter, a Leatherworkers’ Street, a Portico of Perfumers.14 Travelers entering a city would at least find things in common among the practitioners of their trades. For the purposes of this story – the spread of the Christian message – the most important travelers into these cities were the Apostles, with Paul pro­ minent among them. With Paul, we get the earliest historical texts dealing with this missionary activity. While there is no scholarly consensus on the exact dates of the letters, their composition ranges from about 49 to 62 CE. Other letters, whose authorship is uncertain, survive that have been included in the Christian Scriptures. These include the letters to Titus, Timothy, and

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

15

the Hebrews, and all these date from before 64 CE. (I’ll look at later texts in subsequent chapters.) As we have seen, the other text that relates this early missionary activity is the Book of Acts, perhaps written by Luke, the author of the third gospel. This later date explains some of the differences in tone and facts between Acts and the Letters. Writing from some decades in the future, the author of Acts reinterprets some of the events in recognition of current events in the development of the Church. Scholars and theologians have used these rich sources to understand the grow­ ing ideas of the nascent church, but I am not going to review these theological arguments. Instead, I’m going to mine these texts to see what they have to say about the now-silent followers of the new movement. What drew them into these new communities? What controversies did they face? In short, what were they thinking? Let’s turn to the cities where people were crowded together looking for community and meaning among the many strangers that were their neighbors. When Paul and the other Apostles entered the walls of these cities, they looked for places to spread the message. In Athens, Paul went to the market every day to speak to the shoppers. There also were philosophers preaching Epicurean and Stoic ideas, and most of the Athenians thought him just one more philosopher (Acts 17:17–21). In Athens, he found a few followers, but he didn’t establish a community of the faithful here. No, their real success came when they approached the communities within these cities – the syna­ gogue and the tradespeople. Preaching to the Gentiles was perfectly consistent with the Apostles visiting the community of tradespeople, they came from all faiths. In his letter to the Thessalonians, Paul mentions that he continues to work in his trade as a tentmaker during his mission, and that through the work, he preached to his fellow tradesmen: “It was while we were laboring night and day, in order not to burden any of you, that we proclaimed to you the gospel of God” (1 Thess 2:9). His followers, Priscilla and Aquila were also tentmakers, and we can see the apostles’ connection to the trades when they rent a sort of guildhall in Ephesus to use as a gathering place.15 While their connections to their trades remained important, the synagogues of the cities were a central part of Paul’s and the other apostles’ mission.16 Paul described himself as “a Jew to the Jews, in order to win Jews” (1 Cor 9:20), but we have seen that many times the Jews in the synagogues rejected his message and sometimes beat him as he was driven away. However, many god-fearers lis­ tened. One such convert was Lydia, a wealthy merchant dealing in purple dye. The example of Lydia can show both the importance of finding community in these cities, and the significance of women in the early growth of converts. Paul encountered Lydia in Philippi in Macedonia when he went to the riverside and spoke to women who had come there. Lydia heard him and was baptized, “with her household,” (Acts 16:13–16) presumably with her slaves, freedmen, and others who formed the households of the ancient world. There was no husband named, so Lydia might have been a wealthy widow who had taken over the family business. She invited Paul to her home and offered other support.

16

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

Lydia wasn’t unique; Paul’s letters contain references to a number of women who converted and became instrumental supporters of his mission. Some like Lydia were mentioned as leaders in their own right like Chloe in Corinth or Phoebe who traveled to Rome, perhaps bearing Paul’s letter to the Romans. Phoebe was a wealthy woman who was named as a benefactor to Paul and other community members. Others, are mentioned as part of a couple, like Prisca and Aquila, or two women partners, Euodia and Syntyche.17 In sum, women were prominent members of these communities, even if in Paul’s view they were not “leaders.” They supported the groups with money and offered their homes as house churches. They traveled in missionary work, and served as leaders in the communities.18 What drew these women to the new movement? I suggest that the most important factor was that they were not linked to a tight-knit community. Most, if not all, of these women were not Jews by birth;19 their names reveal Greek origins, and some were surely the god-fearers who participated on the fringes of the Jewish worship, never fully members. Furthermore, as merchants, artisans, and urban dwellers, they were separated from the villages that had originally cared for and embraced widows. It’s easy to say that Paul’s house churches offered a ready-made community for converts, but what was it that cemented these people together? There were several rituals that I will discuss later that drew the converts together, but the initial proof of membership was the presence of the Holy Spirit in the com­ munities. Just like at Pentecost, during gatherings, some people spoke in ton­ gues, some offered prophecies or dreams or other manifestations of the spirit. For example, when Paul came to Ephesus, he encountered some disciples and asked them “Did you receive the Holy Spirit when you believed?” They said, “No, we have never even heard that there is a Holy Spirit.” They claimed they were only baptized with water − “Into John’s baptism.” Paul told them this was only repentance, not the final confirmation into the Spirit. “And when Paul had laid his hands upon them, the Holy spirit came on them; and they spoke with tongues and prophesied” (Acts 19:2–7). These new communities were not formed by institutional hierarchy; instead they shared the bonds of charismatic community.20 In this setting, women were on equal footing with men as far as charismatic gifts went, and women like Lydia happily joined. The example of god-fearing converts like Lydia and others quickly showed Paul that his mission was one to convert Gentiles, not simply reform Jewish synagogues. Cynics might see this as making a virtue of necessity – the gentiles were more willing to listen – while the faithful will see this in God’s plan. For historians, it makes no difference; we look at what happened, and here in the cities the followers of Jesus moved from Jewish communities to a wider audi­ ence. This came with controversy that shook any unity among the apostles.

Overturning Jewish Law The question was pretty simple: Did the converts have to adhere to the Mosaic Law that had marked Jewish communities for millennia? Similarly,

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

17

did the presence of non-practicing Jews in the new communities of the Jesus movement pollute the original Jews? In his letter to the Galatians, Paul deals directly with his mission to the Gentiles, laying out how new converts need not follow traditional Mosaic law, but instead needed only the presence of the Spirit. He writes passionately to followers who wanted to return to a stricter life of Jewish law: “Did you receive the Spirit by works of the law, or by hearing with faith? Are you so foolish? Having begun with the Spirit, are you now ending with the flesh?” (Gal 3:2–3). Defining the community as one of the spirit was not as straightforward as it might seem. The Jews of the Diaspora had defined themselves and set themselves apart from the surrounding society in a couple of visible ways: First, men were circumcised, so they would always be recognized as Jewish. Secondly, the dietary laws kept Jews from eating with their gentile neighbors. Sharing meals is one of the oldest ways people forge community – indeed communion – with their neighbors. As gentiles were included in the new communities of Christ-followers, would they have to adhere to these funda­ mental definitions of Jewish communities? By the middle of the first century, this was a contentious issue. In his letter to the Galatians, Paul specifically renounced the need for cir­ cumcision, claiming that even his follower Titus was uncircumcised (Gal 2:3). And he further argued that being circumcised or not makes no difference to following Christ. In Antioch, disagreement arose about eating in the com­ munity: should the assembly meet only in Jewish homes, or could they eat together in gentile homes, where increasingly the communities met?21 These quarrels about the future of the community came to a head in about 50 CE. Peter was the first to answer the attack on allowing gentiles to enter and forego the requirements of the Mosaic law. Peter responded with a vision he had that showed God presenting all kinds of unclean food, and God told him to eat, claiming that nothing was unclean (Acts: 11–12). Finally, in about 50 CE, Paul, Barnabas, and other Apostles went to Jerusalem to debate these questions with James and the Jerusalem elders.22 This Council of Jerusalem offered a prototype for the subsequent councils of the Christian Church. After much debate in which the elders in Jerusalem heard “what signs and wonders God had done through them [Paul and the apostles] among the Gentiles,” the leader of the church, James, rendered his verdict: “Therefore my judgment is that we should not trouble those of the Gentiles who turn to God, but should write to them to abstain from the pollutions of idols and from unchastity and from what is strangled and from blood.” (Acts 15:19–20) This ruling paved the way from the full mission to the Gentiles. In time, Paul and other apostles relaxed the requirement of ritually slaughtered meat that would have no trace of blood. It is likely that the apostles didn’t fully realize

18

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

that they had begun the process of starting a new religion as orthodox Jews continued to set themselves apart by their rigorous adherence to Mosaic Law. New communities of Christ-followers had been formed. What was the nature of these new communities?

Forging and Maintaining Communities We have seen that at the heart of the new communities were the gifts of the Spirit that appeared when the faithful gathered, and glossolalia continued to be one of the spiritual gifts that manifested itself in these gatherings. People who have experienced this phenomenon today describe it as transforming as they feel their bodies have been taken over by a greater power.23 Since these spiritual gifts are intimately linked with the group, there was a strong motivation to sustain the meetings. The prophecies and other gifts were proof that God was with them. A second force for unity was Paul’s and his followers’ absolute conviction that the world was to end imminently with the return of Jesus. The Parousia, or the expectation of the imminent return of Christ, was at the heart of the message of the Apostles, and the communities of believers clung to the hope that the end – and salvation – was just around the corner. Acts implies that Jesus’s contemporaries – the Apostles and their converts – will witness his return.24 Paul repeatedly promises the Second Coming in his letters, but per­ haps his most vivid description may be found in his First Letter to the Thes­ salonians written in about 51. He proclaims: For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first; then we who are alive, who are left, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air; and so we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words. (1 Thess 4:15–18) These two phenomena reinforced each other: The belief in the imminent Second Coming seemed to be proven by the gifts of the spirit that appeared during the gatherings. Furthermore, the importance of the group – the com­ munity of the faithful – was essential to both. As Paul had promised we “shall be caught up together.” Of course, hindsight shows us that both of these things that tied to faithful together didn’t last. By 60 CE – some 30 years after Jesus’s death – the hopes of the Second Coming began to fade, and sociologists show us that glossola­ lia, too, fades in time. Though there have been periodic resurgences of both speaking in tongues and hopes of an imminent second coming, those remain exceptional developments in the continuing history of the church. Instead, we will see in the subsequent chapters, how the Christian communities began to redefine the message that drew them together in the first place.

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

19

But while the faithful were focused on the dramatic themes of salvation, it turns out that there were quiet, unremarkable ways that united the commu­ nities that would stand them in good stead when the initial dreams faded. Letters that circulated to the various communities helped the groups see themselves linked to other communities. Let’s pause a moment to consider how many people we are talking about, though we have to remember that all these numbers are simply estimates. Rodney Stark calculated that there were between two and three thousand followers of Christ during the 60s CE, the beginning of the last decade of Paul’s mission.25 This was an inconsequential number in a population of the Roman Empire of about 75 million. If we look more closely at these numbers, we can see how small these communities of the faithful were: If we take the larger number, 3,000, and assume 30 households of faithful, we get only about 100 people meeting together at one time. This number is probably too high, since there were likely many more than 30 house churches founded. Few people in the surrounding cities noticed these followers of Christ who gathered in each other’s houses, and in some ways that had always been the case. Many of the converts weren’t central to the cities in which they lived and worked; they drew together to make a community of their own. Once they had a community, they stayed together as part of that group.26 And the letters from Paul and the other apostles helped these small congregations feel part of a much larger whole. These letters were written in ink on strips of parchment then rolled into scrolls to be delivered to the house churches in the towns that had growing groups of followers. As people gathered, they unrolled the scrolls and read the letters out loud. In the ancient world, almost all reading was done aloud, so reading itself was more often than not a communal activity. In the readings, the faithful were reminded of Paul’s exhortations, his words, and his remin­ ders that the end was coming soon. Paul did not write all the letters that are attributed to him in the New Testament scriptures. Some, like the letter to the Ephesians, was probably written by one of his followers, while others, like the Letter to Titus, was probably written after Paul’s death.27 See the chart in Figure 1.3 for a list of his letters and the probable dates of composition. The circulating letters linked the communities together in faith when initial enthusiasm faded. A second way to join the faithful together, both within their communities and to the other congregations was through charity. This wasn’t completely new: Jews had used charity to care for their own, and Romans and Greeks expected the rich to contribute to their cities and citizens. These efforts had contributed to a sense of community among these groups, and Christian charity did the same. Followers of Christ were urged to take care of the widows and needy in their midst, but there was a larger charitable effort that Paul conducted. Everywhere Paul went, he urged the faithful to donate to the poor in Jerusalem. In Corinthians he is most explicit:

20

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

Figure 1.3 Table of Paul’s Letters. Credit: K. Hansen

Now concerning the contribution for the saints: as I directed the churches of Galatia, so you also are to do. On the first day of every week, each of you is to put something aside and store it up … . And when I arrive, I will send those whom you accredit by letter to carry your gift to Jerusalem. (1 Cor 16:1–4) In his letter to the Romans, Paul offers an explanation for the contribution to Jerusalem: He says that as the Gentiles have come to share the “spiritual blessings” of the Jews, they should in turn offer “material blessings” (Rom 15:27). In this very concrete way, the many small communities joined them­ selves to the larger history of the Jews centered at Jerusalem. All these unifying principles helped keep these small groups defining themselves as communities as they waited for the expected Second Coming. However, of course, we are dealing with human beings; inevitably quarrels arose, and Paul found himself drawn into dealing with the kinds of disputes that might divide communities. In the tone and content of his letters, we find Paul increasingly frustrated with the congregations who won’t simply follow

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

21

his instructions. As many leaders have discovered, it is the many anonymous recipients of instruction who often shape the message in the end. As the his­ torian of the history of Christianity, Charles Freeman, summarized: Paul “now appears to understand that he must respond to the concerns of the Corinthians rather than impose his views on them.”28 Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians gives us a glimpse of the kinds of disputes that might split a small group. He urges them not to bring lawsuits against each other, and simply decide these matters within the community (1 Cor 6:1–3, 7–8). He urges the group to expel a man who is living with his stepmother (1 Cor. 5:1– 2). Some sins would break up the cohesiveness of the group, and such sexual sins surely would do so. Most familiar is Paul’s summary of spiritual gifts that as we have seen marked these communities. The implied problem was apparently some people were valuing their gifts over another. Was glossolalia better than pro­ phecy? Was healing better than interpreting glossolalia? Paul wants to eliminate such divisions by claiming that love was the most essential feature that held the community together: “If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Cor 13:1). However, other conflicts were harder to resolve, especially those regarding beliefs. With so many small congregations enjoying charismatic gifts, inevitably people began to believe different things. In addition, Paul and the apostles weren’t the only prophets traveling through the urban spaces. For example, the Alexandrian Jew Apollos traveled to Ephesus and Corinth, and he preached a version of the “way of the Lord” that differed from Paul’s (Acts 18:24–28). Some communities in the east kept a strict adherence to the Mosaic laws; these “Judaizers” ignored Paul’s new interpretation of the Law. Why did these dif­ ferences matter? Why couldn’t Paul and other leaders just focus on their mes­ sage and let the members of the communities go their own way? There was a built-in reason for concern over different opinions within this first-century growth of the congregations: They were all in this together. These congregations believed strongly in the imminent Second Coming and that they would be saved together – this was a collective salvation. If the community were split, then all would fall together. Paul’s imagery to explain this idea (and perhaps miracle) was to use the idea of the Body of Christ that was resurrected to apply to the new communities that were also the body of Christ. “Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Cor.12:27). In Paul’s view, those who split the community were dividing the body of Christ, which would preclude resurrection. It is easier to explain this idea of collective salvation with the writings of later church fathers who explained it (rather than taking it for granted like Paul’s communities did). Cyprian of Carthage in the third century described the church as a brotherhood of the righteous, a body that held together for their own salvation in the coming end of days.29 As Cyprian wrote recalling Paul’s communities: “This common mind prevailed once, in the time of the Apostles, this was the spirit in which the new community of the believers in obedience to the Lord’s command maintained charity with one another.”30

22

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

We will see this concern for maintaining a “common mind” among fol­ lowers of Christ persist throughout this book, and this attitude toward salva­ tion explains it. Looking forward, Augustine and the later fathers after the fourth century rejected this idea of collective salvation arguing that ties to a religious community did not guarantee salvation.31 By the fourth century, times had changed; the Second Coming wasn’t imminent, and other pre­ occupations dominated the conversation. But that was later, here in these early communities, the quiet followers of Christ gathered together in what drew them close in the first place. They were no longer isolated within the large cosmopolitan cities, but they belonged together. They helped each other, sometimes experienced the gifts of the spirit that appeared in their gatherings in their homes, and expected to enjoy eter­ nity together soon. This was the situation in about the year 60 CE, some 30 years after Jesus’s crucifixion. The story takes a dramatic turn when we turn to Rome, the largest city of them all. In about the year 60 CE (though all these dates vary since there is no exact scholarly consensus), Paul traveled to Rome, not surprisingly in the midst of conflict of his own (See map in Figure 1.2 for a map of this journey). In about 58 CE or 59 CE, Paul ran into controversy when he traveled from Ephesus to Jerusalem. There, he came into conflict with Jews who objected to his teaching. He appealed to the Roman procurator and insisted that as a Roman citizen, he be allowed to go to Rome to appeal to the emperor. Acts describes Paul’s ardu­ ous journey to Rome while he was under arrest. He was shipwrecked in Malta and experienced storms and disease. They finally came to Syracuse, Rhegium, and Puteoli (modern Pozzuoli on the north side of the Bay of Naples). In Puteoli, they encountered a small community of Christians who offered them hospitality for a week (Acts 28: 14). Such references testify to the slow expansion of quiet Christians that preceded the apostolic travels. By about the year 61 CE, the group came by land the final forty-three miles to the capital, where the great walls shone in the sun guarding the ancient city (Acts 24–28).

Notes 1 Geza Vermes. Christian Beginnings from Nazareth to Nicaea AD 30–325 (New York, 2013), 72–73 details the charismatic healings. 2 Sarah Krasnostein. The Believer: Encounters with the Beginning, the End, and our place in the Middle (Portland, OR, 2022), 158–59. 3 See J.D.C. Dunn, Jesus and the Spirit (London, 1975), 189, and P. Esler, The First Christians in their Social Worlds (New York, 1994), 37–51, for correlation between modern and ancient glossolalia. 4 Wayne A. Meeks. The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT, 2003), 28, 120. 5 Vermes, 39. 6 Paula Fredriksen. When Christians were Jews: The First Generation (New Haven, CT, 2018), 185. 7 Josephus. The Wars of the Jews, 3:2, in Josephus: The Complete Works (Nashville, TN, 1998), 768.

The Beginnings – 36 to 61 CE

23

8 Joyce E. Salisbury. Iberian Popular Religion: 600 BC to 700 AD (Lewiston, NY, 1985). 9 Rodney Stark. The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 208. 10 Meeks, 28. 11 Meeks, 28. 12 Meeks, 29. 13 Fredriksen, 140. 14 Meeks, 29. 15 Meeks, 26. 16 See Meeks, 26–27, for a discussion of the different accounts of the missions in Acts and the Letter of Paul. I am taking the letters first as a source and the chron­ ologically later Acts second. We can’t be completely sure of the accuracy of the differing accounts. 17 Margaret Y. MacDonald, “Reading Real Women Through the Undisputed Letters of Paul” in Women and Christian Origins, ed. Ross Shepard Kraemer and Mary Rose D’Angelo (Oxford, 1999), 199–220. 18 MacDonald, 210. 19 Ross S. Kraemer. “Jewish Women and Women’s Judaism(s) at the Beginning of Christianity,” in Women and Christian Origins, ed. Kraemer et al., 43. 20 Frederickson, 94. 21 Frederickson, 158. 22 Michael Walsh. The Triumph of the Meek (New York, 1986), 104–106. 23 See the film Holy Ghost People (1967) for such testimonials. 24 Vermes, 79. 25 Stark, 217. 26 Stark, 17. 27 Meeks, 7–8. 28 Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT, 2009), 60. 29 See, Joyce E. Salisbury, “’The Bond of the Common Mind’: A Study of Collective Salvation from Cyprian to Augustine,” Journal of Religious History (June, 1985), 235–247. 30 Salisbury, “Bond of the Common Mind,” 240. 31 Salisbury, “Bond of the Common Mind,” 235.

2

Death and Destruction Shapes the Communities, 60–96 CE

Rome had a large community of Jews when Paul and his companions arrived. There might have been as many as 50,000 Jews (in Rome’s population of about 1 million) and they lived in an area across the Tiber River in the region sur­ rounding Vatican Hill.1 The Jews had a long relationship with the Roman rulers; they were considered an “allied nation” that enjoyed the privilege of practicing their own, ancient religion. Emperors sent gifts to the Temple in Jerusalem, and in turn, the Temple priests offered sacrifices to God in honor of the emperor. While such good will ebbed and flowed, Romans were familiar with Jews who had formed part of the cosmopolitan fabric of the city for a long time. When Paul arrived in Rome under guard, he would have gone to the Jewish section of the city and been placed under house arrest. After resting for three days, Paul called together the local leaders of the Jews and explained that he had been condemned in Jerusalem and had appealed to the emperor. He claimed he decided to first speak to the Jewish community in Rome. The leaders responded: “We have received no letters from Judea about you, and none of the brethren coming here has reported or spoken any evil about you. But we desire to hear from you what your views are; for with regard to this sect we know that everywhere it is spoken against.” (Acts 28:20–22) Why did Roman Jews think the followers of Christ had a bad reputation? Because they had caused trouble in the city before Paul’s arrival. We have independent historical evidence for the author of Acts’ account of the bad reputation followers of Christ had in Rome. Apparently, the disputes among the Jews had spilled out into the streets of Rome and came to the attention of the authorities who hated public disturbances. The Roman his­ torian Suetonius, writing in about 115 CE, described an event that took place under the reign of Claudius (who died in 54 CE). Suetonius claimed that the emperor expelled Jews from Rome “since the Jews constantly made dis­ turbances at the instigation of Chrestus.”2 This seems to be a reference to followers of Christ, and it points to the contentious quarrels between DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-3

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conservative Jews and those who followed Jesus, claiming he was the resur­ rected Messiah. Suetonius’s passage has generated historical controversy: Perhaps he was describing a man named “Chrestus” rather than Jesus Christ. Perhaps Sue­ tonius’s account was flawed, owing to the historical distance between the event and his recording. In general, it seems these distinctions don’t matter for the outlines of the story. There were disputes within the Jewish community and sometimes these disputes seemed to affect the peace of Rome. In spite of Suetonius’s claim, all the Jews were not expelled from Rome because there were still plenty living there. It may be that Paul’s followers, Prisca and Aquila, were among those who left Rome during Claudius’s expulsion,3 but there were many followers left. When Paul wrote his letter to the Romans a few years after the expulsion by Claudius, he could comfor­ tably address “all God’s beloved in Rome…. “ Paul claimed that he had always intended to come to Rome and had kept the Roman congregations always in his prayers (Rom 17, 13). Therefore, we can see that there had been early missionary activity that was successful enough to establish a community of Christ-followers who were visible enough to cause trouble. Furthermore, through travelers and the network of communication, Paul maintained con­ tact with some of the converts. Thus, when Paul arrived into the Jewish community on Vatican Hill, he might have expected to find a welcome. The response was mixed. The Jewish elders prepared a time for Paul to make his case. Large numbers of Jews came to him at his house, and Paul spoke all through the day trying to “convince them about Jesus.” Not surprisingly, “some were convinced by what he said, while others disbelieved.” Paul was frustrated and as he so often was during his mission, he turned from the Jews, saying “Let it be known to you then that this salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles; they will listen.” The Book of Acts concludes with the summary of the rest of Paul’s mission. He lived in Rome two more years preaching “the kingdom of God and teaching about the Lord Jesus Christ quite openly and unhindered” (Acts 28:23–30). This is the last reference we have to Paul. Some traditions hold that he went on to travel to Spain, but there is no real evidence for that. No, Paul probably died in Rome during the violence that would soon sweep through the city. Before the violence erupted, we can probably assume that during his years of work in Rome, Paul established some house churches of people waiting for Christ’s Second Coming. Can we draw some hypotheses about these quiet communities in Rome? One thing we can say is that the larger the urban center, the more chance for diverse thoughts. People in cities aren’t bound to the past as they were in the countryside, and the larger the city the more this is the case. Rome always had followers from various religions in the empire, and as there were many Jews in Rome there were many god-fearers who visited the synagogues. Rome offered plenty of opportunities for Paul’s conversions. Just like in the cities of the east, Roman followers of Christ included wealthy patrons and their

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households, god-fearing Greeks who attended synagogues, as well as middleclass artisans and merchants.4 As Paul noted, he continued to draw from disaffected gentiles who longed for meaning and community. In addition, Rodney Stark suggests that women formed a substantial number of the converts in Rome. For example, in his Epistle to the Romans, Paul sent his personal greetings to fifteen women and eighteen men.5 While this number is too small to draw any firm conclusions, it does reflect the examples in the east where wealthy women formed a core of the households that served as meeting places for Paul’s followers. We can see the results of Paul’s teachings from a different source: the Jewish historian Josephus, who wrote several books on the history of the Jews. In about 94 CE, he wrote the “Antiquities of the Jews,” and in this work he includes an account of Jesus, one of the few references from a nonChristian source. Josephus did not witness the events he recounted; he can only have known them from what he had heard in the communities in Rome, so he may be a witness for the beliefs of the anonymous Christ-followers in the middle of the first century. Here’s his summary: Now there was about this time Jesus, a wise man, if it be lawful to call him a man, for he was a doer of wonderful works – a teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure. He drew over to him both many of the Jews, and many of the Gentiles. He was the Christ; and when Pilate, at the suggestion of the principal men amongst us, had condemned him to the cross, those that loved him at the first did not forsake him, for he appeared to them alive again the third day… . and the tribe of Christians, so named from him, are not extinct at this day.6 Here, Josephus summarizes the basic theology that Paul and the other fol­ lowers of Jesus held as they met in the house churches. Perhaps one of his most telling phrases is “the tribe of Christians.” He noted the strong com­ munal quality of these Christians and how they identified as a group. This source from Josephus has generated a great deal of academic controversy. Some of his phrases like “If it be lawful to call him a man” and to call him “Christ” might well be later Christian interpolations into the original text.7 However, the exact words Josephus may have used does not negate the value of the text as a witness to the role and presence of followers of Christ in Rome. Josephus also noted the initial tension between Christian and Jews, claim­ ing that the Jews killed Christ, and this is the same dispute that Paul noted in Rome. In fact, the controversies among the Jews (who followed Christ and who did not) penetrated the highest household in Rome, that of the emperor Nero himself. The most influential was Poppaea, Nero’s ruthless wife. We hear most about Poppaea as a woman whose cruelty matched Nero’s. Poppaea was a beautiful woman who was relentlessly ambitious. She became Nero’s mistress, and encouraged him to kill his first wife, the popular Octavia. Poppaea received the severed head of Octavia as a gift.8 The ruthless

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woman also encouraged Nero to kill his mother, Agrippina, to consolidate Poppaea’s hold on power. In 62 CE Poppaea and Nero married, and she was the most powerful person in the court of the unstable emperor. In one of those strange incongruities in history, the vicious Poppaea had an interest in religious matters, specifically Judaism.9 If she weren’t empress, she might have been categorized as one of the god-fearers who were drawn to the piety she saw in the Jewish community. We can see this side of Poppaea in the history written by the first-century Jew, Josephus. The historian told of her support of a Jewish actor, Aliturus, who was included at court as a favorite. She also personally received Josephus, who came from Jerusalem in early 64 to try to secure the release of two Jewish priests who were jailed in Rome. Poppaea released the prisoners and gave Josephus lavish gifts to take with him.10 Not surprisingly, he wrote glowingly of the empress’s piety ignoring rumors of her viciousness.11 Perhaps also not surprisingly, Josephus, never mentioned the violence against the followers of Christ that broke out in Rome in 64 CE. Josephus was too close to Poppaea to offer any criticism of Nero’s actions. But histor­ ians of the history of Christianity note that everything changed in 64 CE, when a great fire broke out in the city.

Nero Finds Scapegoats On July 19, 64 CE Romans fled their city in a panic, for a great fire had broken out amid shops between the Palatine and Caelian hills, and it spread quickly. July is the hottest and driest month in Rome, and the heat and warm summer winds fanned the flames. The vigiles urbani, the watchmen of the city, were charged with fighting the always-dangerous fires, and on this day they tried all their techniques. They brought water to the fires on carts pulled by horses, and pumped their barrels dry; they organized bucket brigades, and tried to smother fires with wet quilts, but the flames were too hot and moved too quickly before the wind. Their only recourse was to fall back and use their hooks to pull down the wooden buildings that housed the poor in the crowded streets to erect a huge firebreak across which the flames could not spread. For six days the fires burned as witnesses told of hearing the screams of women, children, and the elderly trapped in the flames as others ran, leaving everything behind. When the smoke finally cleared, Romans could see with horror that only four of Rome’s fourteen districts were left unburned. Three districts were completely destroyed, while the remaining seven had only a few half-burned houses left.12 As the ashes cooled, people’s fear turned to anger, and they wanted someone to blame. The immediate focus for the people’s anger was the unpopular emperor Nero. Rumors spread that the emperor had started the fire so he could make room for a huge new palace for himself (which he eventually built). Some people said they saw his men throw torches into buildings to keep the fires burning. Others even said that he appeared on a private stage and sang of the

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destruction of Troy as he watched the fire burn.13 This last accusation, which was certainly false, has led to the long-standing accusation that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. The sources of information about the fire that remain were written well after the event. Roman historians like Cassius Dio and Suetonius wrote in the first and second centuries, and their descriptions were colored by the fact that they wrote to discredit Nero and to accuse him of all kinds of crimes. The emperor deserved many of their attacks, but he probably didn’t start the Great Fire. Our best source for both the fire and for the early Christians in Rome, is from the historian Tacitus. He was seven years old when the Great Fire took place, but he was born somewhere north of Rome (no one is really sure), so his information came from other sources and tales of survivors. Tacitus offers no certainty on the cause for the fire, writing: “A disaster followed, whether accidental or treacherously contrived by the emperor, is uncertain, as authors have given both accounts….”14 Tacitus claims that Nero was at Antium (modern Anzio) on the coast and that he returned to Rome as the fire approached his house, and the emperor saw the destruction of the city. Tacitus wrote that the emperor did much to help the suffering Romans. He opened public buildings and even his own gardens for the homeless, and he brought in food to feed the newly destitute. Roman priests offered prayers and sacrifices to bring blessings back on the city, but nothing quelled the popular mutterings. As Tacitus wrote, “But all human efforts, all the lavish gifts of the emperor and the propitiations of the gods, did not banish the sinister belief that the conflagration was the result of an order.”15 Nero needed a scapegoat and a dramatic entertainment to deflect popular anger. Who would he choose? Nero could have selected any number of groups to target. Romans had banned followers of the wine god Bacchus in the past, and he could have pressured them again. There were also many associations – collegia – orga­ nizing trade guilds or burial clubs that frequently became targets for sup­ pression. Easiest of all would have been to target non-Romans – Syrians, Greeks, Africans, any number of people who were living in the cosmopolitan city of Rome. However, Nero chose Christians, but Tacitus doesn’t tell us why. In fact, the most logical place to find Nero’s animosity to the followers of Christ is within his own household. The sources do not say that he consulted Poppaea, but it makes sense that he did. Only someone familiar with Rome’s Jewish community would know of the division within it, and only someone with sympathies to the traditional Jews would have identified the troublesome newcomers. Finally, only someone ruthless would think of eliminating a group of people innocent of anything but disagreeing with the synagogue’s old lea­ ders. Poppaea meets all these criteria. Whoever inspired Nero, the emperor sent his guard to round up followers of the risen Christ. Then he tortured them to get names of others. In this way, he arrested hundreds of people, and announced to the Roman people that he had found the criminals who had started the fire.

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We learn of what happened next from Tacitus. There is no way to know how accurate this account is, but it is likely that at the very least he described how some people remembered the event. His account then became the defi­ nitive memory of the tragedy and it shaped future Christian views of the relationship between Rome and Christians. Tacitus was no friend of Chris­ tians, for he referred to them as “a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace.” He claims they were convicted “not so much of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind.”16 Tacitus seems to suggest that they were charged with the crime of incen­ diarism, but he did not believe that charge. In fact, if there had been any evidence – or any tortured confession – of incendiarism, there would not have been a secondary charge attributed – “hatred of mankind.” Instead, they were convicted of following a “superstition,” a cult that placed them outside the standard practice of pious Romans. Rome had suppressed other cults in the past, like the followers of Bacchus, and Romans were highly suspicious of “new” superstitions.17 While outside of the mainstream of Roman practice, Jews could at least point to the antiquity of their religion; this new cult of Christ had no such precedence. Therefore, Nero, and Tacitus, felt justified in condemning them to death, and executing them. The charge of “hatred of mankind,” probably meant something more like turning “one’s back on obli­ gations to one’s fellow men,”18 by not participating fully in the community of the Romans. For this charge, Nero chose to execute the Christians in ways that might entertain the angry Roman people and distract them from their focus on the cause of the fire. Nero arranged the executions in his gardens, and in his circus, across the Tiber from the Field of Mars, at the foot of the Vatican Hill, near where many of the Jews had settled. Tacitus tells us that “mockery of every sort was added to their deaths.” Some Christians were covered with animal skins and torn apart by vicious dogs. Others were nailed to crosses, to be crucified either in imitation of Christ, or simply as one of the Roman means of killing pris­ oners. As the sun set, many of the crucified were coated with pitch and lit on fire, “to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired.”19 Custom has it that the Apostles Peter and Paul died during this persecution. If these numbers are correct, the communities of Christ-followers in Rome would have been seriously reduced. Without a doubt, some escaped, like Prisca and Aquila had done in the previous expulsion of Jews from Rome. These anonymous Christians could have left for the communities in the east or quietly hid in cities in Italy until Nero’s soldiers stopped hunting them which didn’t take long. Any persecution of Christians didn’t outlast the initial punishment for starting a fire. It is these Christians who sustained the move­ ment from Rome. Nero’s circus had a great Egyptian obelisk in the center, and this structure today is called the “witness,” for it stood where these first Roman Christians died. Probably in the immediate aftermath of the violence, the survivors had little trouble remembering the violence, and probably most of the surviving

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quiet followers of Christ tried to avoid attracting attention to themselves. How­ ever, as we will see, in time the church will want to remember – and highlight – the deaths of those who died as a result of their religious beliefs. There are two main ways to preserve memories of an event: First, a written text, and in this case later Christians drew from Tacitus for their descriptions. The second way is to have concrete reminiscences of an event – a souvenir – to call an event to memory. In the seventeenth century, the “witness” column was moved to St. Peter’s square, where it stands today in silent memory of Nero’s cruelty (see Figure 2.1). The emperor’s excesses did not serve him well, for the horrible deaths eli­ cited some sympathy from the surrounding crowds. As Tacitus wrote, the deaths “were not for the public good, but to glut one man’s cruelty.”20 Tacitus had no idea how significant this event was; he reported it as one more example of the excesses of a cruel and corrupt emperor, who was forced to commit suicide a few years later. Most Romans probably shared Tacitus’s disinterest, but surviving Christians took a different view. At first, instead of blaming Romans for the horrible executions, these Jews who followed Christ blamed other members of the Jewish community. Only later would they turn their ire to Rome.

Figure 2.1 Witness Column in St. Peter’s Square, Rome. Photo credit: author

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The earliest Christian account of the events of 64 CE may be found in the letter of Clement of Rome to the church in Corinth. This letter was written sometime about 95 CE, or 20 years before Tacitus’s account. Clement, who had probably travelled with Paul, was an elder of the Roman church, and likely much respected as a survivor of Nero’s cruelty. Clement did not use the term “Christian,” but referred to the “church,” presumably the congregations of Jews who believed in Christ. Perhaps strangely from our point of view, Clement focused his blame for the persecution on the Jews who threw their Christian brethren to the flames and the beasts. Clement says that Peter and Paul died “through envy and jealousy.” He acknowledged that Roman offi­ cials – prefects – made the arrests, but the cause was the envy of the Jews.21 From this text, we can see that at least as late as 95 CE, followers of Christ were not yet seen as a separate religion or even community. Jews even outside Rome sometimes reacted strongly against the followers of Jesus. There is a record that in the last years of the 80s CE a Rabbi “excluded ‘Nazarenes’ and other heretics from the Jewish synagogues.”22 As time passed, the notion espoused by Paul and others had shifted. The movement of Christ-followers was not going to be one of a reform of Judaism; the two religions had split apart. In the next decades, Jews and Christians began to define themselves as different from each other, and in this new definition, both Judaism and Christianity were transformed.23 The Acts of the Apostles claims that it was in Antioch that “the disciples were for the first time called Christians” (Acts 11:26), but that term was slow to spread. In some places, they were referred to as Nazarenes, but in most places they were simply Jews – one of the many disputing groups that some­ times caused synagogues to split. However, as followers of Christ slowly began to separate themselves from their Jewish roots, the term Christian slowly began to spread. While Clement did not use it in Rome in 95 CE, Tacitus, writing in 115 CE, when he described the per­ secution under Nero did. Tacitus explained that the name originated from the name “Christus, who had been executed under Pontius Pilatus.”24 By early in the second century, Christians existed in people’s minds as a group separate from Jews. How did this separation begin? You would think the violence after the great fire would have been enough, but more destruction would confirm the separate paths of Christians and Jews. Rome went to war in the east against Jews in Judea.

The Destruction of Jerusalem In 66 CE, just two years after the Great Fire in Rome, violence broke out in Judea. There had been long-simmering tensions between Romans and fac­ tions within Judaism for decades, since about 6 CE, when Judea became a Roman province. But Rome decided to take direct action in 66, when Jewish leaders stopped paying a tax to the Romans. The Roman governor plundered the Temple, claiming that money was due to the emperor, and war broke out. When the Roman garrison of Judaea was overrun, Rome lost patience.

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General Vespasian was given command of some 60,000 troops, and he began methodically and ruthlessly to march through Judaea and suppress rebels. In 68 CE crisis came to imperial Rome. Opponents of the ruthless emperor Nero were gathering to depose him. Unable to find a way out, Nero killed himself rather than wait for the Senate to do so. Not surprisingly, future Christians would see God’s hand in Nero’s death. A year of civil war resulted as generals vied to become emperor. Vespasian in the east saw his chance; his soldiers declared him emperor, and he returned to Rome to take up rule. He left his son Titus in charge to finish the Jewish wars and take Jerusalem. Titus was stunningly successful. As the Roman forces slowly closed in on Jerusalem, the city was jammed with refugees, which led to chaos among the city’s defenders. Civil war broke out within the city, with some zealot leaders killing Jews who advocated sur­ render and compromise with Rome. Josephus, the man who had appealed to Poppaea on behalf of Jewish pris­ oners, was back in Jerusalem and fought in the war. Josephus was among the Jews who escaped from the city during the siege and surrendered to the Romans. Titus sent Josephus to negotiate with the defenders, but he was unsuccessful and wounded with an arrow during the negotiations. Eventually Josephus wrote a detailed account of the war, and he blamed the various factions within Judaism for fighting among themselves, preventing a cohesive stand against the Romans.25 He may have been right, but victory was unlikely against the relentless Roman armies under Titus. Josephus gives a detailed description of the bloody siege of the city. Jerusalem was heavily fortified, surrounded by three thick walls. Further­ more, Josephus describes how even within the city there were fortifications, for the city was built on two hills divided by a valley. The higher hill con­ tained the upper city, and was called the “Citadel” by David.26 Josephus goes on to describe the city in detail, with its towers and formidable defenses. Titus dug a huge trench around the city backed by an additional wall. Anyone caught in the trench trying to escape the city was crucified, and there were as many as 500 crucifixions a day of frightened Jews trying to escape the starvation and violence within the besieged city. Josephus and others who had been lucky enough to escape the siege earlier watched the violence from Roman camps and tried to urge their countrymen to surrender. After a seven-month siege, Titus breached the walls on the west of the city. As his soldiers entered, the defenders retreated to the upper city and the Temple itself. According to Josephus, who was always an apologist for his patron Titus, the general was horrified at the prospect of sacrilege in the Temple. He cried out to the defenders: “Why do you trample upon dead bodies in this temple? And why do you pollute this holy house with the blood both of foreigners and Jews themselves.” He said if the defenders would move their defenses elsewhere, “no Roman shall either come near to your sanctuary, or offer any affront to it; nay, I will endeavor to preserve you your holy house.”27 The Jews refused, and Titus continued his advance.

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Though Josephus continued to claim that Titus wished the Temple no harm, the Roman troops plundered and burned the city and the Temple itself, and the western wall was all that remained of Herod’s great temple. This architectural remnant was called the Wailing Wall for centuries as Jews vis­ ited the site and lamented the loss of the Temple. Now people often refer to it simple as the Wall, and it remains a center of Jewish faith and prayer. The famous Arch of Titus in Rome shows victorious soldiers carrying off the treasures from the Temple, including a massive candelabra called a menorah. Josephus said that over 1 million people were killed in the siege of Jer­ usalem, and over 97,000 were enslaved and taken to other parts of the Empire. These numbers are surely excessive, even allowing for the fact that Jerusalem was crowded with Jews for the Passover celebration. Nevertheless, they recognize that the death toll was immense, and tens of thousands of enslaved Jews were moved throughout the empire. The destruction of Jerusalem in 70 CE did not end the Jewish Wars. Revolts continued to break out for roughly another 70 years, bringing warfare and destructions throughout Judea. Finally, in 130 CE Emperor Hadrian decided to try to end Judaism, which he saw as the cause of the rebellions. He renamed Judea, calling it Syria Palaestina. The emperor then rebuilt the rubble of Jer­ usalem as a Roman city – called Aelia Capitolina – and placed a temple to Jupiter on Temple Mount, the site of the old Temple of the Jews. Jews were expelled from the city, and the Roman victory was complete. This lasted until the fourth century, when Emperor Constantine’s mother Helena redefined the spaces of the city as Christian. In the fifth century, another Christian empress Aelia Eudocia would invite the Jews back to Jerusalem recreating the reli­ giously diverse city that had plagued the Romans. But that was in the future; these Roman-Jewish wars changed both Judaism and Christianity. The destruction of Jerusalem ended the major struggles within Judaism. The Sadducees were destroyed since there was no more Temple to be a center of worship. Zealots were destroyed because there was no more room for political dissent. A respected Pharisee and Rabbi was smuggled out of Jer­ usalem before the siege, and he got permission from Vespasian to set up a school for Judaic studies at Yavneh, on the coast. From then on, the center of Judaism lay in synagogues with a strict adherence to the laws under the gui­ dance of rabbis. As rabbis focused on written texts instead of Temple worship, Judaism became increasingly a religion of the Book, and the canon of the Hebrew Scriptures slowly became established by the second century. What of the Jews who followed Jesus? Though Josephus did not mention them, Christians were among the splintered factions in Jerusalem. The apostle James was the leader of the Christian community in Jerusalem, and appar­ ently had hoped that his mission would revitalize Judaism with the message of Christ. When the Romans under Titus destroyed the Temple and the city, it ended any hope of Jerusalem being the center of Christian worship. In the aftermath of the war, Christians claimed they played no part in the fight against Rome, leaving the Jews to take all the blame. The most

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influential church historian, Eusebius, who wrote in the fourth century, drew from Josephus and the gospels to establish what became the definitive expla­ nation of the Christian conduct in the war. He said that the Christians in Jerusalem were given a divine warning to leave the city before the war began. They did so and fled across the Jordan River to a town called Pella, where they made peace with Rome and settled. Eusebius further claimed that Jer­ usalem was destroyed because the Jews refused to follow Christ.28 This is not likely what happened; it represents an example of rewriting the past that we will see a lot later when I look more closely at Eusebius’s work. However, it is not surprising that Christians would want to turn away Rome’s wrath, and in doing so they turned themselves away from their Jewish roots. There was another unintended consequence among the Christians them­ selves. As Christians dispersed and formed other communities, they increas­ ingly found new ideas that made a lie to any thought of a “bond of a common mind” that Paul and the apostles in Jerusalem advocated. We will follow this part of the story in the next chapter as I trace the development of written Christian texts. We know that in the aftermath of the destruction of Jerusalem, Jews fled far afield to preserve their lives and their communities. Some Jews went to North Africa, where the port city of Carthage welcomed the new exiles. Some went as far as south India, crossing the Arabian Sea and settling in Cochin, where synagogues today remember their origins. It is likely that Christians, too, fled far afield. One of the settlements of early Christians was in south India. When Jews and Jesus-followers alike arrived in India, they found Jewish groups, but also a Christian community. According to legend (which was written down in the early second century) the Apostle Thomas had arrived in India in about 52 CE, when Paul and the other apostles were on their own missionary activities in the Mediterranean. Reputedly, Thomas preached and converted people for twenty years in south India before he was killed near modern Chennai in the year 72 CE. The quiet Christian communities he founded in India seem to have pre­ served many of Thomas’s sayings that would be recorded in the late first century about the same time as Christians in the Mediterranean were writing down their memories of Jesus in texts that would become called the Gospels, or “good news.” It is perhaps not surprising that Thomas’s teachings had developed their own stamp in India for people always filter new messages through their own experiences. As we will see in the next chapter, this Gospel of Thomas would serve as a challenge and influence on the shaping of the evolving Christian thought. In 1523 Portuguese missionaries in south India built a large church over the old tomb of Saint Thomas and enhanced his cult. Figure 2.2 shows the tomb of Thomas in the church of Santhome in Chennai, and this church is con­ sidered one of the apostolic churches by the Catholic Church. The writing over the tomb is in Tamil script and reads “The Lord is my God.” The

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Figure 2.2 Tomb of St. Thomas, Chennai, India. Photo credit: author

church and tomb also bear witness to the long-standing devotion of com­ munities of anonymous Christians in India who preserved the veneration of the apostle and his teachings for almost 1,500 years before this basilica was built. The killings by Nero and the destruction of Jerusalem served to spread Christianity away from centers at Rome or Jerusalem. Communities persev­ ered in their beliefs – in fact, some might have seen the increased destruction as more evidence of the coming of the end times. Christians separated them­ selves from Jews – blaming Jews for both Nero’s violence to their neighbors and the conflict with Rome. What was going to be the new separate Chris­ tians’ relationship with Rome? That was still to be seen.

Problems under Emperor Domitian For thirteen years from the time of Nero through the reign of Titus (from 68 CE through 81 CE), Romans didn’t seem to notice the small congregations of Christians. These were the years that Romans fought the Jewish Wars; they destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, and they blamed the Jews for all the troubles. There was a growing contempt for Judaism among Roman writers. Tacitus, Suetonius and others wrote contemptuously about the “Jewish

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superstition” that Quintilian described as “dangerous to the rest of mankind.”29 It may be that given more time, Christian writers might have succeeded in distancing themselves from this suspicion of Jews, but they didn’t have the time. The good emperor Titus was followed by his younger brother, Domitian, and this emperor would link Christians and Jews. Domitian ruled from 81 CE until 96 CE, and during that time he earned a reputation for being a cruel, impetuous autocrat. Suetonius described how he put “many senators to death” and was “consistently discourteous and presumptuous in word and deed.”30 Needless to say, the senatorial class in Rome hated the young autocrat, and Domitian was finally assassinated in 96 CE. The angry senate condemned his memory. The Roman historians, like Suetonius, who wrote after his death followed the Senate’s condemnation and painted him in the worst possible light. Modern historians have revised their view of Domitian. They granted that he cruelly undercut the power of the Senate, but they recognize his contribu­ tions in stabilizing the economy and rebuilding Rome. Suetonius condemned the emperor’s fiscal efforts: “he resorted unhesitatingly to every form of extortion.”31 The Jews (and Christians) came to Domitian’s attention during his attempts to raise money. Somewhat ironically, Christians first clashed with Domitian’s administra­ tion over their self-definition as non-Jews. The issue arose over a two-drachma tax that Jews were supposed to pay. Vespasian had levied this tax on the Jews sometime during the Jewish wars – probably before the destruction of Jer­ usalem. Though it is impossible to get exact equivalents in today’s money, we might assume that this was about two days’ wages for a skilled worker. This money had been levied to support the Temple in Jerusalem, and it was col­ lected throughout Jewish lands.32 After the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, however, the tax became more complicated. The money now was used to support the cult of Jupiter, whose temple had been built on Temple Mount, which of course made Jews particularly resent this tax. An additional problem arose because the tax was also punitive to punish Jews who had risen up against Rome, but which Jews were responsible? So many had fled Jerusalem or had been enslaved, that there were Jews living all over the Empire. There had always been Jews living in cities other than Jerusalem, so were they also responsible for the revolt and therefore the tax? The Jewish historian, Josephus, wrote that “all who lived as Jews or followed their paternal customs” had to pay the tax.33 The clearest definition for a Jew who followed the “paternal customs” lay in the practice of circumcision, so this became the defining marker for those who owed the tax.34 What about Jews who followed Jesus? Were they to pay the tax? The Gospel of Matthew suggests that Jesus paid the two drachma (or half-shekel) tax: According to the Gospel, a tax collector came to Caperneum and asked Peter if Jesus paid the tax. Jesus told his disciple to catch a fish, and he would find a full shekel in its mouth, and to use that miraculous find to pay the tax

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(Matt 17:24–27). The Book of Matthew was written after the destruction of the Temple, when the Temple Tax had been levied; Jesus had died before its implementation. Therefore, we have to assume that at least some followers of Jesus – like Matthew – paid the tax and projected this compliance back to Jesus. Here we can see that at least some Christians were trying to avoid being condemned with Jews who were refusing to pay the tax. The requirement of circumcision as a defining feature of Jews no longer applied to all followers of Christ, so this made it complicated for Domitian’s tax collectors to decide who was a Jew. By this measure, uncircumcised Christians would not have to pay the tax, and circumcised Christians would have to pay. The situation was even more complicated because some pious Jews who didn’t follow Jesus avoided paying taxes on their servants, whom they kept uncircumcised even though they were practicing Jews.35 Historians today have trouble sorting out who should pay the tax and who shouldn’t; that is, who was Jewish and who was not. Imagine the difficulties faced by Roman tax collectors who were confounded by the twin issues of money and identity. By 92 CE Emperor Domitian faced troubles on many fronts. Bad weather in the east caused crops to fail and brought famine, and the emperor needed a lot of money to cover his expenses. Domitian expanded the tax on Jews to include not only those Jews who lived openly, but also those who were con­ verts or who attempted to hide their religion. The Roman biographer Sueto­ nius wrote that he recalled a 90-year-old man being brought forth before a crowd, where he was stripped to see if he was circumcised. He was and had to pay the tax.36 Christians resisted the tax claiming they were not Jews, so they faced the ire of the greedy emperor. It is impossible to know the extent of Domitian’s persecution of Christians. The fourth-century historian Eusebius wrote that Domitian was “the second [after Nero] to organize persecution against us,” and he claimed that “great numbers of men distinguished by birth and attainments were executed with­ out a fair trial, and countless other eminent men were for no reason at all banished from the country and their property confiscated.”37 However, as we will see in a later chapter, Eusebius emphasized Christian persecutions, so in this case he exaggerated Domitian’s persecution specifically of Christians. Eusebius’s summary probably referred to all the Romans who suffered under Domitian, whether they were Christian or not. A more reliable witness of troubles under Domitian was Clement, the elder at Rome, whose letter had blamed Nero’s persecution on Jews. Clement mentioned the trouble under Domitian almost in passing, referring to the “sudden and successive calamitous events which have happened to ourselves,”38 which had slowed down his response to the Corinthians who had solicited a letter. There were no accounts of bloody deaths like those under Nero, and most historians agree that any persecution of Christians under Domitian did not seriously threaten the young church.39 In fact, the Jewish communities suffered more under Domitian because they were more visible. Nevertheless, Christians like everyone else suffered economic hardship. Prices

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shot up, and we will see in the next chapter that new Christian writers believed that these economic hardships were targeted against them.

Christian Communities Respond Christian congregations felt the burden of political events: Nero’s persecution, the fall of Jerusalem, and Domitian’s economic pressure. But these external forces were the least of their worries. The hardest things to withstand are a loss of the hopes that brought the communities together in the first place. We saw in the last chapter that the heart of Christian hopes was twofold: First, the expectation of the imminent Second Coming of Jesus; the promise that the small communities of Christians would celebrate in heaven at the end of times. Second, people experienced charismatic gifts like speaking in tongues that bound the community together and seemed to prove the promise of the Second Coming. By the end of the first century, both these promises were broken. The elderly had died waiting for the Parousia, and the next generation had no reason to believe the world would end soon. Furthermore, as scientists have shown, glossolalia fades after the initial religious enthusiasm. These perso­ nal disappointments would only have been exacerbated by the late first century political events: The attack on Christians by Nero and Domitian and the visible destruction of Jerusalem where Jesus had walked and preached. How would the quiet Christians respond to these very deep attacks on their faith? I’m sure some gave up hope, renounced their dreams, and moved on. I hope others didn’t choose the same sad suicidal endings as some modern groups that were disappointed in their hopes of the end of the world. Groups like Heaven’s Gate, Jonestown and the Order of the Solar Temple in the 1970s and 1980s ended badly. We have no records of such communities in despair in the first century, but no one recorded any such evidence. Instead, the future of Christianity lay in the quiet Christians who stayed together as their dreams and hopes shifted. At first, when the end times didn’t come, communities probably stayed together in part because that’s what communities do. In the second century, a bishop in Turkey proudly told his congregation: “If this [the Second Coming] does not happen as I have said, believe the Scriptures no more, but let each one of you do as he will.”40 Perhaps some took his advice and moved on, but deeply held beliefs are not that simple to discard. During the years that early Christians gathered in hope, they also came together in kindness. Some of the best historians of Christianity remind us that the idea of loving one’s neighbor as oneself was new in the Roman world, and it served to bind Christian communities together in solidarity and support. Elaine Pagels describes the surprise of their Roman neighbors as Christians attended to the sick without fear of contagion, and fed the hungry, and welcomed strangers, and generally turned away from so much of the cruelty that marked life under the Empire.41 Rodney Stark also details the impact of charity and kindness that these new Christian communities practiced. He summarizes this idea succinctly

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writing, “Christians effectively promulgated a moral vision utterly incompa­ tible with the casual cruelty of pagan custom. Finally, what Christianity gave to its converts was nothing less than their humanity. In this sense virtue was its own reward.”42 The reward they got was that their congregations stayed together when disaster and despair set in. This cohesiveness built on kindness is tenuous. Even Paul’s congregations in Corinth found themselves pulled apart by human concerns from envy to pride. The communities would last for a while but they needed something to replace the original dreams. They will find these in new texts that offered new explanations of God’s plan that differed from Paul’s sense of immediacy of the end. They also discovered new examples of brave people who accepted death in ways that seemed to guarantee that God’s Spirit still worked in this world. These are the two strands we will follow in these next chapters. Let’s first turn to the texts: the world wasn’t coming to an immediate end, so it was time to write down the story of Jesus and his early followers so Christians in this enduring world would remember.

Notes 1 W.H.C. Frend. The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia, PA, 1984), 40. 2 Suetonius. The Twelve Caesars. Book V.25, trans. Robert Graves (New York, 1986), 202. 3 Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT, 2009), 56. 4 Rodney Stark. The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 31. 5 Stark, 98. 6 Josephus. “Antiquities of the Jews,”18.3.3 in Josephus: The Complete Works, trans. William Whiston (Nashville, TN, 1998), 576. 7 See Meier, J., A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus (New Haven, 2009) and Whealey, A. Josephus on Jesus: The Testimonium Flavianum Controversy from Late Antiquity to Modern Times (New York, 2003) for good summaries of the controversy regarding the text. 8 Tacitus. “The Annals,” 14.64, in The Complete Works of Tacitus, trans. A. J. Church (New York, 1942), 356. 9 E. Mary Smallwood. “The Jewish Tendencies of Poppaea Sabina,” Journal of Theological Studies, 39(1), 97–111. 10 Josephus, “Life” 3.16 in Josephus, 2. 11 Josephus, “Antiquities” 20.8.3, in Josephus, 642. 12 Tacitus, 15.38–39, 377–78. 13 Dio Cassius. Dio’s Roman History, trans. E. Cary (Cambridge, 1961), 224. Sueto­ nius, Book VI.38, 236. Tacitus, 15.40, 15.44, 378, 380. 14 Tacitus, 15.38, 376–77. 15 Tacitus, 15.44, 380. 16 Tacitus, 15.44, 380. 17 Frend, 162–163 for background of the charge of superstition. 18 Frend, 162. 19 Tacitus, 15.44, 381. 20 Tacitus, 15.44, 381. 21 “The First Epistle of Clement,” in Early Christian Writings: The Apostolic Fathers trans. M. Staniforth (New York, 1968), 25.

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22 Freeman, 72.

23 Alan F. Segal. Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World

(Cambridge, 1986), 1. 24 Tacitus. Annals, 15.44, 380. 25 Josephus. The Wars of the Jews, 5.1–6. in Josephus, 835–837. 26 Josephus, 5.4.1, 843. 27 Josephus, 6.2.1, 879–880. 28 Eusebius. The History of the Church, Book 3.5, trans. G.A. Williamson (Har­ mondsworth, 1984), 111. 29 Frend, 210–211. 30 Suetonius, Book XII.12, 308. 31 Suetonius, Book XII.12, 308. 32 See Sara Mandell, “Who Paid The Temple Tax When the Jews were under Roman Rule?” Harvard Theological Review, 77(2, April 1984), 223–232, for a full discussion of this tax. 33 Mandell, 224. 34 Mandell, 227. 35 Mandell, 227. 36 http://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/halsall/ancient/suet-domitian-rolfe.asp. 37 Eusebius, Book 3.17, 125. 38 Clement, 5. 39 Frend, 217. 40 Frend, The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia, PA, 1984), 285. 41 Elaine Pagels. Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas (New York, 2003), 8–18. 42 Stark, 215.

3

Making Sense of this World Christians Record Texts, ca. 70–150 CE

Memories are tenuous. They are formed initially shaped by people’s pre­ conceptions, and they shift over time as people continue to make sense of the past in terms of the present. So, when various Christians decided to record their memories of Jesus and the apostolic age, they remembered different things. The authors of the texts from the first and through the second cen­ turies were putting in writing the diversity of beliefs that represent the range of people’s memories. The scriptures that we have come to call the New Tes­ tament weren’t defined until the fourth century (which we will see in Chapter 10). Instead, these first and second century written texts aren’t just about the beliefs of the authors of these varying texts. The writings also reveal the beliefs of the anonymous Christians gathering in communities, because these Christians chose to read texts that were consistent with their beliefs. All these texts had limited circulation, and each congregation had its own favorite gospel that was read aloud during the services (in the same way that the previous generation read the letters of Paul).1 It is also likely that the beliefs of the various congregations shaped the actual composition of the texts. Authors write what will sell, and literature has always been a dialogue between writers, readers, and listeners each shaping the other. This was true as early Christian authors wrote down their memories and understandings of Jesus’s messages; their recollections and explanations were shaped by the congregations to whom they appealed. Another certain measure of the appeal of the many texts is that they survived, though barely and in few surviving copies. People cared enough to copy them and save them. Since these texts were written some 50 to over 100 years after the Letters of Paul, which serve to give us our earliest look at the Christian communities, we can use them to see how the interests of the congregations had changed, and the memories of the first generation of Christians changed with them. Before I turn to the texts and what they reveal about the stunning diversity of the early congregations, I should say a few words about the authors of these ancient texts. The short answer is that we don’t know. It was common, indeed essential, in the first centuries that any text should offer the authority of the apostles and early followers of Jesus. So, the circulating scrolls came to have the names of apostles. Were the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, or DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-4

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John written by the apostles? Probably not since they were written some 50 to 120 years after the death of Jesus, the apostles would have been very old at the date of composition. Such an aged writer is not impossible, but it is improb­ able. In the same way the noncanonical books (that are called apocrypha) also were credited to early followers of the Apostles. Books like the Gospels of Peter and Thomas, or the Acts of John or Paul received perceived legitimacy through the attribution of apostolic authority.2 The table in Figure 3.1 shows some of the major canonical and apocryphal gospels with their approximate dates of probable composition. The texts listed in Figure 3.1 are early gospels that purport to tell the good news of the life of Jesus. A second category of texts purport to tell the story of the acts of the apostles who followed Jesus. A sample of these Acts are listed in Figure 3.2. The combination of gospels and acts were intended to tell the significant history of Jesus and the early church, but what they actually do is preserve the memories of the past, revealing as much about the authors and the audience than any certainty of what actually happened. Theologians and historian have mined these interesting texts for all sorts of understandings about the ideas circulating during these early, formative

Figure 3.1 Table of Early Gospels. Credit: K. Hansen

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Figure 3.2 Table of Early Acts. Credit: K. Hansen

centuries of Christianity. I will only focus on three main themes that preoccupied the first generation of believers, I have laid out in the two previous chapters. First is the question of identity: were Christians Jews or something new? This question emerged strongly after the fall of Jerusalem, and it preoccupied the second gen­ eration of writers of Christian texts. Second, they had to deal with the dilemma of fading charismatic gifts in the growing congregations. The sudden appearance of glossolalia and prophecy stirred the early congregants, but by 50 years on, many had never seen these gifts and only read about them in the letters of Paul. Finally, and most significant was the question about the “end times” that Jesus and Paul promised would be imminent.

Christian Identity: Who were the Believers? The first order of business in recording people’s memories of Jesus’s ministry was to tell of the major events of his life and death as well as his sayings and teachings. The texts that do this are called “gospels,” which means “good news.” There are a couple of problems with recording memories decades after the death of Jesus. The writers were working with oral stories that were passed on, and oral stories shift in accordance with the individual’s interests and state of mind. To understand this process, we only have to compare our siblings’ memories of our childhoods to see how different they are. The same was true of the gospel writers. The three earliest gospels that survive are what will become the canonical gospels of Mark, Matthew and Luke. These three are called the “synoptic” gospels, which means they have the same view. Scholars suggest that the gospel of Mark was written first, probably about the early 70s CE, and Mat­ thew and Luke were composed a decade later partially based on Mark and/or

44

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on another list of Jesus’s sayings. The gospels – like all the writings from these early centuries – can tell us something about the authors, but also more about the communities who were the audience for these gospels. As each of the gospels targeted a slightly different audience, we can see who made up the Christian communities of the late first century CE. The gospel of Mark was written by a Greek speaker who was a member of the Jewish diaspora. He knew the Hebrew Scriptures but was not clear on the geo­ graphy of Palestine, so he probably wrote from one of the diaspora communities that had been the clear recipients of Paul’s letters. Perhaps he wrote from Rome, or more likely from one of the communities in Syria.3 Though drawn from Mark, the gospel of Matthew has a different focus and a different audience. Matthew was addressing Jewish Christians, and his gospel is careful to place Jesus in Jewish traditions and Jewish scripture. While the Gospel of Mark starts with Jesus’s baptism by John and the beginning of his ministry, Matthew begins with the Jewish genealogy of Jesus: “The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham” and goes on report the full ancestry (Matt 1 1–12.). Matthew is also the source for the account of Jesus’s birth claiming it fulfilled the Jewish prophecy that a virgin would conceive a son (Matt 1:18–24). The communities of Christians who were most strongly linked to Judaism used only the Gospel of Matthew. While Matthew was originally written in Greek, there is evidence that there had been an Aramaic translation of this gospel, reaffirming its connection to the old Jewish communities in Palestine. Luke is the longest of the gospels. He drew about 35 percent of it from Mark, perhaps another 20% from another source (now lost). Some 45 percent of the gospel is new material. Perhaps he drew from other “eyewitnesses and ministers of the word” as he says in his opening chapter (Luke 1:1–3). Luke addressed his gospel to gentile Christians in the cosmopolitan cities, and his Greek style is one of professional scribes, often slaves or freemen. His is a gospel of professional urban citizens who had been Paul’s main target.4 While these gospels differ in audience and emphasis, they all share the definitive idea that Christians are different from Jews. (Even Matthew’s gospel that was geared to Jewish converts argued that these congregations were something new from that which had gone before.) This reflects the reality that all these gospels were written after the violence of Nero and the destruction of Jerusalem that caused the clear separation. We can see this separation and growing animosity to the Jews in several instances in the texts. The Gospel of Mark claimed that the destruction of the Temple was in God’s plan and predicted by Jesus. He further wrote that Jesus foretold the dissension within the Jewish communities, where “brother will deliver up brother to death” (Mark 13:9), and that Jesus warned his followers to run to the mountains when the war began (Mark 13:14).5 The Gospel of Matthew, written after Mark, added an even more devas­ tating charge: the evangelist wrote that after Pontius Pilate sentenced Jesus to be crucified, he washed his hands and said:

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“’I am innocent of this man’s blood; see to it yourselves.’ And all the people answered, ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’” (Matt 27: 24–25). Through these words Matthew charged Jews – not the Romans – with the crime of killing Jesus, and this charge was in spite of the fact that even Roman sources described Pontius Pilate as a cruel and violent governor, and only Romans used the sentence of crucifixion. This gospel account may have first been intended to appease Romans and separate Christians from Roman anger against Jews, but it had a long-standing result. In the second century, a bishop of Sardis (in modern Turkey) was the first to bring the explicit charge of deicide against Jews, launching millennia of anti-Jewish sentiment and violence.6 This charge was only lifted at the Second Vatican Council of 1965. Luke was more sympathetic toward the Jews. While he followed Matthew in blaming the leaders of the Jews for Jesus’s death (Luke 23:20–22), he seemed to hold out hope that the multitudes of the Jews would come to follow Christ. In Luke, Jesus longs to gather his Jewish followers to him: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings” (Luke 13:34). However, since this hope of Jewish salvation lay in the future, it didn’t serve to reduce the animosity toward the Jews that the gospel writers expressed. The canonical gospels were not the only ones to blame the Jews for Jesus’s death. A Gospel of Peter circulated at the end the first century, and was widely popular, at least as read as the Gospel of Mark.7 The Gospel of Peter was not written by the Apostle Peter; its date of composition was long after the apostle died in Rome, but as with all these early texts, apostolic attribution was important. The Gospel of Peter was the most anti-Jewish of them all, vindicating Pilate and blaming the Jews for everything that happened. For example, as Jesus was being buried, Peter claims “The Jews, the elder, and the priests realized how much evil they had done to themselves and began beating their breasts, saying ‘Woe to us because of our sins. The judgment and the end of Jerusalem are near.”8 This quote also had the advantage of blaming the destruction of Jerusalem on the Jews for not following Christ, thus even absolving the Romans of that destruction. This gospel firmly defines Christians as “not Jews.” Though there is a subtle range of opinions about the Jews among these gospels, they all agree in defining Christians as separate from Jews. This established a Christian identity that was formed after the fall of Jerusalem, but even this generalization didn’t hold true for all the different groups of Christians. Some congregations of Jewish converts continued to define themselves as orthodox Jewish, and some texts – that were later con­ demned by Church leaders and lost for centuries – were written for these Christians. From sources dating from the second to the fourth centuries, we know of a number of Christian groups who defined themselves as strict followers of Jewish Law, just as they claimed Jesus himself had lived.9 These Christians

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called themselves (or were called by others) various names: Ebionites or Nazareans, but all considered themselves first and foremost Jews. They believed that Jesus was the Son of God, not because of a miraculous virgin birth; they believed he was born as the eldest son of the sexual union of his parents, Joseph and Mary. Instead, God adopted Jesus as his son because Jesus kept God’s law perfectly and was the most righteous man on earth. As a sign of Jesus’s perfection, God raised him from the dead and brought him to heaven. The Ebionites were strict vegetarians, seemingly rejecting any form of animal killing as a sacrifice which they found forbidden. What texts did these communities use to preserve and validate their beliefs and identity as Jews? Logically they retained the Hebrew Bible (now called the Old Testament by Christians), but they completely rejected all the letters of Paul. After all, Paul had claimed that gentiles did not need to follow Jewish law. They did accept the Gospel of Matthew, as the most Jewish of the gospels, setting Jesus in the context of the genealogy of the Israelites. It may be they used the Aramaic version of Matthew, which lacked the chapters that argued that Jesus was born of a virgin.10 They also used a book referred to as the Gospel of the Nazareans, and another, the Gospel of the Hebrews. Some of the remaining fragments of these gospels show some of the chan­ ges they made from the other texts that circulated at the time. For example, where Mark says John the Baptist ate locusts and wild honey (Mark 1:6), the Gospel of the Ebionites wrote that John ate a diet of pancakes and honey,11 thus avoiding the eating of meaty locusts. All these expressions of beliefs articulated in these written Jewish gospels might obscure the basic reality that I’ve been arguing: All these quiet Chris­ tians were bound together by community more than some externally imposed sense of orthodoxy that was written down, but the texts remind us that loyalty to community was local, bound to each congregation. Some Christians believed in their Jewish identity, and the gospel-writers wrote down texts to reinforce their beliefs, while others focused on the Greek cities. The con­ gregations read them in their services, reinforcing the legitimacy of their beliefs. When scrolls circulated that argued for a different opinion (like the letters of Paul) they simply ignored them. A quote that the Church Father Jerome makes from the Gospel of the Hebrews strongly reinforces this idea of community as being the central component of their belief: Jerome wrote of the Hebrews “the following is described as among the worst offenses: that someone should make the spirit of his brother sad.”12 Regardless of the scriptural texts, this is the heart of the early Christian communities: they were joined in kindness and linked by a common mind.

Charismatic Gifts We have seen that one of the central parts of Paul’s description lay in the charismatic proof of the presence of the Spirit, and these new texts had to explain the decline in these phenomena. One of the central markers of these

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gifts lay in glossolalia, the mysterious speaking in tongues. Since glossolalia fades with time, it is not surprising that most of these later texts didn’t men­ tion it. The few mentions are there to reconcile the texts with the Letters of Paul that still circulated. The only Gospel that mentioned glossolalia was Mark, the earliest, and therefore closest to the early communities. Following Paul, Mark lists the gifts of the spirit that will accompany those who believe: “they will cast out demons; they will speak in new tongues” and they will lift up serpents without fear (Mark 16:17–18). This passage has led some modern charismatic movements to bring venomous snakes to service,13 but historically most churches pass over this passage as referring to a historical moment in time. We can’t know which way the second-century Christians handled this passage, but there was probably no consistency, and each congregation read what was relevant to them. When Acts describes the Pentecost descent of the Spirit on the Apostles, the author (probably Luke) defines “speaking in tongues” as speaking in other languages instead of the mysterious spiritual language Paul described (Acts 2:6–10). Anyone who has heard glossolalia would never mistake it for foreign languages, but Luke either hadn’t heard glossolalia or he wanted to reduce the charismatic emphasis. Yet, Luke kept open the possibility of the faithful experiencing Paul’s prophetic and charismatic gifts, but he pushed their manifestation to the “last days” when God will pour out his Spirit “upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy… . “ (Acts 2:17). Therefore, those Christians who no longer experienced the immediacy of the Spirit could be consoled that these gifts would return. Luke’s consolation in Acts left open the third major problem faced by the late first century Christians (and all those that followed): When would the world come to an end? All these texts tried to explain why Paul’s promise of the imminent end of the world didn’t come to pass. Implicit in this explanation is to answer what comes next? How do we find meaning in the world that continues to exist? Orthodox churchmen found the most threatening texts dealing with this problem were the Gnostics, who promised a secret knowledge that explained everything in a way that didn’t make a lie of Jesus’s and Paul’s message.

Gnostic Texts: Secret Knowledge Explains the End Times The easiest way to reconcile the continuation of the world was to say that people misinterpreted Jesus’s and Paul’s words. Even though the canonical Gospel of Mark was still promising an imminent second coming: “Truly, I say to you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see that the kingdom of God has come with power” (Mark 9:1), this was a posi­ tion that was getting harder to sustain. By the second century (at least), a competing view was circulating among Christian communities. This argued that Jesus had entrusted a secret knowledge to some of his disciples. This knowledge is called gnosis which is the Greek word for “knowledge,” and those entrusted with the knowledge were called “Gnostics.”

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The term “gnostic” itself is controversial and has been increasingly under attack by some modern scholars. One major problem with the term is that writers of what have become called “gnostic texts” never self-identified as “gnostics.”14 They just articulated their view of the Christian message. Other Christians, who came to be called “orthodox” defined these ideas as heretical and labeled them accordingly.15 With these cautions in mind, I will describe the texts that have come to be called “gnostic” to try to understand the general ideas that later became condemned. However, during these early centuries of Christian growth, there seem not to have been gnostic churches, nor did all who came to be labeled as gnostic share all their ideas. One of the most influential of these Gnostic texts was the Gospel of Thomas, the Apostle who purportedly taught and died in India. Unlike the canonical gospels, Thomas’s Gospel doesn’t tell of Jesus’s life; instead it records Jesus’s sayings that were remembered and preserved by the Apostle. These sayings sometimes read like Buddhist koans: hard to interpret and designed to guide the seeker to an internal wisdom – a secret knowledge of the truth of Jesus’s message. As the Gospel of Thomas articulates in the beginning: “Whoever finds the interpretation of these sayings will not experience death.”16 Here is the essential redefinition: the “end” isn’t of the world, but of our ignorance. Gnostics and their texts created an alternative understanding that other followers of Christ found so threatening that their books were destroyed and for a long time we knew of Gnostics only from their many Christian critics. In 1945 all that changed when an Arab peasant found an urn containing 13 papyrus books bound in leather at Nag Hammadi, Egypt. In the 1960s scholars working on these Nag Hammadi texts found they had discovered a treasure-trove of texts from early Christianity, and most revealed the thought of Gnosticism. Now scholars could recreate these ideas of an almost lost era. Just like the canonical writings, many of these Gnostic gospels, like that of Thomas, were purported to be written by apostolic followers of Jesus. We have Gospels of Philip and John, James, Mary Magdalene, the Secret Gospel of Mark and others. There are also Acts of John, Paul, Thecla, Thomas, and Peter (see Figure 3.2). Another feature of these texts is that they reveal that Gnosticism was as diverse as other Christian communities. As Bart Ehrman noted, “Probably different documents come from different communities with different worldviews, mythological systems, beliefs, and practices.”17 Just like non-Gnostic Christians, each community produced and favored texts that reinforced their beliefs. But we can make some generalizations about the ideas of the Gnostics. Just like the Gospel of Thomas promised, the coming of the Kingdom of God was the central promise of the first generation of Christians, and it was readily at hand. The Gospel of Thomas claims Jesus ridiculed those who thought of the Kingdom of God in literal terms: “If those who lead you say to you, ‘Look, the Kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds will arrive there before you. If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will arrive before

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you… . Instead, the Kingdom is inside of you.” In the text, the disciples, persisted in questioning Jesus, saying “When will … the new world come?” He answers, “What you look forward to has already come, but you do not recognize it.”18 This solves the problem of the imminent Second Coming; it has arrived, and only those who possess the “secret knowledge” – the Gnosis – recognize it. The Gnostic texts argue that the Kingdom is within each person, through an internal transformation.19 This internal transformation also addressed the second concern we saw with the changing communities of Paul: How do you know the Spirit is still working in this world when the charismatic gifts like glossolalia are no longer manifesting themselves? The Gnostic answer was that the “fulfillment” or enlightenment of the individual through the understanding of Jesus’s secret message was all the evidence they needed. By moving the kingdom of God to within each enlightened person, Gnostics created a view of the world and its creation that would once and for all separate them from the Jewish roots of Christianity. Since they advocated not a redemp­ tion of this world, but an escape from it, Gnostics viewed the material world as evil. If the world was evil, then it could not have been created by a good God, a God of love. No, for many Gnostics, the world was created by an evil God, and therefore the creator God of the Hebrew Scriptures was the evil God, and Jews and pagans alike worshipped this false God that created conditions that brought only suffering to humans. (We can note that this view is similar to Buddhism that sees all life as suffering, relieved only by enlightenment.) So this striking feature of Gnosticism is a retreat from monotheism and the introduction of a radical dualism that embraced two Gods as an explanation for the evil of this world.20 Since Gnostics believed that an evil God had created the material world – including our bodies – they had to reconsider the crucifixion and the resurrec­ tion. Bart Ehrman explains this conundrum: “But how could Jesus himself, who represented the nonmaterial God, come into this material world – created by the other God – without becoming part of it? How could the nonmaterial become material, even for such a good and noble cause as salvation?”21 The gnostic solution was that Jesus did not have a material body; he wasn’t born; he wasn’t fully human. He was fully God. Jesus only appeared to die on the cross so he saved us without ever being entrapped in the material world of the evil God that entangles the rest of us. There are all kinds of theological problems with the idea that Christ didn’t have a material body, and theologians throughout the early Middle Ages would argue these matters. But most of the quiet Christians in these congregations probably didn’t worry about the theological implications of these ideas. However, as we will see in Chapter 6, these Christians would notice the dramatic different behavior between Gnostics and other Christians when they faced martyrdom. I’ll trace that part of the story below, but at this formative beginning, it seemed fine for some Christians to believe in secret knowledge. Some of the Gnostic texts offer complex cosmologies of hierarchical hea­ vens and beings, which are fascinating but out of the scope of this work. In

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The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

fact, Williams sees this cosmology as the defining feature of these diverse Gnostic ideas and suggest the term “biblical demiurgical” as a term to replace the more ambiguous “Gnosticism.”22 I want to consider the quiet Christians who worked together in their communities and chose which texts to read in their congregations. As Elaine Pagels reminds us, “Christians, gnostic and orthodox, … concerned themselves with ideas primarily as expressions or symbols of religious experience.”23 How were these ideas expressed in community, which was where early Christianity resided? There were two ways for Gnosticism to be expressed in community: either the whole congregation embraced Gnosticism or some individuals within mixed congregations believed they had achieved the secret knowledge of the Gnostics while they enjoyed the communion of the Christian communities. Both options appeared in these early centuries. The most visible Gnostic community was that founded by Marcion, the son of a Christian priest who lived in the city of Sinope on the southern shore of the Black Sea. Marcion founded his own congregation that was called by his critics, the “Marcionites.” This group seemed so threatening that the third-century theologian Tertullian wrote five volumes attacking Marcion and his ideas. Marcion compiled his own scriptures, rejecting the pro-Jewish scriptures in accordance with Gnostic beliefs that the Jewish God was the evil creator of the world. Instead, he focused on the letters of Paul, whom he believed had acquired the secret knowledge of Jesus as the non-material spiritual savior. It is more difficult to tease out communities that included members that shared Gnostic beliefs because most of the time they were not visible. We will see the tension within the communities themselves when I look at the mar­ tyrdom in Lyon. However, from the gnostic texts themselves, we can see that although the idea that some people possessed secret knowledge might seem to lead to a splintering of communities, indeed the gathering of the faithful with a common mind remained central. The text “The Apocalypse of Peter” claimed that those who had been enlightened would neither choose to dominate others, nor be dominated. Instead “they participate in the wisdom of the brotherhood that really exists… the spiritual fellowship with those united in communion.”24 Another text, The Second Treatise of the Great Seth repeats this idea, saying that the true church is the union of the congregation with each other and with God: “united in the friendship of friends forever, who neither know any hostility, nor evil, but who are united by my gnosis… in friendship with one another.”25 Other gnostic writers drew from the letters of Paul to remind each other that some members of the community have spiritual gifts and others do not, but they are all part of the body of Christ. While Paul referred to glossolalia and prophecy, the Gnostics wrote of secret knowledge, but the principle was the same. The essential part of Christian congregations in the first few cen­ turies was the community itself.

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Over time, the varied Gnostic texts were suppressed and mostly lost. However, they left their mark because one of the most influential canonical gospels – that of John – was written in large part to refute the Gnostics, and in particular the Gospel of Thomas.

Repudiating the Gnostics: The Gospel of John The Gospel of John was written in about 90 CE, some 20 years after the synoptic gospels. John probably knew of the Gospel of Thomas; either he read it or both Thomas and John drew from the same sources.26 In fact, Thomas became the most popular of the purported Gnostic authors, and various texts were attributed to Thomas even beyond the Gospel. There are books and acts and apocalypse of Thomas,27 and this apostle came to be the visible face of the Gnostic view of Christianity. It also appears that the struggle with Gnostics created the Gospel of John. John repeatedly made the point that readers should reject the secret knowledge of the Gnostics and embrace a different view of Jesus’s message. For but one example, John claimed that Jesus alone embodied the divine light, while Thomas promised that this divine light was present in everyone.28 By working to repudiate the Gnostics, John departed significantly from the synoptic gospels in a number of ways. In the first place, the apostle Thomas is featured several times in the Gospel of John, no doubt claiming the gnostic Thomas for the orthodox.29 In the synoptic gospels, Thomas is only listed as one of the apostles, he does not take a leading role in any of the anecdotes of Jesus’s life. Another change is that John claimed directly that Jesus was God, avoiding the ambiguous designations, like “son of man”, that the other gospel writers used. In fact, in John’s gospel it is Thomas who recognizes the risen Jesus and claims “My Lord and my God” (John 20:28). The fact that Thomas serves to identify Jesus as God and wholly separate from humanity undercuts the gnostic view and directly addresses those communities who loved the Gnostic gospel of Thomas. In case this distinction was too subtle for believers, John gives Thomas another central role – that of “doubting Thomas.” In John’s account, when Thomas heard that Jesus had been resurrected, Thomas said “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe” (John 20:25). Eight days later, when Jesus came and stood among the apostles, Jesus urged Thomas to touch him, saying “do not be faithless, but believing.” At this, Thomas deci­ ded he did not need to touch to believe, but called Jesus, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus responded “Have you believed because you have seen me? Bles­ sed are those who have not seen and yet believe” (John 20:27–29). In case this anecdote wasn’t enough of a lesson, John restates the point of it. He writes that Jesus did many other things that John didn’t recount, but John wrote this “that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in his name” (John 20:31). John placed Thomas

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The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

in this account to show that quiet Christians gathering in the communities did not need secret knowledge that the Gnostic gospels promised; they only needed faith. What of the problem of the end of times − that promise of the Second Coming that was continually delayed? Unlike the Gnostics, who said the end came in the enlightenment of the individual, or the synoptic gospels that urged patience, John took a different tack. Both Thomas and John told Christians that those looking for the “end times” were asking the wrong question. Instead of looking toward the end, both apostles tell the faithful to look at the beginning instead. Thomas reprimands those who keep asking him about the “end time,” saying “Have you found the beginning, then, that you look to the end? … . for whoever takes his place in the beginning will know the end and will not taste death.” This means that those who under­ stand the beginning will be restored to the light that existed before creation.30 This is admittedly hard to understand, but that is the nature of many of the Gnostic sayings – like a Buddhist koan they take thought and enlightenment to understand. The Gospel of John takes this idea on directly, and poetically. Unlike the Gospel of Matthew which begins with the Hebrew genealogy of Jesus, placing him solidly within the history of the Jewish people, John begins before the crea­ tion of time itself: “In the beginning was the Word (Greek Logos), and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made (John 1:1–3). For John, Jesus was the Word that was coeternal with God. This is how John locates Jesus as God. John further departs from Thomas by insisting that Jesus as God is the one eternal “light.” According to John, Jesus said “I am the light of the world; he who follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). This is in direct contrast with Thomas who urged everyone to find the light that exists within each of us. Thomas urged salvation through knowledge; John through faith. Did congregations waiting for the end times find this focus on the begin­ ning consoling? Maybe some did and certainly many did not. There was some controversy even in the fourth century about whether the gospel of John should be included in the canon of scripture, and certainly the Letters of Paul and the synoptic gospels circulated more widely during the first two centuries. Yet, like all these early texts, John’s gospel was addressed to particular groups, and reading between the lines of his gospel, we can learn something about these anonymous believers. What groups chose John’s gospel to read? John no doubt wrote to bring Gnostic Christians to his point of view, but it seems he was only partially successful in this. The Gospel of John was already widely copied and spread through Rome, Egypt, Syria and the Middle East by the early years of the second century. But we also know that there were many apocryphal texts composed during the same years featuring Thomas and actu­ ally using the Gospel of John to advocate for a Gnostic understanding.31 This suggests the not surprising view that congregations chose texts that for the most

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part reinforced their already-held understandings. These Christian congregations were not easily swayed from their faith-based beliefs. John’s appeal was dramatically successful with another group: Greek gen­ tiles. He did this in two ways: first, further separating Christians from Jews, and second, reconciling Greek thought with Christian ideas. Let’s first look at John’s position with regard to the Jews. John’s is the first Gospel that uses the word “Jew,” where the other Gospels referred to sects – like Pharisees – within Judaism, thus assuming that the readers were Jews. For example, when John writes of Jesus’s mission in the Galilee, he claims Jesus “would not go about in Judea, because the Jews sought to kill him” (John 7:1). Again, when describing Jesus’s entry into Jer­ usalem, John says the “Passover of the Jews was at hand,” (John 11:55). The other Gospels simply mentioned Passover, assuming their Jewish-aware audi­ ence would know what that was. So here, John could not assume his audience knew about Jewish holidays and traditions. There was an audience that would find John’s words familiar – Greeks and Greek-speaking Romans seeking the divine. During the second century and beyond, pagans, like Christians, were thinking about how to bring spirituality to their lives. The most popular pagan movement was derived from Plato’s philosophic views of a perfect world somewhere else that informed this world. By the third century, the pagan Plotinus had distilled these ideas into a movement called “neo-Platonism.” In this system, the Platonists posited divine emanations coming from the mind of God – or the “one.” These emanations were first named by the Logos, or Word, then proceeded to this world into a “world soul,” that I picture as kind of a transforming station. From here, the divine emanations entered us, offering a divine, spiritual soul. This system was consistent with those Gnostic texts that saw a hierarchy of beings leading from the earth to the divine, so there were Greeks who fol­ lowed the recognizable Gnostic teachings. But the Gospel of John offered them a clear path to follow Christ by placing Jesus as the incarnate “word,” the logos made flesh. Congregations, and really people everywhere, are com­ fortable with the familiar. John’s gospel offered this familiarity to pagans wrestling with Platonism as an explanation of divinity. John’s gospel was readily received in these gentile communities. We might think that Christians would wonder about these different descriptions of the good news of Jesus’s life and missions. During the first few centuries, there was no dispute because these quiet congregations simply read the texts that suited them and ignored the others. Any thought of recapturing the “common mind” that Paul was hoping for was delayed by time and dis­ tance and competing texts. We will see that in the fourth-century church lea­ ders will try to select the canonical accounts, and one of the biggest concerns was the difference among the synoptic gospels and that of John. The fourthcentury church historian Eusebius explained how these differences came about. According to Eusebius, John had read the first three gospels that were circulating. He “confirmed their accuracy,” but said that they lacked the story

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The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

of what “Christ had done first of all at the beginning of His mission.” Euse­ bius explains that this is why there seems to be some discrepancy among the gospels because John writes with a different purpose.32 Eusebius was struggling with absolute truth; the reality was that in these early centuries theology was driven by the beliefs of the congregations who chose the texts they liked to tell the story of Jesus’s mission. Jews favored Matthew; gentiles liked John, and Gnostics could use Thomas, and all con­ gregations could pick other texts that proliferated.

Reinterpreting the End Times: Book of Revelation Although Thomas and John tried to urge believers to focus on Christ’s beginnings rather than the end times, plenty of Christians found that unsatisfy­ ing. They wanted to know the ending of this story that Paul had promised would come immediately. A number of writers produced apocalyptic literature, or pro­ phetic revelations of the future. Only one such book, called “Revelation” was eventually included in the canonical Bible, and I’ll discuss that influential book below, but first I want to remind us that Revelation was only one apocalyptic work out of many (some are listed in the chart in Figure 3.3). Each of these works was revered by various early Christian groups, allowing each community to choose what they thought the future held. Instead of going through each work, I’ll summarize the general nature of the apocalyptic literature. Some focus on visions of heaven and hell, pushing the “end” from this world into judgements in the next. Two of the most popular of these visions are the Apocalypse of Peter and that of Paul. Paul’s vision gives the introduction to this type of literature, when he writes that he spoke to an angel saying “I wish to see the souls of the just and of sinners, and to see in what manner they go out of the body.”33 Peter’s apocalypse reads like Dante’s Inferno, with visions of hell. Other books provide general warnings of future catastrophes on earth, and others show secret knowledge

Figure 3.3 Table of Apocalyptic Texts. Credit: K. Hansen

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of how the world came into being. What all these works promised was that prophecy still appeared sometimes in the communities. They perhaps seldom experienced the charismatic gifts like speaking in tongues, but by reading the visions purportedly granted to some, they could believe that the Spirit still worked within the Christian communities (regardless of their increasing diversity). The one Apocalypse that has remained most influential was the Revelation of a man named John. This one made it into Scripture though not without controversy. A third-century Christian (Dionysus of Alexandria) claimed it was “Not a revelation at all, since it is heavily veiled by its thick curtain of incomprehensibility.”35 It is likely that its very ambiguity allowed it to become a blank canvas up which people could add their own interpretations. Let’s look more closely at this visionary piece that shaped much of Christian history, and it began in the troubles I mentioned in the last chapter – the violence of Nero and Domitian. As we have seen in Chapter Two, Emperor Domitian was a terrible emperor who was incapable of responding to crises that confronted the Empire. During the famines in Asia during the years 92–93 CE, many people – Christians and pagans alike – responded by protests and violence. Some Christians struggled to accommodate the difficulties experienced under the reign of Domitian, but others apparently preached that the difficulties foretold the “last days” that marked the second coming of Jesus and the end of the world. These apocalyptic Christians offended their neighbors and Roman officials by their appearing to celebrate the coming of hard times. Some Christians (and pagans alike) were banished so the emperor could confiscate their property. One of the banished was a man named John, who was exiled to the island of Patmos, a rocky island off the coast of modern Turkey. While some early Christians claimed that this was the same John who wrote the Gospel of John, modern scholarship has dismissed this idea based on the different quality of the Greek language used. No, this is another John; probably a Christian from Ephesus who had come to the attention of Domitian’s officials. In any case, John was exiled to Patmos. This island is only about 13 square miles of rocky cliffs overlooking often stormy seas. Purportedly, while John was in a cave on the island, he received a vision, which he recorded on a scroll. The Book begins with an address to seven of the main Christian churches in Asia Minor: Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Phi­ ladelphia, and Laodicea. John encouraged these churches to hold themselves aloof from the non-Christian communities; he wanted no compromise or engagement with Rome. Instead, John offered them apocalyptic hope; Jesus is returning soon (Rev. 22:20). The Revelation of John, like other apocalyptic writings, addresses the direct problem confronted by Christians waiting for the Second Coming. John offered an explanation that shifted the expectations of quiet Christians wor­ shipping in house churches. John did two things: first he emphasized the signs

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The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE

that were to signal the end times – specifically famine and wars and troubles, just like he experienced under Domitian. Secondly, John targeted Rome as the enemy. This was dramatically different from Gospels that focused their ire on Jews for the death of Jesus, specifically exonerating Pontius Pilate, who represented Rome washing his hands of this crime. Now, John directed Christians in a war against Rome. In soaring poetic language, John announced that an age of struggle had dawned: “For men have shed the blood of/saints and prophets” (Rev. 16:6), and in this struggle, Christians were set against the power of the state. In John’s vision, a beast rose out of the sea that was “allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them” (Rev 13:7), and most commentators today view this “beast” as the Roman Empire. The “number” of this beast – 666—probably referred to Emperor Nero, for the sum of the letters in his name. In the vision of John, the persecution of Christians by Nero was not an isolated incident conducted by a desperate and unhinged emperor. This is how Tacitus and other commentators had styled the deaths. Instead, John saw the persecution as the beginning of a protracted battle between Christians and Rome, and Domitian’s actions fit right in. John ignored the periods of time when Rome ignored Christians, and he overlooked the slow, peaceful, steady spread of Christianity throughout the cities of the Empire. In his anger, John saw everything as a huge war. Sadly, that position caused some Christians to see themselves at war with Rome, spurring them on to die for the faith. John’s visions foretold a fierce struggle between Christians and the world, and many Christians believed they foretold future persecutions. This is the problem with a book of prophecy: does it describe a current situation or did it foretell the future? Regardless of what John had intended, future readers for the next two thousand years have used this work to predict upcoming apocalyptic disasters. However, John promised victory for the faithful who would reign in heaven: “I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded for their testimony to Jesus and for the word of God, and who had not worshiped the beast.” John also foretold a future justice when unbelievers who had persecuted the faithful would be “thrown into the lake of fire” (Rev 20:4, 15). Here is the first time the Bible advocates an embrace of dying for religion – and a reward for those who died in the faith. John changed the language and the nature of the struggle. No longer were Jews arguing with Jews about the nature of Judaism; now Christians were fighting Rome for the soul of the Empire. With his powerful and elegant metaphors, John may have originally inten­ ded to reassure beleaguered Christians and to urge them not to succumb to the coercive power of the empire, but he ended up drawing battle lines that cast the struggle between the faithful and the unbelievers into a cosmic battle between good and evil, and Rome was evil. Like all the competing ideas that were circulating during these early cen­ turies, John’s ideas spread slowly and uncertainly. Like other Christian writ­ ings, John’s vision was recorded on scrolls and copied many times. Christians carried these scrolls to various congregations and read them out loud along

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with letters from Paul, the Gospels, and all the other growing body of Christian writings. Like all the texts, congregations selected those that were most relevant to their experiences. We can’t trace the spread exactly, but it is likely that com­ munities slowly growing in cities without conflict didn’t bother with it. However, in places that came into conflict with Roman authorities, congregations might have turned to this prophetic text. With John’s vision, Christians now had two things: a new enemy – the Roman Empire – and a model of dying that promised heavenly rewards. In 95 CE Christians reading John’s book believed the battle lines had been formally drawn, and pagan Romans had no idea they were engaged in this war.

Conclusion While the Book of Revelation was still slowly circulating among Christian communities, Emperor Domitian was murdered in his bedroom in 96 CE by a conspiracy of court officials sick of the emperor’s cruelty and excesses. The senate quickly made Nerva, a 65-year-old childless senator emperor. This was a good choice, and Nerva served almost two years before he died of natural causes. Nerva immediately moved to restore Rome’s traditional moderate rule, and his decrees helped Christians who had fallen out of favor under Domitian. He recalled the surviving victims of Domitian’s repression, and Eusebius wrote that John left Patmos to return to Ephesus on the mainland, where he lived out his life in the Christian community in that marble city. This careful emperor also forbad anyone to bring accusations of impiety against anyone who adopted Jewish ways, undoing Domitian’s harsh policies. The new emperor even no longer charged Christians the Jewish tax, acknowledging the separation of the two peoples. It seemed that John’s pro­ phecy of catastrophic struggle didn’t come true. But this text, like the other apocalyptic texts continued to circulate, and in time they seem relevant again. All these diverse circulating texts made a clear lie of Paul’s and others’ hopes for a “bond of a common mind” that would link Christian communities across space and through time. We will see that in the fourth century church leaders try to establish such a common understanding by regulating the texts that were deemed appropriate to read. That’s how so many of these apocryphal texts were lost for centuries and no doubt many more have been forgotten. This same desire for uniformity continued throughout the Middle Ages in struggles against heresies and into the Reformation when diversity of opinion and faith led to different Christian churches. But that was in the future. During the first and second centuries, quiet Christians worshiped in their local communities reading the texts that they found comforting and familiar and consistent with their shifting understanding of Christian thought. Sustained by the strength of their communities and the comforting reading of their texts, their numbers increased. There are no precise numbers, but I’ll take Rodney Stark’s educated estimates. He proposed a 40 percent per decade (or 3.42 percent per year) as a plausible estimate of growth. Using those not excessive percentages, he

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calculates that out of a population of the Roman Empire of about 60 million, by the year 150 CE there would have been about 40,500 Christians, and by the year 200 CE there would have been just under 220,000.36 Since most of these communities would have been located in the urban centers of the Roman Empire, these numbers would have made Christians visible by the end of the second century. As Romans began to notice their neighbors, most (if any) didn’t bother wondering what they believed, or what the diversity of beliefs appeared throughout the many congregations. In fact, as we look at the wide diversity of circulating texts, we might wonder how to define Christians at all. For all the diversity of ideas, a couple of things remained constant: first, and most obvious, the veneration of Jesus. But secondly, there seems to have been a remarkable cohesiveness in the religious practices that tied the communities together better than any discussion of ideas that appeared in the written texts. In the next chapter I’ll turn from various texts to the actual practices that took place in the house churches as Christians worshipped. I will also see the growing suspicion that sometimes arose between Romans and Roman Chris­ tians, as pagan Romans misunderstood what their neighbors were doing. The peaceful coexistence that Emperor Nerva introduced would periodically break down as sometimes anonymous neighbors turned on each other, and in places John of Revelation was right. A struggle was beginning.

Notes 1 Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT, 2009), 73. 2 Bart D. Ehrman. Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew (Oxford, 2003), 10–11. 3 Freeman, 75. 4 Freeman, 82. 5 Elaine Pagels. The Origin of Satan (New York, 1995), 3–34, for an in-depth analysis of the relationship between the Gospel of Mark and the Jewish Wars. 6 James Carroll. Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews (New York, 2001), 7. 7 Ehrman. Lost Christianities, 22. 8 Bart D. Ehrman. Lost Scriptures: Books that Did not Make it into the New Testament (New York, 2003), 33. 9 See Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 99–103. 10 Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 102. 11 Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 13. 12 Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 16. 13 The film Holy Ghost People that I mentioned in Chapter One shows this snake handling. 14 Michael Williams. ying in their own way will not Rethinking “Gnosticism:” An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton, NJ, 1999), 32. See also, Karen King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, MA, 2003) for a similar argument. 15 Williams, 33–36.

16 Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 20.

17 Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 115.

18 Pagels, The Gnostic Gospels (New York, 1979), 154–55.

19 Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, 156.

Making Sense of this World 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

59

Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 119.

Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 105.

Williams, 265.

Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, 171.

Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, 128.

Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, 128.

Pagels. Beyond Belief The Secret Gospel of Thomas (New York, 2003), 39–40.

Glenn W. Most. Doubting Thomas (Cambridge, MA, 2005), 89–92.

Pagels, Beyond Belief, 41.

Two books develop this intersection between the gospels of John and Thomas:

Pagels, Beyond Belief, and Most, Doubting Thomas. Pagels, Beyond Belief, 52. Most, 94. Eusebius. The History of the Church, Book 3.24, trans. G.A. Williamson (New York, 1984), 132–133. Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 289. Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 250. Freeman, 106. Rodney Stark. The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 6–7.

4

Christians Practice Their Faith

Before dawn on Sunday mornings, Christians in the major cities of the Roman Empire left their homes and walked through the narrow urban streets to meet at the designate home that served as the house church for their con­ gregation. As we have seen, these congregations were small and intimate – about 30 to 100 people – so large cities had several house churches. Even as early as the early first century, Paul refers to several households in his letters: He wrote of Stephanas’ house in Corinth and those of Crispus and Gaius.1 Some homes belonged to wealthy widows, like Phoebe and others mentioned in Paul’s letters and the Acts of the Apostles. As we might expect, some houses were modest and others wealthy. The oldest surviving example of a wealthier house church has survived in the garrison town of Dura-Europos on the Euphrates River. Here in about 232 CE, a church hall was built within the confines of a private house. This housechurch had a congregation of about 70 people, and to facilitate their worship, artists had painted frescoes of Christ on the walls.2 In this room, we can see the slow development of places of worship. Throughout the few centuries that this book covers, this is where people worshipped: in their homes in their communities. Only in the fourth century, did Christians take over the Roman public buildings – the Basilicas – for their worship. The Roman calendar during the Empire divided the months into seven-day weeks. (This replaced an earlier Roman construct of an eight-day week allowing one day for “market day.”) The seven-day week probably derived from astrologers who determined that each day corresponded to one of the seven heavenly objects: Suns-day, Moons-day, Mars-day, etc. Jews also used a seven-day week that they probably inherited from the Babylonian astrologers, yielding the Genesis account of a seven-day creation. This was the structure the Christians inherited as they organized their worship. Why did they gather on Sunday? First, we should note that such gatherings were not exclusive to Sundays; each congregation might add other days to gather, and some might have periodically met daily for prayers and compa­ nionship. Jews had celebrated on the Sabbath, the seventh day of the week when God purportedly rested from his labors of creation. Christians wanted to set themselves apart from their Jewish origins, so they selected a different DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-5

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day for their formal celebrations. The apocryphal work, the Epistle of Bar­ nabas, written about the year 130 CE, explained this choice of a day. In this work of heavy allegory Barnabas completely dismisses Jewish origins of Christianity as simply a pointer to Christ. The author writes that Jesus pro­ claimed “It is not these sabbaths at the present age that I find acceptable, but one of my own appointment: … the commencement of a new world.” Bar­ nabas advocated celebrating what he called the Eighth Day, “that was when Jesus rose from the dead, and showed Himself again, and ascended into heaven.”3 What Barnabas called the “eighth day” was the first day of the seven-day week, that is, Sunday. Thus, Sunday became the sacred day of rest for Christians to define themselves as different from Jews. No one really knew what day of the week Jesus was Resurrected nor when he ascended to heaven, but locating these days on Sunday, gave a religious reason to make Sundays holy. Of course, this attribution later shaped other parts of the religious holidays. For example, if the Resurrection took place on Sunday, then the crucifixion took place three days earlier, which over time became “good Friday.” It didn’t take long for people who walked to the house churches on Sunday morning forgot the association with – and rejection of – the Jewish Sabbath celebrations, and simply celebrated the miracle of Jesus.

House Church Services The rejection of Jewish ritual also shaped other parts of Christian worship. One of our best sources of information about early church practice is a text called The Teaching of the Lord to the Gentiles, through the Twelve Apostles, though today it is simply called The Didache (The “Teaching”). I will refer to this text repeatedly as I describe the practices of the early congregations. This text was discovered in a monastery library in 1873, and it had been lost for millennia. It was probably written in the late first century, and it provides the best evidence for the late first century Christianity. The Didache accepted worship on Sunday as a given: “Assemble on the Lord’s Day,”4 but it also found another way to separate from Jews: fasting. Almost all religions celebrate ritual eating and also ritual fasting. Didache is an early source for Christian fasting. The author urges Christians: “Do not keep the same fast-days as the hypocrites [Jews]. Mondays and Thursdays are their days for fasting, so yours should be Wednesdays and Fridays.”5 He doesn’t say any more about Christian fasting practices, but by urging a fast of Friday, he makes sure that Christians do not celebrate the Jewish Sabbath that begins with a ritual meal on Friday at sundown. We saw in the last chapter how most of the texts from the Gospels on made a point to define Christians as separate from Jews, and here when we look at the actual prac­ tices of the Christian communities, we can see the continued emphasis on Christianity as a distinct religion. When the congregants gathered in their house churches, the most impor­ tant elements of their rituals lay in forging and maintaining the sense of

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community that bound them together. This was true with the first communities founded by Paul and the other Apostles, and it remained true through the third century. All the diversity of the texts that were circulating offered different understandings of the nature of the religion, but nothing changed the basic principle: The congregations of the faithful were the body of Christ; the Spirit manifested itself within the community, and the group joined in a common mind would achieve salvation together. Therefore, the rituals centered on strengthening community ties even as they celebrated the promise of Jesus. Christians who worshipped together addressed each other with terms of deepest affection. Paul reminds them repeatedly to love one another, and they called each other “brother and sister,” establishing a family tie among them. When they gathered together, they greeted each other with a kiss.6 This kiss was not the mild peck on the cheek that characterizes many modern church services. No, this kiss was a deep kiss on the lips, an exchange of breath and spirit that was intended to join the spirits of those exchanging their breath. This intimate connection helped join the congregants together as surely as a marriage kiss binds two souls in matrimony. (As we will see below, the Romans found this more than a little inappropriate.) One central component of the service was coming together to pray, since Jesus had promised that communal prayer was the most effective. The Didache records the appropriate prayer that Christians were to recite three times every day, including together in the services. This is what we have come to call the Lord’s Prayer, and it is remarkably unchanged through all these centuries. Didache says recite thus: Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, As in heaven, so on earth; Give us this day our daily bread, And forgive us our debt as we forgive our debtors, And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from the Evil One, For thine is the power and the glory for ever and ever.7 The Didache claims that praying together in community was a heritage of Jewish practice, which it certainly was, but by changing the prayer, he claimed that this new prayer differentiated Jews from Christians. The author of Didache was correct that ritual prayer formed the basis of Jewish service. The best-known form of Jewish prayer began “Blessed art thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe,” followed by recognitions of God’s power.8 The Chris­ tian prayer offers a more personal involvement of God in the individual’s life, rather than the Jewish awed recognition of God’s power. In addition to this standard, communal prayer, Paul’s letters reveal various other prayer formulas, like “Thanks be to God” or “in the name of Jesus.” The concluding formula – “amen” (“so be it”) – that follows many prayers today followed a Jewish pattern of congregational response that concluded the communal prayer. Didache, despite the author’s desire to set Christians apart from Jews, included “amen” in the final prayer of preparation for the

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Eucharist: “O Lord, come quickly. Amen.” The pattern of communal prayers was set early in the history of the church, and it shows both the debt to Judaism as well as the slow, but continuing, separation of Christian from Jew. However, at the heart of communal prayer was the solidifying of the community; the recog­ nition that God’s grace came to the group who prayed together. The service itself seems to have included singing and chanting of psalms and songs.10 Anthropologists have noted that from prehistoric times, singing and dancing together are both strong ways to bind together communities, so it is not surprising to see these early church services incorporate these ele­ ments. We have clear evidence of the psalms that were sung in the early ser­ vices; Jewish services had always included hymns11 and the Didache includes an account of verses and responses that were to be said (or chanted) before the Eucharist.12 The repetitive singing and chants served as teaching devices, too, for the songs reinforced the beliefs of the community. It is harder to find evidence of religious dancing in church services, but it is not impossible because we have evidence of religious dance from a couple of centuries later. For example, the fourth century author, Basil of Caesarea wrote, “Could there be anything more blessed than to imitate on earth the ring-dance of the angels?”13 It is likely that as congregants sang and chanted, they also swayed and moved in a dance that was also seen as a prayer. Paul’s description of the services reveals something of the informality of the gatherings. He writes “When you come together, each one has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation” (1 Cor 14:26). Members of the community depended upon each other to bring forward what the spirit moved them to produce. It was in this section of the service that charismatics might speak in ton­ gues. As we have seen, this was a particular prominent proof of the presence of the Spirit in the congregations. However, as time passed and this phenom­ enon faded, Christians offered other kinds of spiritual blessings, from pro­ phecies to dreams to special insights. Included in this part of the service were readings – letters from the apostles, favorite Gospels and other texts that as we have seen were pretty diverse as they circulated. Here the community would serve as its own censor; if they didn’t like a reading they rejected in favor of some other. This choice of readings both solidified the group’s opinions as well as slowly separating groups as they selected different texts. Some days, this would be the end of the service. However, perhaps every Sunday or on other special days, the congregants would celebrate the Eucharist – the central mystery of the gathering. Eucharist means “thanks­ giving” in Greek and it came to describe the celebration of Jesus’s Last Supper, the Passover celebration that took place before his death. I’ll describe this central mystery below. By the middle of the second century, these informal elements had come together in a more predictable sequence as described by Justin, a Christian apologist who was trying to explain services to the Romans. Justin wrote that 9

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the services began with readings followed by a sermon given by whomever was presiding (the religious hierarchy was not yet set). Then everyone stood to offer prayers to those in need. Afterwards, bread and wine were brought in and the Eucharist was celebrated.14

The Celebration of the Lord’s Supper Festive communal meals had been a central component of community celebra­ tions from time beyond memory. Villagers traditionally set up tables in the open air where they ate and drank together celebrating all kinds of events, but mostly to reaffirm the unity of the community itself. During the Roman Empire, such festive meals were central to associations of all sorts – from burial societies to religious cults, and when Romans heard about Christian celebration of the Last Supper, they understood it in the familiar context of traditional ritual meals.15 Early Christians gathering had the same understanding. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians describes the formula that is most familiar to many modern church-goers: “On the night when he was betrayed he took bread and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said ‘This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way also the cup, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’” (1 Cor 11:23–25) Paul mentioned this in passing as he was reprimanding the Corinthians for their dissension, but it is likely he was referring to what already was the practice in many (though not all) churches. The three synoptic gospels recorded this similar formula, and it is likely that they were recording the practice that existed in some of the Greek congregations like that of the Corinthians. The Gospel of John does not include this formulaic ritual. The Didache which reflects practices at least as old as those recorded by the synoptic gospels offers a different understanding of the Eucharist, which is more consistent with the notion of “thanksgiving” over sacrifice, which is implicit in the synoptic account. Here’s Didache’s version of the prayers of the eucharist: Begin with the chalice: “We give thanks to thee, our Father, for the holy Vine [Jesus or the church itself] of thy servant David, which thou hast made known to us through they servant Jesus: Then over the particles of bread: We give thanks to thee, our Father; for the life and knowledge thou hast made known to us through they servant Jesus. As this broken bread, once dispersed over the hills, was brought toge­ ther and became one loaf, so may thy Church be brought together from the ends of the earth into thy kingdom.16

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This understanding of the communal meal would fit nicely with congregations that leaned toward Gnostic beliefs, praising the secret knowledge that Jesus brought to the communities. It also demonstrates that the synoptic formula that became the standard, reflected only one possible understanding of the Last Supper. However, in these early communities, the central importance of this ritual was not theological understanding, but to bind the community together. If eating together bound the community together, it was also an opportu­ nity for divisiveness. Traditionally in Roman society, the wealthier expected to eat more abundantly than the poor. Even when wealthy hosts were providing a banquet where dependents were invited, they offered better and more food to their social equals.17 This was not the spirit of the small Christian con­ gregations where all, whether slave or wealthy, were equal before God. The context of Paul’s description of the Eucharist celebration was to reprimand congregants who were using the special meal as a way to demonstrate their own enhanced status. Paul reprimands them saying: When you meet together, it is not the Lord’s supper that you eat. For in eating, each one goes ahead with his own meal, and one is hungry and another is drunk. What! Do you not have houses to eat and drink? Or do you despise the church of God and humiliate those who have nothing? (1 Cor. 11:20–22) By restricting the Lord’s Supper to only bread and wine, Paul, and Didache, might have helped ensure that this communal ritual was egalitarian. All members were brothers and sisters, family with no divisions among them. Of course, this was the ideal, probably always imperfectly practiced. If the eucharist was to bind the community together, it was also designed to mark the Christian community as exclusive and separate from the world around. How to decide who was worthy to share in the ritual meal? This introduces the other central ritual in the early church: Baptism.

Baptism: The Initiation Baptism marked the entry of an individual into the community of the faithful and into the communion of the eucharist. This ritual was centrally important and changed over time becoming more complex. From Paul’s letters, we get little information on the ritual. In his letter to the Cor­ inthians, Paul simply said “you were washed, you were made holy, you were justified in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God” (1 Cor 6:11). The phrasing suggests that baptism involved a complete immersion in the water. Christian communities built on the strong tradition of ritual cleansing that they inherited from Judaism. Jews used a mikveh, a ritual bath for many instan­ ces of cleansing. Most similar to Christian baptism, Jews required a ritual bath­ ing for converts, but they also required ritual cleansing for many other life events,

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from childbirth to preparing for major festivals. Thus, the idea of a water cleansing rite was present at the beginning for Jews following Jesus. By late in the first century, the Didache offered more detail of the “procedure for baptizing” as the text says. The candidate was to be “immersed in running water” while the baptizer said simply “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” In a practical nod to necessity, Didache says if no running water of a stream or spring is available, the baptizer could immerse in ordinary water, and if that isn’t practical, simple sprinkle water three times on the head. The only preparation for baptism that Didache mentions is that both the “baptizer and baptized ought to fast before the baptism.”18 This is a rela­ tively simple initiation rite, which was appropriate to an age quickly gathering souls into the community in the expectation of the end of the world. A century later, things had changed. The congregations were larger and settling in for a longer wait until the end of times, and they became more cautious about who they admitted into their company. We have a text, called the “Apostolic Tradition,” written in Rome by Hippolytus, an elder of the church. Hippolytus was frustrated because he believed he saw a deterioration in the practices of the Roman church. He said he wrote “against the fall or error which has recently occurred because of ignorance and ignorant people.”19 Hippolytus required careful questioning of those applying to learn about the religion. He insisted that all kinds of people were to be eliminated, from pimps to painters, gladiators, soldiers and others. Once the improper have been eliminated, the rest became “catechumens” (people receiving instruction). They were to “hear the word for three years” before coming forward for baptism. After their instruction, when the day came, they should fast beginning on Friday for the Sunday baptism.20 Unlike Didache that didn’t specify who should perform the baptism (simply referring to a baptizer), the more hierarchically inclined Hippolytus insisted on a bishop performing the rite. For Hippolytus, baptism required immersion in flowing water. This description suggests some elaborate spaces for baptism that weren’t present in the surviving house churches. We might have to imagine an outdoor space or a more elaborate bath-like establishment, but the sources don’t allow us to be precise in this. The candidates would remove all their clothing, emerging from the water naked and new-born into the faith. As they emerged, the bishop anointed them with oil. They would then dress in clean robes and take the eucharist for the first time, taking their place in the Christian community. Hippolytus clearly imagined groups of catechumens to be baptized at one time. He wrote that first children would be immersed, then men, and finally women (with unbound hair and no jewelry).21 Children were included as part of family groups who chose to join the community. At this early date there was no consideration of infant baptism to remove original sin; that was a theological principle that was only begun in the fifth century with Augustine. Here, baptism was still about creating tight-knit communities to hope together for salvation.

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The Roman rite according to Hippolytus gives us a glimpse of how the church was changing over the first two centuries. The mystery of Christianity became as exclusive as some of the mystery religions in the Roman Empire (that I discuss below). It should be as exclusive a club as a follower of Mithras or Isis, and the initiation ceremony should be equally awe-inspiring (even if it no longer required the charismatic gifts to mark the transition). These texts that describe early Christian rituals do not mention life pas­ sages that become important in later Christian churches. Death and marriage were left to congregations of quiet Christians to observe without guidance from apostolic authority and other texts. Marriages were performed as they had been for millennia, with Jews and pagans alike celebrating the beginnings of new households. Paul had a number of recommendations regarding mar­ riage, but most referred to building the strength of the community and none described any ritual for the marriage ceremony itself. For example, he allows Christian men and women to marry unbelievers in hopes that the Christian partner might convert the pagan one. However, “if the unbelieving partner desires to separate, let it be so” (1 Cor 7:14–17), allowing for divorce. But since Paul didn’t discuss any rituals surrounding the marriage itself, Chris­ tians followed the rituals with which they were familiar, whether Jewish or Greek or Roman. Death rituals were more complicated, since part of the Christian hope included a resurrection of the dead. How to prepare the dead for that? Early Christian rituals derived from Jewish traditions even as gentiles formed the majority of the congregants. Pagan Romans traditionally cremated the dead, but Christians rejected this practice. Jews had traditionally wrapped the deceased in a sheet and placed the remains in tombs until the bodies decom­ posed. Then the remnants of the bones were placed in an ossuary leaving the tomb available for the next death. This was how Jesus was entombed. Even if the texts don’t mention this practice, we can see the results of this Christian adoption in the extensive Christian catacombs in Rome (and later in other cities like Carthage) as quiet Christians followed the practices decided by their communities. Beginning in the second century, wealthy Christians made land available outside Rome’s city walls for underground burials. There are 60 known cata­ combs that were carved into the soft volcanic rock outside the city, and they cover miles along the Roman roads. Christians not only buried their dead here, but they gathered to pray and hold services in the company of the deceased. Roman disgust for dead bodies was beginning to be replaced in the second century with the veneration of the remains of the dead.22 A thirdcentury Christian text articulates the changed view: “We Christians do not abominate a dead man because we know he will live again. Assembling in cemeteries, we offer up on the graves themselves the Eucharist… .”23 These famous catacombs contain beautiful frescoes of Christian symbols and evi­ dence of ritual practices (like the Last Supper). The catacombs served as burial spaces for about the next two hundred years, and the hundreds of

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kilometers of tombs offer silent evidence of Christian rituals that were not mentioned by texts like that of Hippolytus. Hippolytus’s complaint that different congregations were practicing differ­ ing rituals raises the problem that we saw plaguing these Christian commu­ nities in the last chapter. The bond of the common mind that seemed so important in the first generation after the death of Jesus seemed to breaking down everywhere. Where were these different ideas – and different texts – coming from?

Wandering Preachers and Charismatics The early Christian communities were established by missionaries like Paul and his associates who traveled many miles as they preached the good news of Jesus and delivered letters to each other that they read during the services. After the apostolic age, there continued to be wandering preachers and char­ ismatics bringing their messages, prophecies, and texts to various house churches, and the diversity of the texts I discussed in the previous chapter shows, sometimes these messages differed widely from each other. One of the problems these churches wrestled with by the second century was how to determine true messages from false? True prophets from fake ones? We can see the degree of the problem in the many texts that warn against false prophets. Most of the letters included in Scripture warned against such wandering charlatans. The second letter of John, for example, warns: “For many deceivers have gone out into the world, men who will not acknowledge the coming of Jesus Christ in the flesh; such a one is the deceiver and the antichrist” (2 John:7). The letter of Jude warns of false teachers who find their way into communities, bringing divisions into the congregation (Jude 19). Jude urges the congregation to stand firm against innovations (Jude 5). Such warnings were ominous and perhaps a little vague, but Didache took on the subject of “missioners and charismatists” directly, offering ways to tell true prophets from false.24 Didache’s first measure is whether the preacher chooses to stay: “Every missioner who comes to you should be welcomed as the Lord, but he is not to stay more than a day, or two days if it is really necessary. If he stays for three days, he is no genuine missioner.” The com­ munity had an obligation of hospitality: “Everyone who comes ‘in the name of the Lord’ is to be made welcome,” but he could not stay. Didache warns that wandering preachers might “live in idleness simply on the strength of being a Christian.” So they cannot count on the charity of the congregation, and must move on. Charismatic prophets were harder to judge. When a prophet is in a trance (speaking in tongues or other manifestations of prophecy), no one should interrupt him to test his prophecy. (Didache didn’t use the feminine pronoun in this passage, but women, too, were charismatics.) Didache offers other tests of charismatics. If while in a trance, he asks for food, a real prophet will not eat it; “if he does, he is a fraud.” If while in a trance, he says “Give me money

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(or anything else)’ do not listen to him. On the other hand, if he bids you give it to someone else who is in need, nobody should criticize him.”25 All these warnings and proofs of holiness place the assessment of true prophecies with the quiet Christians who gathered in community. The letter of John places this responsibility squarely with the congregation: “Look to yourselves that you may not lose what you have worked for” (2 John 8). The religious historian Aaron Milavec recognized the importance of the quiet Christians as he analyzed the Didache: “Within the world of conflicting spir­ itualities, the Didache appears to have taken a stand for the everyday holiness practiced by householders… . Here then, in the moderate wisdom of the Didache, the unadorned attraction of ordinary holiness supplanted and tamed the call of the prophets and apostles.”26 Religious ideas were formed in the strength of the anonymous Christians who prayed together. Placing the responsibility for determining truth in the hands of the com­ munity would contribute to the “common mind” that was so essential in the early church that looked to a communal salvation, but it also contributed to the proliferation of ideas (and texts) that spread through the second and third centuries. Some communities chose Gnostic texts and other chose Hebrew texts. But these warnings show how important the quiet Christians were in shaping religious ideas. But it also shows an early and continuing struggle to decide who might preside over these communities. Who was in charge?

Guiding the Communities The earliest communities founded during the apostolic age had no real hier­ archy. Charismatic leaders emerged on their reputation for channeling the Holy Spirit. Even late in the first century, Didache recognized their role as leaders in the community. The author writes if a “genuine charismatist” wants to remain in the church without moving on after three days, the congregation should welcome him and support him with food, for as the Didache reminds them the charismatists “are your High Priests.” A charismatic is a purely spiritual leader, but it leaves open the question of who will handle the mundane organizational details of the church. Who will collect funds and provide charity? Who will purchase the bread and wine for the eucharist? Who will arrange for the baptisms? And as we have seen with the quarreling congregation of Corinth, who will resolve conflicts? These and many other similar questions soon emerged after the world didn’t come to an end. In the first- century meeting places, the obvious person who presided over the service and the Eucharist was the head of the household, whether a man or a woman. For scholars who look for precedents for women taking a pro­ minent role in the early church, there is no real dispute about these early householders who led the communities of the faithful.27 There were clearly other women who claimed leadership in the church, and as we saw in the last chapter, apocryphal texts were written that justified these women’s claims, and many of these texts became very popular (until they

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were condemned by later churchmen). The Gospel of Mary (Magdalene) for example, was a gnostic gospel that claimed Mary was Jesus’s favorite apostle. This gave her all the status of the other apostles.28 The Gospel of the Egyp­ tians features Salome, purportedly one of the women who discovers Jesus’s empty tomb. This gospel features a renunciation of sexuality, marriage and procreation.29 This is but one of various texts that feature women who renounce sexual intercourse that ties them to this world to reach a more spiritual freedom.30 The most popular of these texts featuring women was the Acts of Thecla, that circulated widely by the end of the second century. According to the text, Thecla heard Paul preach, and abandoned her fiancé to embrace a life a chastity to follow Paul. The Acts relate a series of exciting adventures during which Thecla escapes being burned at the stake and surviving torture and condemnation in the arena. She baptizes herself, and establishes herself as a missionary preacher.31 This text generated a number of subsequent legendary accounts, and Thecla became an important saint throughout the Middle Ages.32 As popular as these accounts were by the third century, the increasing organization of church authority began to exclude women.33 What was the nature of this growing organization? The author of Acts referred to the necessity of an official to care for widows and other administrative tasks. These “seven men of good repute” are seen as the first deacons (Acts 6:1–6). By the late first century the administration became more complex. Didache says that the congregations select “overseers and assistants who are worthy of the Lord: men who are humble and not eager for money, but sincere and approved; for they are carrying out the ministry of the charismatists and teachers for you.”34 The terms “overseers and assistants” are translations of “bishops and deacons,” and we can see in the origins of these words the original administrative intent of these offices. Didache also subordinates these administrators to the authority of charismatics. By the late first and second centuries, writers began to emphasize the role of these administrators elevating them to positions of leadership. For exam­ ple, the pastoral epistles in the Bible (originally attributed to Paul, but really from the late first or early second centuries) set out a model of church hier­ archy. First Timothy refers to qualifications for bishops, deacons, and “elders.” The translation of “elders” becomes “priests” (1 Tim 3:1–13). Paul had acknowledged women as deacons, when he referred to Phoebe as a deacon (Rom 16:1), but as these positions became more formal – and more important – women were slowly eliminated from these offices. Other early texts reaffirm this growing commitment to a formal hierarchy to guide the expanding communities. The early second century letter from Clement of Rome refers to the authority of bishops and deacons, and perhaps the letter protests a little too much when Clement explains: “This was in no way an innovation, for bishops and deacons had already been spoken of in Scripture.”35 Such an explanation suggests that Clement expected some objection from communities used to a more egalitarian organization.

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By the beginning of the third century, Hippolytus increased the formality, and importance, of the offices by requiring an ordination of bishops, priests (that he calls elders) and deacons. Hippolytus acknowledges that bishops should be chosen by the congregation, but they can only officially take office once another bishop has laid on his hands and saying special prayers of ordination. Hippolytus also explicitly excludes women from ordination, saying that if a widow is chosen, “she is not ordained.”36 As we have seen, each city had many small congregations, and each appointed (or ordained) bishops and elders and deacons to help administer the services. We can see the results of this proliferation by the third century when records show growing numbers of church administrators. By about 245 CE North Africa had at least 90 bishops. In Rome, Bishop Cornelius claimed he had 155 clergy and more than fifteen hundred widows supported by the church.37 These numbers would have been easily the same in the great eastern cities where Christian churches had been established earlier. All these developments leading to a formal organization of the congregations not only had an impact on the internal governance of the community, but it provided a clear hierarchy to interact with the surrounding Roman Empire. As the slow growth of the quiet Christians caused them become more visible in the cities of the Empire, Roman officials wanted to know who was in charge.

Perceptions of the Romans The good news for the growing communities of Christians is that by the second century they had negotiated the largest threat to their initial beliefs: their disappointment that the world did not come to an end. Instead, they were left with strong, cohesive congregations that supported each other with love and charity that gave them a sense of place and belonging in the growing cosmopolitan cities. These resilient Christians quietly practiced rituals that bound them together and sustained growth. The bad news was that as the congregations became visible, they generated rumors and gossip about their practices among their neighbors – another anonymous, influential group. These rumors sometimes caused violence, as we will see in the next chapter, but they also caused some literate Christians, fathers of the church, to write explanations of the practices of Christians. These men who were called the “apologists,” wrote compelling texts that served to further refine and create theology for the future of the church. There were a number of apologists, and they responded to critiques from various sources: 1) attacks on presumed Christian practices; 2) growing popularity of Gnostic theology, and 3) continuing questions about their rela­ tionship with Judaism. Their audience included educated pagan Romans and Greeks, as well as alternative groups of Christians. In the process of explain­ ing Christianity, they used language that reconciled Christian thought with pagan philosophy (like the Gospel of John had done).38 Just like the texts I discussed in the previous chapter, these tracts represented a dialogue between

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church theologians and the silent people who generated the questions. I won’t discuss all their philosophic arguments; I will focus on the hateful rumors that turned neighbor against neighbor. Like most rumors, those that circulated about the Christians were based on misunderstood partial truths, and as they spread these tales, rumormongers increased inflammatory charges to make a good gossip even better. The initial problem was that many pagan Romans did not believe this was a religion at all; they considered it a “superstition” or some other magical society. For example, the gods of Rome required a space – a temple or a sacred grove – but Christianity did not. Christians did not raise temples to their God, but instead they looked forward to a heavenly kingdom that might exist in the future. Until then, they lived as strangers in this world, and their prayers in house-churches reflected their disdain for this world.39 We learn of other charges from the apologists who recorded them. One of the third-century apologists, was Minucius Felix, a lawyer who wrote an imagined dialogue among lawyers relaxing by the sea in Ostia, the sea-side town near Rome. Minucius listed a number of accusations against Christians: “They gathered together with the lowest dregs of society, and credulous women.” They meet in the dark and despised the temples. They disdained present tortures, yet “dread those of an uncertain future.”40 Obviously, his complaint about “uncertain futures,” lay in Christian concern about the end times and resulting damnation. But this was the least of the accusations; there were much more inflammatory ones. Minucius Felix claimed with titillating detail: “The love one another as family, they committed incest, and cannibalism, and indulged in orgies after shocking love feasts.”41 It’s easy to see the origins of the incest charges as Christians called each other “brother and sister” as they gathered and gave each other deep, soul-exchanging kisses. It appears that Hippolytus in his catalogue of church behavior recognized some of this critique because he warned that as the faithful greeted one another with a kiss, it should only be “men with men, and women with women. Men must not greet women with a kiss.”42 I’m not sure this compromise would have satisfied all the critics. Minucius laid out the charges, but the most thorough answer to them, and explanation of the Christian beliefs, came from Justin, who later was mar­ tyred and is now known as Justin Martyr. Justin was a highly educated early second-century pagan Greco-Roman who had come from Palestine and lived in southern Italy. He loved philosophy and was drawn to the theory of the Platonists, and from there he became a Christian in about 130. After his baptism, he went to Rome where he opened a philosophical school. He is known for many writings, and most demonstrate a reconciliation of Christian thought with Greek philosophy.43 For our purposes, I will focus on two of Justin’s most famous tracts, the first and second Apologies. In these, he writes with much detail explaining Christian thought and ritual to pagan Romans. He wanted to dispel the rumors and move Christianity from the shadows into mainstream thought.

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The accusations of cannibalism and “love feasts” on the part of Christians had become expanded into an elaborate, horrifying scenario: Catechumens were given clubs to beat a huge lump of dough that concealed an infant. After the infant was beaten to death, its blood and flesh was consumed. After this all the lamps were extinguished and in the dark, the participants, called brothers and sisters, engaged in all kinds of sexual activity.44 To all these accusations, Justin’s response is twofold: 1) Christians are virtuous and loving and wouldn’t do anything like this; and 2) Pagan Romans do worse. For example, he writes that Romans raise children to serve as prostitutes: “There are some who make prostitutes even of their own children and wives; for purposes of sodomy, some are publicly known to have been mutilated [castrated].” Justin continues, writing “In truth, what is publicly done and honored by you, … you hold against us. This, of course, does not harm us who refuse to do such evil things, but it does harm those who practice them and those who falsely accuse us.”45 Justin then describes in detail Christian rituals to take the mystery out of them in the hope that this would dispel rumors of evil actions. He describes baptism as a cleansing ritual that offers “illumination.”46 He doesn’t mention the significant meaning of baptism as a way of entering and solidifying an exclusive community because that’s exactly what he’s trying to downplay. He, and the other apologists, are portraying Christians as one more group of mainstream Romans. He admits that Christians call the assembled “brethren” as they gather to pray and greet each other with a kiss, which he plays down as a simple chaste ritual. His conclusion is that regardless of these rituals, Christians “through our actions to be esteemed as good citizens and observers of the law.”47 Nothing was more valuable to traditional Romans than citi­ zenship and obedience to the law, so Justin chose the exact words to validate Christian worship. Justin then turned to the Eucharist, the central mystery of the church service. He explained the origin of Eucharist feast in the words and the Logos of Christ where the bread and wine “nourishes our flesh and blood by assimilation, is both the flesh and blood of that Jesus who was made flesh.”48 In this cerebral explanation of ritual, there were no dead babies, nor orgies of cannibalism. The North African apologist, Tertullian, renounced this rumor with his character­ istic passion and even sarcasm: “Who has detected the traces of a bite in our blood-steeped loaf? Who has discovered, by a sudden light invading our dark­ ness, any marks of impurity, I will not say of incest, (in our feasts)?”49 In his continued effort to demonstrate that Christianity was not unusual (or threatening), Justin even argued that the popular cult of the Persian god Mithra had copied the Christian eucharist feast. Worship of Mithra was embraced by the military during the second century, and Justin explained that “evil demons” to imitate the Christian rite “ordered the same thing to be performed in the Mithraic mysteries. For, as you know or may easily learn, bread and a cup of water, together with certain incantations, are used in their mystic initiation rites.”50

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Justin was likely overstating Mithraic debt to Christianity. As a matter of fact, there were a number of “mystery religions” throughout the Roman Empire, and Mithraism was only one of them. The word “mystery” comes from the Greek “to close” referring to preserving the secrets that marked these religions. Mystery religions were marked by emotional union with a deity offering a personal experience of the divine, rather than simply observing ritual respect for familiar gods, like Jupiter (or Zeus) and the pantheon of such sky gods. Mystery religions venerated deities like Isis, the Egyptian goddess, or Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and the irrational, or Demeter the Greek goddess of fertility, and of course Mithra, the bull for worship by men. All these mystery rites shared a number of rituals and ideas. They all pro­ mised a close connection with the divinity, with an equal promise of death and rebirth again. People chose to join, and prepared themselves by cleansing and other rituals. Once they were admitted to the secrets, they shared in secret rituals accompanied by ritual meals which defined their union with God. This all sounds very familiar to observers of early Christian rites. Scholars have offered various explanations for the similarities between Christianity and other mystery religions.51 Some, like Justin, suggest that Mithra and others imitated Christianity. This isn’t too plausible since the mystery religions were older and more established than Christianity. Mithraism might more likely have borrowed from Isis cults if there were borrowing to be done. Other scholars note that when Paul and the apostles began to shape Jesus’s message to the gentiles, they used language and ritual that would have been familiar, and borrowed from the mystery religions that surrounded them. Others suggest that God prepared the Mediterranean world for the message of Jesus by seeding it with other mystery religions, so the true mystery would be more easily adopted. It ultimately doesn’t matter; many in the Greco-Roman world sought paths to hope and salvation. Christianity was one of them, and Justin and the apologists worked to place Christian worship into this mainstream trend. A final charge against the Christians was atheism, and this one was the hardest to refute in a world where people worshipped many gods, including deified emperors. Justin acknowledged this charge directly: “Thus are we even called atheists.” He explained that they couldn’t be atheists because they worshiped the “Most True God.” Instead, he defined the many deities of the Empire as demons. Justin appealed to the philosophers by reminding them that Socrates was executed because he offended his neighbors by appealing to a higher god than the Greek pantheon that he defined as demons. Socrates was found guilty and sentenced to death. We will see that this charge of atheism against Christians will not go away: claiming that your god is the only true one when everyone else praying in their own way will not work. Did the writings of the apologists change people’s minds? Maybe some, but this intellectual approach to beliefs and faith misses the deep appeal that had bound anonymous congregations of Christians together in the first place. They experienced a magical transition that made them feel connected in love and caring in the midst of what seemed to them a cruel and disdainful empire

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of cosmopolitan cities. What of the critics of Christianity? Maybe some phi­ losophers and intellectuals were persuaded. But the anonymous neighbors who believed the worst of their fellow citizens probably weren’t impressed. The same kinds of emotions that bound Christians together marked them as outsiders to their neighbors. For people acting on rumors, we don’t have to look any further than the 21st century America, where people emotionally cling to political loyalties in the face of evidence that might contradict them. What matters is your com­ munity, and different communities and ideas seem a threat. Socrates’s neigh­ bors sentenced him to death in spite of his logical arguments. The same thing was true in the early Christian centuries. Christian congregations held tight to their practices and their community, and their neighbors were convinced that rumors of vile practices were true. And in spite of the best efforts of the apologists, Christians would die.

Notes 1 Wayne A. Meeks. The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven, CT, 2003), 76–77. 2 W.H.C. Frend. The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia, PA, 1984), 297. 3 “The Epistle of Barnabas,” in Early Christian Writings: The Apostolic Fathers, trans. Maxwell Staniforth (New York: 1968), 215. 4 Didache. in Early Christian Writings: The Apostolic Fathers, trans. Maxwell Staniforth (New York, 1968), 234.

5 Didache, 231.

6 Meeks, 86.

7 Didache, 231.

8 Meeks, 147.

9 Didache, 232.

10 Meeks, 144.

11 Meeks, 144.

12 Didache, 231–232.

13 Joyce E. Salisbury. Iberian Popular Religion, 600 B.C. to 700 A.D. (New York,

1985), 261. 14 Michael Walsh. The Triumph of the Meek: Why Early Christianity Succeeded (New York, 1986), 191. 15 Meeks, 158. 16 Didache, 231. 17 Meeks, 159. 18 Didache, 230–231. 19 Hippolytus. “Apostolic Tradition,” 1, www.bombaxo.com/hippolytus.html. 20 Hippolytus, 16: 21. 21 Hippolytus, 20: 4–5. 22 See Caroline Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body (New York, 1995), 51–58, for a discussion in the change in burial practices. 23 Bynum, 47. 24 Didache, 232–234. 25 Didache, 233. 26 Aaron Milavec, “Distinguishing True and False Prophets: The Protective Wisdom of the Didache” in Journal of Early Christian Studies (1994 2:2), 135–136.

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27 Walsh, 198,

28 Bart D. Ehrman. Lost Scriptures: Books that Did Not Make It into the New

Testament (New York, 2003), 35–37. 29 Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 17–18. 30 See Joyce E. Salisbury, Church Fathers, Independent Virgins (London, 1991), for an analysis of some texts linking female celibacy with freedom. See also, Steven L. Davies, The Revolt of the Widows: The Social World of the Apocryphal Acts (Carbondale, IL, 1980). 31 Ehrman, Lost Scriptures, 113–121. 32 Steven L. Davies. The Cult of Saint Thecla: A Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 2008). 33 Francine Cardman. “Women, Ministry, and Church Order in Early Christianity” in Women and Christian Origins, ed. Ross Shepard Kraemer and Mary Rose D’Angelo (Oxford, 1999), 300–329. 34 Didache, 234–235.

35 Clement of Rome, in Early Christian Writings: The Apostolic Fathers, 45.

36 Hippolytus, 2:10.

37 Frend, 313.

38 See Geza Vermes, Christian Beginnings: From Nazareth to Nicaea AD 30–325

(London, 2013), 177–190 for a good summary of the theology of the apologists. 39 Joyce E. Salisbury. Perpetua’s Passion: Death and Memory of a Young Roman Woman (New York, 1997), 71–72. 40 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 78. 41 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 78. 42 Hippolytus, 18:4. 43 Vermes, 180–181. 44 Justin Martyr. Writings of Saint Justin Martyr, trans. Thomas B. Falls (New York, 1948), 63 n.6. 45 Martyr, “First Apology,” Chapter 27, 64. 46 Martyr, “First Apology,” Chapter 61, 100. 47 Martyr, “First Apology,” Chapter 65, 104–105. 48 Martyr, “First Apology,” Chapter 66, 106. 49 Tertullian. “Ad Nationes,” in Latin Christianity: Its Founder, Tertullian, vol. 3 of Ante-Nicene Fathers (Peabody, MA, 1995), 115. 50 Justin Martyr. “First Apology,” Chapter 66, 106. 51 Marvin W. Meyer, ed. The Ancient Mysteries: A Sourcebook (San Francisco, CA, 1987), 226.

5

Clash between Romans and Christians, 2nd Century CE

In the second century a powerful idea entered into the world of the early Christians: the idea of martyrdom. The concept of Christians being perse­ cuted and dying for their faith has been so integral to a history of Chris­ tianity, it seems that it had always been central to the faith, but that’s not so.1 The idea of dying a noble death or of sacrificing oneself for a cause was very old. There were pagan and Jewish martyrs who died for their beliefs, and early Christians grew up hearing these stories.2 The Christian concept of martyrdom grew from a combination of factors that came to the fore in the second century. First, as we have seen in the last chapter, the numbers of Christians had increased enough to become visible (and annoying) to their neighbors and thus came to the attention of Roman authorities. Second, quiet Christians continued to long for evidence of the presence of the Holy Spirit working in this world. Finally, compelling texts circulated that created meaning and miracle from the deaths of a handful of Christians. The initial meaning of the word “martyr” was “witness,” in the context of a person who testifies to evidence in a trial. When Christians were arrested, they were brought to trial and served as “witnesses” to their beliefs and the crimes with which they were charged.3 While this original meaning continued to be used in the Roman law courts for centuries, among Christian communities beginning in the second century, the word changed to refer to Christians who were willing to die rather than com­ promise with elements of their faith. Many historians look to the experi­ ence of two second-century martyrs, Ignatius and Polycarp, as the beginnings of the definition. What about the Christians who were executed by Nero in 64 CE? Beginning in the fourth century, these became identified as the first mar­ tyrs, but this designation was one of church leaders reinterpreting the past. As we have seen, at the time, writers accused Jews of throwing these Christians to a cruel and capricious emperor. There was no sense of nobility in their deaths; it was just one more example of Roman cruelty. To find the roots of the idea of Christian martyrdom, let’s turn to Anti­ och, where Bishop Ignatius presided. DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-6

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Ignatius Defines Martyrdom Ignatius had been the Bishop of Antioch from 69 CE. Antioch was a great city, the capital of Syria, and it was surpassed only by Rome and Alexandria in its wealth and luxury. This cosmopolitan city of about half a million people was marked by a mixture of Syrians, Jews, Greeks, Romans, and a commu­ nity of Christians. The city had a terrible reputation in the ancient world for vice and licentiousness, but authorities worried more about its repeated civic disorders. People rioted with frequency allowing their quarrels to spill into bloodshed in the streets. The Apostles had come to this great city; for the first time preaching to Greeks instead of to Jews, and many converted. This was a long-standing influential congregation, and it is no wonder that its Bishop held a prominent – and visible – place in the city. For some reason, the bishop came to the attention of provincial magistrates in about 107 CE, during the reign of Trajan. We know nothing about the circumstances of his arrest, but it may have come about, owing to the many riots between Christians and Jews that took place in the cities of the empire, including Antioch. Roman authorities did not like urban disturbances, and regularly stepped in to arrest troublemakers. Ignatius was arrested in the summer, and there is no record of his trial in Antioch nor of the charges. All we know is that he was sentenced to die “by the beasts” in the great amphitheater in Rome. The bishop tells us that he wholeheartedly embraced this opportunity to die for Jesus. Why was he not executed in Antioch? It may have been the authorities didn’t want to risk riots by executing a popular bishop. It also may simply have been that provinces frequently had to provide criminals for execution in the amphitheater in Rome to provide entertainment, and moral lessons, to the Roman audience hungry to witness blood sports.4 Since he was arrested in summer, Ignatius could easily have been sent by sea to Rome. Instead, with a guard of ten soldiers, he was led overland from Syria and northwest across Asia Minor. During this slow travel, Ignatius received visits from Christians who came to see, and listen to, the elderly bishop. More importantly, Ignatius was able to write a series of seven letters, and these texts served to articulate – and indeed define – a theory of martyr­ dom that would shape future theology. The soldiers escorting Ignatius skirted north of the great city of Ephesus, but in August they stopped at Smyrna. The journey took weeks. In Smyrna, Ignatius was delighted to see representatives from the southern churches, including Ephesus, who came to meet with him. He gave them letters to take back to their congrega­ tions, and sent another letter to the Christians at Rome telling of his hopes of meeting them in the near future. The journey continued north, and while waiting for a ship to take them to Greece, Ignatius wrote three more letters, to Philadelphia, Smyrna, and a personal letter to Smyrna’s bishop Polycarp. Just like the apostolic letters, these remarkable letters circulated widely and have survived. They pro­ foundly influenced subsequent martyrs and the growth of the church itself.

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Before I turn to the content of Ignatius’s seven letters that show his thoughts at the end of his life, I want to consider the impact of his experience on the many anonymous Christians that might have witnessed his travel to his death. When they saw the aged bishop traveling with chains, they did not see a broken man. Instead, he was joyous, embracing the idea of his martyrdom, longing for his own death. He wrote, “I am yearning for death with all the passion of a lover.”5 His lack of fear caused Christian observers to believe that he was filled by the Holy Spirit, and chosen by God for his forthcoming ordeal. Here in the second century, when the Apostles were dead, charismatic gifts had faded in the congregations, and the world hadn’t ended, Ignatius seemed to embody a new, visible example of living holiness. The words preserved in his letters seemed to carry the weight of God’s message. We can also see in these letters the concerns and beliefs of the congrega­ tions. For example, the bishop wouldn’t have reprimanded the Christians for their “incorrect” beliefs if they didn’t hold them. Like other texts, these letters represented a dialogue between the bishop and his followers. Through Igna­ tius’s words, we can see that the churches in Antioch had widely diverging views of Christianity, and the bishop used his dying messages to try to refute them to bring a cohesiveness to the congregations. His letters cover several topics. First, he addresses the ongoing concerns of the Christian congregations that we have seen expressed in the previous chapters: What to do about diversity of ideas that split the “common mind” of the Christian unity? Second, he articulates the idea of martyrdom – not as a judicial witness, but as an idea of Christian sacrifice. In fact, his letters have been called a “martyrs’ manual.”6 Ignatius directly addressed the controversies that permeated the apocryphal texts, and showed an increasingly splintered and diverse Christian thought. Like Paul and other Apostles that I discussed in the first chapter, Ignatius shared the ideal notion that Christians should share a “common mind” that would help them stay united and enter heaven together. He writes that the goal of a congregation is a “hymn of praise to Jesus Christ from minds that are in unison, and affections that are in harmony.” He also wrote that the solution to the “powers of Satan” lay in “your corporate faith.”7 He closed one letter, writing: “See that there is a godly unity among you, and a spirit that is above all divisions.”8 In his final letter, Ignatius summarizes: “Give thought especially to unity, for there is nothing more important than this.”9 His overwhelming concern for unity led him to address the major divisions that threatened to split the church in Antioch and beyond. Ignatius addressed two major controversies that he must have confronted: 1) the relationship with Judaism; and 2) Gnostic ideas that devalued the body and imagined Jesus as a purely spiritual entity. (This would later be called the heresy of “Docetism” by the third century, but at this early stage was still part of some of the Gnostic texts.) Ignatius addressed both of these as well as explaining how to resolve all divisive issues.

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The bishop’s letters show more animosity to Jews than to the Romans who held him in chains, and he was clear that his opinion was that Christians had moved beyond their Jewish roots, and any backsliding was threatening to the young church. He wrote “Nothing of any use can be got from them. If we are still living in the practice of Judaism, it is an admission that we have failed to receive the gift of grace.” In another letter, he returned to the same theme, writing “if anyone should … propound Judaism to you, do not listen to him.”10 Ignatius’s vigorous attacks on the Jews gives strong evidence that many of the congregations in the east were clinging to the Jewish roots, and texts that supported them. For Ignatius, an even more important lesson of his martyrdom lay in his refutation of the Gnostics who did not believe that Christ was fully man. These Gnostics argued that Christ’s humanity was only a disguise, and thus God did not suffer on the cross, for Christ’s divine spirit left before the cru­ cifixion. Ignatius wanted his own physical suffering to demonstrate the reality of Jesus’s physical suffering, and indeed his full humanity. In his letter to the Romans, Ignatius gives his famous description of how his body would be eaten by the beasts, and his flesh ground finely by “the lions’ teeth to be made purest bread for Christ.” Through this physical transformation of his very body, Ignatius wrote that he would become a sacrifice to God.11 In his letter to Smyrna, he explained how this strong physicality of martyrdom demon­ strated the truth of Jesus’s physical sacrifice as Ignatius argued against Gnostic ideas. He wrote “if everything our Lord did was only illusion, then these chains of mine must be illusory too! Also, to what end have I given myself up to perish by fire or sword or savage beasts?”12 In other words, the physical suffering of martyrdom proved the physical suffering of Jesus, and in turn the physical reality of the resurrection of the body. I doubt that Gnostic Christians listening to Ignatius’s letters would have been persuaded by the bishop’s theological arguments that martyrdom proved the invalidity of Gnosticism. In fact, we know these ideas of the illusion of Christ’s suffering persisted a long time, and we will meet more of these Christian Gnostics in the next chapter. However, Ignatius’s words set the stage for continuing conversations about martyrdom’s refutation of Gnosticism, and in time, this argument would win out. But not in the second century. Therefore, Ignatius offered another solution for resolving different views of Christian truth: listen to your bishop and other clergy. We saw in the last chapter the beginnings of a turn from self-governing communities to an hierarchical structure (beloved by Romans). In this Igna­ tius was a good Roman – obedience was the solution to chaos – and the bishop of Antioch urged Christians to obey their bishops. “It is proper for your conduct and your practices to correspond closely with the mind of the bishop,” and even more pointedly, he insisted “nobody’s conscience can be clean if he is acting without the authority of his bishop, clergy, and dea­ cons.”13 Again, Christians who were disinclined to obey their bishops wouldn’t have been persuaded by Ignatius’s words. In fact, I suggest he

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wouldn’t have emphasized obedience so much if he were being obeyed. Nevertheless, these compelling texts in time become precedent for those arguing for ecclesiastical hierarchy. Beyond unity and obedience, Ignatius’s greatest contribution lay in estab­ lishing a theory and advocacy of martyrdom. The fullest expression of ideas of martyrdom came in his letter to the Romans that he sent them to prepare that congregation for his arrival and his appearance in the arena. Ignatius’s first concern in his letter was to urge influential Romans not to intervene on his behalf to save him from the arena. It is a comment on how influential the church in Rome had become when he claimed that it would be easy for them to free him, but he assured them he wanted to die. In powerful language, he claimed that their silence on his behalf will “turn me into an intelligible utterance of God; but if your affections are only concerned with my poor human life, then I become a mere meaningless cry once more.”14 In martyrdom, Ignatius believed he was imitating Jesus’s sacrifice. He told the Ephesians, “I am offering my life on your behalf,” and offered similar reassurances to those in Smyrna that his death would profit them.15 This promise that a martyr’s death would benefit the community of the living remained a powerful theme throughout the centuries of persecution. This strong advocacy of martyrdom circulated widely, comforted Christians in danger, and unfortunately, encouraged other Christians to volunteer to die.16 Some hoped to receive the grace of the Holy Spirit that seemed to permeate the bishop on his way to die.

What Were the Charges? Christian sources like the letters from Ignatius, point to dissent among Chris­ tians and Jews that actually disrupted the cities. A Roman source confirms this view. Emperor Trajan had heard reports that provinces in Asia were in turmoil. Not only was there dissent in cities, but there was corruption among adminis­ trators. The emperor took action, and in 111 CE he sent his trusted repre­ sentative, Pliny the Younger, to Asia Minor to investigate corruption in cities on the southern shore of the Black Sea. Pliny was experienced in legal and financial matters, and enjoyed the full confidence of the emperor. Nevertheless, Pliny was a cautious representative and during this mission he corresponded with the emperor asking his advice on various matters. Two of these letters – numbers 96 and 97 – concern troubles caused by Christians.17 Pliny encountered problems with Christians in 112 CE when he arrived on the shores of the Black Sea, perhaps in Amastris, a city on a rocky peninsula jutting north into the Black Sea from its southern shore. This fortified city was the metropolis of the province of Bithynia, where the council and imperial cult of the province was located. Pliny began to look into corruption and perhaps fiscal mismanagement. In the course of his inquiries, he received accusations against Christians. Pliny was a careful jurist, and cared deeply about Roman law, so he wanted to stick to the letter of the law.

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The legal situation was complicated by the fact that citizens and noncitizens were subject to different laws. Citizens were governed by civil law (ius civile), while others were subject to their own laws and customs, which came to be called the law applying to other nations (ius gentium). Different magistrates adminis­ tered these two different kinds of laws, so when Christians were arrested, judges first had to ascertain whether they were citizens, then they were tried in the appropriate courts. The penalties for citizens and noncitizens differed, which also determined the legal form of execution. These complexities help explain why Pliny wrote to consult with the emperor. The legal situation was further complicated because in the second century, Roman law that had been established long ago during the Republic was slowly changing to accommodate the situation of the Empire. Traditional Roman law was designed to facilitate resolving disputes brought by private parties. Both would be called to court, a magistrate would listen to the pro­ blem then assign a judge agreeable to both parties, who would hear the evi­ dence in public. Under the Empire, a new system (called the cognitio or cognitio extraordinaria) began to be used, particularly in criminal trials. This system dealt with crimes against the state, like treason, desertion, or extreme forms of murder like patricide. By the second century, the state also tried sorcery (maleficium). Trials conducted in the cognitio system took place before a magistrate appointed by the state. This usually meant the proconsul or other representative of the emperor. In this case, Pliny was Trajan’s repre­ sentative, and as he was trying the case against the Christians, he had to determine if any criminal laws had been broken. At the beginning, Pliny explained that he had received several denunciations against both citizens and non-citizens on the grounds that they were Christian. Pliny did not initiate a trial, because as he explained to Trajan, there were too many legal issues that were unclear. Pliny asked whether there were mitigating circumstances for age, or whether repentance would engender a pardon or not. He also raised the significant issue of the charge: “whether the mere profession of Christianity, albeit without crimes, or only the crimes associated therewith are punishable.”18 While awaiting an answer, Pliny proceeded. Pliny interrogated the accused Christians, and if they confessed, he repeated the question twice more, allowing them to recant, and threatening them with capital punishment if they persisted. Non-citizens who persisted with their identification, Pliny ordered executed. Christians who were citizens were arrested and sent to Rome for trial. Pliny explained the “crime” that had generated the executions was their stubborn refusal to obey his authority. He wrote, their “inflexible obstinacy deserved chastisement.” These executions served as precedent for subsequent martyrs, but how did they measure up to Roman legal proceedings under the criminal statutes? The remarkable thing about the trials conducted on behalf of the state in the criminal proceedings was the degree of discretion held by the presiding magistrate; he could determine almost any punishment he thought suited the crime. For most serious offenses, he prescribed the death penalty: Under the

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Republic, the earliest law code of the Twelve Tables prescribed burning for arson and “suspension” – possibly a form of crucifixion for using magic.19 By the time of the Empire, criminals condemned to death could be executed in the arena by beasts or flames, though citizens should simply be decapitated. Prisoners also could be condemned to gladiator schools or the mines. As we will see with regards to trials of Christians, the magistrates could do what they pleased, and their decisions were shaped by the questioning and by public reaction to the public trials. Much to Pliny’s concern, his early questioning did not end the matter. As he pointed out, once investigations had begun, accusations spread. Here we can see the kind of split in the community driven apart by religious beliefs. Pliny noted that an anonymous sign was put up listing a large number of names of purported Christians. Pliny dutifully arrested all and began to question them. Many denied that they were, or ever had been, Christians. To test this, he asked them to pray to the Roman gods, and offer veneration with wine and frankin­ cense to Trajan’s image. Finally, he required them to curse Christ. He had learned that real Christians could not be forced to perform these acts, so he thought this satisfied the test of obedience to Rome. Pliny discovered others who confessed that they had been Christians, some as much as twenty-five years before, and were no longer. They, too, worshipped Trajan’s statue and the images of the gods, and cursed Christ. With these Christians in hand, Pliny took the opportunity to question them and find out the details of this religion, to see if there were crimes involved. This account offers us precious insight into the services of the early commu­ nities. The lapsed Christians told Pliny that the “whole of their guilt” was that they met before dawn on some days, and sang hymns to Christ as to a god. They then gave a solemn oath never to commit fraud, theft or adultery, never to lie or cheat. Then they ate food “of an ordinary and innocent kind.” Roman law allowed – indeed required – slaves to be tortured in order for their testimony to be accepted, and Pliny found two female slaves who were deaconesses in the church. He had them tortured, but they confessed to nothing more that “depraved and excessive superstition.” It may be that Pliny was using a law against illegal clubs as part of his charge against Christians. Traditionally, craftsmen in Rome organized them­ selves into clubs, called collegia, which served as trade associations, social clubs, and even political and religious organizations. These clubs had to be licensed, and authorities sometimes cracked down on these organizations if they seemed subversive in some way. Some of these clubs had a bad reputa­ tion in the Asian provinces of the second century, and Trajan in a previous letter had blamed them for disturbances. Some historians have suggested that Pliny’s persecution of Christians – who seemed to be associating like an illegal club – came from this suspicion.20 A feature of illegal clubs was often a meal through which the members bound themselves together, and the testimony of the lapsed Christians made their meetings sound very much like such a club. According to Pliny, the fallen Christians claimed they had abandoned

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meetings “after the publication of my edict, by which according to your orders, I had forbidden political associations.”21 This prohibition offered Pliny a clear reason within the law for suppressing Christian worship. Pliny then adjourned the proceedings to write to Trajan for advice. He ended his letter with a general assessment about the Christians. He noted that this was a widespread movement: “Persons of all ranks and ages, and of both sexes are, and will be, involved in the prosecution. For this contagious super­ stition is not confined to the cities only, but has spread through the villages and rural districts.” Through this letter from Pliny, the highest ranks of the imperial administration came to know about the spread of Christianity, and Pliny’s analysis up to this point was quite accurate as far as the practices and attraction of the growing religion. In closing his correspondence, Pliny clearly wanted to end on an optimistic note for the emperor, and in doing so he thoroughly misjudged the attraction of Christianity. Since most of the people he interviewed were lapsed Christians, or those who were readily willing to renounce their beliefs, he assumed the attraction was thin. He said that in spite of the large numbers of converts, “it seems possible to check and cure it… . It is easy to imagine what multitudes may be reclaimed from this error, if a door be left open to repentance.” This is what he observed in Amastris, at least among the relatively few he interviewed. He concluded with the good news that the problem he went to Amastris to correct – temples in disrepair and rituals slighted – was corrected. “It is cer­ tain that the temples, which had been almost deserted, begin now to be fre­ quented; and the sacred festivals, after a long intermission, are again revived.” Ever the practical administrator, Pliny noticed that the sale of sacrificial animals had once again increased. It is a little hard to believe that the numbers of Christians before and after Pliny’s interrogation would have made such a difference in the ritual life of the city, but the emperor’s repre­ sentative certainly would have wanted to put the best spin on his intervention. Trajan’s response, preserved as Letter 97 in Pliny’s correspondence, was short and positive. Trajan approved of Pliny’s methods, noting that it is “not possible to lay down any general rule which can be applied as the fixed stan­ dard in all cases of this nature.” Trajan did not want any search to uncover Christians, but he said “when they are denounced and found guilty, they must be punished.” He agreed that any accused who denied Christ and offered sacrifice to the Roman gods should be pardoned. Finally, he warned that any accusations offered without the accuser’s name must not be admitted into evidence.22 In this last warning, the emperor recognized the danger of letting accusers offer an anonymous list of the sort Pliny had acted upon. Trajan’s ruling was practical but on somewhat tenuous legal grounds. A little less than a century after the letter was issued, the North African church father Tertullian commented with scorn at the legal difficulties implicit in the opinion: “How unavoidably ambiguous was that decision! … So you con­ demn a man when he is brought into court, although no one wanted him to be sought out. He has earned punishment, I suppose, not on the ground that

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he is guilty, but because he was discovered for whom no search had to be made.”23 What was the crime that brought Christians to the attention of the authorities in the first two centuries after the death of Jesus? It was not the crime of not sacrificing because that came after the charges as proof of inno­ cence. No, the charge was simply that of the “name,” of Christian, and throughout the records of the martyr trials, their profession of the name Christian was enough to condemn them. Pliny and Trajan had set precedents that paved the way for more martyrs to be created, but at the time both surely thought they were establishing a moderate precedent. The later Christian commentator, Eusebius, wrote that Trajan’s response “meant that … to some extent the terrifyingly imminent threat of persecution was stifled.”24 Thus, in 112 CE the relationship between Christians and Romans remained ambiguous. Christians reading the Book of Revelation and the Letters of Ignatius and other similar texts, saw a cosmic struggle of good against evil that allowed no compromise with the Great Satan of Rome. Romans who read the correspondence between Pliny and Trajan saw a temporary problem of misplaced loyalty easily solvable with imperial pressure. The continued struggle did not erupt immediately. Trajan’s successor, Hadrian (who ruled from 117 CE until 138 CE) also had a request from his proconsul of Asia Minor, Granianus about the legality of prosecuting Christians. Apparently, Granianus was passing on an appeal from local Christians, claiming it was not right for them to be put to death without a trial, and solely to “gratify popular clamor.”25 This correspondence suggests that local controversies continued to exist between competing religious com­ munities. It is hard to imagine that such divisions rose to the level of public disturbance, but apparently they did. Romans were dragged into this both by the desire to preserve order and by Trajan’s previous edict that there was something wrong with stubbornly adhering to a troublesome religion. Hadrian’s response modified Trajan’s policy a bit by restricting persecution of Christians. His letter urged his provincial governors to rely strictly on the law, not on rumor or popular demand for persecutions. He wrote, “If then the pro­ vincials can so clearly establish their case against the Christians that they can sustain it in a court of law, let them resort to this procedure only, and not rely on petitions or mere clamor.” He further urged the governors to prosecute people who brought charges against Christians for their own financial gain.26 Hadrian’s edict recognized that the problems causing civil unrest in the cities were not all caused by Christians, and he did not want Rome to get involved in these religious quarrels. This letter also shows that persecution continued to be sporadic and local, stimulated usually by controversy among neighbors. Hadrian was succeeded by Antoninus Pius (ruled 138–161 CE), who by all accounts was an honorable, virtuous and effective ruler. During his reign, the empire prospered, and he lifted the restrictions against Jews that had been imposed by the previous emperor, and Christians, too, experienced a measure of peace, if not acceptance. The Christian congregations grew and bishops publicly and officially presided in the large cities, though rumors of illicit

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behavior at secret meetings continued to circulate. Even under this careful ruler, sporadic violence did break out against Christians. In spite of Justin having addressed his Apology to Antoninus Pius, the emperor did not convert from his stoic views to Christian ones. Some Christians (including Justin himself) died during his reign. However, during the reign of this emperor some of the most compelling texts describing their deaths were composed. These accounts of martyrs’ deaths shaped the future of Christian thought, but one of the first things they had to confront was whether or not people should step forward to die.

Voluntary Martyrs The apologist Justin described the condemnation of Christians in Rome some 50 years after the death of Ignatius. Though he didn’t refer to them as “mar­ tyrs,” later commentators did. The circumstances leading to the arrests were innocuous, and personal. The issue was triggered by the actions of a woman who had become Christian, and after her conversion, she no longer wanted to indulge in “unchaste behavior” that had marked the actions of both she and her husband. Since her husband would not change his behavior, she filed for a divorce. The husband, furious, turned his ire on the Christian who had taught his wife the benefits of virtue. The husband persuaded a centurion friend of his to arrest the Christian teacher, Ptolemaeus, and ask him only one ques­ tion: Was he a Christian? Once the teacher confessed to that, he was placed in chains and “mistreated in prison for a long time.” On the basis of his con­ fession, Ptolemaeus was sentenced to death, and as he was led away to his execution, another Christian came forward to defend him, saying “What is the reason for this sentence? Why have you punished this man who is not an adulterer, or fornicator, or murderer, or thief, or robber…?” A third Christian came forward and all three were executed.27 This sentence was roughly con­ sistent with Trajan’s edict wanting to prosecute general troublemakers, but it was clear that Justin (and other Romans watching) this was not a particularly lawful ruling. In fact, the willingness of Christians to step forward to volunteer to die raised a troubling question that Justin felt compelled to answer, as he wrote: “Lest anyone should say to us, ‘All of you, go, kill yourselves and thus go immediately to God, and save us the trouble.’” Justin answered the question saying that since God created the world and mankind for a purpose, it was not for people to choose death. Instead, the goal of people was to stand up for truth, and if death followed, that was the responsibility of evil-doers.28 As usual, everyday Christians did not always obey the texts that came to them. It seems that many Christians chose to ignore warnings and embrace voluntary martyrdom. In 185, a group of Christians approached the Pro­ consul of Asia carrying halters around their necks and demanding execution. He refused, telling them if they wanted to commit suicide, they could find a cliff to jump off.29 These Christians were turned away, but he records of the

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martyrs show that many of them volunteered to die. For but one example, there is an account of three martyrs, Carpus, Papylus, and the woman, Agathonice. The men “hastened to the amphitheatre that they might all the more quickly depart from the world,” and as they were burnt, the woman threw herself on the flames to join them in their death.30 As we will see in the next two chapters, this example will be repeated by people who chose death over life. Some church leaders continued to try to discourage such voluntary mar­ tyrdom. Clement of Alexandria in the late second century explained that martyrdom meant living a Christian life – “a witness by life and word” –not simply dying for the faith. He condemned those who “rush” to martyrdom claiming that such people are guilty in their own death as an “accomplice in the crime of the persecutor.” Further, people shouldn’t even provoke the authorities and thus seek martyrdom, and that it was even prudent to flee from persecution.31 The frequent writings prohibiting voluntary martyrdom actually demon­ strates its continued appeal. Why were some Christians drawn to violent death? There are probably as many varied explanations as there are voluntary martyrs, but we can make some generalizations. Without a doubt some were influenced by the examples of martyrs like Ignatius who died bravely and in their own deaths found meaning, whether imitating Christ, or dying for a cause. Others believed that a powerful death might be a mechanism whereby the powerless persuade the powerful. Did the martyrs’ intransigence persuade some Romans of the correctness of their position? I doubt it. Clement was more correct when he said living for the faith was more effective than dying for it, but those willing to die believed their sacrifice was meaningful. We can see the strength of this belief when we look at the late fourth cen­ tury, when those described as “heretics” in North Africa (the Donatists) actively sought martyrdom. As Augustine complained, “It was their daily sport to kill themselves, by throwing themselves over precipices, or into the water, or into the fire.” Augustine dismissed these self-styled martyrs as “inflamed by wine and madness,” and declared the age of martyrdom over.32 But this fourth-century (and subsequent) prohibitions of voluntary martyr­ dom is largely out of the scope of this book, but this look at the future shows how powerful church leaders believed martyrdom to be. However, the power of the martyrs required a control of the message; the compelling texts that described the deaths were carefully edited.

The Martyrdom of Polycarp There are roughly two kinds of records of records of early martyrdoms: 1) Trial records, called Acts (acta) which are mostly in the form of a dialogue between Roman inquisitors and Christians; and 2) Passions which are accounts written by eyewitnesses to the deaths. Both categories can include everything from fairly accurate (though probably heavily edited) accounts like the Passion of Perpetua (that I discuss in Chapter 7) to totally fictional

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accounts (that I don’t include at all).33 There are about only six relatively reliable accounts of martyrdoms in the first 250 years of the Christian era, and these begin with Polycarp and end with Perpetua,34 and they will form the basis of my discussion in the next few chapters. In these chapters, I will summarize the events of the martyrdoms, but I want to use these accounts to tease out how the silent Christians responded to these events: Some watched in awe; others in horror, and still others left town to escape the whole thing. Each of these reactions contributed to the unfolding history of Christianity. The letters of Ignatius served to begin the official story of the martyrdoms, but since we have no record of his death, the letters are neither “Acts” nor “Pas­ sions.” Instead, the first, and highly influential, Passion was that of Polycarp, the bishop of Smyrna who had received Ignatius’s last letter. Ignatius had offered pastoral advice to Polycarp. Ignatius urged Polycarp to strive for unity in his congregation, offering suggestions for how to deal with the “troublesome” con­ gregants, revealing to us again how divided these Christians had become.35 Ignatius did not urge Polycarp to seek martyrdom, but without a doubt the young bishop remembered the dramatic last words of his mentor. Polycarp had probably been born of Christian parents in about 69 CE, and tradition says that he had been taught by the apostles and “many who had seen Christ.”36 He reportedly was named bishop of Smyrna by the Apostle John living in Ephesus. Smyrna was an ancient coastal city that claims to have been the birthplace of Homer, and this vibrant city contained as many vigorous competing religious cults as Ignatius’s Antioch. The struggles of the church in Smyrna were mentioned in John of Patmos’s, Book of Revelation, in which he wrote: “I know your tribulation and your poverty … and the slander of those who say that they are Jews and are not, but are a synagogue of Satan.” His vision also predicted that in Smyrna, “the devil is about to throw some of you into prison, that you may be tested” (Rev 2:8–9). Igna­ tius’s visit to Smyrna before his martyrdom probably seemed to make this prophecy true. Polycarp reigned as bishop for over 50 years and in about 155 CE when he was about 86 years old, a Christian persecution broke out in Smyrna. Purportedly, a member of the church in Smyrna wrote a vivid account of Poly­ carp’s arrest and martyrdom, and this is presumed to be the first eyewitness account of an execution, making it highly influential.37 The supposed eyewitness wrote the account in the form of a letter that he circulated to other churches, just as scriptural letters circulated. There are questions about the accuracy of the account of the events sur­ rounding Polycarp’s death, and it is very likely that the author shaped the telling to increase its rhetorical effect. It may be that the current version of the passion was composed as late as almost a century later,38 but that date of composition remains uncertain. However, it does seem certain that Polycarp was executed by the Romans, and the way the account was written, how the author chose to present the events, and what he emphasized was what gave the work its power and influence. The account that follows expresses what

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Christians through the ages thought happened, more than the actual facts of a brave man’s death. The persecution in Smyrna that broke out about 155 CE, had gathered up many Christians who died bravely as they were executed. Members of his congregation persuaded Bishop Polycarp to leave the city until the storm of persecution passed, and he agreed and moved to a country property that he owned outside the city. The author of the Passion relates a cautionary tale about a man named Quintus, who was among those who surrendered them­ selves voluntarily to martyrdom, but who changed his mind at the last minute and offered a sacrifice to the emperor. The author parenthetically noted “(And that is the reason, brothers, why we do not approve of men offering themselves spontaneously.)”39 Whether this anecdote was a later addition to the passion or not, we can see the continuing warnings against voluntary martyrdom, and the constant repetition of such warnings means that at least some Christians were continuing to step up. Furthermore, the fact that Polycarp was willing to leave town and hide away legitimized this as an option for Christians who wanted to avoid confrontation with authority. The theological position that was emerging during these years was that God selected His martyrs and gave them the grace to withstand the violence. The account of Polycarp’s experience was full of demonstrations that his death was God’s will. For example, while the bishop was praying, he received a vision in which he saw flames burning up his pillow. He interpreted this as a prophetic dream that he would be burned alive.40 The soldiers continued to search for Polycarp, arresting young slaves and torturing them until they revealed the location of the bishop. Once again, the author parenthetically notes that the capture was part of God’s plan: This “manifestly meant that he was to fulfil his destiny by sharing the experiences of Christ.”41 When the soldiers arrived at his house late at night, the old man greeted them, offered them food, then departed with them. They took him into the city, where he refused to save himself by reciting the formula, “Caesar is Lord,” the title insisted upon by the emperor. Once the crier announced in the arena that Polycarp had admitted to being a Christian, the audience, “hea­ thens and Jewish residents of Smyrna alike, broke into loud yells of fury” and called for his death. A great fire was built, and Polycarp refused to be nailed to the stake, claiming he would go to the flames willingly. In his final prayer he claimed he was a sacrifice – like Jesus and Ignatius and all the martyrs who had gone before – and he stepped into the fire. According to the witness, the fire would not destroy him, so a soldier stabbed him with his weapon, and the blood extinguished the fire. The account ends with the Romans cremating the remains “as is their custom,” that is, as the Roman custom, not the Christian one. After that, faithful gathered the remains which the text describes were “more precious to us than jewels, and finer than pure gold – and laid them to rest in a spot suitable for the purpose. There we shall assemble, … with glad rejoicings and

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with the Lord’s permission we shall celebrate the birthday of his martyr­ dom”42 This expression of respect for the remains of the dead has generated controversy among historians. Candida Moss argues that such relic collection emerged as a religious practice only in the third century, and therefore, the text of the martyrdom must have been written a century after the events. (Or at least it had been heavily redacted later.)43 I will offer a different explanation. I suggest that the quiet Christians who made up the congregations, and who watched with horror and wonder at the deaths of their fellows, venerated their remains long before official churchmen developed the theology of relics. The evidence for this is in the fact that though apostles and early churchmen had no rituals for Christian deaths. It was people in the congregations who buried the dead in catacombs where they gathered to celebrate communion with the living and the holy dead. Already in the second century, Romans were horrified by the Christian practice of venerating the dead. For example, on horrified pagan apologist wrote expressed his repugnance at Christian practice writing: “For what sort of human soul is it that has any use for a rotted corpse of a body? … Corpses should be disposed of like dung, for dung they are.”44 We can see that Christians were venerating the dead long before theologians developed a religious explanation for the practice,45 so it is perfectly probable that witnesses to holy deaths would gather the remains for burial. Within this straightforward account of a miraculous death, the author (or eyewitness) introduced a few phrases that give us a more realistic glimpse into the ambiguities among the witnesses. For example, the eyewitness heard a voice from heaven urging Polycarp to “Be strong and play the man.” How­ ever, he further says only “our friends who were there heard the voice.” Others did not. In another instance, when Polycarp was being burnt, the eyewitness and “we who were privileged to witness it” didn’t see a gory sight of a human being burnt, but instead saw a “loaf baking in the oven, or like a gold or silver ingot being refined in the furnace.”46 These small references suggest that only those with sufficient faith could see the miraculous events in the arena. Those without such faith would join the “Jews and Heathens” who the eyewitness accused of being the villainous participants in the cruelty in the arena. These references also explain the experience of any silent Christians who were not privileged to see the miracles, but it also suggests that any Christian who didn’t see them might have been persuaded to claim they did, for who wanted to appear lacking in faith? This account had all the elements that marked future tales of martyrdom. There were miraculous visions proving God’s will; heroic resilience demon­ strating God’s grace, and a veneration of the remains that showed God’s blessing of the flesh that had suffered. This account also showed how these sporadic persecutions weren’t widespread. The Christians who witnessed Polycarp’s death were not in danger, and they didn’t fear for themselves. The persecution died down as quickly as it had sprung up. The Christian con­ gregation at Smyrna remained strong, probably helped by the example of its

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bishop. However, the real influence of Polycarp’s death came from the com­ pelling text that offered a witness of the continued presence of God’s grace on earth, and the hope (and encouragement) that Christians might see evidence of miracles in their lifetimes.

Justin Becomes a Martyr The apologist Justin, who watched some Christians in Rome be convicted unjustly, expected that he, too, might be killed. He described how he had a public debate with a Cynic called Crescens, calling him a “lover not of wisdom but of false opinions,” and publicly humiliated him by demolishing his arguments. After the argument, Justin wrote, “I expect to be the victim of a plot and to be affixed to the stake … perhaps even by Crescens.”47 In this passage, Justin captured the reality of many of the martyrdoms – they were stimulated by local jealousies and formed a way for some people to be rid of their enemies. In spite of warnings from Emperor Hadrian and others, Roman authorities were too often ready to sentence people to death for only bearing the name “Christian.” Justin was right; in 165 CE, he and six companions were brought before Rusticus, the prefect of Rome, to be examined. The Acts of the martyrdom of Justin and his companions takes the form of a dialogue between Rusticus and the Christians. Like all the Acts of martyrs, we can’t be sure if they are actual court records or an embellished memory, but these are the sources we must cautiously work with. In this record, the Prefect asked about their beliefs, and their meeting place. The latter question probably attempts to determine whether Christians qualified as an illegal club. Justin answered that people visited his home to hear about Christ, a meetingplace that was not forbidden. Rusticus then asked the final question – Are you a Christian? – that permitted him to sentence Justin to death on the basis of the edict established some forty years before under Trajan. Once again, following Trajan’s precedent, Rusticus threated the group with whippings and death, and determined that they believed they would ascend to heaven after death. Rusticus issued his sentence: “Those who have refused to sacrifice to the gods are to be scourged and executed in accordance with the laws.” The Act concludes with their execution, stating simply that they “went out to the customary spot glorifying God.”48 Tradition says they were decapitated in accordance with their status as Roman citizens. Justin’s martyrdom shows that by 165 CE the struggle between Christianity and Rome had become public and was turning into the battle between good and evil suggested in the Book of Revelation. Ironically, the very popularity of the decent man, Antoninus Pius, contributed to a backlash against Chris­ tians. The citizens of Ephesus who declared Antoninus Pius, the “savior of the whole human race”49 were among many who saw loyalty to the emperor essential for the well-being of the community. Christians who appeared too arrogant to bow their heads before Rome appeared treasonous. At the same time, the growing popularity of Christianity led more and more people to

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convert, and by the middle of the second century these congregations were visible presences in the cities of the empire. At the time of Justin’s martyrdom, Marcus Aurelius (160 CE–186 CE) had replaced Antoninus Pius, and this emperor launched a more vigorous attempt to stamp out the growing religion. Sometime after Justin’s death, Marcus Aurelius initiated a serious persecu­ tion of Christians. He removed some of the penalties for false accusations, and people once again began to turn in their neighbors. The reasons for Marcus Aurelius’s attacks are not clear. Perhaps the Stoic emperor found Christian religious exuberance extreme, and perhaps he was influenced by his advisors. One of his closest was Rusticus, the judge who had condemned Justin. The attacks took place in the intellectual marketplace as well. Just as Chris­ tian Apologists continued Justin’s arguments in favor of the new faith, Romans took to the attack too. The most complete surviving summary of the pagan case against Christians, came from a man named Celsus, who wrote in about the 180s CE. Celsus was a Platonist who believed in a single, benevolent God who could be approached through reason, and his arguments against the Christians showed he was dismissive of the passion of the faithful: He was dismissive of Christians who responded to questions with statements such as “Do not ask questions, just believe,” or “Your faith will save you.”50 Celsus saw the Roman Empire with its multiple gods as a great federation living under a divine justice. For him, Christians were simply Jews who had abandoned their laws to follow a God who had left them to be persecuted. Celsus summarized the movement of Christianity as a “revolt against the state.”51 Writings like Celsus’s began to articulate an intellectual critique of Christianity that ran parallel to the dark rumors that turned neighbor against neighbor. Even though very few Christians were executed, the written Christian texts that emerged in the second century argued that there was a battle for the soul of the Roman Empire. Passionate, visible martyrs stepping forward seemed to prove the continuing work of the Holy Spirit, while writers created exciting stories to detail their struggles. Meanwhile, Romans tried to keep the peace by cracking down on disorder wherever they found it. However, the reality was much less exciting than that. Through the second and into the third centuries, most Christians quietly prayed together, building communities and expanding through networks of family and friends, and most silent pagans didn’t even notice. Sometimes conflicts occurred, but that was the exception not the rule. In fact, ideas and beliefs spread not because people die for them, but because people live for them. In the next two chapters, I will look at how Christianity spread to the West – to Lyon and North Africa – through the texts that illuminate both the quiet Christians and the occasional highly visible martyrs of the region.

Notes 1 See Candida Moss. The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom (New York, 2013), for the argument that persecution was a later invention.

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2 Moss, The Myth of Persecution, 55–81, offers an excellent summary of the background. 3 Moss, The Myth of Persecution, 26. 4 “Epistles of Ignatius,” in M. Staniforth, Early Christian Writings (New York, 1968), 64.

5 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Romans’ Chapter 7, in Staniforth, 106.

6 Staniforth, Early Christian Writings, 102.

7 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Ephesians,” Chapters 4 and 13, in Staniforth, 76, 79.

8 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Magnesians,” Chapter 15, in Staniforth, 91.

9 Ignatius, “Epistle to Polycarp,” Chapter 1, in Staniforth, 127.

10 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Magnesians,” Chapter 8, and “Epistle to the Philadel­ phians, Chapter 6, in Staniforth, 89, 111. 11 Ignatius, “Epistles to the Romans,” Chapter 4, in Staniforth, 104. 12 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Smyrnaeans,” Chapter 4, in Staniforth, 120. 13 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Ephesians,” Chapter 4 and “Epistle to the Trallians” Chapter 7, in Staniforth, 76, 97. 14 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Romans,” Chapter 2, in Staniforth, 104. 15 Ignatius, “Epistle to the Ephesians,” Chapter 21, in Staniforth, 82. 16 Candida R. Moss. Ancient Christian Martyrdom: Diverse Practices, Theologies, and Traditions (New Haven, 2012), 55, describes the critique of Ignatius’s seeming advocacy of suicide. 17 Pliny. Letters, ed. E.G. Hardy (Oxford, 1889), 210–217. 18 Pliny, “Letter 96”, 210. 19 S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth, eds. The Oxford Companion to Classical Civili­ zation (New York, 1998), 409. 20 W.H.C Frend. Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Grand Rapids, MI, 1981), 221. 21 Pliny, “Letter 96”, 211. 22 Pliny, “Letter 97,” 217. 23 Tertullian. “Apology,” in Latin Christianity: Its Founder, Tertullian. Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 3 (Peabody, MA, 1995), 10–12. 24 Eusebius. The History of the Church, Book 33.3, trans G.A. Williamson (New York, 1984), 144. 25 Eusebius, Book 4.9, 162. 26 Eusebius, Book 4.9, 162–63. 27 Justin Martyr.”Second Apology,” Chapter 2 in Writings of Saint Justin Martyr, trans. Thomas B. Falls (New York, 1948), 120–122. 28 Martyr, “Second Apology,” Chapter 4, 123. 29 Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church, 293. 30 “Martyrdom of Carpus, Papylus, and Agothonice,” in H. Musurillo, Acts of the Christian Martyrs, vol II (Oxford, 1972), 27–29. 31 Joyce E. Salisbury. The Blood of Martyrs: Unintended Consequences of Ancient Violence (New York, 2004), 197. 32 Salisbury, The Blood of Martyrs, 159. 33 Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution, 74–79. Moss does an excellent detailing of the difficulties in using these texts at all for an historical analysis of exactly what happened. I find the texts useful to see what people thought of the events. 34 Moss, Myth of Persecution, 16. 35 Ignatius, “Epistle to Polycarp,” Chapters 1–8, in Staniforth, 127–129. 36 “Polycarp of Smyrna,” in Staniforth, 135. 37 “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in Staniforth, 153–167. 38 Moss, The Myth of Persecution, 95–104, details some reasons for dating the text later than the mid-second century. 39 “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” Chapter 4, in Staniforth, 156.

94 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

The First Christian Communities, 32−380 CE “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” Chapter 5, in Staniforth,157. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” Chapter 6, in Staniforth, 157. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” Chapter 18, in Staniforth, 162. Moss, The Myth of Persecution, 104. Celsus. On the True Doctrine, trans. R.J. Hoffman (Oxford, 1987), 86. See Carolyn Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body (New York: 1995), 51–58, for a discussion of the change in burial practices for Christians in the second century. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” Chapter 15, in Staniforth, 161. Justin “Second Apology,”Chapter 3, 122. “Martyrdom of Justin and his Companions,” in H. Musurillo, Acts of the Chris­ tian Martyrs, 43–47. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church, 256. Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT, 2011), 174–75. Origen. “Against Celsus,” in Fathers of the Third Century. Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 4 (Peabody, MA, 1995), 466.

6

Christians and Martyrs in Lyon, 177 CE

Lyon was the gateway from the Mediterranean to the interior of Gaul and the north, and it was located in the valley of the Rhône River where the Rhône joined the Saône. The Romans founded the city in about 43 BCE for Roman refugees avoiding the civil wars of Julius Caesar, and called it Lugdunum, after a local place name probably of the Celtic god named lug. Some cen­ turies later – by the fourth century – the name had been shortened to Lyon, and I will continue to use this version of the name. The first settlement had a few thousand people, who built their small houses on the slopes of the Four­ vière hill overlooking the Saône. The rivers were deep and navigable, allowing goods from all over the empire that landed in the busy Mediterranean port of Marseille to easily flow north. As merchants began to grow wealthy, the city prospered, grew, and was a valued crossroads for the empire.

Figure 6.1 Map of Lyon, ca. 170. Credit: K. Danaan

DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-7

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By 19 CE an amphitheater was built on the slope of a near-by hill, and this was the first such construction in Gaul, marking the Romanization of the growing city. An inscription from the amphitheater found in 1957, tells of its foundation: “For the safety of Tiberius Caesar Augustus, C. Julius Rufus, citizen of the city of Santons, priest of Rome and of Augustus, … his son and grandson built this amphitheater and its podium at their own expense.”1 The dedication links the arena to the priestly cult of the emperor, and demonstrates the impor­ tant role played by private philanthropy in the celebration of public rituals. Caligula visited in about 40 CE early in his reign, and the local dignitaries con­ ducted a spectacle in the amphitheater to honor him. Emperor Claudius visited a few years later and he took a great deal of interest in the city. He commissioned a large bridge to be built across the Rhône, which increased the ease of travel. The Greek geographer Strabo who wrote before 24 CE, described Lyon being the junction of four major roads, leading south to Italy, north to Germany, north­ west to the English Channel, and west into what is now southern France.2 Its location guaranteed that Lyon would remain a significant city. As to be expected in a trading town, communications with Rome remained close and relatively rapid for the ancient world. When citizens of Lyon heard about the great fire in 64, they contributed four million sesterces to the restoration of Rome. Lyon had its own great fire a few years later, and Nero contributed the same amount back to the citizens for their own reconstruc­ tion. Did the citizens hear of Nero’s execution of Christians during the course of these fires? Maybe, but it did not matter to them, for it is doubtful any Christians lived in Lyon during these early years. By the second century, Lyon had grown to be a significant city with a population of perhaps 80,000 people, though some estimates range as high as 200,000, though this was still substantially smaller than the eastern cities like Antioch that sported more than twice as many residents. The rivers of Lyon were lined with wharves and warehouses as merchants brought wine and other imports into the rest of Gaul. By the beginning of the second century, the city had all the amenities of a great city of the empire. Four aqueducts brought water to the city, flowing through its public fountains, baths, and villas of the wealthy. This growth of population did not come from the local regions; this was a cosmopolitan city of immigrants and others who were just passing through, and they brought their deities with them. A major shrine of the eastern god­ dess Cybele was built nearby, and it drew crowds of believers. Some Jews came to the region establishing their synagogues, and among them came some who worshipped Christ. The Gallic gods, too, continued to be worshipped in Lyon and the surrounding areas. Once Lyon had grown so large and diverse, the dynamics of this city began to resemble the older cosmopolitan cities of the east, like Antioch that had spawned so much religious tension. There is no question that the earliest Christians came to Lyon from Asia, and not as slaves, but as prosperous immigrants. Records in Lyon testify to the origin of a number of prominent Christian families, that came to the

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attention of authorities during the persecution: Attalus’s family came from the great city of Pergamum, near the coast of modern-day Turkey. Another, Alexander, was a physician from Phrygia, in the center of Asia Minor. These were wealthy people who had their own slaves, both Christian and pagan.3 This suggests that they did not come all together from the same location in Asia, but had established themselves in Lyon, and near-by Vienne, and began to worship in house churches as was the custom in Asia. The trade ties between Marseilles and Lyon and the coast of Asia Minor had brought word of the new Christians in Lyon to Smyrna, where Polycarp presided as bishop before his famous martyrdom in 155 CE. Polycarp sent a man named Pothinus to be the first bishop of Lyon, and he brought a younger priest, named Irenaeus, with him. Pothinus was martyred in 177 CE when he was over 90 years old. If we assume Polycarp sent Pothinus when the bishop was about 40 years old, that places the need for a bishop in Lyon in about 120. This confirms the evidence that the first Christian communities were established in Lyon early in the second century. Christians in Lyon experienced a persecution in 177 CE. This persecution was described in much detail in a letter written in Greek by an eyewitness to send back to the east where so many of the Christians had originated. This letter is the most complete description of a persecution, and therefore it is our best source of information not only about the violent martyrdom, but about the lives of the quiet, and very diverse, Christians of Lyon. It is probably representative of Christian communities in many of the growing western cities of the Empire.

Figure 6.2 Map of the Mediterranean, ca. 170 CE. Credit: K. Danaan

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Christian Diversity The presence of a bishop with his priest did not ensure that the Christian communities in Lyon were unified even in belief, much less practice. Indeed, the Lyon Christians represented a diversity that marked the second-century church elsewhere, for as we saw in the previous chapter, even the older con­ gregations in Asia did not worship with a common mind. If they had, there would have been no need for letters from Paul, Clement, and others, urging Christians to get along and not let disagreements divide them. Celsus, the second-century pagan critic of Christians had studied Christianity and summarized their disagreements in ways that only an outsider could, and his observations are worth quoting in some detail: Some of the Christians proclaim they have the same god as do the Jews, others insist that there Is another god higher than the creator-god and opposed to him. And some Christians teach that the Son came from this higher god. Still others admit of a third god – those, that is to say, who call themselves Gnostics – and still others, though calling themselves Christians, want to live according to the laws of the Jews. Pretty clearly, some put their faith in one god, others in another, but they all walk around in a fog. Christians, it is needless to say, utterly detest each other; they slander each other constantly with the vilest forms of abuse, and cannot come to any sort of agreement in their teaching.4 It is easy to see how Celsus and other pagans were disdainful of Christian diversity, and how the local communities might have split over the disputes. In Lyon it appears that there were two main strains of Christianity: churches that clung to their Jewish roots, and Gnostic Christians, who renounced the flesh in favor of a spiritual practice of secret wisdom. Gnosticism was alive and well in Lyon, for the young priest Irenaeus who had come from Smyrna wrote the clearest refutation of Gnosticism from the early church. He wrote it in about 180, and it reveals his long study of the Gnostics who shared his community. His observations in Lyon are a significant resource for the study of Gnosticism in general, though since he was such a bitter oppo­ nent of Gnostics, his account is biased. Irenaeus also hints at the importance of the Gospel of John in fighting for a theology of Jesus’s physical Incarnation, for his work contains repeated advocacy for the relatively new gospel that was slowly being circulated.5 This strong anti-Gnostic stance led Irenaeus, like Igna­ tius before him, to be scornful of Gnostics, who never sent any of their own to martyrdom, for they “maintain that such witness-bearing is not at all necessary,” for “salvation belongs to the soul alone.”6 Therefore, not only were the martyrs who died in Lyon probably not Gnostics, but the embrace of martyrdom shown by this small community was as much a statement against Gnosticism as Ire­ naeus’s writings. However, this does not mean that the presence of Gnostics in Lyon did not help foster the animosity that led to the martyrdoms.

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The Gnostic Christians may have contributed to the persecutions by their own practices. Irenaeus claims that unlike orthodox Christians, Gnostics used their reputation for secret knowledge to practice magic, “and use images, incanta­ tions, invocations, and every other kind of curious art.” He continued to list other magical arts they practiced, including “love potions; and have recourse to familiar spirits, dream-sending demons, and other abominations.” It was pre­ cisely such magical practices that frightened second-century pagans, who had their own longing for magical access to the divine. Irenaeus says that pagans don’t distinguish between Gnostics and the orthodox community, “imagining that we are all such as they.”7 In the priest’s view, Gnostics brought down the wrath of the crowds, then left town, leaving the orthodox to bear the brunt of their rage, and die in martyrdom. No wonder he wrote such a long, scathing refutation of the Gnostics after the fire of persecution had died down, but his descriptions let us glimpse into the diverse Christian communities of the past. When Ignatius wrote his letters to Smyrna, he fumed not only against Gnostics, but also against Jews, whom he claimed tried to get Christians to renounce Christ and return to the old Law. This tension was absent in Lyon, because the Christian community there seems to have been drawn from converted Jews who kept many of their old traditions. Irenaeus in his work against Gnostic heresies, referred to his community as a “synago­ gue,”8 which suggests how slowly the process of separating the two reli­ gions proceeded. Far from the east, where tensions between Christians and Jews provoked anger and violence, in the provinces, many immigrants preserved old identities by clinging to many old traditions that were con­ sistent with their new faith. There is a tantalizing piece of evidence in the letter that suggests that this congregation adhered to at least some of the Jewish purity laws. As one slave woman named Biblis was being tortured, she was asked to confirm the rumor that Christians were guilty of cannibalism of babies. To refute what was obviously a false charge, she said, “How could such people devour children when they are not even allowed to drink the blood of brute beasts?”9 This means that the community was eating kosher food: animals slaughtered humanely and drained of all their blood. This probably means there was a Jewish community in Lyon, though the letter does not mention it, and it also suggests that unlike Antioch, here in Lyon the relations between Jews and Christians were not antagonistic. When Pothinus came from Smyrna to Gaul, he left behind any animos­ ity toward Jews, as he started his new mission. His goal was to minister to the existing Christians and reject the Gnostics, but he also intended to spread Christianity into Gaul. Irenaeus used the Celtic language to spread the Gospel in Gaul, and since about half the martyrs in Lyon had Romano-Gallic names it appears his mission had some success. Another martyr, Maturus, was identified as “newly baptized.”10 Christianity in Lyon, then, was a fairly recent import, and one that was spread by immigrants from the east.

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Trouble in Lyon Before the actual violence broke out, the Christians in Lyon had experienced discrimination.11 They had been banned from the public places where neigh­ bors mingled. They were forbidden to attend the baths, a significant hardship in an age when there were no private bathing facilities except in the houses of the very rich. In the public baths, people came to know each other, to talk business as they sat in the pools or steam rooms, and to recognize each other as part of the same community. Then, Christians were further banned from the “public square,” which effectively excluded them from the markets that made the city so profitable. There were probably religious reasons for this ban; after all, the public spaces were under the protection of the city’s gods, and temples were located in the center of the city. Since Christians refused to give offering to these city deities, it seemed inappropriate at best to allow Christians to use the spaces reserved for the gods. The Roman apologist Celsus explained this position that applied well to the Christians in Lyon. He said that since divine beings occupy the spaces of this world – like the public square in Lyon – Christians were at the very least ungrateful for using these spaces and offering the deities no sacrifices. He equated it with using someone’s apartment and paying no rent.12 So, the Christians were excluded from the spaces presided over by pagan gods. What these measures effectively meant was that even before the persecution broke out, the citizens of Lyon had divided themselves into two camps. Christians (and this included Gnostics and Jews as well) were excluded from the social life of the city. They had to associate only with their own, while their business was conducted in public through intermediaries or non-Christian slaves. Perhaps ironically, this was the sort of problem that drew immigrants into the large cosmopolitan cities of the east to Christianity in the first place. We have seen that the ability to form close-knit congregations of people kept Christians together in the anonymous spaces of the cities. However, this advantage that mirrored long-lost experiences in small homogeneous villages became a social disadvantage in towns that were more diverse than villages and yet not as anonymous as large cities. These new towns tried to achieve a unity of identity marked by festivals and worship, and in these instances Christians and Jews who refused to participate, put themselves outside the town’s identity. (We have seen this same kind of problem in modern times, when countries try to use religion to bring identity, causing persecution of Jews, Muslims, and others who seem to be outside a dominant religious culture.) In Lyon, pagans marked Christians as outsiders, who were fair game for persecution. The behavior of pagan Gallo-Romans toward Christians in Lyon shows that they believed Christians were anti-social, that is, they did not want to participate in the social activities of the community. In the case of the Lyon Christians, this meant even more than a simple unwillingness to participate in the temple rituals, because these Christians were keeping kosher food laws, so

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they were excluded from banquets or even dinner parties with their neighbors. However, being anti-social was not illegal, and persecutors ran up against the strong Roman traditions of law. Even 65 years after Trajan’s correspondence with Pliny that said Christians could be executed for only adhering to the “name” of Christian, plenty of critics – Christian and pagan alike – questioned the legality of this ruling. One late second century legal scholar accused Romans, writing “You play fast and loose with the laws.” He argued the illegality of a charge which lay only in a name, with no crime attached. He drew examples from daily life that revealed the degree to which Christianity had become a topic of con­ versation. He wrote that someone might say that one man is a good man “except that he is a Christian.” Or another says “I am astonished that a wise man like Lucius should have suddenly become a Christian.” He points out that these are good men who could be executed for only a name.13 However, these people were going to die for not being solid members of the pagan community, and nothing they said was going to make any difference.

The Virtue of Sacrifice The Roman ideal of sacrifice had deep roots in the Mediterranean world. The earliest relationship between people and their deities was one of a bargain in which people offered something to the gods in the hope that such renuncia­ tion would bring some favor in return. Pagans offered everything from a drop of wine, a bit of a sweet cake, a portion of meat, or a sacrificial animal. The greatest sacrifice of all was life, and blood spilled on an altar represented the loss of life. Most blood sacrifices were of animals, and as the life drained away in the animals’ blood, petitioners hoped that their lives would be pre­ served. This age-old bargain offered blood for blood, life for life. Human sacrifice was the most valuable, and though it had been banned by Romans in 97 BCE, the practice continued in some places like North Africa.14 Romans may have replaced human sacrifice on the altars of Rome, but they preserved the ideal in the arenas, as gladiators died. Tertullian and other Christian writers accused the Romans of using gladiators as human sacrifices, and while that may not be strictly true, there was certainly an association between gladiator combats and other deaths in the arena with the prosperity of the Empire.15 A proverbial saying from the ancient world expressed the strong identification of Roman well-being with the games in the Colosseum: “As long as the Colosseum stands, Rome shall stand;/When the Colosseum falls, Rome falls/When Rome falls, the world will fall.”16 Death in the arenas of the empire ensured prosperity and life to the communities; by any definition, this represented a sacrifice, and such sacrifices were expensive, which contributed to some Christian executions. Traditionally, in the arenas on days of games, a full program involved animal fights in the morning, criminal executions by beasts or flames in the middle of the day, and the popular gladiator fights in the afternoon. This was

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standard in Rome, but in the provinces, promoters often had a shortened program – perhaps just a beast fight culminated by the sacrifice of criminals. Sometimes in the search for criminals to execute, provincial governors sought out Christians, who could be tried quickly for only confessing to being Christians, then sentenced to the beasts. As we have seen, Ignatius was probably being escorted to Rome to die in the arena. A similar situation took place in Lyon. August 1 was an important ritual day in Lyon, for on that day in 12 BCE a huge altar dedicated to Rome and Caesar Augustus had been erected on the left bank of the Rhône River, across from the city of Lyon. Every year representatives from all over the province of Gaul gathered at the altar to celebrate the cult of Rome and the emperor by offerings at the altar. On the same day, they continued the celebration with games and gladiator shows at the amphitheater that was next to the temple and altar complex. Each year these games were expensive, but in 176 CE or early 177 CE, Emperor Marcus Aurelius and the Senate had passed a mea­ sure designed to relieve rich provincial landlords of the expenses involved in promoting gladiator shows. This edict stated that condemned criminals could be acquired from the provincial governors at the cost of one tenth the price of hiring a gladiator. A nobleman from Gaul in Rome celebrated this edict saying it would be useful in Gaul.17 Here we have another motivation for the persecution; Lyon needed sacrifices in the arena on the occasion of the cele­ bration to ensure the continued prosperity of the Emperor and the State, and Christians served that sacrificial purpose. Early Christians claimed that the coming of Jesus eliminated the need for pagan sacrifice. As the second century author, Barnabas, explained: Jesus was the calf who was led to the slaughter, so that everyone would be saved by the “sprinkling of His blood.” He concluded that God no longer needed “sacri­ fices, burnt-offerings and oblations.”18 Tertullian more succinctly told the Romans who looked for sacrifices: “Do you have desire for blood? You have the blood of Christ.”19 Some of the accounts of martyrs’ acts include this anti-sacrifice position. For example, the Acts of Phileas from the second cen­ tury includes a dialogue between the Roman inquisitor and the confessor. The Roman asked, “What sort of sacrifices does God demand?” Phileas answered, “A pure heart, a spotless soul, and spiritual perceptions [which lead to] the deeds of piety and justice.”20 However, within the martyr textual tradition, this was a minority opinion. Both Polycarp and Ignatius had defined their own martyrdoms in terms of the blood of sacrifice. Ignatius reminded his followers that he was a “liba­ tion poured out to God, while there is still an altar ready for me.” Polycarp called himself “a sacrifice, rich and acceptable.”21 The martyrs of Lyon had come from the same region as Polycarp and Ignatius, and were heavily influenced by these texts. They, too, shared the idea that the arena they would enter had become not a place of pagan celebrations, but an altar upon which the sacrificial blood of martyrs would be shed.

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The letter that described the ordeal of the Lyon Christians included the same kind of language of sacrifice as did accounts of Polycarp and Ignatius. For example, the Lyon letter recounts that Alexander was tortured by being fastened to a burning hot metal seat, and as his body burnt, a “sacrificial savor arose from his body,” in the same way that smoke from the pagan sacrificial altars rose to the pagan gods. When they died, the Lyon author noted that the martyrs were “sacrificed at the end.”22 Their deaths seemed much more meaningful when cast in the form of sacrifice in imitation of Christ’s sacrifice. In June 177 CE Romans and Christians in Lyon both shared the value of sacrifice, and indeed blood sacrifice. Romans needed criminals to substitute for gladiators in the annual celebration of Rome and the Emperor. Christians, who read the Book of Revelation, were ready to sacrifice themselves in the cosmic struggle of good versus evil, and orthodox Christians were ready to bear witness with their bodies to demonstrate their theology to local Gnostics. All these ideas came together in the violence of the summer. As we have seen, there had already been tensions between Romans and Christians, in the summer outright violence broke out. The violence may have been precipitated by the leading families of Lyon who did not want to pay for gladiators and were looking for large numbers of criminals to sacrifice. Whatever the reason, violence broke out while the provincial governor was out of town. At that time, a crowd gathered and attacked members of the Christian community. The letter claims that the Christians peacefully and heroically “endured all that the people en masse heaped on them: abuse, blows, dragging, despoiling, stoning, imprisonment, and all that an enraged mob is likely to inflict on their most hated enemies.” The Christians were dragged into the forum where the city authorities and the tribune of the gar­ rison of Lyon interrogated them.23 The only question they were probably asked was whether they were Christians, and they all confessed. The confessors were then locked up in prison to await the arrival of the governor. At that time, the formal trials would take place. However, the decision had already been made in the court of public opinion. The Chris­ tians in Lyon who had come from Asia Minor had become too successful and visible in this province. The worst kind of violence was to come. The letter named the arrested: the deacon Sanctus of Vienne, the newly baptized Maturus, Attalus, the citizen from Pergamum, and Blandina, a slave woman, described as “cheap and ugly.” Blandina’s mistress was mentioned briefly, but not named. In addition, the elderly bishop Pothinus was also arrested. Though many other Christians died during the arrests, these five became the personal face of the persecution. The author knew the rhetorical advantage of naming specific people for the faithful to come to know, and here he offered leaders of the church, a strong young man, and a slave woman. The letter makes is seem as if the whole Christian community was at risk as tortured slaves gave names and soldiers came to people’s homes taking away the faithful. However, though many died, many also survived, including the author of the letter who witnessed the events. Pothinus’s priest, Irenaeus, also

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escaped arrest because he was on his way to Rome to consult with the bishop of Rome regarding doctrinal disputes within the congregation. Irenaeus would return to become bishop of Lyon and lead a strong congregation of survivors and converts. Once again, the quiet Christians who didn’t make headlines lived to forward the expansion of the Christian communities.

Preliminary Questioning and Christian Responses When the governor returned to Lyon, he found a city in turmoil and a jail full of Christian prisoners. To prevent more riots, the governor was not going to go against the pagan crowd who had imprisoned the Christians, and he began this influential persecution. According to the author of the letter, the events took place in public, and many Christians were involved. In accordance with the criminal law that gave the emperor’s representative full jurisdiction, the governor gathered the many who had been imprisoned by the crowd to his court of justice, and began the questioning.24 Even at this point, the governor could have slowed the proceedings, for he had full authority to do so. Trajan’s letter to Pliny in 112 CE had said gover­ nors should not seek out Christians, but only prosecute those who had become visible. When the provincial governor of Gaul returned to Lyon, he had a lot of Christians who had come to his attention. However, these seemed not to have been enough. Over the next days, more Christians were rounded up, even some from the neighboring town of Vienne, about 19 miles south of Lyon. These trials against Christians were conducted under criminal law, which meant that the magistrate representing the emperor served as prosecutor, judge, and jury. This is what led to a wide variation throughout the empire in prosecuting the crime of being a Christian; it all depended on the inclination of the governor. The circumstances in Lyon seem to have conspired to yield a particularly violent confrontation. Apparently, wealthy pagans needed inexpensive pris­ oners to sacrifice in the arena, and they had a governor who seemed eager to comply. In fact, the law of criminal justice urged the magistrates to “appeal to the people”25 to choose the punishment for the crimes. Therefore, the ques­ tioning was done in public, so the community could weigh in by acclamation as they heard the testimony. In Lyon, the community was already calling for Christian blood. The governor “publicly ordered a full-scale investigation of all Christians,”26 and he began by arresting slaves, some Christian and even some pagan ones. Since under Roman law, slaves could not legally give evidence without being tortured, slaves were tortured to give evidence against the Christians, and to identify any other members of the Christian community. Soldiers encouraged the tortured slaves to testify that Christians engaged in the terrible behaviors that people whispered about. They urged slaves to say that Christians practiced “Oedipean marriages,” or incest, and “dinners in the manner of Thyestes,”27 that is, cannibalism. This testimony would confirm the

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rumors that circulated in the second century. Of course, the author of the letter claimed that “it would be sinful for us even to think of or speak about” these crimes, but he also noted how pervasive rumors were. He said “these stories got about,” and inflamed the pagans so much that even those who had been moderate toward Christians because they knew them and were friendly, grew inflamed. They “now became greatly angry and gnashed their teeth at us.” The Christians had lost any public goodwill they previously had, and the violence proceeded. After the preliminary questioning, the governor ordered a public trial, and in the tradition of Pliny writing to Trajan, he sent a message to Marcus Aur­ elius asking for his advice about what to do with the Roman citizens among the arrested.28 The emperor was campaigning on the Danube some 600 miles away, and it would take weeks to receive an answer back, so the governor proceeded with his own judgment. What of the Christians in the community? While the author of the letter was a staunch advocate of martyrdom, everyone in the congregation did not agree. As was the case throughout the empire during times of persecution, some Christians believed caution was better than valor. The letter said some were “still untrained, unprepared, and weak, unable to bear the strain of a great conflict.” Some of these might well have been Gnostics, who were arrested with the orthodox. Pagans did not distinguish between the two groups, and in fact all Christians in Lyon probably did not dwell on or even follow the theological distinctions that separated Gnostic from orthodox. Irenaeus’s long tract against Gnostics written after the deaths probably served as much to define the beliefs of this group as anything else. However, all writers agreed that a particular characteristic of Gnostics was that they saw no point in dying as a martyr. It is likely that some of these who were unwilling to die may have been Gnostics. Of those who were initially arrested, about ten were unwilling to bear witness to their Christian beliefs. The author of the letter called these “stillborn,” a metaphor that reveals a good deal about their developing view of both the Christian com­ munity and of martyrdom. Writers describing martyrdom looked to images of childbirth as powerful metaphors to express the transition from death to eternal life. On the day he was to die, Polycarp expected to join Christ and other martyrs in heaven on that very day.29 In fact, the faithful believed that martyrs did not go to their deaths, but instead went to their rebirth into eternal life. The “stillborn” caused the remainder of the Christians “great grief and measureless distress” for good reason. Christians who escaped arrest by renouncing their religious allegiance caused those who had not yet been arrested to be less eager to join those bound for martyrdom. In fact, as the community seemed split, the arrested wrote of their own very human concerns as they waited for an expected execution. They wrote, “It was at that time too that all of us were tormented with doubts about our confession of Christ.” They claimed to be afraid not only of the “torments that might be applied,” but also that some of them might also “fall away” as fear gripped them.

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Meanwhile, in spite of the arrests in Lyon, the governor did not immediately bring Christians to trial. Perhaps he was waiting for a response from the emperor, or maybe he was delaying so the executions would take place on August 1, the festival of the altar of Lyon. At the same time, he had to satisfy the mob who wanted blood. In addition, he may have hoped to force Christians to recant, solving the problem in accordance with Trajan’s directive to Pliny.30 Most of the imprisoned Christians died from abuse by the guards; the letter claims they were “strangled in prison,” while others “could not support the burden of imprisonment and died in jail.”31 Many of the imprisoned Christians were beaten by their guards, and the elderly bishop Pothinus was particularly abused. As the bishop came before the tribunal, the bystanders kicked and punched him as he passed and “tried to hit him with whatever they had at hand.” The crowd thought that their abuse of the priest could “avenge their gods,” which suggests some motivation for pagans on the eve of the great celebration to the Roman gods to show their piety against those who refused to worship. The beaten and bruised bishop was thrown in jail to await his trial, and two days later he died in prison.32 The whole account of the arrests, preliminary questioning, and beatings was confused and confusing, and probably accurately reflects the chaos and anger that surrounded the proceedings in these early days of the persecution. The pagan mob had taken over events with all the violence of a pogrom that pitted neighbor against neighbor. The Christian community, too, was in dis­ array, with some avoiding the violence and some embracing the chance to bear witness and die. Some probably fled town to wait until the storm of persecution died down.

Trial and Death in the Arena In spite of its legal ambiguities, Trajan’s precedent-setting letter of 112 CE remained the law under which Christians were summoned before the tribunal. The sole crime was that the accused maintaining the “name” Christian. However, in the case of Lyon, and probably other cities, governors enforced the decree of Trajan, but ignored that of Hadrian, who wrote that Christians should not be prosecuted to satisfy popular demand. The arrest of Christians in Lyon was begun by mob clamor; only after their arrest did the governor proceed with Trajan’s advice, though with a query sent to Marcus Aurelius to be sure the rules had not changed. Once the governor arrived, the questioning of the prisoners began in earn­ est. Roman law required that slaved be tortured before giving legal testimony. Therefore, since Blandina was a slave, she was tortured to extract her testi­ mony, and her confession was simple: “I am a Christian; we do nothing to be ashamed of.” Though as a slave, Blandina was liable to torture under the law, but the account of her suffering shows that the torture went beyond extracting evidence; it was the punishing of an obstinate slave. When Blandina was brought to torture, the other Christians, including Blandina’s owner, who was

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also imprisoned, feared that the slave would not be able to stay constant and make a “bold confession of her faith.”33 But they need not have worried. According to the account, the torturers wore themselves out with beating her from dawn to dusk, and were surprised she was still breathing, “for her entire body was broken and torn.” She offered only the testimony that she was a Christian. Sanctus, the deacon from Vienne, was the next to be tortured. The torturers under the instruction of the governor imposed severe torture to “make him say something that he should not.”34 Sanctus would not even tell them his name, his city of origin, nor even whether he was a slave or a freedman. His refusal to reveal his legal status allowed the torturers to proceed legally, per­ haps assuming he was a slave. To all the questions, “he answered in Latin: I am a Christian!”35 (His answer in Latin distinguished him from the Greekspeaking merchants from the east.) What of the Christians who had renounced their beliefs, the “stillborn?” Under the precedent set by Trajan, these should have been immediately released back into the community. Surprisingly, that did not happen. Since some of the tortured slaves must have admitted that they saw Christians committing murder, cannibalism, incest, and whatever else the torturers wanted, the Romans had some criminal charges available for them to use. Ironically, since they did not need to use these charges against those who had confessed to being Christians, they used them against those who had recan­ ted. They were charged with murder under the criminal statutes.36 Christians who did not recant found much pleasure in these murder charges because they felt this ruling, while inaccurate, reflected a higher justice. The ten would be executed just like the Christians, but they forfeited their chance at eternal life, which the martyrs expected to claim at the moment of their death. The public executions would take place – and be celebrated – in the amphitheater in Lyon. Like other amphitheaters of the Empire, the arena in Lyon was an oval shape, with the internal dimensions of about 222 feet by 138 feet. The amphitheater accommodated only about 1,800 spectators. In Lyon, as in amphitheaters all over the Empire, the spectators sat very close to the action, able to interact with the dying. In addition to serving as places for ritual deaths, arenas served a political function, for here, citizens enhanced their reputation by spending private for­ tunes to sponsor games. In Lyon in 177 CE, the sponsors of the games had received a special dispensation to replace expensive gladiators with criminals. As the August 1 celebration approached, pagans looked for prisoners to die in the arena. It is likely that this stimulated the persecution of Christians. Christians and Jews were easily found, since their homes were not decorated for the festival season, and they could serve as criminals in the arena, indeed they would replace gladiators to become the blood sacrifices that were at the symbolic center of the amphitheater. As one scholar studying sacred violence wrote, “the purpose of the sacrifice is to restore harmony to the community, to reinforce the social fabric. Everything else derives from that.”37 The storm

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of arrests had split the city, and urban leaders were ready to celebrate the emperor’s festive day and restore the cohesiveness of the community in the blood of the Christians. The letter from Lyon explained the situation succinctly: “they were in the end sacrificed, after being made all day long a spectacle to the world to replace the varied entertainment of the gladiatorial combat.”38 By mid­ summer in Lyon, the governor was ready to begin the festivities, and the first Christians were brought to the arena, not just to die, but to be killed in creative and entertaining ways. On the first day, four of the Christians were led into the arena – Maturus, Sanctus, Blandina, and Attalus. As the author of the letter wrote, they were to be “exposed to the beasts and to give a public spectacle of the pagans’ inhumanity, for a day of gladiatorial games was expressly arranged for our sake.”39 Maturus and Sanctus were the first to enter, and they came into the arena through a gauntlet of people whipping them, which the letter tells us this was a local custom for those entering the arena. Once the citizens were seated, wild animals were released into the arena and mauled the two con­ fessors. The men were hurt, but not killed. Condemning criminals ad bestias is more complicated than it might appear. Animals, no matter how vicious, are not predictable, so elaborate efforts had to be made to try to ensure that the beasts would indeed attack the con­ demned. Animals were starved before the spectacle, but even that didn’t necessarily spur them to anger while crowds yelled for blood. In attempts to encourage animals to attack, victims were frequently tied to fixed posts or wheeled platforms that were pushed toward the animals. All these efforts required the presence of animal trainers in the arena who used whips to drive the condemned to the beasts or to steer the beasts to the appropriate victim.40 Even when beasts did attack, the condemned was not necessarily killed. Sanc­ tus and Maturus were not given such a quick death. After being mauled by the beasts, they were further condemned to the “flames,” in this case an iron seat that was heated as hot as a griddle. The smoke of their roasting flesh swept through the audience, but instead of reacting with disgust (a modern response), the crowd reacted with more rage crying out for more tortures to break the martyrs’ resis­ tance. Maturus did not speak, and Sanctus simply repeated his confession of faith. No doubt the two martyrs were beyond pain as their bodies slowly died. Blandina was the next Christian to be brought into the arena, and in the description of her ordeal, we can once again see the differing perspectives of the spectators watching. She was “hung on a post and exposed as bait for the wild animals that were let loose on her.” This was a standard means for criminals to be immobilized so the animals might more readily attack. How­ ever, Christian spectators saw something different. “She seemed to hang there in the form of a cross,” and Christians saw in this a repetition of Christ’s death: “they saw in the person of their sister him who was crucified for them.” By equating her sacrifice with that of Christ,41 Christians reiterated that the sacrifice of the martyrs was a holy death.

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Blandina did not die at this time; none of the animals touched her, showing the typical problem that happened with some frequency when wild animals refused to do the Romans’ bidding. However, for Christians it showed a mir­ aculous salvation. Either way, the small, thin slave was brought down from the post and returned to the jail to be “preserved for another ordeal.” The crowd then yelled for Attalus, who was famous in the city. He was led around the arena with a sign on which was written, “’This is Attalus, the Christian.’ The mob was violently worked up against him,” and they were looking for an exciting death from this man who “entered the arena as a warrior.” But they were to be disappointed. As soon as he appeared, someone told the governor that he was a Roman citizen, who thus could not be exe­ cuted in the arena. The governor stopped the proceedings and sent Attalus back to jail with Blandina and the remaining Christians while he waited for the emperor’s response to the inquiry he had sent. While the Christians waited in jail, the letter says this period “was neither idle nor fruitless for them.” Those who had confessed − Blandina, Attalus and others who still lived − talked to those who had renounced their faith in their fear of the ordeal. The jailed, but lapsed, Christians regretted their denial and wanted to die with their fellows. Of course, the fact that they remained in jail, this time for murder, must have also contributed to their decision, for they believed if they died for Christ they would go to heaven; if they died for murder, they would just die. “Strengthened they came before the tribunal that they might again be questioned by the governor.” This time they confessed their faith and returned to jail to die with their fellow Christians when they were brought to the arena.42 This small incident of those who were about to die consoling their fellow prisoners led to a controversy in the church that would plague leaders for centuries. We have seen that during the early church most authority was given to those who seemed to have the gifts of the Holy Spirit – whether of pro­ phecy or tongues, and further that people who were able to bear witness to their faith during torture or before their deaths seemed to have that gift of grace. Therefore, the jailed martyrs-to-be, or “confessors” seemed to have more authority than church officials like bishops. The letter gave a great deal of authority to the confessors in jail who brought the “stillborn” back to life in the church. It is probable that though the author of the letter did not intend to make a broader statement about the power of those who had born witness, it was not a great leap to come to that conclusion, and people in the next century did so, much to the concern of church leaders who wanted to keep authority within the emerging hierarchy of priests and bishops. As we will see in the last chapter, church leaders will amend this compelling text to take power away from confessors to restore it to bishops. Late in July the long-awaited response from Marcus Aurelius arrived. The emperor stayed true to Trajan’s initial response to Pliny, and wrote that those who denied their faith should be released, Christian citizens should be beheaded, and the rest sentenced to the beasts. The timing was perfect for the

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festival was about to begin, and “it was one that was crowded with people who had come to it from all countries.” The governor emptied the jail and brought all the Christians before the tribunal “to make a show and a specta­ cle of them before the crowds.” He had them all questioned again, and those he thought possessed Roman citizenship were immediately beheaded.43 Those Christians who had previously renounced their faith were questioned separately “with the idea that they were to be released” in accordance with the emperor’s demand. However, their time in prison with the confessors had changed their minds, and to the pleasure of the author of the letter, they confessed and were “added to the company of the martyrs.” The author refers with scorn to some people “who remained outside, … . rather by their way of life they blasphemed the Way. And these were the sons of perdition.”44 He must be referring to Christians, and it may have been Gnostics or others who did not see the point in dying for their faith when they could live for it. One more man stepped forward during this final examination: A physician from Phrygia named Alexander. Here we can see the continuing appeal of voluntary martyrs in spite of churchmen warning against the practice. He had travelled throughout Gaul and was well known for preaching the Christian faith with the gifted eloquence of the apostles. He had been standing in front of the tribunal urging Christians to make their confession, and the crowd grew angry. They “cried out against Alexander,” claiming he kept the Chris­ tians from recanting. The governor heard the crowd and ordered Alexander before him. When Alexander confessed he was a Christian, the governor condemned him to the beasts.45 The next day, the crowd gathered in the arena for the final executions. To please the pagans, the governor sent Attalus into the arena even though he should have been beheaded as a citizen in accordance with the emperor’s letter. This shows the discretion governors had in the prosecution of Chris­ tians; the crowd had been offended by Attalus previously, and they wanted him sent to the beasts. The governor complied. Attalus was joined in the final contest by Alexander, and the crowd cheered as the two public men faced the beasts and the heated iron seat until their deaths. Blandina suffered like the others. She was whipped, attacked by animals, and burned on the hot griddle. She was still alive, so she was tossed into a net and exposed to a bull, who tossed her about on his horns. Like so many who had been tortured, she “no longer perceived what was happening,” which is a typical response to extremes of pain. However, the letter’s author saw in her disassociation the miracle of God’s hand: she felt nothing “because of the hope and possession of all she believed in and because of her intimacy with Christ.” She was “offered in sacrifice, while the pagans themselves admitted that no woman had ever suffered so much.”46 The martyrs were all now dead, but the attacks on the martyrs’ bodies had not ended. According to the eyewitness, the Romans knew Christians vener­ ated the remains of the dead, and this is consistent with the pagan disgust at Christian burial practices that I discussed in Chapter Five. The Romans

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wanted to be sure that the Christians had no access to the remains of the dead in Lyon. Those that died in prison, “they threw to the dogs, watching … both night and day lest we might bury any of the bodies.” The bodies were left unburied and guarded for six days, then burned to ashes. The ashes were swept into the river Rhône “so not a single relic of their bodies might be left on earth.”47 The Romans further showed some knowledge of Christian beliefs because they taunted the living with the desecration of the dead saying “Now let us see whether they will rise again, and whether their God can help them.”48 The eyewitness didn’t say how the surviving Christians responded to the destruction of the remains, which suggests that there still wasn’t yet a clear theology of resurrection. That will start to be articulated in the fourth century. All the author of the letter wrote was they felt “great grief because we could not bury the martyrs’ bodies in the earth.”49 Beyond this, there was probably a range of responses: The Gnostics were not worried since they didn’t care about bodies anyway. Maybe some orthodox Christians continued to hope in the reassembling of the ashes on judgement day (which would become the ortho­ dox position), and probably others were simply confused. I imagine the con­ versations in the various congregations that took place at the repeated reading of this letter served to shape hope in the expectation of bodily resurrection. The account of this witness became one of the compelling texts that shaped the future of the church. The letter ensured that their experience would be long-remembered and, indeed, imitated. In 1986 Pope John Paul II visited the excavated ruins of the Amphitheatre of the Three Gauls and erected a pillar in honor of Blandina and the other martyrs to commemorate their trials. Today, some visitors still stroll through the remains of the northern gate of the arena and gaze at of the foundations as they perhaps remember the ancient martyrdoms in Lyon.

Notes 1 P. Wuilleumier. Inscription latine des Trois Gaules (Paris, 1963), 61. 2 Strabo. Geography, Book IV, 3. http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/ Texts/Strabo/4C*.html. July 25, 2022. 3 “Martyrs of Lyons” in H. Musurillo, trans. The Acts of the Christian Martrys (Oxford, 1972), 65, 67, 77. 4 Origen. “Against Celsus,” in Fathers of the Third Century. Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 4 (Peabody, MA, 1995), 570–571. The summary is from J.B. Rives, Religion and Authority in Roman Carthage from Augustus to Constantine (Oxford, 1995), 227. 5 Irenaeus. “Against Heresies,” in The Apostolic Fathers with Justin Martyr and Irenaeus. Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 1 (Peabody, MA, 1995), 426–429. 6 Irenaeus, 350, 508. 7 Irenaeus, 350–351. 8 Irenaeus, 418. 9 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 71. See W.H.C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Grand Rapids, MI, 1981), 18–20 for the Judaic background of the group. 10 Frend, 3; “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 67. 11 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 63.

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12 Celsus. Celsus: On the True Doctrine, trans. R.J. Hoffmann (Oxford, 1987), 118. 13 Tertullian, “Apology,” Chapter 4, in Tertullian: Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius, trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1950), 20. 14 Joyce E. Salisbury. Perpetua’s Passion: Death and Memory of a Young Roman Woman (New York, 1997), 54. 15 Thomas Wiedemann. Emperors and Gladiators (New York, 1992), 33. 16 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 120. 17 Frend, 5. 18 “The Epistle of Barnabas,” in Early Christian Writings: The Apostolic Fathers trans. J. Staniforth (New York, 1968), 194, 198, 204. 19 Tertullian, “Spectacles,” Chapter 29, in Disciplinary, Moral and Ascetical Works, trans. R. Arbesmann (New York, 1959), 104. 20 “Acts of Phileas,” in Musurillo, 331. 21 “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in Musurillo, 13. 22 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 79. 23 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 63. 24 The account of the arrest and questioning may be found in Eusebius, The History of the Church, Boook 5.1 ff trans. G.A. Williamson (New York, 1984), 193–202, and “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 65–69. 25 S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth, eds. The Oxford Companion to Classical Civili­ zation (New York, 1998), 408. 26 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 67. 27 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 67. 28 Frend, 6. 29 “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in Musurillo, 13. 30 Frend, 7, analyzes the delays. 31 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 71. 32 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 73. 33 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 67. 34 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 69. 35 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 69. 36 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 73. 37 René Girard. Violence and the Sacred, trans. P. Gregory (Baltimore, MD, 1997), 8. 38 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 75. 39 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 73. The account of this session in the arena is told on pages 73–75. 40 See Roland Auguet, Cruelty and Civilization: The Roman Games (New York, 1994), 62. 41 Elizabeth A. Castelli. Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York, 2004), 126. 42 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 77. 43 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 77. 44 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 77. 45 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 77–79. 46 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 81. 47 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 81. 48 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 83. 49 “Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 81.

7

North Africa, Latin Texts, and New Martyrs, 180–212 CE

The city of Carthage was the largest city in North Africa west of Egypt and rivalled Rome in its wealth and influence. By the second century it boasted a population of several hundred thousand, many of whom grew wealthy from the trade ships entering its well-built ports. Other grew rich from the grain that grew so abundantly in large estates that served as the bread basket for Rome. Like the cosmopolitan cities in the east, Carthage was a diverse city; residents spoke Greek, Latin, Punic (a semitic language that had long been spoken in North Africa), and an array of other dialects. Unlike the eastern cities, however, Carthage didn’t have the long history with Greek philosophy and literature; instead, these Carthaginians had their own history, and it shaped their understanding of the emerging Christianity. The second-century commentator, Plutarch, offered a negative assessment of the Carthaginian character: “It is bitter, sullen, subservient to their magistrates, harsh to their subjects, most abject when afraid, most savage when enraged, stubborn in adhering to its decisions, disagreeable and hard… .”1 Leaving aside the ancient prejudice of a Greek philosopher, there was something different about the Carthaginians. As the modern historian, Charles Freeman, wrote, “there is a rigour and austerity to Christian life there which conflicts with the more relaxed attitudes of the Greeks.”2 In large part this difference in religious tone came from the ancient Carthaginian religion that had come from Phoenicia with the earliest settlers. In the eighth century BCE, when Carthage was initially founded, human sacrifice was common in the eastern Mediterranean. In the seventh century BCE, Hebrew prophets began to preach against the Phoenician practice of human sacrifice: “[t]hey have filled this place with the blood of innocents, and have built the high places of Baal to burn their sons in the fire as burnt offerings to Baal.”3 Human sacrifice had ended in the eastern Mediterranean by the end of the seventh century, but the colonists of Carthage, kept their old gods – called Baal-Hammon and Tanit – along with the practice of human sacrifice. Under Roman rule, Baal-Hammon became associated with Saturn – god of agriculture and related to Cronos the god of time. In myth, Cronos had eaten his own children, and thus, the harsh Saturn became associated with the Carthaginian practice of human sacrifice, and Saturn became the god of the Carthaginians. (Incidentally, Romans also accused Jews of worshipping DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-8

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Saturn at their Sabbath celebrations and called the Sabbath “Saturn’s day” which we remember as “Saturday.”) As we will see, the name Saturn was a popular one in Carthage as two of the martyrs we will meet were named “Saturninus” and “Saturus.” The presence of the demanding god was ever-present in second century Carthage. Carthaginians could walk by a cemetery on the edge of the old city, near the ports, in which human remains of sacrificed children were memor­ ialized with stelae. They knew the power of the gods and the rigorous demands they made. (Visitors today to the ruins of the cemetery can still feel the sadness of this place of sacrifice.) Christian writers as late as the fourth century CE wrote that Carthaginians continued to sacrifice children in times of danger.4 It is not surprising that Carthaginian Christians believed in the value of blood sacrifice and the hope of having signs of divine presence manifested in their communities. No wonder Plutarch found them rigid and harsh; theirs was not a religion of intellectuals reconciling Christ with Plato.

The Arrival of Christianity Unlike in Lyon, where Christianity came in one way – through merchants from the east – there were several mechanisms through which Christian con­ gregations came to Carthage. The first, and earliest, was through the large Jewish community that had settled there. During the first-century wars in Judea, when Jerusalem was destroyed, many Jews came to Carthage from Palestine. For example, legend says that a synagogue was founded on the nearby island of Jerba by Jews who fled the wars. Roman sources say Titus brought thousands of Jews enslaved by the wars to Carthage after his victory.5 Archeology of the city confirms these settlements. There was a large Jewish cemetery covering a hill on the north of the city, and it was believed that Christians were also buried there. In addition, a large purely Christian cemetery grew up on top of a Jewish one. Without a doubt, some of the Christian congregations arose from the Jewish communities. They used the Jewish-Christian Gospel of Matthew instead of some of the other texts that echoed Greek philosophy. Many in the Jewish community were wealthy and well-read. Carthage was a rabbinic center that produced sophisticated texts.6 Just like in Rome, the Jewish community often split over theology, including some who followed Christ, and just as in Rome the converted Jews came from the full social spectrum – some were wealthy (who offered their homes as house churches), and some were poor and some were slaves. Carthage shared with Lyon another strand that contributed to the growing Christian community: travelers – probably merchants – from the east. The organizational structure of the growing church and some of the ritual prac­ tices resemble eastern practices, rather than Roman ones, so we can see the direction of the influence.7 W.H.C. Frend suggests another, compelling, source for converts to Christianity in Carthage; disenchanted followers of Saturn. By the end of the

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second century, the traditional worship of Saturn had begun to shift, owing to the influence of Rome. Greco-Roman temples to Saturn replaced old open-air sanctuaries, and even the portrayal of the god himself shifted. As Frend wrote, “The dread old man (senex) of popular lore, became an ill-tempered, bearded figure robed in a toga.”8 Some converts were looking for a deity that could inspire the old passion, indeed awe, that had shaped the religion of Carthage. Carthaginian Christian desire for an immediate, passionate connection with the divine made some receptive to a new branch of Christianity called “Montanism” that arrived from the east. Sometime just prior to 172 CE, some Christians in Phrygia (Asia Minor) were captivated by the appearance of new prophets: Montanus with his two women companions, Prisca and Maximilla. The three claimed to be prophets inspired by the Holy Spirit. They announced that the end of the world was coming soon, and the millennium – 1,000 years of peace and prosperity – was imminent. Many Christians were excited by the reappearance of prophecy and hope that had marked the age of the Apostles, and some people abandoned their homes to prepare for the end times. Orthodox churchmen were horrified. Our description of Montanus and his followers comes from a fourth-century chronicler, Eusebius, who was opposed to – and afraid of – this upsurge of religious fervor. He wrote with horror that Montanus: Was filled with spiritual excitement and suddenly fell into a kind of trance and unnatural ecstasy. He raved, and began to chatter and talk nonsense, prophesying in a way that conflicted with the practice of the Church handed down generation by generation from the beginning.9 This description sounds very much like glossolalia, that marked the Spirit in the apostolic age, and Eusebius was wrong – and quite defensive – when he argued that such prophecy had ended long ago. In fact, the quiet Christians who made up the congregations remembered, and read the letters of Paul and many longed for the visible presence of the Spirit. Women, too, remembered a time when prophecy came to them and made them respected leaders in the congregations, and Eusebius described (again in the most disparaging way) how the spirit came upon the women, Prisca and Maximilla: “women whom he filled with the sham spirit, so that they chattered crazily, inopportunely, and wildly, like Montanus himself.”10 The fourth-century Eusebius could criticize what came to be called the “New Prophecy” all he wanted, but many second-century Christians were drawn to the reinvigoration of the seeming presence of the Spirit, and Mon­ tanism found fertile ground in Carthage. Followers of the New Prophecy called their critics “prophet-killers” for not supporting their movement,11 which was true enough because established churchmen weren’t interested in new prophecies. In fact, to combat Montanism, some churchmen refused to accept the Gospel of John or the Book of Revelation because the Montanists favored these texts.12 In the east, the Montanists organized themselves as a

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separate church with their own hierarchy and advocated not only prophecy, but a rigorous hope for the end times that included a passionate embrace of mar­ tyrdom. Though there is no evidence that a Montanist church was founded in Carthage, their message found a great appeal in this land of blood sacrifice. All these threads wove together to yield a diverse population of Christians in the second century, and by then there were plenty of Christians in Carth­ age. Using Rodney Stark’s rough estimate of the growth of Christianity in the second century, we might project about 2,000 Christians in a city of about 500,000. While this is a small percentage, it had become a visible number. When a North African Christian apologist wrote to the governor of Carthage warning him against persecuting Christians, he wrote with some accuracy: “What will you do with so many thousands of human beings? Every man will recognize his own relatives and companions among [those arrested] … men of your own rank among them, noble ladies, and all the outstanding persons of the city, and the relatives or friends of your own friends.”13 He was right; Christianity had permeated many parts of Carthage’s population. In spite of the growth of Christian congregations in Carthage, the early thirdcentury city had not devolved into the kind of separation that divided Lyon. In part, it was because the city was larger and more diverse with many competing cults, and Christianity was one more. In addition, many of the Carthaginian quiet Christians saw no reason to call attention to themselves. They saw no harm in attending festivals, and likely ignored any religious component to a civic gathering. There were plenty of Christians who lived peacefully within the Roman world.14 It was this kind of flexible coexistence that allowed Christianity to make inroads into the aristocracy and even the household of the emperors even as early as the third century. Historians have demonstrated that aristocratic converts in the third century showed slow but steady inroads Christianity made among the Romans who governed the empire.15 This flexibility did not mean every Christian compromised with Rome. Some maintained an excitement for prophecy and a longing for martyrdom as the blood proof of Christian commitment. Carthage produced some of the most famous martyrs, and Carthaginians sustained the idea of martyrdom long after it had died out elsewhere. The diversity of the Christian community of Carthage probably led to controversy among the congregations and might have diluted the influence of this mighty ancient city. However, all these threads were drawn together in a cohesive vision by the “Father of Latin Christianity,” Tertullian. Through his compelling texts that preserved and shaped Carthaginian theology – and martyrdom – second-century Christianity was transformed, and the imprint of Carthaginian Christianity marked the future church.

Tertullian: The Father of Latin Christianity We know little about Tertullian’s personal life. He was born in about 155 CE, and his writings show that he had a broad education; he quotes from over

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thirty authors from Herodotus to Plato to Jewish and Christian texts. He knew of the tension between Gnostic and orthodox Christians as he quoted extensively from Irenaeus, the bishop of Lyon who wrote against the Gnostic heresy. Like many educated Romans, Tertullian was drawn to the philosophy of Stoicism that urged people to rely on intellect over emotions. Sometime around 195 CE, he converted to Christianity, and in his writings, he implies that such commitment to Christianity required an internal awakening, as he wrote: “Christians are made, not born.”16 This deep transformation turned Tertullian into a passionate and prolific Christian writer who influenced the future of Christian ideas. Many historians and theologians have studied his theology, and I will summarize some of his most important contributions, However, I am most interested in the clear way Tertullian expressed the central importance of the quiet Christians sustaining local rituals that shaped Christian theology. In his works, we can see the important dialogue between the readers and the author. Tertullian wasn’t laying down the law for people to follow; he was recording the practices that had guided his conversion. As we have seen with many texts, this emphasis will shift, and later Christians would see Tertullian’s works as a guide to belief rather than an articulation of what was going on in the second century congregations. While Tertullian had access to many of the circulating Christian gospels and other works, he offered a way to determine which were true. He trusted in the customs and rituals of the Christian communities in Carthage as the measure of proper practice and belief, and he expected the religious texts to conform to the quiet Christian congregations rather than the other way around. He wrote “If … you insist upon having positive Scripture injunction, you will find none. Tradition will be held for to you as the originator of them, custom as their strengthener, and faith as their observer.”17 He used custom to note that baptism was much more elaborate than that of Jesus, and the Eucharist was celebrated at daybreak instead of as part of a communal meal. These were relatively easy explanations of ritual, but matters of doctrine were more complicated, yet Tertullian remained consistent. In his attacks on heretics, he determined that Christians should rely on a “rule of faith” to determine what to believe. Of course, this is pretty easy to claim, but harder to implement. Whose faith should be the measure? As we will see in Chapter 10, by the fourth century, church leaders declare their beliefs to be the measure of the “rule of faith,” but Tertullian located the guiding faith in the communities themselves – in the quiet Christians who had maintained the faith for so long. I doubt that Tertullian would appreciate the irony of the fact that his articulation of the common mind of the Christian congregations would become doctrine to teach future Christians, but that is the nature of texts. What begins as a dialogue between reader and author becomes an authoritative prescription. We can see Tertullian’s faith in the community’s wisdom in a couple of instances that lay at the heart of his beliefs, and in both he looks back to

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elements of the apostolic church that I described in the early chapters. First, he placed his faith in the essential common mind that provided the cohesive­ ness of the congregations. He articulates a beautiful view of community: “We who are united in mind and soul have no hesitation about sharing what we have.”18 Second, Tertullian departed from the growing hierarchical tendency articulated by Ignatius and others who trusted the power of the bishops to guide the faithful. Tertullian argued that bishops were administrators, taking on tasks like baptism simply to provide order. The real spiritual power that bound the church came from those invested with the Holy Spirit – the pro­ phets who spoke in the congregations. This reliance on prophecy over hier­ archy resembles Montanism, and caused later theologians to view some of Tertullian’s writings with suspicion. Modern church historians have concluded that after about 207 CE, Tertullian became a Montanist, focusing more on appreciating prophecy and an increasingly rigorous Christianity that worried about the tempta­ tions of the flesh.19 These late works also showed a deep longing for the sacrifice of martyrdom. Many scholars have divided his works into PreMontanist and post-Montanist works and argued that he remained a member of the Montantist church for the remainder of his life until he died in about 220 CE.20 Such careful distinctions between “orthodox” and “Montanist” don’t apply to the second-century African church. The congregations embraced what made sense to them, and there was a range of practices. Tertullian noted that some people attended pagan shows, some people avoided martyrdom and the church as a whole contained many kinds of people.21 If, in his old age, Ter­ tullian became more rigid and more uncompromising, that did not mean this staunch defender of orthodoxy against heresy left the church. His successors in North Africa, Cyprian and Augustine, built on all his writings and never accused him of heresy. They understood that the North African church had a different history from the Greek east or the Roman north, and they built on Tertullian’s influential work. In addition to his emphasis on the community as a source of authority, Tertullian articulated a number of other influential theological principles. I will focus on just a few as I detail the broad influence of this North African church. The first, and most important, of Tertullian’s innovations lay in the language he used. Up to this point, all the texts we have looked at – from the Gospels onward – were written in Greek. This limited who had access to the texts to urban dwellers in the east or the educated in the west. Tertullian knew Greek well, and his early writings were in that language. However, his most important work was in Latin; he wanted his work to be accessible to everyone, and this is consistent with my argument that his work represents a dialogue between him and his audience of quiet Christians. In looking at language, we can see the spread of Christianity: Jesus used Aramaic to speak to the villagers of Judea; Paul used Greek to approach the cosmopolitan cities, and now Tertullian brought the Christian message to the Latin-speaking west.

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With his use of Latin, Christian texts took a new, influential direction. Tertullian is acknowledged as the first of the “Latin Fathers” of the church whose writings were considered formative to the church. Tertullian articulated the views of the North African Christians at Carthage22 and through his writings these views became important in the future of the church. In North Africa, Tertullian influenced other great theologians from Cyprian in the midthird to Augustine in the fourth century. When Tertullian used Latin, he coined words that shaped the way future Christians came to understand theology. For example, he was the first to use the word “trinity” to both understand and define the idea of one God within which there were three persons. (This idea would lead to fourth-century con­ troversies to try to refine its meaning, but Tertullian’s usage began the dis­ cussion.) Tertullian also invented the word “sacramentum” (sacrament) instead of the Greek mysterion. He also explained and praised the humble, quiet Christians by arguing that the soul “in its humble and uneducated state is … is naturally attuned to an awareness of God.”23 This last insight recog­ nizes his awareness of the importance of the people in the congregations of Carthage (and beyond) who were preserving and shaping the original message of Christ. It is in this appreciation, Tertullian valued the presence of prophecy in the house churches that led to subsequent accusations of Montanism. In addition, probably influenced by the Carthaginian value of human sacrifice, Tertullian departed from many of the earlier churchmen in valuing sacrifice. Where others had written that Jesus was the last sacrifice that God needed, Tertullian made the dramatic statement: “Does God covet man’s blood? And yet I might venture to affirm that He does.” He argued that Christians should actively desire their own sacrifice.24 Thus, he eliminated any objection to voluntary martyrdom, and he spoke for many Carthaginian Christians who stepped up to be killed. This longing for martyrdom lasted in North Africa long after orthodox Christians had banned it. Tertullian’s desire for passionate sacrifice shaped his view of martyrs’ bodies, and his works formed the theoretical basis for what the texts already showed: quiet Christians valued the remains of martyrs’ bodies as remnants of the power that seemed to have allowed them to withstand their ordeal. Tertullian articulated the idea that the resurrection meant the resurrection of the actual flesh of the person who died. Before Tertullian, Christians had an array of beliefs about the resurrection. Paul claimed we would have a different kind of body; eastern theologians like Gregory of Nyssa and Origen imagined resurrected bodies would be like souls shimmering in heavenly bodies.25 Tertullian disagreed with these positions and insisted that the same flesh that had been tortured receive the reward of heaven. If a person obtained a different body at the end, where was the justice for the body that had suf­ fered? If a person received a shining, transparent body, where was the identity of the person who had inhabited the old body for so long? No, for Tertullian, ideas of justice and identity required that everyone receive back the body they had inhabited through their life.26 For example, Tertullian explained: “Now

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we are not permitted to suppose that God is either unjust or idle. Unjust, however, He would be were He to exclude from reward the flesh which is associated in good works… .” Tertullian found it impossible and “unworthy of God … that this flesh of ours should be torn by martyrdom, and another wear the crown.”27 From the second century until the Reformation in the sixteenth century, Christians adhered to Tertullian’s analysis drawn from the experience of quiet Christians. When Christians gathered up the remains of the holy dead, they believed they guarded the bodies for the day of Resurrection, and more importantly, they came to believe that the power remaining in the relics brought miracles to the living. As Augustine in the fourth century wrote with wonder: “How is it that the martyrs, who were slain for the faith that pro­ claims this resurrection, have the power to work such marvels?”28 It was enough that the relics seemed powerful, and this idea, begun in the quiet communities of Christians, and developed most fully by Tertullian dominated the Middle Ages and became a defining feature of the religion of the age. Tertullian’s major works developing the resurrection of the flesh include On the Flesh of Christ, On the Soul, and On the Resurrection of the Flesh. All these works are included in the list of works historians include as his “Mon­ tanist” period. But his ideas need not have come from the Montanist pro­ phets. There were plenty of people in the congregations who had their own prophets extolling the bodies of the holy dead. Any experience and idea of martyrdom always included the intersection between Christians and the state. As we have seen, sometimes that intersec­ tion grew out of conflicts within the community as in Lyon. Sometimes the persecution originated from the top, with officials looking for scapegoats as in Nero’s Rome. One of the most famous martyrdoms took place in Carthage, and this one arose from political desires in the imperial family, and a parti­ cularly diligent administrator.

Septimius Severus: a North African Emperor Emperor Commodus was murdered in 192 CE, and his death introduced a year of turmoil during which five different generals jockeyed for power. During this time, we can see the emergence of North Africa as a power center, and old Carthaginian religious impulses rose to the surface. For example, one emperor, Julianus, ruled for only two months, and during that anxious time, Julianus apparently turned to his North African wife for advice. In the tradition of the old Carthaginian tradition of child sacrifice, Julianus killed many boys “as a magic rite” hoping by this sacrifice he could acquire prophetic foreknowledge of any misfortunes so he could avert them.29 This magic sacrifice did Julianus no good; he ruled only two months before he was killed. In 193 CE Septimius Severus successfully took power, and he ruled until 211 CE. Historians have noted several innovations implemented by Septi­ mius: He radically reorganized the imperial administration, militarizing it by

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using generals in positions of power. This military reorganization has led historians to call the century following Septimius’s reign the “military monarchy.” But Septimius also had spiritual aspirations, which began a shift in the religious landscape of the empire that had implications for Christians and their martyrs. Septimius was from North Africa, not Rome, and his religious interests departed from the traditional official allegiance to Jupiter. Septimius was more like Tertullian (though neither would have admitted it.) His religious impulses were shaped by Carthage, full of passion, mystery, and sacrifice. Septimius and his wife Julia Domna were interested in various sacred mys­ teries, as his biographer wrote, “He inquired into everything including things that were carefully hidden; for he was the kind of person to leave nothing, either human or divine uninvestigated.”30 Septimius and his wife regularly searched for omens that would lead to prophecies, and he carefully examined his dreams that he saw as prophetic messages from the gods. However, Septi­ mius did not want to simply have access to messages from the spiritual world. Could he get closer to the gods? From the time of Caesar Augustus, Roman emperors had been “declared” gods and venerated with all the rituals traditionally given to the Roman gods. Romans had always venerated deceased ancestors and offered prayers to them in return for blessings of prosperity. Beginning with Caesar Augustus, the emperors took the role of father to the whole empire, and they also assumed the role of pontifex maximus, the chief priest of the empire. Thus, It became common for people all over the empire to offer sacrifices to the emperor in return for blessings, and though there were temples and priests devoted to the emperors, people knew they weren’t actual gods. Instead, as the historian Paul Veyne clarifies, the deification of an emperor was to “award him honors equal to those of gods… meaning sacrifices and altars, the external signs of the respect due to the gods.”31 People hoped that the emperors would keep the empire safe in the same way that ancestors kept the family safe. This kind of ritual respect was practical and effective for some two hundred years, because it not only expressed a loyalty to the empire and its leader without interfering with the hundreds of cults to local deities. But of course, few believed an emperor was an actual god. By the end of the second century, however, this did not seem enough. Where was the emotional pas­ sion, the intimate connection to the divine? Septimius Severus wanted more. The emperor declared that he and his wife were actual incarnations of the Egyptian gods Serapis and Isis. When Septi­ mius built himself a great triumphal arch in his African home town of Leptis, he depicted himself and his wife as the Egyptian deities.32 This was something new in the Roman world. Septimius’s innovation was significant in two ways. First, it proposed a deity that might receive universal allegiance throughout the empire. The tra­ ditional Egyptian gods did not include Serapis; instead, the most important pair was Isis and her brother/husband Osiris. Although the cult of Isis spread

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throughout the Mediterranean world, Osiris was a god particularly associated with the Nile. Away from Egypt, Osiris was changed into Serapis, who became, as Plutarch explained in the second century, “a god of all peoples in common.”33 As Septimius assumed the mantle of this deity, he was offering a universal cult that could unite the Roman Empire, once again joining religion to civic loyalty. A second innovation was in declaring himself an “incarna­ tion” of the deity. This meant that he was no longer just treated with the respect owed to a protector/god, he was actually a god brought to earth to be accessible to the people. This addressed the often-observed desire for Romans to join with their gods in their mystery religions. These innovations failed in the long run, but they established a model that eventually – a century later – would draw Romans together in a unified Christian community. Septimius had the right idea, but the wrong God. Septimius followed up his assimilation with Serapis in 202 CE with a law that struck hard at the growing Christian communities, who worshipped a different incarnated deity: Septimius issued an edict that forbade conversion to either Judaism or Christianity. This law changed the nature of persecutions, because previously they were conducted under the principles articulated in Trajan’s letter: if Christians did not come to the attention of the authorities, there was no crime. Beginning in 202 CE, existing Christians were not guilty, but new converts were. Why did Septimius do this? Some historians suggest that he wanted to encourage the newly universal cult of Serapis/Septimius, and wanted no competing conver­ sions. Others suggest he was trying to reduce the growing influence of Jews and Christians in the eastern portions of the Empire.34 Whatever his motives, his edict had some immediate results for Christians. According to the fourth-century historian, Eusebius, persecution under Septimius fell most heavily in Alexandria, “to which, as to a huge arena, God’s noble champions were conducted from the whole of Egypt.” The theologian Origen’s father was beheaded in Alexandria, and the young Origen would have followed his father in death if his mother had not hidden all his clothing, preventing him from leaving the house. In addition, Eusebius wrote that so many Christians fled Alexandria that there was no one left who could teach prospective Christians.35 The strength of the persecution in Alexandria makes sense since that was a center of the cult of Serapis, but the persecution spread westward – if only sporadically – to Carthage.

North African Martyrs and a New Compelling Text We have a record of one persecution in Carthage before Septimius’s decree. In 180 CE, a few years after the martyrdoms in Lyon, but a good 100 years after Christianity came to North Africa two men were executed. The Acts of these martyrs – called the “Scillitan Martyrs,” named for a city that we can no longer locate – are the earliest from the Latin Church. The account is short, and similar to the earliest in the Greek east. The martyrs are questioned only about their claim to the name “Christian,” and when they refuse to renounce

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that title, they are condemned, consistent with Trajan’s recommendation to Pliny some 70 years earlier. The men were then beheaded, which suggests that they were Roman citizens, not slaves.36 This isolated incident didn’t serve as any particular precedent in North Africa, but everything changed after Septimius’s decree in 202 CE. Of course, enforcement of any decree, religious or otherwise, depended upon the zeal of officials as they chose whether to enforce the law vigorously or not. Tertullian wrote to the governor of Carthage telling him that there was ample precedent for Romans who ignored accusations against Christians. Tertullian offered other examples of lenient Romans who did not want to involve themselves in these proceedings.37 One refused to hear a complaint without the presence of an accuser, while others did not require a confessed Christian to sacrifice, thus avoiding a confrontation. However, the Roman governor in Carthage in 203 CE, named Hilarianus, was a particularly vigorous defender of traditional Roman religion. He had dedicated an altar to “the gods and goddesses to whom it is proper and lawful to pray.”38 Such a man must have been deeply offended by Christian intran­ sigence, and believed their persecution enhanced his own pagan piety. In 203 CE Hilarianus had the opportunity to prove both his piety and his loyalty to Emperor Septimius Severus. Carthage had decided to celebrate the birthday of Septimius’s son, Geta, with games and sacrifices in the great amphitheater of Carthage that had displayed animal fights and gladiator games in a lavish style second only to Rome’s Colosseum. What better gift to give the young imperial son than the sacrifice of humans? The blood spilled in the arena would guarantee the prosperity of the Severan dynasty. The resulting arrests brought about the deaths of among the most famous martyrs of the era: Perpetua and her companions. This martyrdom is extraordinary because Perpetua herself recorded a diary of her arrest and time in prison before her death in the arena. Before her death, she gave the diary to a member of her congregation, who completed it with a first-hand account of the death of the martyrs. The letters of Ignatius and Polycarp also gave us an account of martyrs on their way to death, but theirs were more in the nature of instructional epistles; Perpetua’s diary is more personal. She writes of her dreams and her feelings as she waited for death. This perspective gives us a window into the mind of an early Christian woman that is unmatched in any early text.39 Let’s look at what happened during Geta’s birthday in Carthage. The account of the martyrdom simply states: “A number of young cate­ chumens were arrested, Revocatus and his fellow slave Felicitas, Saturninus and Secundus, and with them Vibia Perpetua, a newly married woman of a good family and upbringing.”40 Since the first people listed were slaves, it seems likely that Hilarianus wanted to make his point and acquire criminals for the arena by simply arresting slaves, but it also seems likely that Perpetua stepped forward and volunteered. Perpetua’s brother was also a catechumen, and he was never arrested, so Hilarianus wasn’t looking for every catechumen

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in the city, nor even in Perpetua’s household. Later, the leader of the con­ gregation, Saturus, also stepped forward to volunteer to die. These six formed the group who would die in the arena. Perpetua’s diary begins with the group’s imprisonment in a dark space. This arrest had several anomalies: Perpetua was a high-born daughter who had an infant son at her breast. Hiliarianus allowed her father to come to persuade her to renounce this path, but she refused and gave him her infant son for the family to raise as she focused on her upcoming ordeal. A second problem was that the slave Felicity was in a late-term pregnancy. It was illegal for Rome to execute a pregnant slave because the child belonged to the slave’s owner. In this case, the problem was resolved because Felicity gave birth in prison, so she, too, was free to die. A final seeming anomaly of the situation lay in the question of who was the leader of the group? Though Saturus was the stated leader, Perpetua was clearly a spiritual leader, and probably was so before her arrest. She acquired her leadership probably in part because of the nobility of her family, but there is evidence that she had experienced spiritual gifts of prophecy before her arrest, because she was comfortable explaining her prophetic dreams and visions while in jail. For example, shortly after their arrest the catechumens were baptized, thus finally violating Septimius’s edict against conversion to Christianity. After her baptism, Perpetua wrote, “I was inspired by the Spirit not to ask for any other favor after the water but simply the perseverance of the flesh.”41 She was not surprised by the vision, which suggests she had received prophecies before. In fact, it was this kind of emphasis on prophecy that yielded female leadership, that led some later theologians to suggest her diary had traces of Montanism. While late fourth-century theologians defined Montanism as “heresy,” or opposed to “orthodox” belief, here in the early third century this is what Carthaginian Christianity looked like. This is what Tertullian had described as the ideal Christian congregation – the bishops were administrators and the prophets led. Within Perpetua’s diary, we can get a glimpse of what the quiet Christians of Carthage expected of their prophets. Most of Perpetua’s diary consists of four dreams, that she interpreted as visions. She was not alone in seeing dreams as messages from the divine. In a later work, Tertullian described the importance of recording visions; of moving the experience of a prophet to a text that might inform the con­ gregation. Tertullian told of a woman who “has been favored with wonderful gifts of revelation which she experiences in an ecstasy of the spirit during the sacred ceremonies on the Lord’s day.” Tertullian wrote that after the services were over and the laity had left, “we asked her as is our custom, what visions she had had. (All her visions are carefully written down for purposes of examination).”42 In recording her dreams, Perpetua was acting in accordance with Carthaginian practice; she was recording her prophecies for the edifica­ tion of the congregation. As an additional proof that Perpetua had been a prophet in her congrega­ tion before their arrest, one of the prisoners asked her to solicit a vision

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saying: “you are greatly privileged; surely you might ask for a vision to dis­ cover whether you are to be condemned or freed.” She responded: “Faithfully I promised that I would, for I knew that I could speak with the Lord, whose great blessings I had come to experience. Then I made my request and this was the vision I had.”43 Much like during the early congregations, the quiet Christians in Carthage or in the prison were reassured that the Spirit was present when some of their number could prophesy. Perpetua recorded four visionary dreams during her imprisonment, and they have been extensively analyzed for their details. Here, I will just sum­ marize their general content to give an idea of the powerful influence of her visions in the church in Carthage and beyond. Her first vision showed her climbing a ladder to heaven where she saw a garden, a shepherd, and thou­ sands of white-garbed observers. She woke claiming that this meant they would die together in the arena but that they would gather together in para­ dise. The surviving Christians learned to imagine heaven as a garden (instead of a golden city that had pervaded previous visionary texts), and to hope that the community would remain together in the afterlife. Her second and third visions concerned her brother, Dinocrates, who had died of cancer when he was but seven years old. In her visions, she learned that her prayers could ease Dinocrates’ afterlife from a painful one to a cheerful, playful one. The Christians in her congregations came to believe that prayers could help the dead and that confessors preparing for martyrdom had power to help the living and the dead. Perpetua’s final dream came on the eve of the conflict in the arena. Not surprisingly, she dreamed of her battle in the arena, where she saw herself as a wrestler entering a battle. But what was surprising, and controversial for subsequent readers, Perpetua saw herself transformed into a man for the battle: “My clothes were stripped off, and suddenly I was a man.”44 Did this mean that women would become men in heaven? A century and a half later, churchmen were still disputing the meaning of this visionary transformation. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo in North Africa, said absolutely not; women’s bodies would retain their form in heaven. Augustine said Perpetua’s transfor­ mation was an interior one; she became as strong as a man so that in her dream her exterior changed to reflect the interior change: her body did not “keep the shape of its vagina” to reflect their ability to “die in a manly and faithful fashion.”45 This dream ended Perpetua’s account of her imprisonment and her dream/ visions. In the tradition of the Carthaginian churches that Tertullian descri­ bed, Perpetua gave the record of her visions to congregants for their con­ sideration. It was easy to give the scrolls to Christians, because they visited the prison regularly. These anonymous Christians were not worried about being arrested; Hilarianus had what he needed, prisoners to execute in the arena as a sacrifice for Geta. Prisons during the Roman era were haphazard affairs. They were not designed to hold people for long, just long enough for a trial and execution,

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and all prisoners depended on family members to care for them while impri­ soned. The Christian family came together to care for their imprisoned brothers and sisters. As Perpetua wrote gratefully: “Tertius and Pomponius, those blessed deacons who tried to take care of us, bribed the soldiers to allow us to go to a better part of the prison.”46 Fellow Christians brought food and other supplies to give the prisoners sustenance. It would have been easy for Romans to arrest these Christians as they came forward to help their brothers and sisters, but they did not. Romans were making a point by arresting some, but they were not seeking out all Christians. In fact, Tertullian claims that their relatives escorted some of the prisoners to jail.47 In these seemingly random arrests, Christians claimed God had simply chosen some for the privilege of martyrdom, and the rest were not chosen. As usual the prolific Tertullian wrote a text explaining how the church should support their imprisoned spiritual brothers and sisters. He wrote a letter to these martyrs, reassuring them that the resources of the church would be brought to them, offering “nourishment for the body which our Lady Mother the church [offers] from her breast.” This is the first time in Latin texts that the church is referred to as “mother,” which shows how influential Tertullian became. Meanwhile, in his letter to the martyrs, he says he brings his offerings in the form of this letter to ease their spirits in this time of trouble.48 This letter from Tertullian offers a perfect example of the way these written texts grew from the experience of the quiet Christians who had been arrested but then formed a dialogue with the imprisoned shaping their views. Let me explain a bit more clearly. Tertullian drafted the letter to share in the com­ munity’s efforts to support and comfort the imprisoned. As he offered his spiritual comfort, Tertullian used several images to help strengthen their resolve. He told the martyrs they would “trample a snake” underfoot. He told the women to be as strong as men and offered many examples of such women. He also described them as “gladiators” who are spurred on by their trainers to great accomplishments. Tertullian also promised that prison could not contain the spirit, that could still roam and receive visions.49 Perpetua’s dreams fulfilled Tertullian’s promise of the presence of the Spirit even in jail. Many of Tertullian’s images appeared in Perpetua’s dreams, from her treading on a snake, to being tended by trainers as she appeared as a man. Dreams can often show how the mind of the dreamer transforms what it has heard while awake, and here we can see that Perpetua’s sleeping mind incorporated Tertullian’s images. To complete a circle of influence, quiet Christians read Perpetua’s diary, and the images became prophecies to guide the faithful. This is the kind of influential interaction between text and Christians that went on throughout these early centuries; this text helps us see it most clearly. The day of the games in the arena arrived, and the portion of the diary that Perpetua wrote was complete. Her last entry reads: “So much for what I did up until the eve of the contest. About what happened at the contest itself, let him write of it who will.”50 She turned over the scrolls containing her visionary dreams, and prepared to enter the arena.

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The diary is continued by a careful observer who detailed the events lead­ ing to the death of the martyrs.51We read about the procession into the arena during which the condemned interacted with the crowd that consisted of both those eager to see the violence and the Christians who gathered to support and see the bravery of their fellows. In the arena the beasts were unleashed: Perpetua was tossed by a wild heifer; Saturus was attacked by a leopard. They did not die immediately. Saturus (who was the leader of the congregation who had volunteered to join the condemned) dipped a ring into his blood and gave it as a token to a witness of the events. This took place before Tertullian wrote his work “On the Resurrection of the Flesh,” demonstrating again that respect for the remains of the martyrs came before Tertullian’s pivotal work explaining why the bodies are respected. In this case, as so many, ritual and belief came from the ideas developed in common in the communities of the faithful. At the end of the games, the wounded but living Christians were gathered to a scaffold where gladiators finished them off with a sword. As they boldly gathered, they gave each other a kiss of peace that bound them together just as they had done within their religious services. Then all the martyrs before Perpetua, took the sword to their necks in silent acceptance. When Perpetua bared her neck to the gladiator, her death was not so quick. He missed her neck striking her collarbone. She took the young gladiator’s hand and guided the sword to cut her own neck. This Carthaginian author who described the event recalled the importance of willing participants in human sacrifice and wrote in wonder: “It was as though so great a woman, … could not be dis­ patched unless she herself were willing.”52 The final proof of Perpetua’s sanctity was for her to commit sacrificial suicide. The martyrs were dead, and no doubt Hilarianus was praised by the emperor for the celebration of Geta’s birthday. But this was not the end of the account of Perpetua; she became one of the most influential martyrs from these early years. The diary of Perpetua was included in the readings that informed the Chris­ tian congregations. It’s worth remembering that almost all reading in the ancient world was out loud, even when readers were alone. Therefore, the readings in church were oral and the experience of listening was collective and joined the community together in the shared experience. Just as communities selected gos­ pels and apostolic letters to read, Perpetua’s diary – and her experience – became part of the community’s memory. By the late fourth century, churchmen like Augustine had to remind the congregants that her diary wasn’t scripture, even though it had become part of the congregations’ collective experience.53 Through the next few centuries, the text of the Passion of Perpetua left North Africa and spread throughout Christendom. The text was translated into Greek as it spread to the east, and the martyrs appear in lists of martyrs to be venerated (martyrologies) from England to Edessa.54 There were also many artistic renderings to remember the martyrs. For example, Figure 7.1 shows a mosaic of Perpetua from the Archepiscopal Chapel in Ravenna, Italy, created in about 500 CE, some 300 years after her death.

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Figure 7.1 Perpetua Mosaic, Ravenna, Italy. Photo credit: author

Just as the amphitheater in Lyon became a location to memorialize the deaths of Blandina and her companions, the ruins of the amphitheater in Carthage also became a memorial to the martyrs. In the nineteenth century, French excavations in Carthage somewhat restored the amphitheater. French monks built a small chapel dedicated to the martyrs in the excavated sub­ terranean passage to mark the deaths. Visitors today gather to the chapel in the memory of the martyrs. All this future fame for the martyrs came about because of Perpetua’s com­ pelling text that recounted and preserved her ordeal. This fame came later. In 203 CE the Christian communities surely felt buffeted by their loss; Hilarianus who presided over the sacrifice progressed satisfactorily in his career, rising to senatorial rank. The persecutions under Septimius’s reign remained sporadic and died down quickly. But imperial politics would again disrupt the slowly growing Christian communities – and other Romans for that matter. Despite the sacrificial killing in honor of his birthday, Septimius’s son Geta did not prosper. He was killed by his brother, who is known by the nickname Caracalla. Caracalla became emperor in 211 CE, and while he followed his father’s worship of Serapis, he did not pursue persecution of Christians. However, Caracalla passed a law decreeing that all free men were Roman citizens. He may have intended this policy to produce more tax-payers to help fill his ever-emptying coffers, but it had an unintended consequence. If every­ one were a citizen, shouldn’t everyone share one religion?55 Much more blood would be spilled to answer this question.

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Notes 1 Plutarch. Moralia, trans. F. C. Babbitt (Cambridge, 1962), 10:165.

2 Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale

University Press, 2011), 196. 3 Joyce E. Salisbury. Perpetua’s Passion (New York, 1997), 50. 4 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 51. 5 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 59. 6 W.H.C. Frend. The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia, PA, 1984), 347. 7 David Soren et al. Carthage (New York, 1990), 148. 8 Frend, 348. 9 Eusebius. The History of the Church, Book 5.16, Trans. G.A. Willliamson (Harmondsworth, 1965), 219. 10 Eusebius, Book 5.16, 219. 11 Eusebius, Book 5.16, 219. 12 Frend, 254. 13 Tertullian. “To Scapula,” Chapter 5, in Tertullian: Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius, trans R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1950), 160. 14 Douglas Boin. Coming Out Christian in the Roman World (New York, 2015), 30–31. 15 Michele Renee Salzman. The Making of a Christian Aristocracy (Cambridge, MA, 2002), 9. 16 Tertullian, “Apology,” Chapter 18.4, in Tertullian: Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius, 54. 17 Freeman, 198. 18 Tertullian, Chapter 39.11, “Apology,” 99–100. 19 See Salisbury, Church Fathers, Independent Virgins (London, 1991), 11–25 for Tertullian’s views on sexuality and the body. 20 Freeman, 200. 21 Frend, 351. 22 Frend, 351. 23 Freeman, 197. 24 Freeman, 199. 25 See Salisbury, “Resurrecting the Flesh,” in The Blood of Martyrs (New York, 2004), 31–53, for a summary of all the differing views of resurrected bodies and souls. 26 See Carolyn Walker Bynum. The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York,. 1995) for a clear analysis of this topic. 27 Tertullian. “On the Resurrection of the Flesh,” in Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 3, ed. A. Roberts and J. Donaldson (Peabody, MA, 1995), 555. 28 Augustine. City of God, Book XXII, Chapter 9, trans. H. Bettenson (Harmondsworth, 1972), 1047. 29 Dio Cassius, Dio’s Roman History, trans. E. Cary (Cambridge, 1961), 157. 30 Dio, 225. See also, Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion (New York, 1997), 27–29. 31 Paul Veyne. Bread and Circuses (London, 1990), 308–9. 32 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 21–22. 33 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 22. 34 J.G. Davies. “Was the Devotion of Septimius Severus to Serapis the Cause of the Persecution of 202–203?” CEial martyrs from these early e 10, 165also meant to be in speech marks? not. The main thing is that the spelling is consistent Journal of Theological Studies n.s. 6 (1954), 73–76, and Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church, 320. 35 Eusebius, Book 6.1–3, 239–242. 36 “Acts of the Scillitan Martyrs,” in H. Musurillo, Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), xxii, 86–89.

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37 Tertullian, “To Scapula,” Chapter 4, in Tertullian: Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius, trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1950), 157. 38 J.B. Rives. Religion and Authority in Roman Carthage From Augustus to Constantine (Oxford, 1995), 244. 39 See Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, for how Perpetua’s dreams reveal her Roman, Carthaginian, and Christian ideas as she blended them all to make sense of her own death. 40 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 77. 41 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 83. 42 Tertullian. “On the Soul,” Chapter 9.4, in Tertullian: Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius, 197. The editor parenthetically notes that this example of a woman prophesying in church was the defining point identifying Tertullian as a Montanist, where instead, the lines were not so clearly drawn. 43 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 98–99. 44 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 107. 45 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 175. 46 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 86. 47 Tertullian, “To the Martyrs,” Chapter 2.1, in Disciplinary, Moral, and Ascetical Works, trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York), 19. 48 Tertullian, Chapter 1.1, “To the Martyrs,” 17. 49 Tertullian, Chapter 1.3, and 4.1–3, “To the Martyrs,” 18, 24. 50 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 115. 51 See Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 135–148 for a detailed account and analysis of the deaths in the arena. 52 Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 147. 53 See Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 171–176, for the ways subsequent churchmen reinterpreted Perpetua’s text to make it reflect the fourth-century church. 54 See, L.S. Cobb, The Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas in Late Antiquity (Oakland, CA, 2021) for a complete listing and translations of the influential text. 55 J.B. Rives, 250–51.

8

Linking Politics and Religion, 212–311 CE

At the beginning of the third century CE, Rome recognized that it had an identity problem. It wasn’t that the empire was too large; Roman skill at administration could handle that. Instead, large cosmopolitan cities and indi­ vidual choices of spiritual paths had called into question a traditional rela­ tionship between religion and civic identity. During the Republic, Cicero had decreed that in an “ideal state no one shall privately have new or foreign gods unless publicly recognized,”1 and this ideal reinforced a traditional model of religious identity that linked all people to their cities through a religious iden­ tity that was expressed in ritual observances. Traditionally, Republican Romans venerated Jupiter, the Best and the Greatest, who had guarded Rome from its earliest years. But for many in the empire, Rome seemed far away, and so did Jupiter. By the third century, the imperial government, “without realizing it,” began to search for a new model of official religion.2 In a sophisticated analysis, J.B. Rives noted that the civic model of religion had deeply eroded in the empire by the beginning of the third century. Rives further showed that as the civic model of religion declined, authorities lost political con­ trol of both religion and elements of civic life.3 Gone was the time when local gods governed local spaces and Rome respected all of them. The second-century longing for the divine spread various cults that claimed to be universal, from the worship of Christ to Isis and many others, and there was no clear way for all these to coexist. The violence of the second century in cities like Lyon, Carthage, Antioch, and elsewhere, was a symptom of the failure of the traditional civic model of religion to tie the community together. What was the solution? We have seen that the North African Severan dynasty tried to address this problem. Septimius declared himself the incarnation of Serapis, but that didn’t really work. His son, Caracalla in 212 CE addressed the problem in a secular manner by extending Roman citizenship to all free inhabitants of the empire. From this point on, the empire was no longer a group of separate territories ruled by Rome, but it was now an empire of Romans.4 This meant that there was no excuse for worshipping separate deities which blessed dif­ ferent spaces of the empire. This meant that Rome added an overarching deity – the emperor and his spirit – to the separate deities that governed the many spaces of the world. DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-9

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One Empire/ One Religion The most dramatic change of this policy was that for the first time in history (that I know of), loyalty to the state was linked to advocacy of one religion. This was a terrible idea; whenever this policy that links religion and politics together, violence ensues. We have seen this during the Reformation wars of religion in the 16th century, the Spanish Inquisition in the same century, the division of India and Pakistan in the 20th century, and the list goes on. The ancient world (and the Enlightenment) had it right: require loyalty to the State and let people and church communities guide their own spiritual lives. But the Severan dynasty of Rome tried something new, and introduced new religious violence. Caracalla probably had no particular religious motivation for his actions, but the unintended consequence of his law was that there was no longer any reason to offer exceptions to Jews and Christians who worshipped under their own separate traditions; now all were citizens, so they should worship like Romans. Once again, ideas don’t change overnight, but the trend toward uniformity set by Septimius and his son began to move the religious mindset of the empire. All the Severan emperors after Caracalla showed an interest in religious matters and their shifting support shaped imperial policy. Caracalla’s cousin, who has come to be called Elagabalus, succeeded him when he was only 14 years old. Elagabalus had been a priest of the sun god in Syria before he was elevated to Rome, and he brought with him a new religious loyalty that he tried to impose on the Romans. He called the god “Deus Sol Invictus” (God, the Undefeated Sun), and forced Romans to venerate him instead of Jupiter. Like Septimius, he wanted to unite the empire one religion, but this reckless boy was not the general Septimius. Elagabalus was killed by the praetorian guard when he was only 18, and another teenager from the Severan dynasty was raised to the throne. The last of the Severans, Alexander, was very different from the flamboyant Elagabalus, and under the influence of his mother, he was a moral young man. Trying to avoid the problem of imposing one religion on the empire, Alexander tried inclusiveness. He supported many different cults, and avoided persecuting anyone for their beliefs. Given Septimius Severus’s interest in the Egyptian deities, it is not surprising that Alexander enhanced the Roman shrines of Isis and Serapis, but he extended his toleration to other groups. In a spirit of inclusiveness, Alexander even permitted astrologers to establish themselves formally in Rome even though they had previously been banned.5 Alexander was remembered fondly by Christians, for they were included in his general support of spiritual things. He didn’t allow people to “call him Lord,” which solved some of the main problems faced by Jews and Chris­ tians, but his biographer goes further, writing: “He respected the privileges of the Jews and allowed the Christians to exist unmolested.” Alexander even included many Christians in his administration, increasing the influence of the

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religion. The emperor even went so far as to try to “build a temple to Christ and give him a place among the gods,” which would have perhaps led Chris­ tianity down a path in which it was one more option for religious seekers in the empire. However, Alexander checked the omens for this plan, and the pagan priests found it inauspicious. Their reasoning reveals the growing strength of Christianity in the early second century: “those who examined the sacred victims ascertained that if he did, all men would become Christians and the other temples would of necessity be abandoned.”6 Alexander’s moderate religious policies did not save him from Roman pol­ itics. He ruled for 13 years before he and his mother were assassinated in 235 CE by troops angry at his military policies. The end of the Severan dynasty introduced nearly 50 years of civil war as competing emperors jockeyed for power, but the immediate result was that Christians would again come under scrutiny and persecution. Alexander’s death brought Emperor Maximinus Thrax to the throne. He was a different man from the gentle, thoughtful Alexander, and he was acutely aware of the hazards of holding power. He wanted to secure his reign by removing all who had supported Alexander, and that included many Christians who had risen to the ranks of power. Eusebius described the policy of Alexander’s successor, Maximinus: “Through rancor against Alexander’s house, which consisted mainly of believ­ ers, he instigated a persecution and ordered the leaders of the churches … to be destroyed.”7 While the Christian sources describe this as a religious persecu­ tion, it is also the policy of a new emperor killing the supporters of a previous one. Politics now entered the motivation of Christian persecutors, so now they looked to powerful Christians rather than simply to believers. One ancient source described Maximinus as “an enemy alike of the Senate, the urban middle classes in the provinces, and the Christians,”8 which shows the extent of his political problems. He could not really afford to focus solely on Christian persecution, and in Rome, leaders were exiled rather than killed. The most serious persecution under Maximinus took place in Cappadocia (modern Turkey), and it arose not from the emperor’s order, but from a local response to a serious earthquake. Once again persecution was a local matter as Christians were blamed for the earthquake. The third-century writer Origen wrote that “persecutions were suffered and churches were burnt.”9 Many Christians fled the province demonstrating that by this time fleeing persecution was considered a reasonable option for Christians who by now had recognized that violent storm of persecution quickly subsided, just as it had in Lyon and Carthage, leaving Christians to carry on as they had before. Even sporadic persecutions, however, gave a rhetorical advantage to Christians. Maximinus’s arrests had provoked Origen to write his “Exhorta­ tion to Martyrdom,” in which he not only praised the bravery of the martyrs (even if they were few under Maximinus), but he used the Christian heroics as an advocacy for Christianity. He argued to pagans that if people were willing to die, there was no greater demonstration of the truth of Jesus’s message.10

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Origen’s rhetoric probably did not convince serious pagans, who saw Christian fanaticism as simply misguided at best. However, it did continue to keep martyrdom in the forefront of the developing Christian story, which increased the influence of the martyrs in a way that was far disproportionate to their numbers. A late second-century Christian apology that was in the form of a letter to someone named Diognetus is but one text that elevates the role of martyrs in converting people to Christianity. He writes: Don’t you see that they are thrown to the wild beasts to make them deny their Lord and that they are not being defeated? Don’t you see that the more of them are punished, the larger the number of the others grows? These things do not seem to be the work of humans. They are the mighty work of God. They are evidence of His presence.11 The rhetoric is powerful, but is it true? What caused the profound growth of Christianity in the third century? Was it the blood of the martyrs? No, it was the careful persistence and solidarity of the communities of Christians who continued to gather together. Throughout these years of imperial struggles, congregations of quiet Christians continued to grow as people valued the communities in which they prayed together and shared a common spiritual mind with each other. At this point, this slow expansion of religion from the bottom up proved more resilient than imperial dictates and persecution.

Third-Century Christian Growth In the decades between 210 CE and 250 CE, the numbers of Christians throughout the empire grew dramatically. Eusebius wrote enthusiastically that “at this period of rapid expansion of the Faith, … our message was being boldly proclaimed on every side,”12 and he was right. Origen wrote of the range of converts “even rich men and persons in positions of honor, and ladies of refinement and high birth… Some become leaders of the Christian teaching for the sake of a little prestige.”13 This was a dramatic change in which a small church of outsiders became one that included the powerful. While it is impossible to get exact number of Christian growth, one mea­ sure of the growth lay in the increased organization of the church. Pope Fabian, who presided as bishop of Rome between 236 CE and 250 CE famously reorganized the church in Rome into an administrative hierarchy that Eusebius said included 46 priests, seven deacons, seven sub-deacons, 42 acolytes, 52 exorcists, readers, and doorkeepers and more than 1,500 widows and “distressed persons.” All these guided a congregation that some have estimated to range between 30,000 and 50,000 people.14 The size of con­ gregations in the great cities of the east was probably equally large if not larger. The bishops were seen as powerful figures, and it is not surprising that

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some considered the church hierarchy as a reasonable career path for an ambitious man. North Africa had comparable numbers. By 245 CE the province had 90 bishops each with a well-developed hierarchy of priests, deacons, and lectors. These were no longer volunteers guiding small flocks, but professionals who received stipends. When the upper-class Roman, Cyprian, was elected bishop in Carthage in 248 CE, only two years after his conversion to Christianity, he brought a clear sense of traditional Roman hierarchy to the office, and described the role of bishop in terms of a provincial governor.15 Were all these converts motivated by the spirit of martyrdom? The sources do not support this idea. Indeed, Origen complained that in the new, large congregations, services were conducted in an atmosphere of “gossip and triviality.”16 Cyprian described similarly slack North African congregations, claiming with disdain how women came to church with make-up on and their hair dyed. He described how congregants quarreled with one another and used their contacts to make money.17 Like today, some people came to the churches to be seen in a social context. That great admirer of martyrs, Tertullian, complained that the early spirit of the church was changing. He lamented, “I should not be surprised if such people were not figuring out how they could abolish martyrdom.”18 Tertullian was right that some, probably most, Christians expected that the persecutions had ended. Christian thinkers like Clement of Alexandria argued that Christians need not die for their faith; instead their faith should lead them daily to live a Christian life.19 When Cyprian converted to Christianity, he did so looking not for a besieged church doing battle with the world, but seeking a quiet refuge from an empire torn by competing emperors, invaders, and pla­ gues: “There is one peaceful and trustworthy tranquility, one solid and firm security… “ and that was the church.20 It is perhaps not surprising that when persecution came again to North Africa, Cyprian first left town, escaping the storm. It was only later that he accepted the call to martyrdom and died. This conversion pattern helps explain the presence of so many in the con­ gregations who went to chat and gossip rather than to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. It also suggests why the texts describing martyrdoms became increasingly popular. When lectors read the diary of Perpetua or the letter from Lyon, the lessons were not to convert people, for they were already there. Instead, it was to remind complacent Christians that there had been heroic people who suffered for their faith. As we will see, these stories of Christian fortitude became even more popular as complacent Christians fled from the persecutions that were to come. Were these accounts correct that there was a sudden increase of Christians in the cities of the empire? If we take Rodney Stark’s projections of Christian growth, they confirm the anecdotal evidence suggested by the sources. Stark had predicted that about 10 percent of the population would have been Christian by the year 300 CE, and this meant that Christians were visible all over the empire.21 More importantly for imperial policy, Christians had

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become part of the administration of the empire, serving in important roles, including in administration, the army, and even the Senate of Rome. This introduced a political motivation for persecution, for when emperors who had supported Christians fell, persecution often followed. In about 240 CE the persecutions seemed far away, and particularly so when the stormy civil wars of the empire brought Marcus Julius Philippus to the imperial throne in 244 CE. He was known as Philip the Arab, for he was born in Syria – in the Roman province of Arabia. Philip struggled to main­ tain good relations with the Senate and hold back the Persians and others who threatened the borders of the Empire. He is perhaps best remembered among Roman scholars for presiding over a giant celebration in Rome in April 248 CE that celebrated the one thousandth birthday of the founding of the city. However, Christians remember Philip the Arab for a different reason – his support of the growing church. There has been great speculation as to whether Philip was a Christian, or whether he was simply curious about this religion that had acquired so many converts. Eusebius wrote “there is reason to believe, [he] was a Christian,” introducing the controversy. Eusebius’s suggestion came from an incident in which Philip came to church on Easter, for “he wished to share in the prayers of the Church along with the people,” but the priest would not let him come in until he had made a full confession. Instead, he was permitted to sit with the other “penitents.” Eusebius wrote that the emperor did not take offense: “It is said that he obeyed gladly, showing by his actions the genuine piety of his attitude towards the fear of God.”22 This could easily have been the reaction of a man curious about the rituals, and a careful Roman who did not want to offend a deity. Eusebius also claimed that Origen corresponded with Philip and his wife, sug­ gesting that both were interested in learning more about Christianity.23 However, there is no evidence to suggest that Philip had converted, but there is every reason to believe that Philip had Christians in his administration. And, Philip’s fall was followed by a new persecution of Christians. In spite of Philip’s support of the Senate and the celebration of the games, his reign came increasingly under pressure. Soldiers on the borders dissatisfied with the results of the wars, proclaimed their own leaders as emperor. Finan­ cial difficulties at home fed inflation, and Rome’s wheat supply was disrupted. Finally, a competing general, Decius, challenged the emperor, and Philip was killed in 249 CE during the struggles. A new emperor had come to power, and Christians who had enjoyed Philip’s support would feel Decius’s wrath.

Escalating Persecution under Decius and Valerian Eusebius said that Decius instituted a persecution against the churches “through hatred of Philip,”24 but his motivation was probably not that simple. Decius was a Roman in the traditional style, and he wanted to restore dis­ cipline to the armies and return the empire to its traditional virtues. Decius began his reign in 249 CE by attacking the increasingly influential leadership

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of the church in Rome. Pope Fabian was executed, and Decius reportedly said, “I would far rather receive news of a rival to the throne, than another bishop in Rome.”25 Eusebius tells us that Fabian was quickly replaced with Pope Cornelius, so Decius’s attempt to attack the church from the top did no good. The more serious threat to the church came in the following year, when Decius ordered all citizens to sacrifice to the gods of the Empire. Now, Car­ acalla’s edict of 212 CE making all free people of the empire citizens came into play. This was probably designed to appease Rome’s traditional gods in an age that was troubled with invasions, plague, and general disorder, but it was also an attempt to join all citizens together in one religious act, as Rives writes, “to establish among the inhabitants of the empire some sense of a shared religious identity.”26 Decius returned to Septimius Severus’s goal of a unifying religion, but unlike Septimius, he came back to the traditional Roman gods instead of advocating a new incarnated deity. The edict required that all citizens perform a public ritual then prove that they had done so by obtaining a certificate testifying to the act. Surviving certificates (libelli) demonstrate the nature of the required sacrifices, as they state with minor variations: “I have always and without interruption sacri­ ficed to the gods, and now in your presence in accordance with the edict’s decree I have poured a libation, and sacrificed and partaken of the sacred victims.”27 With Roman efficiency, days were set in the cities for people to come and perform the sacrifice to receive their certificates. So many Christians had recently joined the churches for community and status, that they were just as ready to renounce their congregations as soon as they were threatened. Tertullian was right when he asserted that most people would rather avoid martyrdom. In Carthage, for example, on the prescribed day, so many Christians rushed to the forum on the top of the hill that all could not be accommodated in one day. By evening, the magistrates had to delay the sacrifices and cause the Christians to come back.28 The same took place in Alexandria, where “many public figures … came forward through fear, others who were in state employment were induced by professional reasons, others were dragged forward by the mob… . Others ran more readily towards the altars, trying to prove by their fearlessness that they had never been Christians.”29 Christian communities were thrown into disarray by the edict’s requirements. Some Christians died for their faith; Eusebius recounts tales of women who were stoned to death or who leaped on a fire and died. Others were beaten and others executed.30 New accounts of passions of martyrs were written and circulated to the churches to spur people’s courage. However, the threat to the church came more from defections than from deaths. Furthermore, commu­ nities were split about the actions of some Christians. Some avoided per­ forming the ritual by bribing other to sacrifice and thus obtain the required certificate in their name.31 Others, like Bishop Cyprian himself, had simply left town, avoiding the day of sacrifice. Were these Christians to be accorded the same respect as those who had died and become martyrs, or even as those who were beaten as they confessed their faith but survived?

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Once the flurry of activity demanding sacrifice had died down, Christian communities were once again free to continue with their lives, as the Cartha­ ginian bishop Cyprian wrote, “Our minds are returning to gladness, and with the passing of the cloud and storm of oppression tranquility and serenity have shone forth again.”32 However, the joy was tempered by the difficult problems of how to reassemble their churches when some had died, some had fled, and some had sacrificed? Cyprian (who had fled) wrote an important tract, “On the Lapsed,” that described the chaos facing the surviving Christians, and we must remember that practically all had survived, only a relatively few were martyred. While those who had confessed were in jail, the lapsed came to them in crowds asking for forgiveness and to restore them to the Christian commu­ nity. We can see in these actions how important anonymous Christians found membership in their community. Sacrifice to Rome’s gods didn’t offer the close-knit communities that had appealed to the Christians in the first place. But this appeal to the confessors seemed threatening to the slowly growing hierarchy that had begun to organize the church. The appeal to confessors who seemed to be infused with the Holy Spirit is reminiscent of the confessors jailed in Lyon, who forgave those who had been weak and urged them on to future constancy. When Perpetua and her compa­ nions were in jail, they, too, dreamed they could forgive and heal the fallen.33 In this case of the persecution under Decius, the confessors simply exerted their perceived religious authority to forgive and restore. The authority of charis­ matic confessors flew in the face of Cyprian’s desire for a clear hierarchy of a church run by bishops. Instead, Cyprian argued that the lapsed could be read­ mitted to the church only after they had served appropriate penance, and only with the authority of the bishops.34 Slowly the church was moving from small communities to an imperial structure, where the authority of the bishops, not the passion of the martyrs, guaranteed the health of the church. Decius was killed in battle in June 251 CE. The persecution had already started to die down, and the death of the emperor ended the threat. The majority of the confessors from Asia Minor to Egypt to Rome seem to have been drawn from the lower orders of society, while the wealthy and well-con­ nected had been able to bribe officials or leave town.35 The total number of deaths from throughout the empire probably was in the hundreds, though there are not enough records to be certain. The emperors immediately fol­ lowing Decius were too busy fighting invading armies and a course of the plague to address the question of Christians. However, in 253 CE a new emperor, Valerian, addressed the Christian problem again. It is impossible to know what caused this persecution, for Eusebius says that at the beginning of his reign, Valerian “was so wonderfully friendly and gentle to the people of God… [he] filled his whole palace with godfearing people.”36 Then, Eusebius said that the emperor was influenced by one of his courtiers to turn against the Christians. Instead of a full-scale attack as Decius had tried, Valerian attacked the Christian leadership, and those in the

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upper classes of Rome. His first edict, in 257 CE required only the clergy to offer veneration to Roman ceremonies or face banishment. Valerian’s second edict was issued a year later. It was harsher, addressed against not only clergy, but senators and knights of Rome, who might lose their property and even be subject to execution. The questioning of the Christians during this persecution lacked the kind of search for a crime that had marked earlier trials, for this time the crime was evident: they were church leaders who refused to sacrifice. The example of the questioning of Bishop Fructuosus in 259 CE shows the witty exchanges that frequently served as a trial: The governor said to Fructuosus: “You are a bishop?” “Yes, I am,” said Fructuosus. “You were,” said the governor as he sentenced him to be burnt alive.37 Among the church leaders who died was Cyprian of Carthage, who was finally martyred in 259 CE horribly much to the glee of Christian chroniclers. Valerian’s son, Gallienus, took over as emperor, and one of his first acts was to rescind his father’s anti-Christian legislation. Furthermore, Gallienus restored property to Christians. To the bishops, he wrote, “you may avail yourselves of the provisions of this decree to protect you from any inter­ ference. The complete liberty of action which you now possess has long been granted by me.”38 In 260 CE it seemed Christianity had won full toleration. The numbers of Christians multiplied, and can perhaps be measured by the fact that in North Africa alone the number of bishops doubled between 260 CE and 303 CE. Most Christians certainly believed the age of martyrs had ended and that the church would continue to grow. However, they were wrong; there was one more struggle to come between Rome and Christ. This has been called the “Great Persecution.”

The “Great Persecution” In 285 CE Diocletian became emperor. He was an autocratic ruler who believed the problems that had all but paralyzed the empire for 50 years could be resolved by a firm hand, new strict laws, and a return to the serious piety that had made Rome prosper through its early centuries. Diocletian instituted a new administrative structure for the unwieldy empire called the “Tetrarchy.” This was to be a rule of four men – two Augustii who would be the main rulers, and each chose a caesar to serve with him and become his successor. This system did not generate the smooth transitions it intended, and interac­ tions among the four rulers had implications for the fortunes of the empire’s Christians. Diocletian ruled in the east with his Caesar Galerius, and Max­ imian ruled in the west with his Caesar, Constantius. Diocletian, who set the tone for the rule of his Tetrarchy, was a deeply conservative and superstitious man, who looked to omens and the favor of the ancient gods to guide his rule. The emperor saw his land besieged by many crises, from military to economic to religious, and his autocratic approach was his attempt to crack down on all forms of dissent to bring

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order again to his land. His attitudes led him into conflict with Christians, who by now probably made up almost 20 percent of the population in important portions of the east like Egypt and Syria,39 where Diocletian cen­ tered his power. Consistent with his autocratic policies, Diocletian wanted to elevate the status of emperor. As his biographer described the radical change in clothing and demeanor: “he was the first to wear a cloak embroidered in gold,” and more significant for Christians: “He was the first after Caligula and Domitian to allow himself to be publicly called ‘lord,’ and to be named ‘god,’ and to be rendered homage as such… .”40 This differed from Septimius’s claim to be an incarnation of an existing god; Diocletian was a new god. This action made it impossible for Christians to even offer generic offerings for the well-being of the emperor, since now he had proclaimed himself a god. Nevertheless, Dio­ cletian did not immediately take action against Christians, but problems arose in the armies of Rome, the backbone of Diocletian’s security. There had always been some tension surrounding Christians serving in the army. As early as 211 CE Tertullian described one symptom of the problem: At the death of Emperor Septimius Severus, his heir followed the tradition of given each soldier a gift of money. When the gift was distributed, it was tra­ ditional for each soldier to wear a crown of laurel in celebration. One North African soldier refused to wear the crown, arguing that it was paganism. He was arrested and prepared himself for martyrdom. His companions scorned him for making trouble, saying “Is he the only brave man, the only Christian among all his fellow soldiers?” No, he was not the only Christian, and Ter­ tullian used this example to say that no Christian should serve in the army, since such service inevitably required compromise with Rome.41 There are a number of accounts of soldier-martyrs that date from between 295 CE and 303 CE, suggesting that there had begun to be more and more problems with Christians serving in the armies. For example, a young man named Maximilian refused to serve in the army. The proconsul said to him: “In the sacred bodyguard of our lords Diocletian and Maximian, … there are soldiers who are Christian and they serve.” Maximilian replied: “They know what is best for them. But I am a Christian and I cannot do wrong.” The proconsul replied: “What wrong do they commit who serve in the army?”42 This is a conflict that has confronted conscientious objectors to this day: can someone choose between their conscience and military service? As the military martyrs increased, Diocletian began to lose patience with Christians. Eusebius claims tensions mounted slowly in the east. At first soldiers who refused to sacrifice were whipped then dismissed from the army,43 but Diocletian’s need for an army caused pressure against Christians to grow. Lactantius, who was an eyewitness to many of these events, described the last straw that pushed the superstitious emperor Diocletian to full-scale persecution. The emperor, “being of a timorous disposition,” consulted oracles to predict the success of his campaigns. While the sacrifices were being performed, some of his attendants, who were Christians, “put the immortal sign on their

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foreheads.” Did they cross themselves? Perhaps, but as the soothsayers failed to find auspicious signs in the livers of the sacrificial animals, they claimed “There are profane persons here, who obstruct the rites.” Diocletian in a fury ordered Christians in his household to sacrifice or be flogged. Further, he sent letters to his commanders saying all soldiers should be forced to sacrifice.44 In his anger, the final persecution began, though it began slowly. Lactantius claims that there was a difference of opinion between Diocletian and his Caesar, Galerius. The caesar wanted to institute a serious persecution of Christians, burning everyone alive “who refused to sacrifice.” Diocletian, on the other hand, was more cautious: “The old man long opposed the fury of Galerius,” and said it would be a bad idea to shed so much blood, since he said “Christians were wont with eagerness to meet death.”45 Throughout the Great Persecution that extended from 305 CE to about 311 CE the greatest pressure on Christians was in the east, where the influence of Galerius held sway. The first edict issued by Diocletian represented a compromise between the two rulers of the east. It was not designed to create martyrs; instead, it attacked property. Christian buildings were to be destroyed, and sacred books were to be burnt. In the western portion of the empire, Diocletian’s colleagues enforced these measures sporadically, though priests in North Africa who turned over Christian writings to be burnt stimulated a controversy (called the Donatist) that lasted more than a century after the persecutions had ended. This edict brought protests from Christians, including in Syria and Egypt, and suspicious fires started in Diocletian’s own palace. This caused the emperor to escalate, and a second edict ordered the arrest of the heads of the churches, who would be forced to sacrifice or face imprisonment or torture.46 The first year and a half of Diocletian’s attempt to force a religious uni­ formity on the empire destroyed both property and Christian complacency, but it did not kill many people. This probably shows Diocletian’s ambivalence about the policy. Through this time, Diocletian became ill, and he gave up the throne and retired to a great palace/fortress on the Adriatic Sea in modern Croatia. Not surprisingly, Christians attributed Diocletian’s decline to God’s punishment, and in fact Lactantius’s history was called “Of the manner in which the persecutors died.” The recorded history of the church had become one of death – of martyrs and their tormentors. When Diocletian retired, his co-emperor in the west, Maximian, also retired. Galerius assumed the role of emperor in the east, and Constantius (Maximian’s Caesar) assumed the title for the west. When it came to appointing each man’s Caesar, however, Galerius asserted his will and appointed both caesars – Severus in the west, and Maximin in the east. In doing so, he bypassed Constantius’s son, Constantine, much to the surprise of onlookers and eventually bringing help to Christians, because Constantine became Galerius’s implacable enemy. Galerius’s caesar, Maximin, shared or even exceeded Galerius’s hatred of Christians. Eusebius called him “a bitter enemy of religion and most hostile to the worship of the God of the universe.”47 Between 305 CE and early 306 CE

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there were no persecutions, but in 306 CE Maximin once again brought pressure on Christians. This time, without Diocletian’s caution, Maximin issued an edict requiring everyone to sacrifice, and he authorized torture, imprisonment and forced labor in the mines for those who refused to sacrifice. The years 306 CE to early 310 CE were marked by sporadic persecutions that brought many deaths to Christians, and also a growing popular resistance to the persecution. These fourth-century persecutions increased the use of torture to try to force Christians to recant. Diocletian even issued an edict to bring Rome’s laws of torture into conformity with his administration’s policy, for he said that all Christians should lose their privileged status as citizens, so they could be subjected to torture, a practice banned for citizens.48 The new law essen­ tially overturned Caracalla’s decree of 212 CE which made everyone a citizen in order to tie the empire together. The accounts of martyrs written in the fourth century increasingly empha­ sized the miraculous power that remained in the martyrs’ tortured remains. The fourth-century account of the death of Vincent of Saragossa, who died under the persecution of Diocletian, may serve as one example. After his death, Romans tried to destroy his corpse. The inquisitor threw the body into a field to be consumed by wild beasts, but a raven kept the predators away. The Roman then placed the body in a sack weighted with a heavy stone and had it taken out and case into the sea. But the body and stone floated back to the shore, “guided by the hand of God.” The account then ends with the martyr’s body delivered to the faithful for veneration.49 This account reflected the belief that had come to be taken for granted: The miraculous power that was granted to the martyrs to allow them to withstand terrible torture and death remained in the remnants of their flesh and bones, and this power could be used to benefit the community. Tertullian had used the experience of the martyrs to articulate a theology of the resurrection of the bodies that had suffered, and this growth in the belief of the power of relics shows the enduring influence of the power of torture. However, one thing torture didn’t do, was persuade people to renounce their religious beliefs. Why not?

Did Torture Work? There were two reasons for the Romans to apply torture in these judicial proceedings. The first was to extract confessions from slaves, and the second was to convince Christians to renounce their allegiance to Christ and sacrifice on the altars of Rome. Neither was successful, but for different reasons, and to understand the failures, it is necessary to consider the psychology of torture as it applies to the suffering of these martyrs. If we are to believe the texts, the Romans invented many, horrible and creative ways to torture their captors, and the horrifying descriptions have captured the imagination of artists ever since. Figure 8.1 shows a 15th-century rendition of tortures, and it gives some idea of the horror that the martyrs endured and their witnesses watched.

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Figure 8.1 Image of Torture. Jean Milles de Souvigny, Praxis Crimis Persequindi, Paris, 1441.

Under Roman law, slaves could not give testimony unless they were tortured, as Ulpian, a third-century Roman jurist wrote, “By torture we are to understand the torment and suffering of the body in order to elicit the truth.”50 When Pliny first arrested Christians, he had to torture their slaves to elicit testimony, and luckily he believed their comments that the Christians committed no crime. The theory behind this practice came from Roman misguided opinion that slaves would be so loyal to their masters that they would not testify against them unless they were tortured. In actuality, slaves would say anything as long as the torture stopped. As we have seen, some slaves in Lyon were more than willing to confess that their Christian masters practiced incest, cannibalism, and whatever else they could think of. Modern experience of torture has shown that coerced testimony is singularly unreliable, and ancient observers knew the same. Even Ulpian expressed a skepticism of such evidence, writing: “For many persons have such strength of body and soul that they heed pain very little … while others are so susceptible to pain that they will tell any lie rather than suffer it.”51 The nature of tortured testimony was so unreliable that judges and juries could choose to use it or

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ignore it. In Lyon, the governor chose to ignore slaves that said Christians were innocent of crime, and to believe slaves who confirmed rumors of cannibalism and other crimes. He then charged lapsed Christians with murder, even though they had renounced the name “Christian.” The second kind of torture is equally problematic. It derived from Pliny’s experience that Christians could be coerced out of their beliefs. Tertullian noted the incongruity of this second kind of torture when he pointed out that Christians are treated differently from other non-citizen criminals who are tortured to make them confess. “Christians alone you torture to make them deny.”52 This kind of torture elicits more complex responses that include false testimony and sometimes also dissociative obstinacy. The resilience of martyrs was repeated many times in accounts of later martyrs, as third and into the fourth century, Romans used torture as a matter of course to try to force Christians to sacrifice on Rome’s altars. Eusebius recounts many incidents of tortures that escalated in creative ways to try to change people’s beliefs. One account might serve to give an example of the extreme tortures that Romans used: They were torn to bits from head to foot with potsherds like claws till death released them. Women were tied by one foot and hoisted high in the air, head downwards, their bodies completely naked without a morsel of clothing, presenting thus the most shameful, brutal, and inhuman of all spectacles to everyone watching. Others again were tied to trees and stumps and died horribly; for with the aid of machinery they drew together the very stoutest boughs, fastened one of the martyr’s legs to each, and then let the boughs fly back to their normal position; thus they managed to tear apart the limbs of their victims in a moment.53 Christians and Romans alike found the resilience of the Christians to be miraculous, and they believed God imbued their very bodies with super­ natural grace to withstand the tortures. For example, when guards applied a second torture to Sanctus’s broken body, “he recovered his former appearance and the use of his limbs. Indeed, the second trial by the grace of Christ proved to be not a torture but rather a cure.”54 Leaving aside any miraculous intervention, modern studies on the psychology of torture actually may shed light on what the Christians and their torturers experienced. The point of torture is to inflict pain, so much pain that it dominates the victim’s world. As people experience such overriding pain, their reality con­ tracts so that all they feel is the body in pain. Nothing else matters as much as the pain, and the victim dissociates from all the things that seemed to matter so much before.55 This experience parallels that of people who are dying, for as the body gives way, it becomes the center of the patient’s experience and the world recedes; nothing earthly seems to matter. Depending on the purpose for torture, sometimes it works, but not to extract truth, but to get an answer one wants. When Galileo confessed that

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the earth did not rotate around the sun, it did not mean that he no longer believed that. It simply meant that at that moment it did not matter to him if the universe was heliocentric. Tertullian, too, noted the ephemeral nature of a coerced confession when he asked Romans to consider the results: “Consider whether, when compelled to deny, a man’s denial may not be in good faith, and whether acquitted, he may not … as soon as the trial is over, laugh at your hostility, a Christian as much as ever?”56 This is the easiest response to torture, and without question, many Christians took this option. In the late third and fourth centuries, when more Christians were required to sacrifice there were many more who took a practical option – sacrifice first then apologize and return to the church later. As we have seen, the church had to wrestle with how to treat these “lapsed” Christians. This leaves us with Christians who did withstand extreme torture. How do we understand their experience? It appears that if a Christian were going to recant, it happened more often under the threat of torture rather than under the torture itself. The sources claim divine intervention helped sustain the victims – when Sanctus regained strength to withstand the second torture, the letter attributed it to God, writing there is “nothing painful where we find Christ’s glory.”57 Divine intervention aside, there is a dynamic of torture itself that contributed to the martyrs’ resolve. The Romans were trying to do exactly the opposite of what torture accomplishes: they wanted the Christians to reassociate with the world, that is, the world of Rome and its gods. Instead, torture disassociates people from the world. The more pain the confessors experienced the more they focused on the next world rather than this one. You can perhaps torture people out of loyalties, but not into them. The disassociation from pain is evident in many of the many of the martyrs’ accounts. The text of the martyrdom of Montanus and Lucius in the mid-third century suggests that members of the Christian community expected a dis­ association to help them withstand torture. While in prison, one of the impri­ soned experienced a vision in which the martyred Cyprian appeared to him. He asked Cyprian if the final death blow was painful. Cyprian replied, “It is another flesh that suffers when the soul is in heaven. The body does not feel this at all when the mind is entirely absorbed in God.”58 This experience was repeated in many of the martyr accounts. Perpetua survived the initial attack from a wild cow, and when she arose, “She awoke from a kind of sleep (so absorbed had she been in ecstasy in the Spirit).”59 In this case, the Christian eye-witness accounted for her lack of pain to the Holy Spirit, but many who are in car accidents and other moments of intense pain have no memory of it. There are non-miraculous reasons for our human ability to withstand horrifying pain. The letter from Lyon also reveals the ability of the body to remove itself from pain. One woman, Biblis, denied Christ when she was first arrested. Since she was a slave, she was tortured. Romans placed her on a rack to stretch he tendons, “and tried to force her to say impious things about us, thinking she was a coward and easily broken.” However, the torture backfired. When it began, “she came to her senses and awoke as it were from a deep sleep,” renounced her previous

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stance and died as a Christian.60 In this case, it is more likely that she dis­ associated from the pain and focused her attention on death and the afterlife. Sadly, the United States CIA has done extensive studies of torture and peo­ ple’s response to it. Among their findings is that physical pain – electroshock and beating – is not particularly effective. In part, they agree with Tertullian that it just makes people lie, but they also discovered that imposed pain often makes people just think of death. Unfortunately, what they did discover is that other forms of torture are successful – complete isolation and sensory depriva­ tion or “self-torture” like enforced standing during which no external pressure is applied – work well.61 Christians who were alone in prison, in fear of what was to come were more likely to recant than those who actually experienced physical torture up to that miraculous moment when pain stopped because the body could take no more. When Blandina in Lyon experienced horrible torture, “she no longer perceived what was happening.”62 The psychology of torture also involves those applying the pain. Torturers experience a transformation during the process, but while those afflicted feel their world contract into the body’s feelings, the torturer feels more powerful in direct proportion to the sufferer’s pain.63 The torturer’s power is complete at the moment when the victim gives the required information, or in the case of the martyrs, performs the required sacrifice. The more the torturers escalated the torments, the more Christians disassociated from this world and focused on the next, to the comfort of the faithful and the frustration of the pagans. Power did not flow in expected ways to the tormentors. In fact, the reverse was true: pagans lost power by their inability to persuade through cruelty. As Eusebius noted, “In this state of affairs some died under their tortures, shaming their adversary by their unshakeable determination.”64 Through this public failure, since most of the tortures were public, pagan Romans were shamed, lost power, and the Christians gained respect and strength. This frustration led to increased and violent torturing as the third century moved into the fourth. Into the fourth century, Romans developed new and creative ways to try to emerge victorious in the battle to change Christians’ hearts, and as they did so the resilience of Christians detached from the pain in their bodies seemed more and more miraculous. As resisting pain seemed a miracle, Christians chronicled the detailed tortures to reveal God’s grace to the tortured and the texts increasingly dwelled on the cruelty. Eusebius’s description of a fourth century persecution gives an idea of both the torturing and the Christian fascination with the resilience of the martyrs: Things that would make the hearer shudder were done… . Pointed reeds were driven into the fingers of both hands under the ends of the nails; in other cases lead was melted over a fire and the boiling seething mass poured down their backs, roasting the vital parts of the body; others endured in their private parts and bowels sufferings shameful, merciless, and unmentionable, which the noble judges, upholders of the law, showing off their brutality as proof of their cleverness, most ingeniously devised.65

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Eventually, it became clear even to the frustrated torturers that Christians would not recant. All that was left to do was to carry out the sentence of death. As the text from Lyon poetically described, “Surely it behooved these noble athletes, after sustaining a brilliant contest and a glorious victory, to win the great crown of immortality.”66 Their victory lay in withstanding torture, and their final reward was death with its promise of immortality. This final “Great Persecution” showed the futility of trying to force people into religious belief. (Sadly, future people trying to impose their beliefs on heretics or others whose faith differs from theirs didn’t learn this lesson.) Did this mean that the Roman emperors gave up on the idea of all Roman citizens worshipping together? No. This meant that religious impulses shifted from the ground up approach, in which quiet Christians guided their own beliefs with prophecy and community to a top down approach guided by emperors and rulers.

Notes 1 Cicero. On Laws, in J.B. Rives, Religion and Authority in Roman Carthage from Augustus to Constantine (Oxford, 1995), 7. 2 Rives, 14. 3 Rives, 14, 245–49. Indeed, the whole book lays out this argument. 4 Rives, 250–51. 5 The descriptions of Alexander’s rule come from the Historia Augusta, the Life of Severus Alexander. http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Historia_ Augusta/Severus_Alexander/1*.html; and http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/ Roman/Texts/Historia_Augusta/Severus_Alexander/2*.html. 6 Historia Augustahttp://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Historia_Au gusta/Severus_Alexander/2*.html. 7 Eusebius. The History of the Church, Book 6.28, trans. G.A. Williamson (New York, 1984), 267. 8 Herodian, quoted in W.H.C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Grand Rapids, MI, 1981), 389. 9 Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 391. 10 Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 392. 11 “Writing to Diognetus,” in Martyrdom and Noble Death, ed. Jan Willem van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie (New York, 2002), 131. 12 Eusebius, 6.28, 271. 13 Origen. “Against Celsus,” in Fathers of the Third Century. Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 4 (Peabody, MA, 1995), 468. 14 Eusebius, Book 6.43, 282, and n.2 for population estimates. 15 Joyce E.Salisbury. Perpetua’s Passion (New York, 1997), 159–160. 16 Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 399. 17 Cyprian. “The Lapsed,” Chapter 6, in Saint Cyprian: Treatises, trans. R.J. Deferrari (New York, 1958), 61–62. 18 Tertullian. “The Chaplet,” Chapter 1, in Disciplinary, Moral, and Ascetical Works, trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1959), 233. 19 Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 355. 20 Cyprian, “To Donatus,” Chapter 14, in Saint Cyprian: Treatises, trans. R.J. Deferrari (New York, 1958), 19. 21 Rodney Stark. The Rise of Christianity (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 4–8.

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Eusebius, Book 6.34, 271. Eusebius, Book 6.36, 272. Eusebius, Book 6.39, 273. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 405. Rives, 259. Rives, 259. Cyprian, “The Lapsed,” Chapter 8, 63–64. Eusebius, Book 6.41, 277. Eusebius, Book 6.41, 276. Cyprian, “Epistle 55,”14, in Cyprian: Letters, trans. Rose Bernard Donna (Washington, DC, 1964), 142. Cyprian, “The Lapsed,” Chapter 1, 57. Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 104. Cyprian, “The Lapsed,” Chapters 35, 36, 86–88. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 412. Eusebius, Book 7.10, 292. “The Martyrdom of Fructuosus and his Deacons,” in H. Musurillo, trans. The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford, 1972), 179. Eusebius, 7.13, 299. Stark, 7, 13 for these estimates. Aurelius Victor. Lives of the Emperors in Roman Civilization: Sourcebook II eds. Naphtali Lewis and Meyer Reinhold (New York, 1966), 456. Tertullian, “The Chaplet,” Chapters 11 and 1, 255, 233. “The Acts of Maximilian,” in Musurillo, 247. Eusebius, Book 8.4, 332. Lactantius. On the Deaths of the Persecutors, Chapter X, trans. David Dalrymple (Merchantville, NJ, 2021), 17. Lactantius, Chapter XI,19. Eusebius, 335. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution, 492. Eusebius, 9.1, 357. Edward Peters. Torture (Oxford, 1985), 33. Salisbury. Blood of Martyrs (New York, 2004), 175–76. Peters, 1 Peters, 25–33. Tertullian, “Apology,” Chapter 2.10, in Tertullian Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius, trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1950), 12. Eusebius, Book 8.9, 337. “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 69. Elaine Scarry. The Body in Pain (New York, 1985), 30–37. Also Salisbury, Blood of Martyrs, 26–29. Tertullian, “Apology,” Chapter 2,16, 14. “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 69. “The Martyrdom of Sains Montanus and Lucius,” in Musurillo, 235. Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion, 143. “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 69–70. Alfred W. McCoy. Torture and Impunity: The U.S. Doctrine of Coercive Interrogation (Madison, WI, 2012), 21. “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 81. Scarry, 37. Eusebius, Book 8.10, 340. Eusebius, Book 8.12, 343. “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in Musurillo, 73.

9

Constantine Establishes the Church of Power, 306 CE–380 CE

In the Roman province of Britannia (today York, England), on July 25, 306 CE Rome’s legions gathered and clashed their swords on their shields cheering loudly and proclaiming their general, Constantine, as emperor. Constantine had served in Britain under his father Constantius, who had succeeded Diocletian as one of the tetrarchs to lead the Empire. When Constantius died in 306 CE, his son was left out of the succession – until his troops took the initiative and proclaimed Constantine emperor. This might have initiated one more war of succession to the imperial title, but with Constantine’s ascendancy everything changed. The Christian church that had been a collection of congregations linked in prophecy and hope for an end times became an official church of power, guided from the top down, instead of from the quiet Christians up. In the course of this discussion, I will also show that the congregations of anonymous Christians had a tenacity of belief that defied imperial decree. Religious ideas that are suppressed don’t disappear, and I’ll describe how many of these ideas continued to reappear.

Constantine Comes to Power To begin this story of the transformation of the church, I want to introduce Constantine’s mother, Helena, whose influence was profound. In her youth, Helena worked as a servant girl in a tavern in Naissus (the modern city of Nis in Serbia) where a camp of Romans soldiers was stationed to guard the passes through the Balkans. Constantine’s father, Constantius, was an officer in the camp and he and Helena lived together and Constantine was born. When Constantius’s political star began to rise, he needed a more suitable wife than Helena, and married the eastern emperor’s daughter. But he never forgot Helena and his promising 17-year-old son, Constantine. Helena and Constantine moved to Diocletian’s court to be close to Constantius. The sources don’t mention Helena during her years in Diocletian’s court, but during that time she learned about Christianity and became an ardent convert. It is hard to imagine how this came about since these were the years of the Great Persecution, when Christians were tortured, but perhaps she heard about the resilience of the martyrs and was impressed. Later in his life, DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-10

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Constantine claimed he had been at court during the persecution, but had not supported it. However, the conversion of Helena shaped the future of the church, and no doubt when Constantine was proclaimed emperor in faraway Britain, Helena prayed for his safety and success. After Constantine’s claim to the imperial title, he spent some years con­ solidating his rule in the west. He set up a capital in Trier in Germany, where he built a great audience hall and other buildings. Eventually, however, he went to war against the other claimants to the throne. In 310 CE he defeated Maximian in Marseilles, and in the next year, Maximian’s son, Maxentius, declared war on Constantine to avenge his father’s death. Constantine’s soothsayers and generals urged him not to take on Max­ entius’s forces, but he ignored them all. In the spring of 312 CE Constantine crossed the Alps and quickly took northern Italy. Maxentius decided to take his stand in Rome, secure behind the great walls that had protected the city for so long. Maxentius ordered all bridges over the Tiber destroyed to stop Constantine’s advance. However, Maxentius began to lose the support of the Roman crowds, and he had to take action. On October 28, 312 CE Maxentius built a temporary span across the Tiber to replace the Milvian Bridge he had partially destroyed, and prepared to confront Constantine. Maxentius believed he had divine guidance for the battle because the oracles of the Sibylline Books prophesied that “the enemy of the Romans” would die, demonstrating that it is hard correctly to interpret prophecies. Constantine received a prophecy of his own, in a prophetic dream that is likely one of the most influential dreams (or visions) in western history. This vision guaranteed Constantine the victory if his soldiers fought in the name of the Christian God. Where did such a vision come from? Of course, it may have come from God, but the form and interpretation of dream/visions are always informed by people’s experiences, as we saw with Perpetua’s dreams that echoed Tertullian’s words. Constantine clearly had heard of Christianity, in a negative light from Diocletian and his court, and in a positive light from his Christian mother Helena. I think it’s likely that Helena suggested the Christian apologist Lactantius as a suitable tutor for her grandson, Crispus. She prayed for Constantine and surely prayed for his victory at Milvian Bridge on the Tiber. Some historians suggest that Constantine had already decided to align himself with Christians in the city and elsewhere looking for support against the persecuting tyrant, Maxentius.1 I doubt Constantine was quite so rational in his approach; he probably had a dream/vision as he came to battle, and the content of the dream was informed by the Christians in his life. We have two accounts of the nature of the dream. The first, and earliest, is from Lactantius, Crispus’s Christian tutor. The second was recorded 25 years later by Eusebius, the influential fourth-century historian who we will study in more depth in the next chapter. Eusebius claimed Constantine told him of his vision, and his biographer duly recorded it. I will look more closely into these accounts because the shift in the accounts of the visions reflects much about how the church changed under Constantine.

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Lactantius gives the earliest account of the vision: “Constantine was directed in a dream to cause the heavenly sign to be delineated on the shields of his soldiers, and so to proceed to battle. He did as he had been commanded, and he marked on their shields the letter X, with a perpendicular line drawn through it and turned round thus at the top, being the cipher of Christ.”2 This sign – the Chi-Rho symbol – represented the first two letters of the word Christ in Greek. Figure 9.1 shows the Chi-Rho symbol as Lactantius described it. Before Constantine, the Chi-Rho image was not widely used to represent Christianity. Early Christians had preferred images like the fish (whose Greek letter spelling “Ichthys” represented the first letters in the Greek phrase, “Iesous Christos Theou Yios Sote,” or “Jesus Christ, son of God, Savior”). This symbol became a short-cut for Christians to acknowledge each other. As we also see, in the Catacombs and elsewhere, Christians also favored the water of baptism, or palm branches, doves, peacocks or a good shepherd.3 Beginning in the reign of Constantine, the Chi-Rho became ubiquitous in Christian and imperial insignia. Coins and medallions were stamped with the sign, and some soldiers wore the insignia on their helmets. This symbol may be seen today on some church vestments and elsewhere. This figure also reflects the eastern Greek origins of Christian texts and language, that as we

Figure 9.1 Chi-Ro Symbol. Credit: K. Hansen

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have seen in North Africa, was shifting in the west to Latin. That brings us to the second version of his vision. In the telling of Eusebius, the vision became more elaborate. Instead of a dream that came unbidden, Eusebius says that the day before the battle, Constantine prayed earnestly to determine “what God he might rely [on] for protection and assistance.” During his prayers, he saw a vision that Eusebius related: “He said that about noon, when the day was already beginning to decline, he saw with his own eyes the trophy of a cross of light in the heavens, above the sun, and bearing the inscription, Conquer by this.” Eusebius says the whole army also witnessed this apparition in the sky.4 Constantine wasn’t sure what this vision meant, but when he slept that night, Christ appeared to him in a dream with the same sign of the cross he saw in the sky, and “commanded him to make a likeness of that sign which he had seen in the heavens, and to use it as a safeguard in all engagements with his enemies.”5 Just like in Lactantius’s account, Constantine woke up and ordered his soldiers to add a Christian symbol to their standards, but Eusebius’s more famous description emphasizes the cross: “A long spear, overlaid with gold, formed the figure of the cross by means of a transverse bar laid over it. On the top of the whole was fixed a wreath of gold and precious stones.” To this description, Eusebius describes a Chi-Rho at the top of the cross, that he said “indicating the name of Christ.”6 What happened in the 25 years that elapsed between Lactantius’s and Eusebius’s accounts to move the cross to the center of the vision, and Chris­ tian worship? The short answer is we don’t know. Before Constantine’s vision, Christians avoided the cross as symbol. They emphasized the Resurrection more than the suffering of Jesus. James Carroll in an award-winning book shows that placing the cross at the center of worship placed anti-Jewish sen­ timent at the center of the Christian story.7 But this may have been a result of the emphasis on the cross rather than a cause of it. It is more likely that once Christians – and Eusebius in particular, as we will see in the next chapter – placed the suffering of martyrs at the center of the history of the church, the suffering of Christ on the cross also moved to the center. Whatever the cause of Constantine’s (and Eusebius’s) new emphasis on the cross, Christian wor­ ship was changed, and the cross became a new ubiquitous symbol of the rapidly growing religion. Constantine and Maxentius, each fortified with their own prophecies met on the bridge. Constantine’s cavalry charged, overwhelming Maxentius’s horse sol­ diers. Then the infantry clashed, and Constantine’s soldiers pushed many of Maxentius’s infantry into the Tiber where they drowned. The battle was brief and Maxentius himself fell into the river and was drowned. Constantine entered Rome on October 29, 312 CE and was received with cheering crowds (who wisely welcomed the victor). Maxentius’s body was retrieved from the river, and his head was paraded through Rome on a spear. Constantine was now the sole emperor in the west, and he ruled uneasily with the eastern emperor Licinius.

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The two emperors met in Milan in 313 CE to secure their alliance. At this meeting, the two emperors issued the famous Edict of Milan that ended the era of Christian persecution. The Edict was a remarkably balanced document that decreed toleration of all religions: “Every man, according to his own inclination and wish, should be given permission to practice his religion as he chose. We had therefore given command that Christians and non-Christians alike should be allowed to keep the faith of their own religious beliefs and worships.”8 Perhaps Constantine offered this modest and balanced proposal to compromise with Licinius, who was not a Christian, but equally, Con­ stantine had Christian precedents to draw from. Lactantius, Constantine’s son’s tutor (and Helena’s and Constantine’s Christian advisor) had written, “We do not ask that anyone against his will should worship our God, … nor are we angry if he does not worship Him.”9 Even the rigorous North African Tertullian had written, “It is not proper for religion to compel men to reli­ gion, which should be accepted of one’s own accord, not by force… “10 It is too bad this moderate approach didn’t last. At first, though, Christians celebrated this end to repression. It seemed to many that Constantine represented a fulfillment of the promise of peace. Eusebius described the euphoria among Christians: Men had now lost all fear of their former oppressors; day after day they kept dazzling festival; light was everywhere, and men who once dared not look up greeted each other with smiling faces and shining eye. They danced and sang in city and country alike, giving honour first of all to God our Sovereign Lord, as they had been instructed, and then to the pious emperor with his sons, so dear to God.11 Christians celebrated, believing their struggles were over, but once emperors take over religious policy, things change. At first, however, Constantine had no time for religious change; he wanted to control the whole empire, not share power with Licinius. Constantine slowly began to exclude Licinius from imperial decisions (and from imperial coins). Constantine’s armies slowly moved east and eventually they confronted and defeated Licinius’s forces in 324 CE. A year later, Con­ stantine eliminated any thought of rebellion by executing Licinius and his son. By 325 CE Constantine had united the eastern and western portions of the empire under his rule. With political issues resolved, Constantine turned his attention to religious matters, and in doing so, dramatically changed the nature of Christianity. James Carroll said it best: “When the power of the empire became joined to the ideology of the Church, the empire was immediately recast and reener­ gized, and the Church became an entity so different from what had preceded it as to be almost unrecognizable.”12 Constantine had help from his mother, Helena, who had lived in the sha­ dows of the court during the emperor’s rise. In 324 CE she came into her

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own. Constantine awarded her the title augusta, or empress, and between them they shaped the growing church. To organize this complex story, I will focus on the main elements that the congregations of quiet Christians had used to preserve their faith through these centuries, and show how Con­ stantine moved the church to a top-down organization instead of a consensusdriven group of believers. For all the emperor’s desire to exert his authority over the beliefs of the quiet Christians, he should have adhered to the spirit of the Edict of Tolera­ tion that permitted all beliefs. All Christians did not accept the changes that came about when Christianity became a religion of power instead of con­ sensus. As I describe the changes, I’ll indicate some of the continuing dissent that emerged from Christian congregations, but these will only be the begin­ nings of the dissent. Conflict within Christianity will continue throughout the Middle Ages.

The Church Acquires Property Through the third century Christian congregations had grown exponentially, and their meeting-places also grew to accommodate the larger numbers and provide space for the growing numbers of bishops and other officers admin­ istering the services. The earliest congregations met in house churches, and over time, wealthy Christians expanded the space for meetings. Homes cre­ ated elongated assembly halls, and separate baptistries. Christians also owned cemeteries (like the catacombs) so the holy dead could wait together for the resurrection. All these properties remained owned by Christians themselves since Christianity was not an officially sanctioned cult. During the great persecution under Diocletian, the Empire confiscated property of Christians. Eusebius tells how the families of confessors and martyrs lost their property, as did those who fled into exile to avoid per­ forming the required sacrifice. Constantine issued laws to restore all this property: “we ordain that the inheritances of all such persons be transferred to their nearest kindred.”13 There were probably thousands of people involved in this redistribution of confiscated lands, and certainly Constantine earned the loyalty of Christians for this restoration. However, he went further. What of confiscated property that had no surviving heirs? In these cases, Constantine gave this property to a corporate entity – the church. He wrote: “in such cases we ordain that the church locally nearest in each instance shall succeed to the inheritance.” Eusebius devotes a good deal of space relating all the lands delivered to the “church.” He writes of “lands, gardens, and houses” that had been taken to the Roman treasury that had to be returned. Con­ stantine also gave tombs and cemeteries to the church. Furthermore, anyone who purchased property that had belonged to Christians even if it were pur­ chased legally, had to return it.14 Constantine went even further in his support of a church that now owned property. He ordered provincial governors to use public funds to repair existing churches that had fallen into disrepair.15

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All these declarations were specifically articulated to do two things: 1) restore what had existed before the persecution of Diocletian; and 2) acknowledge – and indeed create – a corporate entity of the church that existed separate from the owners and patrons of the house churches that had existed from the time of the apostolic church. However, the emperor did more; through his largess, he expanded the visibility of the church. In Rome itself, the heart of the traditional Roman gods, Constantine built churches, but in his building program, Constantine showed himself to be care­ ful and politically strategic. In spite of Eusebius’s praise of Constantine as a patron of Christianity, the emperor didn’t offend the gods of Rome who had protected the city for so long. He did not disturb the great ancient temples that graced the Forum, even though there was plenty of precedent to do so. When Rome conquered Jerusalem, they razed the temple and built a shrine to Jupiter. They did the same thing when they conquered Carthage. No, Constantine’s imperial reign was not a victory for Christianity; he was a Roman emperor. However, Constantine did build Christian buildings, but they were outside Rome’s walls and built with a specific political message. His buildings announced that he had defeated tyrants who had persecuted Roman citizens who happened to be Christian, and that their sacrifice should be remembered. In these buildings, he appeased Christians without offending Romans who believed in the ancient gods. Constantine’s most famous foundation was the Basilica of St. Peter, built outside the walls of Rome, over a Christian burial ground that purportedly also contained the remains of the martyred apostle Peter. This old St. Peter’s (replaced in the 16th century with the current church) was in a basilica form, a long assembly hall designed to accommodate about 3,500 worshippers. This construction did more than make Christianity a visible presence in Rome, it also moved the idea of martyrdom to a central place in the Christian story. Constantine also reputedly built churches outside Rome commemorating the burial places of the martyrs Lawrence and Agnes, who had been martyred under the previous persecutions. While these churches are prominent today, in the fourth century they didn’t make a large impact on the spaces of Rome. Constantine’s major impact was in the east, where he established a new city, a new capital for the empire. Constantine recognized the prominence (and wealth) of the eastern pro­ vinces, and like Diocletian before him, he focused his attention there. He chose a strategic spot on the Bosporus at the site of an old Greek city called Byzantium. He called his new city Constantinople, “Constantine’s City.” Just like in Rome, the emperor was careful not offend the old gods, or their followers, when he built this city. Much to the horror of Eusebius (and probably other Christians), Constantine lined the streets with pagan statues and established temples to pagan deities. However, he did build Christian churches in his city, and these were dedi­ cated to the spiritual abstractions of God – Holy Peace, Holy Power, and Holy Wisdom. This last is the famous Hagia Sophia that was rebuilt in the

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seventh century by Justinian to be the magnificent building that stands today. These dedications appealed to Greek Christians (and philosophers) who saw God as a fulfillment, or compromise, with Platonism. In his most famous building, however, Constantine returned to the physicality of salvation and power that marked the North African church. Constantine built the Church of the Holy Apostles and dedicated it in 330 CE. The emperor intended this great church as his mausoleum, and his plan was to bring all the remains of the apostles to lie within it. His intention was that the power of the relics would bless this church, and on the day of Resurrection, the apostles would rise from their rest in this great church. He only succeeded in locating the pur­ ported remains of Andrew, Luke, and Timothy. Constantine claimed that he would be buried as the Thirteenth Apostle, which surely would have horrified congregations of quiet Christians who believed the age of the apostles had ended.16 However, Constantine’s designation showed the degree to which he, and Eusebius and others, recognized how he had transformed the church. While many Christians admired the great buildings decorated with gold that seemed to show a Church victorious, others lamented the change. The church father, Jerome, who flourished in the late fourth century, complained: “Parch­ ments are dyed purple, gold is melted into lettering, manuscripts are dressed up in jewels, while Christ lies at the door naked and dying.” He continued that the history of the church was one of decline “from the apostles down to the excrement of our time.”17 In the twelfth-century, a Christian group called the Waldensians were a significant group that argued that the wealth of the church was an impediment to salvation, and Puritans and others in the modern age shared that idea. Today, a number of congregations prefer to gather in house churches, rejecting the idea of church property completely. But Constantine’s building projects in Rome and Constantinople were only the beginning as the new official church flaunted its wealth and power.

Jerusalem Becomes Christian Land Constantine’s mother, Helena, also participated in the building program that made Christian churches visible throughout the empire. She traveled through the east and built lavish churches in cities throughout the region. However, Helena’s largest contribution to the history of Christianity was her visit to Jerusalem, where she claimed that city for Christ. The early Christians departed from the other religions of the ancient world by not locating their god with earthly spaces. Each city had a patron deity, as did every grove and almost every other space in this earth. The fourth-century Christian church father Augustine disdainfully described this Roman link of deities with space: “The Romans assigned particular gods to particular spheres and to almost every single moment.” He says for example, the god­ dess Rusina was in charge of the rural countryside, Collatine the hills, Vallo­ nia the valleys. He concluded with a Roman administrator’s horror of chaos: “the Roman Empire was established, increased, and preserved by those

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divinities who were so clearly confined to their own particular departments that no general responsibility was entrusted to any one of them.”18 From the fall of Jerusalem in 70 CE, Christians did not link their fortunes to any earthly space. They expected the world to end imminently and looked instead to a “heavenly Jerusalem” or just heaven. This world was not relevant to them. In fact, even by the fourth century, Augustine wrote his City of God to remind Christians that their “city” was a heavenly one. Helena, and Con­ stantine, were imbued with Roman religious sensibilities: the Christian god needed a city, some sacred space where he could be venerated. Helena traveled to Jerusalem to claim that old city for Christ. Eusebius wrote that “she had rendered due reverence to the ground which the Saviour’s feet had trodden.”19 When she traveled to the Roman city of Aelia Capitolina, Helena was looking first for the sepulcher of Christ from which he rose from the dead. She believed she located it under the Temple of Venus that Emperor Hadrian had built. Supposedly, the handful of Christians who had stayed in the city had venerated that spot for centuries, so the empress had it excavated. She identified it as the tomb of Jesus and ordered a great church to be built and serve as a pilgrimage site. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was founded. Helena named the church the New Jerusalem – the sacred earthly spot that might echo the heavenly Jerusalem that early Christians had sought. The church draws many pilgrims today, and there is a chapel in the church called the Chapel of Saint Helena to recall the empress’s discovery. Helena also built churches over a cave in Bethlehem where Christ was purportedly born. She built another on the Mount of Olives, from where the faithful believe Christ ascended to heaven. In the late fourth century, a legend arose that Helena had miraculously found a remnant of the True Cross, where Christ had been crucified.20 Since Eusebius didn’t mention such a find, she probably didn’t find this, but there is evidence that the bits of the True Cross had been located during Constantine’s reign. Con­ stantine wrote a letter to the bishop in Jerusalem in 326 CE referring to a “token of that holiest Passion” that had recently been discovered, and he erected a shrine to the True Cross.21 The discovery of the True Cross consolidated the cross as a symbol of the suffering of Christ as the central meaning of the church. The Catholic Church emphasized this meaning of suffering and sacrifice by portraying Christ suffering on the cross. After the Reformation, reform churches returned to the Apostolic Church’s emphasis on the salvation of the Resurrection over the suffering by displaying empty crosses celebrating Christ’s victory over suffering. Reportedly, Helena had a ship loaded with earth from Jerusalem to send to Rome. There she built a church that today is called the Basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem. The dirt from Jerusalem was spread under the floor of the church so pilgrims could stand in Jerusalem while in Rome. This is a perfect example of how Christianity – under Helena’s influence – became centered on the earth in Jerusalem. Sometime later, relics of the Holy Cross were installed in this church, and it continued the tradition of venerating the cross.

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By making Christianity a religion centered on the space and land of Jerusalem, Helena dramatically changed the Christian focus. Since Helena, Jerusalem also became a violent battleground for crusaders as they fought with Muslims for this holy space, and in the modern age between Jews and Muslims as Jews try to reclaim what is surely the most-contested holy land in the world.

“Bond of the Common Mind” One of the essential hallmarks of the early church was that the communities of the faithful believed strongly in their unified communities, what Cyprian had called the "bond of the common mind." By sharing the same views, the congregations believed they would all be saved together at the end times which they expected to be soon. As time went on and the world didn’t end, the congregations still shared common ideas that emerged from the consensus of the quiet Christians who made up the community. As we have seen, this is how different communities read different texts and valued differing ideas from Gnosticism to Judeo-Christians and everything in between. As long as the communities remained separate, it didn’t much matter what variations of Christian faith they adopted. However, once Constantine adopted a top-down church of power, differences mattered, at least to him. Constantine didn’t approve of the state of affairs. He claimed: “My design then was, first, to bring the diverse judgments formed by all nations respecting the Deity to a condition, as it were, of settled uniformity.”22 This was easier said than done. As Constantine began to inquire as to the differences of opinions, he expressed frustrations at what he perceived to be the minor differences of opinion, a frustration shared by many modern students of the subtleties of these theological arguments. He wrote: “Having made a careful enquiry into the origin and foundation of these differences, I find the cause to be of a truly insignificant character.” And further: “For how very few are there able either accurately to comprehend or adequately to explain subjects so sublime and abstruse in their nature?”23 Constantine identified two main areas of dis­ agreement (though there were more he didn’t know about). One was the date of Easter and the second grew out of the question of the nature of Christ. An Alexandrian priest named Arius argued that Christ was created, not eternal. After a frustrating inability to get all these believers to come to a consensus, Constantine called a council to discuss it. The emperor called together 250 bishops from all over the empire to attend a great council in the city of Nicaea (in modern Turkey). This Council of Nicaea that assembled in 325 CE is the First Ecumenical Council of the Church, and set the precedent for future councils in which bishops gathered to resolve disputes. (Until now there have been approximately 21 Ecumenical Councils.) These councils show the precedent-setting influence of Constantine as he established a church of power. Consistent with his Roman ideas of hierarchy of organization, he invited the bishops, those he considered “in

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charge” of the congregations. What did the quiet Christians think of this choice? We don’t know. Probably some agreed with the choice and some did not, but the bishops gathered to determine what all Christians should believe. There is no contemporary account of the debates at Nicaea, though we can get a sense of the controversial nature of the issues from later writers. The most descriptive came from Socrates, an early fifth century historian, who wrote “The situation was exactly like a battle fought by night for both parties seemed to be in the dark about the grounds on which they were hurling abuse at each other.”24 One of the difficulties of resolving the differences of opinions about the nature of God and Christ lay in the fact that there was no specific scriptural basis from which to argue (and the fact that there was no consensus on which writings would constitute scripture anyway.) The major problem arose over whether or not Christ was created at a cer­ tain point in time (which would suggest he was subordinate to God the father). This was the position of Arius, an articulate priest. However, some argued that if Arius was right, then would Christ be God? The Council eventually formulated a creed – called the Nicaean Creed – that used the term “homoousios” – or consubstantial – to denote that Christ was of the “same substance” as the Father. The familiar Creed reads: We believe in one God the Father All-sovereign, maker of all things visi­ ble and invisible; and in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, begotten of the Father, only-begotten, that is the substance of the Father, God of God, Light of Light, true God of true God, by whom all things were made, things in heaven and things on the earth; who for us men and for our salvation came down and was made flesh, and became man, suffered, and rose on the third day, ascended into heaven and is coming to judge the living and the dead. And in the Holy Spirit.25 The headlines of this creed grew from disputes among leaders of the church; among priests trained in Greek philosophy. But notice that these major arguments had no basis in scripture.26 This creed included, almost in passing, the beliefs that centuries of quiet Christians had held, and which were fea­ tured prominently in the letters of Paul that continued to be read in the churches: Jesus is coming again (not as quickly as congregations had expec­ ted), and until then, the Holy Spirit was present. Later creeds would work on the nature of the Holy Spirit, and as we will see below, churchmen would wrestle with the way the Holy Spirit and prophecy would be expressed in the churches, but the creed itself acknowledged the significance of these beliefs. Constantine exerted his authority and won almost unanimous acceptance from bishops who clearly knew the power of the emperor. Only two bishops dissented and they were exiled. Removing dissenting bishops from the com­ munion of the faithful may seem a logical resolution, and it set a precedent that would be continued throughout the Middle Ages. By the ninth century the church established excommunication as an official declaration of expelling

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Christians who departed from orthodox beliefs. But here in the fourth cen­ tury, this was a radical departure from the strong bonds that held the early congregations together. We saw in Chapter One that early Christian communities believed they shared a common mind, and this would lead to a collective salvation as they would share together in the promised heavenly end of times. The third-century North African church father and martyr Cyprian urged unity of the church. Heretics may be corrected and slowly convinced, but schismatics – those who separate from the church − would “rend the Church of Christ by the destruc­ tion of its unity.”27 Cyprian returned to this theme repeatedly as he was afraid that if the common mind that had held the communities together during the apostolic age were split, the church would be destroyed.28 The fourth-century solution of expelling dissenting bishops was a significant change. A century after Cyprian, an even more famous North African theologian, Augustine, changed the focus from a collective salvation of a besieged group to a personal salvation. Just being a member of a church congregation did not guarantee salvation; instead, salvation came from an individual’s constant struggle for purity throughout his or her life. At the end of life, an individual would be judged and saved or not according to an individual effort. The great historian of Augustine, Peter Brown, summarized: “By the time of Augustine the church had settled down in Roman society. The Christian’s worst enemies could not longer be placed outside him; they were inside, his sins and his doubts; and the climax of a man’s life would not be martyrdom, but conver­ sion from the perils of his own past.”29 The collective group was no longer a guarantee of hope for the future, and this was another result of Constantine’s decrees at Nicaea, where bishops decided some people were in the church and some were not. Some Christians found comfort in this new approach to salvation, and some did not. Like the other matters of faith, there were always those who believed they would be saved within a group. Throughout the Middle Ages millenarian groups periodically gathered to hope for a collective salvation. Among modern denominations who share this view the largest are the Seventh-Day Adventists who expect the faithful to be gathered together in a “rapture” that will introduce a millennium of peace and prosperity. Another significant problem that seemed to confront the early fourth-century church of Constantine was the question of the relationship between Christians and Jews. We have seen that there was an array of opinions among the quiet Christian congregations: some saw themselves as Jewish reformers embracing their roots and others believed they had departed from what had come before. The emperor approached this topic through another matter that seemed to be dividing the church: the date of Easter. The subtext that underlay this discus­ sion was to separate Christian practice from Judaism. Many churches cele­ brated Easter based on the Jewish calendar’s calculation of 14 Nisan, the eve of Passover. Constantine wanted nothing to do with Jewish precedent. He claimed “It was needful that this matter [date of Easter] should be rectified so that we

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might have nothing in common with that nation of parricides who slew their Lord.” Further, he said, “it appeared an unworthy thing that in the celebration of this most holy feast, we should follow the practice of the Jews, who have impiously defiled their hands with enormous sin, … Let us then have nothing in common with the detestable Jewish crowd.”30 Not surprisingly with this kind of rhetoric, the council separated the cal­ culation of the date of Easter from the Jewish Passover. In the West, Easter is held on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox. Again, it is not surprising that over time this calculation would also cause controversy: for example, the Greek orthodox church uses the Julian calendar so that the dates might differ from the western church. The most significant point of this decision regarding Easter was to once and for all separate the Jews from the Christians, introducing long-standing anti-Jewish sentiment into the Church. A later formulation of the Creed added the phrase Jesus “became man. For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried. On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures.” The early Christians did not emphasize Jesus’s suffering, but Constantine’s church did, and the ubiquitous use of the cross as a symbol constantly reminded people of the suffering of Jesus, and the fault of the Jews. After two months’ work, Constantine disbanded the Council and sent the bishops home to what the emperor was sure he had achieved: the imposition of a common mind on the ever-growing Christian church, which was no longer a collection of separate congregations of the faithful. The emperor addressed the bishops as they were leaving, and he articulated what would become the doctrine of the church: “For whatever is determined in the holy assemblies of the bishops is to be regarded as indicative of the Divine will.”31 For Constantine and his successors, the unity of the church came from the top, not from the consensus of the congregations. In his correspondence, Constantine celebrated writing: “We have received from divine Providence the blessing of being freed from all error, and united in the acknowledgement of one and the same faith.”32 This was easily celebrated, but how to impose such consensus of faith?

Imposing Uniformity Once Constantine confidently believed he had established what Christians were to believe, a new word (and concept) entered the Christian lexicon: heresy. The word meant “choice,” suggesting that the faithful can choose what to believe. This is, of course, never true. The Christians who would rather be martyred than offer a sacrifice to pagan gods could no more “choose” what to believe than many others who over the millennia have died for their faith. Faith is not about choice, but the new imperial church didn’t see it that way. Constantine railed against heretics, calling them “haters and enemies of truth and life, in league with destruction!” He took the property of heretics, down to the house churches

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in which they met: “you [will]be deprived of all the houses in which you are accustomed to hold your assemblies; … from this day forward none of your unlawful assemblies may presume to appear in any public or private place.”33 With the imposition of civic penalties on those who “chose” to believe differently, heresy became associated with treason. In an ultimate irony, Constantine, who was celebrated for ending the violence of martyrdom and bringing peace to the church, introduced centuries of Christians persecuting Christians. One of the main sources of diversity in the early church came from the most striking proof of the Holy Spirit in the early church: prophetic utter­ ances in the church. Prophecies and their interpretation led congregations to choose some texts and emphasize some rituals over others. They also led to the kinds of various interpretations that led to the disputes at the Council of Nicaea. For a church that wanted a uniform message, prophecies had to end. In his famous letter to the Corinthians, Paul warned there would come a time when prophecy − as well as glossolalia – would cease. He wrote, “as for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues they will cease; as for knowl­ edge it will pass away. For our knowledge is imperfect and our prophecy is imperfect; but when the perfect comes the imperfect will pass away (1 Cor 13:8–10). But when would the “perfect come?” Some argued it would be when Christ came again, and this was probably closest to the early Christian understanding. Some suggested that prophecy would end when scripture was complete. (More about that in the next chapter). By the fourth century, some, like Eusebius, argued that Constantine had perfected the church so there was no longer any need for prophecy. This became the majority position during the Middle Ages. There would always be dissenters who still believed they heard the voice of God, and their stories weave through the history of Chris­ tianity. Today, there are churches that still emphasize speaking in tongues as a manifestation of the Spirit. It was this desire to end the influence of prophecy that led churchmen to suppress Montanism – the New Prophecy – in the second and third centuries. This fear of the disruptions of prophecy led to the rejection of some of the North African Tertullian’s work, even though that irascible church father believed himself to be a champion of orthodoxy. It was all well and good to claim prophecy was ended and the church was perfected, but this proof of the presence of the Spirit lay at the heart of the early congregations. What would replace this passionate expression of reli­ gion? How would they know that God was present? By the fourth century, the answer was increasingly focusing on the martyrs who had died.

Martyrs Made Visible Throughout this book, we have seen that martyrdoms were relatively rare and as often politically rather than religiously motivated. Persecutions probably only took place in about 10 years out of the three hundred years between

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Christ and Constantine. During that time, the numbers of Christians mar­ tyred might number in the thousands at most (in a population in the tens of millions), and the number of authentic texts describing martyrdom are about six. (I’ll discuss the explosion in martyrs’ texts in the next chapter.) In fact, our modern notions of a persecuted church that emerged victorious was developed in the fourth century, after Constantine had ended the persecutions. There were several reasons for this increased focus on martyrs, and one of the first was to reaffirm the presence of the Holy Spirit without allowing the diversity of prophecy. We have seen that quiet Christians valued the remains of the martyrs’ bodies after their death, believing that the power of the Holy Spirit that helped them withstand their ordeals remained in the relics. Constantine’s first building projects reinforced this idea. His constructions in Rome were basilicas over martyrs’ tombs to encourage Christians to come and worship in proximity to the remains. His Church of the Apostles in Constantinople reasserted the idea that proximity to holy bones was bene­ ficial. Helena’s visits to the holy land, and the emphasis on the relic of the holy cross all reasserted the idea that holiness was available in holy things, not in the prophetic gifts of living Christians. This approach led to the search for relics that marked the medieval world (and its rejection by the 16th-century reformers). At first, basilicas or oratoria were erected over the site of saints’ graves or to house their relics. But it didn’t take long for relics to be moved to the growing churches were the faithful gathered. By the eighth century, all altars were required to house relics of a martyr or saint, and the practice remains in the Catholic church. However, using martyrs’ relics to bring sanctity to the faithful was not the only reason Constantine made the martyrs more visible. Constantine’s buildings show us his emphasis on the worship of martyrs’ cults, but the written texts that praised him reveal other motivations for this increased visibility of the martyrs. Constantine’s most important propagandist was Euse­ bius, his historian, and he reveals two reasons for his stress on martyrs. The first was to provide a contrast between the reign of Constantine and the persecuting emperors who had come before him. The more ruthless and destructive men like Diocletian and Decius were portrayed, the greater the savior Constantine appeared. Eusebius’s contemporary Lactantius (Constantine’s son’s tutor) made this association directly in his book On the Deaths of the Persecutors. He introduces his work, writing: “Behold, all the adversaries [of the church] are destroyed, and tranquility having been re-established throughout the Roman Empire, the late oppressed Church arises again… .” He goes on to credit Constantine who rescinded to bloody “edicts of the tyrants” so that “peace and serenity gladden all hearts.”35 He then shows how God struck down all the rulers who persecuted Christians, leaving Constantine standing as a savior. This approach didn’t have the same power as elevating the persecuted. Eusebius took that approach. Eusebius wrote a book describing the Martyrs of Palestine, and then included it in his influential History of the Church. With these publications,

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martyrdom was brought to the focus of Christian life. Eusebius further claims that Constantine added the days to commemorate the martyrs to the standard celebrations in the calendar of church celebrations that included the Lord’s Day and “festal seasons.”36 In this way, even the rituals of the year were designed to put martyrs front and center in the worship. A second reason for Constantine to emphasize the martyrs, was as part of his attack on heresies. Candida Moss carefully analyzed Eusebius’s accounts of martyrs and noted that many condemn their heretical contemporaries. As Moss points out, “The result is that Eusebius is able to make the martyrs into the champions of orthodoxy and the natural opponents of heresy.”37 Therefore, Eusebius was bringing martyrs to forward Constantine’s attacks on heresies and Judaism. This attack on heresy changed the focus of a Christian battle; beginning with John’s Book of Revelation, the struggle for Christians was between Rome and Christianity. With Constantine’s introduction of an imperial religion, that dichotomy no longer held. Now, the struggle was for “orthodoxy” against heresy. Sadly, this struggle would continue until the Reformation in the 16th century and beyond, and would cost many lives. But in the fourth century, many celebrated the end of a perceived struggle with Rome, but many did not.

Ending the Age of Martyrs and a “Just War” It’s all well and good to praise martyrdoms as the evidence of the Spirit and the proof of Constantine’s victorious church, but what happens when there are new martyrs to the faith? This question coincided with the church’s attack on heresies and brought about much violence in North Africa. The problem in North Africa had begun during the great persecution of Christians that had taken place under Diocletian in 304 CE. As we have seen, during this persecution some were martyred, some left town, and others turned over sacred scriptures to be burnt to save their own lives. In 311 CE (two years before Constantine’s Edict of Toleration), a North African named Caecelian was named bishop, but he had been one who had turned over scriptures to the authorities. Purists among the quiet Christians in some congregations objected, and they named another bishop named Donatus in his place. The patronymic “Donatism” was given to the split in the African church caused by those con­ gregations led by Caecelian and those who were led by Donatus. The rift con­ tinued for years long after the initial bishops had died because the Donatists believed any bishop who was the successor to Caecelian was flawed. The Donatists had separate church buildings, a separate hierarchy, and separate congregations. In the previous centuries, this wouldn’t matter. Each congregation selected its bishops, its prophets and its scriptures. After Con­ stantine established a church of authority from the top, everything changed. In 313 CE the Donatists appealed to Constantine to determine the true bishop of Carthage – Donatus or Caecelian. The appeals commission found in favor of Caecilian, and the Donatists were ordered to obey.

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In true Roman fashion, Constantine sought to coerce the separatists. From 317 CE to 321 CE there was a period of repression, and in one incident, a whole congregation was killed inside a church in Carthage.38 Of course, just as under the pagan Roman emperors, such violence only created martyrs and reassured the Donatists that they were right. This introduced some 60 years of violence in North Africa where the Donatists fought against the power of the Empire to compel them in religious matters. As Donatus wrote to Emperor Constans in 347 CE, “What has the emperor to do with the Church?”39 The decades of violence continued as both sides hardened their position. As early as 340 CE, Donatists had acquired a radical fringe called the Cir­ cumcellions, who included landowners, creditors and property holders in their rejection of the state. They saw themselves as a “Church of Saints,” separating themselves from the pollution of the surrounding society. They used violence to attack the privileged, terrorizing local property owners. They were the first Christians who tried to overthrow the social order, but they wouldn’t be the last. Their ideas resurfaced in the Peasants’ Revolt in England in 1381, and many other movements that joined religion with social justice. To the horror of ortho­ dox Christians, Circumcillians claimed the mantle of martyrdom to justify their movement. As Augustine wrote: “It was their daily sport to kill themselves by throwing themselves over precipices, or into the water, or into the fire.”40 It is ironic to hear in Augustine’s lament the same complaints pagan Romans leveled against Christians dying to avoid compromise with Rome, but Constantine changed everything when he joined the state with the church. Augustine’s increasing anger at the intransigent Donatists led to another ter­ rible and long-standing consequence: the bishop developed a theory of “just war” that could be used to justify Christian violence against Christians, and in fact to justify war in general. With Augustine’s pen, wars were no longer struggles of power, but “holy wars” in which God takes sides. Augustine argued that a “just war” had three components: 1) it must be led by someone in legitimate authority (that would mean the emperor, not a Donatist leader); 2) hostilities must me motivated by charity. (That is, the desire to bring Donatists back into the fold of orthodoxy); and 3) the cause must be just.41 Augustine was a subtle, influential, prolific theologian, but it is easy to see that this was not his finest argument. These criteria will justify any war, and make them worse by adding God’s blessing to the violence. I have to agree with the Donatist Petilian, who wrote a series of letters to Augustine accusing the Catholics of behavior reminiscent of Rome. He wrote: “Do you serve God in such wise that we should be murdered at your hand? You do err, you do err, if you are wretched enough to entertain such a belief as this. For God does not have butchers for His priests.”42 In time, the Donatists were suppressed. The church declared the Age of Martyrs over so that no future dissenting movements could claim the martyrs’ mantle of legitimacy. But like other instances in the church, some quiet Christians preserved the idea of a pure church separate from the state. Sometimes this worked as with Puritans and Quakers leaving England in

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dissent, and sometimes it didn’t like Jim Jones’s People’s Temple in the 1970s, when they died in Guyana, South America rather than compromise with United States Government.43 This is just one more example of the inability to legislate what people will believe through faith. The pagan Roman Empire had been unable to do so and the Christian Roman Empire was equally unable to change what congregations hold in their hearts. Religious and secular leaders alike should have remembered Tertullian’s caution, “It is not proper for religion to compel men to religion.”44 But centuries of repression have demonstrated that this is a lesson not easily learned. What Constantine began – a church of unified Christians in obedience to bishops and the emperor – was completed some decades later by another emperor, Theodosius I. In 380, shortly after he was named emperor, Theo­ dosius issued a law that changed the Roman Empire and Christianity. He wrote: “It is our will that all the peoples who are ruled by the administration of Our Clemency shall practice that religion which the divine Peter the Apostle transmitted to the Romans.” He further declared, “We command that those persons who follow this rule shall embrace the name of Catholic Christians.”45 Finally, the promise of an empire unified under one God seemed fulfilled, and without a doubt, many found comfort in the great churches whose wealth seemed to validate spiritual truth. As we have seen even in this short introduction to dissent that appeared at the dawn of the promise of a Roman church, unity is easier claimed than achieved. This chapter has been about conversion and legal imposition of religious ideas, but there is one more significant movement toward religious unity: taking control of the compelling texts that explain the religion, and revising the history that shaped the memory of the past.

Notes 1 Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity, Chapter XLIV (New Haven, CT, 2011), 227. 2 Lactantius. On the Deaths of the Persecutors, Chapter XLIV trans. David Dalrymple (Merchantville, NJ, 2021), 75. 3 James Carroll. Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews (Boston, MA, 2001), 175. 4 Eusebius. Life of Constantine, Book I, Chapter XXVII (Omaha, NE, 2021), 10. 5 Eusebius, Constantine, Book I, Chapter XXIX, 10. 6 Eusebius, Constantine, Book I, Chapter XXXI, 10–11. 7 Carroll, 174–76. 8 Eusebius. The History of the Church, Book 10.5, and Book 10.9 (Harmondsworth, 1984), 401. 9 Lactantius. The Divine Institutes, Book 5, Chapter 20, trans. Sister Mary Francis McDonald (Washington, DC, 1964), 383. 10 Tertullian. “To Scapula,” Chapter 2, in Apologetical Works and Minucius Felix Octavius trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1950), 152. 11 Eusebius, History, Book 10.9, 413–414. 12 Carroll, 171. 13 Eusebius, Constantine, Book II, Chapter XXXV, 27. 14 Eusebius, Constantine, Book II, Chapter XXXVI, 26–28.

Constantine Establishes the Church of Power, 306 CE–380 CE 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

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Eusebius, Constantine, Book II, Chapter XLV, 30. Freeman, 237. Freeman, 274. Augustine. City of God, Book 4, Chapter 8, trans. H. Bettenson (Hammonds­ worth, 1972), 144. Eusebius, Constantine, Book III, Chapter XLII, 47. Carroll, 201. Carroll, 196. Eusebius, Constantine, Book II, Chapter LXV, 34. Eusebius, Constantine, Book II, Chapters LXVIII and LXIX, 34–35. W.H.C. Frend. The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia, PA, 1984), 498. Frend, Rise of Christianity, 499. Freeman, 239. Cyprian. “Letter 59, Chapter 5,” Saint Cyprian: Letters, trans. Sister Rose Bernard Donna (Washington, DC, 1964), 177. Joyce E. Salisbury. “’The Bond of a Common Mind’: A Study of Collective Sal­ vation from Cyprian to Augustine,” Journal of Religious History (June, 1985), 235–247. See also Peter Hinchliff, Cyprian of Carthage and the Unity of the Christian Church (London, 1974). Peter Brown. Augustine of Hippo (Berkeley, CA, 1969), 159. Eusebius, Constantine, Book III, Chapter XVIII, 42. Eusebius, Constantine, Book III, Chapter XIX, 43. Frend, Rise of Christianity, 500. Eusebius, Constantine, Book III, Chapter LXV, 56. Candida Moss. The Myth of Persecution (New York, 2013), 129. Lactantius, On the Deaths of the Persecutors, Chapter 1, 1. Eusebius, Constantine, Book IV, Chapter XXIII, 62. Moss, 222. Salisbury. Blood of Martyrs (New York, 2004), 156–157. Frend, Saints and Sinners in the Early Church (London, 1985), 106. Augustine. “The Correction of the Donatists” in The Writings against the Manichaeans, and against the Donatists. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, vol 4 (Peabody, MA, 1995), 637. Frederick H. Russell. The Just War in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1875), 16–26. Augustine, “The Letters of Petilian,” in The Writings against the Manichaeans, and Against the Donatists, 539. See Jim Jones, The Jonestown Massacre (Brighton, 1993). Tertullian, “To Scapula,” Chapter 2, 152. Salisbury. Rome’s Christian Empress (Baltimore, MD, 2015), 22–23.

10 Controlling Memories and Texts

In 1949 George Orwell reminded us of a truth that historians have always known: “Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.”1 We remember the past – understand the past – through the texts that record what happened. Despite Orwell’s grim warning, this recording of memories isn’t necessarily malicious. This is what humans do: we remember the past in terms of our understanding of the present, and in this way the past is regularly rewritten.2 This is what happened in the 300 years covered by this book. As people’s beliefs and allegiances shifted, they wrote down what they believed, and the texts took on a life of their own, shaping the future as they recorded a remembered past. Here in this last chapter, we will meet the fourth-century historian that shaped the future understanding of the history of the church, and see how he and his contemporaries chose the compelling texts that would profoundly shape the future. As we have seen, in the first three centuries after the birth of Christ, the religion had three major stages: 1) Jesus’s mission; 2) the Apostolic years; and 3) Constantine’s revolution. The recorded memories of Jesus’s mission are the most ephemeral since Christians expected the world to end so there was no reason to write things down. History was going to end. Modern scholars have worked to sort out Jesus’s actual teachings as they are buried in the gospels – both the canonical and the gnostic like the Gospel of Thomas – but these efforts are inevitably informed by what we think Jesus must have meant.3 The Apostolic age and the couple of centuries that followed produced the most texts. There was a proliferation of gospels, acts, letters, and other texts that recorded and expressed the increasingly diverse views of the many quiet Christian congregations. Luke’s Acts of the Apostles remains the historical text that described the spread of the church from the villages of the Galilee to the urban centers of the Roman Empire, but other texts preserved the various ideas that spoke to people’s beliefs. Constantine changed everything. By making the Christian church linked to imperial fortunes, the emperor declared the church a top-down institution that expected obedience from the congregations. What the emperor needed was an historian to both record what happened, but also to explain what it all DOI: 10.4324/9781003328407-11

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meant. He found him in Eusebius, a courtier who became the most important historian of this stage of the development of the church.

Eusebius, Constantine’s Historian Eusebius was born about 260 CE in Caesarea on the coast of Palestine. As a young man, he attended a school of theology in Caesarea that contained a wellstocked library of scrolls, including some of the many documents of the early church that Eusebius would quote and preserve in his later writings. He was imprisoned several times for his Christian beliefs, but always released. In 314 CE he was consecrated Bishop of Caesarea, a position he held the rest of his life. As soon as Constantine became emperor, he invited Eusebius to be his confidant, and the careers of the two men remained intertwined: Con­ stantine made decisions and set policy, and his historian recorded it to explain what it all meant. Eusebius was stunningly prolific; we know of 46 works that he wrote, but only about 15 have survived. Most were theological tracts, but the most valuable for historians are his histories. His first was the Martyrs of Palestine but his Life of Constantine and his History of the Church remain our most important sources for the rule of the emperor. Eusebius’s admirers have called him “the father of ecclesiastical history – the first, the only historian of the Church… .”4 We have seen in Chapter Nine how Eusebius described the his­ toric Council of Nicaea as he sat at the emperor’s side recording the pro­ ceedings, and how he shared Constantine’s preoccupation with heresy and used the memory of martyrdom as a tool to fight heretics. The historian was acutely aware of the importance of memory and the power of written history to shape memories. In his Life of Constantine, he notes that in the past people have erected “monuments to glorify the memories of the ances­ tors with immortal honors.” But he notes that statues and monuments are per­ ishable and crumble.5 Eusebius’s written history was another kind of memorial, one that would remember and glorify Constantine. However, he made clear that this record wasn’t intended to be comprehensive, writing “It is my intention, therefore, to pass over the greater part of the royal deeds of this thrice-blessed prince.” Instead, he wrote “I shall select from the facts which have come to my knowledge such as are most suitable, and worthy of lasting record… .”6 Eusebius was aware of the power of an historian to shape our under­ standing of the past and in doing so influence the future. He chose to tell of those events that portrayed the emperor as the savior of the Christian church, a fourteenth apostle who, like Paul, shaped the church bringing a new age of Christian peace. Another historian might have written of a ruthless emperor who killed his own son and suppressed any dissent in his quest for power. All of this is true, but Eusebius told the story of the Christian emperor, and in the process, the historian shaped our understanding of the history of the church. The first way Eusebius shaped our view of the ancient church lay in the organization of his history. He begins with Christ, but then proceeds with a

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chronological account based on the reigns of the various emperors. This is consistent with Roman historical practice, but it looks at the past from a topdown organization. His first chapter is on “Christ and his Contemporaries,” in which he articulates a fourth-century view of theology: “let me begin my journey with the appearance of our Savior in the flesh, first calling on God, the Father of the Word, and Jesus Christ Himself of whom I am speaking, our Savior the heavenly Word of God to be my helper and co-worker in producing a truthful record.”7 With this introduction, we can note a couple of things: He has accepted the Gospel of John’s identification of Jesus with the Word, and he is invoking divine help to raise the status of his own history to one of almost divine inspiration. Before I continue analyzing Eusebius’s structure, I want to contrast his approach with the previous historical account of the early church, that of Luke in Acts in which he describes the apostolic stage of the spread of Christianity. This contrast will demonstrate the striking innovation of Con­ stantine’s church – and its historian. In Acts, Luke begins with a straight­ forward account of the events after Jesus’s Resurrection. He claims no divine inspiration for his history, but only attributes the Holy Spirit’s influence on the apostles themselves. In Acts, Luke then goes on to organize his work not only chronologically, but geographically; his focus is less on time than on the spaces of Christian expansion. He writes of the movement of the apostles to the cities of the empire. He focuses on the quotidian details of travel and lodging. The people who appear in his history are the men and women who welcome and help the apostles. These are the quiet Christians who were instrumental in the spread of the church. They disappear from Eusebius’s account; Lydia is gone, as is Prisca and Aquila and the anonymous members of the close-knit commu­ nities of Christians. Eusebius’s is a history from the perspective of the rulers. Eusebius’s chapters are organized chronologically by emperors: “Tiberius to Nero,” “Vespasian to Trajan,” “Trajan to Marcus Aurelius,” ending with the “Victory of Constantine,” that led to “peace and recovery of the church.” Within this account, he also lists the bishops of Rome8, enhancing the status of bishops, which in the apostolic church had been administrators in service of the charismatic leaders or of the group itself. In Acts, Luke refers to “elders” or “overseers” (Acts 17:1) as more informal leaders of the commu­ nities. Times had changed; as the church became more successful and tied to the hierarchy of power, it makes sense that a hierarchy of the church would also appear. Constantine invited bishops to the Council of Nicaea, not the elders or the prophets of the various communities. A second preoccupation of Eusebius’s history, that he shared with Con­ stantine, was the concern with heresy. After all, this was the sort of division in the church that had led to the Council of Nicaea, so it is no surprise that Eusebius’s history of the church intends to “expose its enemies – persecuting emperors and demon-inspired heretics.”9 He complains about Montanus and

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his followers who “crawled like poisonous reptiles over Asia and Phrygia.”10 He goes on to rail against multiple heresies that showed Christians’ differing opinions on baptism and other points of theology. But for Eusebius, they were evil, “polluting my soul for a time with disgusting ideas,” and others who had “drawn some of our brothers into profanity and blasphemy.”11 In Eusebius’s history, the church was under siege by heretics proclaiming incorrect ideas, and Christians had to be vigilant to save themselves from these ongoing threats. Sadly, this perspective influenced the future of the medieval church. According to Eusebius, Constantine vigorously sought out heretics. Much like the previous emperors who persecuted Christians, Constantine ordered that the house churches of heretics, “where you are accustomed to hold your assemblies” would be confiscated. Furthermore, he ordered that “search should be made for their books” which would be destroyed.12 This began the destruction of the diverse array of texts I described in Chapter 3. It’s a wonder the ones we have survived – and it’s a testimony to anonymous Christians who were unwilling to give up their favorite texts on imperial command. After these imperial commands, Eusebius (probably along with Con­ stantine) thought the problem of heretics was solved. The historian euphori­ cally wrote: Thus the members of the entire body became united, and compacted in one harmonious whole; and the one catholic Church at unity with itself, shone with full luster, while no heretical or schismatic body anywhere continued to exist. And the credit of having achieved this mighty work our Heaven-protected emperor alone, of all who had gone before him, was able to attribute to himself.13 As we know, Eusebius strongly overstated the religious unanimity that Con­ stantine imposed. No one can legislate faith, but the attempt to stamp out heresy continued for centuries. Constantine’s command to destroy heretical books raised a difficult ques­ tion: Which books that were circulating among the congregations were here­ tical and which were orthodox? The answer to this question took some time to resolve.

Selecting the Texts; Establishing Scripture Christians today accept 27 “books” – or various kinds of writings – as the New Testament, the word of God given to guide the faithful. These books have remained constant as Scripture, though they have been interpreted and reinterpreted for centuries. However, as we have seen, Christians did not always consider these books as the definitive word. Congregations chose which books spoke to their spiritual needs, and these ranged from Gnostic works to the letter of the martyr Perpetua to everything in between. However, Constantine wanted a definitive list. How to choose?

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There had been efforts to define authoritative scripture ever since the second century, but without a central authority to define, enforce, and circu­ late such a list no consensus was reached.14 By the end of the fourth century, a list had been roughly agreed upon (though disputes still continued). There were four criteria that were generally used to assess whether a text would be accepted as scripture. Not surprisingly, each criterion was ambig­ uous enough to raise questions.15 Here are the four: 1

2

3

4

A text had to be ancient, that is, as close to the time of Jesus as possible. As we saw in Chapter 3, there was a broad range of dates to consider: The let­ ters of Paul were the closest to Jesus, and the Gospel of John was probably written at least some 60 years after the death of Christ. Acts might have been written as late as the early second century. Other texts that were as old as Acts and were omitted. In fact, the dates attributed to some of the early non-canonical gospels and Acts likely derive from the fact that since they were omitted from the canon, they must have been later. Therefore, simply being ancient was not enough to qualify a text as Scripture. A text had to be written by an apostle or a companion of the apostles. This is a particularly difficult criterion because virtually all of the early scriptures gave an attribution to an apostle (see Figures 3.1, 3.2, and 3.3 in Chapter 3). Even the four canonical gospels were anonymous when they were written down and only later were they attributed to the apos­ tles.16 Bart Ehrman describes how the Gospel of Peter was accepted by many Christians, and the book of Hebrews was not accepted in many western churches because they thought it was not written by Paul. The Revelation of John was widely rejected since critics argued that it could not have been written by the apostle John. Eventually, Peter was out and Hebrews and John were included, even though the apostolic attribution of the last two was likely not accurate.17 A text had to be Catholic, which is the Greek word for “universal.” That is, a text had to be accepted by a majority of the churches. This category is the first that acknowledges the influence of the anonymous Christians who made up the many congregations and who had chosen their favorite texts to read during the services. By the same token, this is the most dif­ ficult standard by which to judge a text. Nobody took a poll of con­ gregations, so it depended on the opinion of bishops as to who was reading which texts. Some of the shorter epistles – like 2 and 3 John – were not widely used, but owing to their apostolic attribution, they made it into Scripture. A text had to be orthodox. Of course, this criterion dominated all the others, and it depended upon the beliefs of churchmen who were making the choices. The Gospel of Thomas, which may have contained accurate remembered sayings of Jesus, was eliminated because of Gnostic ideas. Writings attributed to women – the Acts of Thecla or the Gospel of Mary – were eliminated by churchmen who believed women had no place

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in the lists of the apostles. Therefore, if anything seemed “unorthodox” it could not have been written by an apostle nor be universally accepted (that is, catholic). These criteria were slowly applied to the texts that circulated, but it took time. When Eusebius wrote his History of the Church, he described the painfully slow process of deciding on the canon of the New Testament. This mattered since Constantine had ordered that heretical texts be destroyed. Which should be destroyed and which saved? Everyone, including Eusebius, acknowledged the veneration of the letters of Paul, though as Figure 1.3 in Chapter 1 shows, there were letters falsely attributed to Paul that were included in Scripture. Eusebius also readily accepted the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and he felt he had to explain the acceptance of the Gospel of John: “The three gospels already written were in general circulation and copies had come into John’s hands. He welcomed them, we are told, and confirmed their accuracy, but remarked that the narrative only lacked the story of what Christ had done first of all at the beginning of His mission.”18 By adding this backstory for John’s composition, Eusebius explained away any objection to this different, and in some circles, controversial gospel. Eusebius also mentioned the controversial Book of Revelation: “As to the Revelation, the views of most people to this day are evenly divided.” He promised to return to this topic to “clear up this matter too” though he never did so.19 He then lists most of the works that are included in the scriptures that came to be accepted. Figure 10.1 shows the New Testament Scriptures that has come to be accepted, and it indicates the books that were con­ troversial through the fourth century (and for some beyond). It’s worth taking a moment to consider why the disputed texts were dis­ puted and ultimately included, for this reveals something about the motiva­ tions of the churchmen who were choosing. The Book of Revelation was the most controversial. The third-century writer Dionysius of Alexandria dis­ missed it out of hand, writing that it was “Not a revelation at all, since it is heavily veiled by its thick curtain of incomprehensibility.” In the modern age, Thomas Jefferson called it “merely the ravings of a maniac.”20 These critiques referred to the strange images that pervade the text that has allowed it to be reinterpreted over the years. A second problem with Revelation of John was its claim of a coming mil­ lennium of peace and prosperity that would be introduced after a great battle when an angel “seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the Devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years” (Rev 20:2). After a thousand years, Jesus would come again and end the world. Through the years, there have been churches who expect this millennium and others that do not, and some millenarian groups have become revolutionary in their hope to help battle the forces of evil.21 Why was this controversial work included? Eusebius and the Constantinian church may have had two reasons for including it: 1)

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Figure 10.1 Table of New Testament Scriptures. Credit: K. Hansen

Their vision of the history of the church was one of struggle and martyrs, and as we have seen, John wrote his vision in his angry response to persecution. This was an historical moment that the church wanted to preserve; and 2) They believed – and wanted to promote – the idea that Constantine had ended all strife and introduced the millennium of peace. For the compilers of Scripture, this was to be an historical text of what happened, not an ongoing battle. Of course, texts take on a life of their own as people continue to interpret them through the lens of their own experience. Three of the letters that were included – Hebrews, James, and Jude – were controversial because of their provenance. They were not of apostolic origin, nor written before the late first century. However, their content appealed to the demands of the growing orthodoxy. Hebrews is a text that argues for the superiority of Christianity over Judaism, an argument dear to the heart of Constantine. James contains a detailed list of ethical teaching, but it also includes a warning against presuming to become a teacher of religion: “Let not many of you become teachers, my brethren, for you know that we who

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teach shall be judged with greater strictures” (James 3:1). The letter of Jude reinforces this message because the whole work warns against false teachers who bring innovation into the church. Jude warns believers to adhere to “the faith which was once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 3). All three of these letters reinforce the idea that Constantine’s church was completed. Finally in his history, Eusebius lists the books that should be considered heretical, and they include most of the works listed in the Tables in Chapter Three. The list of heretical works was included in those that Constantine ordered destroyed, and it’s amazing that they have survived.22 Their survival is more testimony to the tenacity of anonymous Christians who were unwilling to aban­ don beloved texts just because they were told to. However, the weight of time and numbers slowly reduced the accepted scriptures to those in Figure 10.1. Eusebius wasn’t the final word on the canon of scriptures. Probably the most significant contribution of Eusebius (and Constantine) was the notion that there should be an established canon which would allow books to be declared heretical. Arguments have periodically continued about the details of the included books. The most famous “definitive” canon may be found in a letter written in 367 from Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria. He listed the twenty-seven books shown in Figure 10.1 and wrote, “in these alone the teaching of godliness is proclaimed. Let no one add to these; let nothing be taken away from them.”23 While in retrospect this completed the discussion, in reality some books remained in dispute. The Codex Sinaiticus, for example, is the oldest surviving manuscript of the entire New Testament and it was written sometime between 325 CE and 360 CE. This Bible includes the Shepherd of Hermas and the Epistle of Barnabas as part of Scripture, which Athanasius’s letter did not include.24 Perhaps the most definitive establishment of the canon of the New Testament came from the theologian Augustine of Hippo, who identified the twenty-seven books at the Synod of Hippo in 393.25 This may have resolved the content of Scriptures, but an equally revolutionary development lay in the production of the form of the texts. Constantine (and Eusebius) were aware of the power and importance of controlling these new compelling texts and making sure they circulated appropriately. Eusebius quotes a letter from Constantine ordering the bishop to make “fifty copies of the sacred Scriptures, the provision and use of which you know to be most needful for the instruction of the Church, to be written on prepared parchment in a legible manner, and in a convenient, portable form, by professional transcribers thoroughly practiced in their art.” Eusebius acknowledges the completion of this task: “we sent him in magnificent and elaborately bound volumes… .”26 Bound volumes meant that the texts were bound together in a book – a codex. As we have seen, through the early centuries of the Christian era, texts like the letters of Paul, the Gospels, or the accounts of martyrs were circulated in scrolls. These were easily transported, easily copied, and easily interchanged with texts that were later found heretical. When Eusebius bound together the

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accepted texts, he physically excluded those that were not accepted. He literally closed the book on the canon as he understood it. The Codex Sinaiticus is an early example of the codex, but the future of texts of all kinds became bound into covers. Identifying and confirming the New Testament Scriptures was a major step forward in the history of Christianity. These twenty-seven books have remained the same for the centuries that have followed. However, these weren’t the only compelling texts that emerged in the fourth century. Just as Eusebius and Constantine defined heretics as the evil threat to the newly organized church, they identified heroes as well. As the experience of the martyrs was highlighted, new texts were written to emphasize the blood of the martyrs.

Reinterpreting Martyrdom Constantine’s decree ended what church historians (beginning with Eusebius) called the age of martyrdom, but as always, it was left to understand what it all meant. Eusebius wrote that the number of martyrs was “immense,” describing the torture of some 146 martyrs.27 The stories and the suffering were shocking, but in terms of sheer numbers this is inconsequential. Even the total number of the people martyred during the persecutions of Decius and Diocletian was not large. It is impossible to get an exact figure, but the estimates range from a low of 1,000 to a high of some 3,500.28 Over nine years and in an empire of about 60 million, these numbers are also insignificant. However, their influence was disproportional to their numbers, and that was because of the memory of the martyrs. After Constantine made Christianity a legal alternative to paganism, it was left for the authors and historians to record and shape the meaning of the persecutions. The influence of the martyrs came more from the records of their sacrifice – original and newly composed – as from their actual deaths, and here we can consider the impact of the literary evidence of the persecutions, rather than the actual deaths. In constructing his history, Eusebius had identified villains: persecutors and heretics, but he also needed heroes. Of course, Constantine was the greatest of all, but Eusebius also chose to emphasize martyrs as the great heroes of the church. In the same way Eusebius shaped our memories of the past to demonize heretics, he shifted our understanding of the martyrs’ experience. As Candida Moss wrote, “Eusebius uses the history of the martyrs as a means of drawing battle lines for the established church orthodoxy against heresy.”29 Eusebius consistently used hierarchy and the authority of bishops to fight heresy, which he quite rightly saw as arising from the ideas Christian con­ gregations selected from prophecies or texts that drew their attention. For Eusebius, obedience to bishops would solve all such disagreements. The texts describing martyrs’ experiences might disturb this clear hierarchy since they seemed to raise the status of martyrs and confessors above that of bishops. We have seen that even as late as the early fifth century, Augustine warned Christians that the Letter from Perpetua was not Scripture. Thus, when

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Eusebius records the reputed – remembered – words of martyrs like Polycarp, he emphasized obedience and attacked the Jews,30 both topics dear to the Constantinian church. Another instance of Eusebius’s desire to establish and regularize the hier­ archy of an orderly church led by bishops and ruled by a Christian emperor lay in his account of the Martyrs of Lyon. Eusebius claimed that Irenaeus, the successor to the martyred Bishop Ponthinus had made a list of the bishops of Rome showing a clear succession from the apostles.31 For Eusebius and many subsequent Christians, if a witness to the martyrdom in Lyon believed in the line of popes, it must be true, and the status of the bishops of Rome was raised. How much of Eusebius’s account was added to the original letter to rein­ force his agenda? We don’t know, and it doesn’t matter because it was the text as presented by Eusebius that influenced the future. Certainly, Christians in Lyon died for their faith, but the way we remember them is through the text written by Eusebius. Memory is what shaped our understanding of the past. Even the fourth-century church father, Augustine, observed that the past does not exist. Instead, it continued ever-present in our memories.32 Eusebius, and other anonymous composers of martyr texts were controlling the memories. As the contemporary historian Moss points out, “this history of Christianity was a fourth-century invention.”33 Once the fourth century texts made martyrdom central to the story of the progress of Christianity, writers increasingly used the acts of martyrs to make moral points and to reinforce lessons about orthodoxy. A rewritten account of the fourth-century martyr Vincent of Saragossa vividly demonstrates how these texts were revised to conform to conventions of orthodoxy. In the fourth century, when the earliest account of Vincent’s martyrdom was written, the story is of a brave, outspoken deacon of the church, Vincent, who forcefully stepped in front of his bishop Valerius to testify loudly when they were brought forward by Diocletian’s representatives. The story begins with Vincent’s brave speech and continues to his torture and martyrdom. The non-confrontational Bishop Valerius lived to attend a church conference conducted years after the persecution ended. In the seventh cen­ tury, once hierarchy was the accepted order of the church, Vincent’s account was rewritten. In this revised version, Bishop Valerius is appropriately ques­ tioned first, but the author of the account explained that the bishop had a speech impediment. He therefor turned to Vincent and said, “I shall commit the care of the divine word to you.” Thus, when Vincent spoke up, he was simply obeying his superior, rather than taking an initiative on his own. The new Christian hero was one who was obedient to hierarchy.34 Did the writers of these new accounts of martyrdoms intentionally falsify the “facts” of Vincent’s death to make their point? It is almost irresistible not to come to that conclusion with our modern requirements of evidence. How­ ever, in the Middle Ages the requirements of truth were different. Did Valer­ ius have a speech impediment? No one cared about that truth; they were looking for a larger truth, one that said the martyrs always shed their blood

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in the service of orthodoxy. It is this truth that makes the accounts of the martyrs such slippery historical documents that must be used with great care, and which makes them so influential. Modifying accounts of martyrdoms was simply one strategy of bringing these deaths into the service of orthodoxy, but even these efforts were not enough to satisfy Christian hunger for heroic stories. Some of the most pop­ ular martyrs never existed at all. Catherine of Alexandria who is widely ven­ erated was reputed to be a 14-year-old virgin who died during the Diocletian persecution. According to the account of her passion, she was threatened with a great “breaking wheel” as a torture device which angels miraculously broke. She was beheaded. She is portrayed in art works and venerated throughout Christendom, but she probably never existed. Hers is but one of many martyr stories that were created and embellished to offer models of heroic resistance in the face of persecution. These are false memories but they became mem­ ories and memorials. The memory of the martyrdoms – that is, the way they were remembered – has helped shape the culture of Christianity and even the general spirit of the West.35 What really happened is less important than how people make sense of the past and remember it, and as martyrs’ texts were reinvented, an ideal of a church that was besieged and fought bravely for survival became the dominant narrative. Eusebius wrote about – and created – a church that he saw as victorious. He ended his History with Constantine’s military victory over his co-emperor Licinius that united both parts of the empire, east and west, under his own rule. Eusebius explained that Constantine’s victory was part of God’s plan: “every detail of the encounter was made easy for them by God, in fulfilment of His purpose.”36 For the historian, all history from the time of Christ pointed to this victory by Constantine “so dear to God.” In his mind, from this moment on, owing to this victorious church and emperor, peace and prosperity were introduced: “Old troubles were forgotten, and all irreligion passed into oblivion; good things present were enjoyed, those yet to come eagerly awaited.”37 This was a nice vision, but Eusebius created myth, not history. In his praise of power, he neglected the quiet citizens who had gathered in communities to share and preserve the Christian message brought by the apostles. In his love of Roman hierarchy, he ignored women who had been so instrumental in supporting Paul and the apostles and even Jesus himself. In his confidence in bishops and emperor, he thought all religious disagreements had ended. He was wrong on all these counts. What Constantine and Eusebius did however, was to introduce a new stage of Christianity that would dominate Christendom for some thousand years until the Reformation split the Church. Eusebius wrote a history of the church that argued for a top-down organization, raised the visibility of mar­ tyrs and assembled compelling texts that defined church doctrine. Of course, in spite of Eusebius’s claim of victory, this was not the end of the story.

Controlling Memories and Texts

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The Future: A Church of Good vs Evil As Eusebius noted, the age of martyrs was over, but within the sighs of relief, there were dark tones. The battle of good versus evil that John had introduced in his Book of Revelation had ended, but as the modern church historian Frend noted, “The Church was never to know harmony again.”38 A new struggle began immediately, and this time it took place within the church; Christians turned on each other as they fought to see who held right beliefs. For more than a thousand years, the church tracked down heretics with even more vigor than Rome had sought out Christians. Furthermore, without any apparent sense of irony, Christians brought many of the same false char­ ges against heretics that Romans had used against the faithful. For example, in the eleventh century, a group of heretics were discovered in Orléans. Their accusers charged them with incest – celebrating in the dark as a dog put out the lights – and cannibalism of a child born of such unions. The prosecutors warned that such rites were so compelling, that a practitioner “was afterwards scarcely ever able to direct his mind away from heresy and back to the truth.”39 These were exactly the same charges some Romans had brought against early Christians. And what of the accounts of martyrs as central to the story of Christianity? Eusebius and Constantine had increased the martyrs’ visibility, creating a history of a church besieged. A number of modern writers have shown that this vision of the church continues to shape our understanding of modern events from the Columbine shootings, in which victims were viewed as mar­ tyrs, to elections, in which some politicians viewed their political stance as religious persecution.40 As Moss observed, Eusebius’s history set a terrible precedent: “Those who disagree with us are the same as those who persecute us and that even in periods of peace the church is always under attack. It is an idea that remains with us even today.”41 It is easy and obvious to condemn violence and persecution in the name of religion (or anything else for that matter). When it comes to religious ideas, we would do well to remember Tertullian’s caution: “It is not proper for reli­ gion to compel men to religion which should be accepted of one’s own accord, not by force… .”42 This is a truth that was proven during the Roman persecutions, the Christian battles against heretical Christians, and many groups today. But all this is in the future for the church – and of the very human desire to seek the transcendent. Eusebius’s recorded history marks the end of this book that explored the first three centuries of the Christian church. We began with the quiet citizens in the cosmopolitan cities who embraced the message of the apostles in expectation of the end of the world. We also saw their influence as they chose texts that agreed with their beliefs. Then we followed their experience as they responded to per­ iodic tensions with the empire. Despite the dramatic, periodic martyrdoms, Christianity was preserved and forwarded by the quiet Christians who lived for their faith rather than for dying for it. Finally, we end with Constantine’s

180

The First Christian Communities, 30 to 382 CE

church and Eusebius’s optimistic conclusion that an imperial church would bring peace and harmony. Eusebius’s main error was that he forgot the resilient power of the anonymous congregations of quiet Christians who had sustained the church through caring communities, and who were unwilling to follow instructions in matters of faith. Throughout the future history of the church, leaders would continue to underestimate the tenacious quiet citizens who would resist efforts to force them to change their views.

Notes 1 George Orwell. 1984 (New York, 1949), 248. 2 See Elizabeth A. Castelli. Martyrdom and Memory (New York, 2004), 21, for the relationship between memory and history. 3 See the results of the “Jesus Seminar” in Erin Vearncombe et al. After Jesus Before Christianity (New York, 2022). 4 Eusebius. The History of the Church, “Introduction,” trans., G.A. Williamson (New York, 1965), 7.

5 Eusebius. Life of Constantine, Book I, Chapter III (Omaha, NE, 2021), 2–3.

6 Eusebius, Constantine, Book I, Chapter XI, 5.

7 Eusebius, History, Book 1.5, 49.

8 Eusebius, History, Book 5.1, 192 for example.

9 Eusebius, History, “Introduction,” 21–22.

10 Eusebius, History, Book 5.14–15, 217. 11 Eusebius, History, Book 7.7–8, 289, 291. 12 Eusebius, Constantine, Book III, Chapter LXV, 56. 13 Eusebius, Constantine, Book III, Chapter LXVI, 56–57. 14 See Bart D. Ehrman, Lost Christianities (Oxford, 2003), 229–247, for an excellent summary of the process to defining Scripture. 15 Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 242–243 for the list of criteria. 16 Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 3. 17 Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 243. 18 Eusebius, History, Book 3.24, 132. 19 Eusebius, History, Book 3.24, 134. 20 Charles Freeman. A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT, 2009), 106. 21 The best book on this subject remains Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millen­ nium: Revolutionary Millenarians and Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1970). See also, Stephen Hunt, Christian Millenarianism: From the Early Church to Waco (Bloomington, IN, 2001). 22 The best analysis of these works and their survival is in Ehrman, Lost Christianities. 23 Ehrman, Lost Christianities, 230. 24 Erhman, Lost Christianities, 245. 25 Ehrman, New Testament (Oxford, 2019), 58–59. 26 Eusebius, Constantine, Book IV, Chapter XXXVI, 65–66. 27 Eusebius, “Introduction,” History, 23. 28 See Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution (New York, 2013), 14 for low esti­ mate, and Frend, 537 for high. 29 Moss, 217. 30 Eusebius, History, Book 3.36, and Book 4.15, 147, 174. 31 Moss, 229–230. 32 Augustine, Confessions, Book XI, chapters 27–28, trans. R.S. Pine-Coffin (New York, 1980), 276–77. 33 Moss, 233.

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34 Joyce E. Salisbury. Blood of Martyrs (New York, 2004), 184. See, pages 173–187 for a full analysis of the changes of this text. 35 See Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory (New York, 2007). 36 Eusebius, History, Book 10.9, 413. 37 Eusebius, History, Book 10.9, 414. 38 Frend, Martyrdom, 537. 39 Paul of St. Père de Chartres. “Heretics at Orléans, 1022,” in Heresy and Authority in Medieval Europe, ed. Edward Peters (Philadelphia, PA, 1980), 69. 40 See Moss, “The Dangerous Legacy of the Martyrdom Complex,” in The Myth of Persecution, 247–260. See also Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory (New York, 2004), 8. 41 Moss, 227. 42 Tertullian. “To Scapula,” Chapter 2, in Apologetical Works and Minusius Felix Octavius, trans. R. Arbesmann et al. (New York, 1952), 152.

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Index

Note: Locators in italics refers to figures acts of the apostles 1, 5, 31, 42, 60, 168 Acts of Thecla 70, 172–173 acts, story of 42, 43 advocacy 81, 98; for Christianity 133; of religion 132 Aelia Capitolina 33, 157 Alexander (physician) 110, 132; death of 133; religious policies 133 allegiances 102, 105, 121, 142, 168 ancient cities, missions in 13–16 anti-Christian legislation 139 anti-Jewish sentiment 45, 152, 161 apocalyptic literature 54 apocalyptic texts 54, 57 apostolic/apostles 1–2, 6, 10, 14, 17–18, 62, 79, 179; attribution to 172; authority 42; church 34, 118, 155, 157, 170; companion of 172; movement of 170; travels 22; years 168 Archepiscopal Chapel in Ravenna 127 Arius 158, 159 Athens 12, 13, 15 Attalus (courtier) 97, 103, 109, 110 Augustine of Hippo 22, 87, 112, 120, 125, 157, 160, 165, 175 Augustus, Caesar 102, 121 Aurelius, Marcus 92, 102, 109–110 authentic texts 163 authoritative scripture 172 authorship 14–15 Baal-Hammon 113–114 babies, cannibalism of 99 baptism 65–69, 77, 118, 124, 151; Jesus 5, 44; opinions on 171; of Paul (apostle) 11; preparation for 66 Barnabas (apostle) 102

Basilica of St. Peter 155 Basil of Caesarea 63, 169 beliefs 35, 46, 72, 107, 117, 144, 154, 168, 179; Christian 105, 169; of churchmen 172–173; of congregations 79; diversity of 41; "incorrect" 79; intellectual approach to 74; with prophecy and community 147 Bethlehem 157 Bible 56, 175; pastoral epistles in 70 bishops 98, 109, 134, 158–160, 166, 170, 177; authority of 70, 138; Cyprian 137; emerging hierarchy of 109; Fructuosus 139; hierarchy and authority of 176; Ignatius 77; in Jerusalem 157; opinion of 172; Ponthinus 177; of Sardis 45; theological arguments 80; Valerius 177 Blandina 106, 108–110, 128, 146 blasphemy 7, 171 bond of common mind 34, 57, 69, 79, 158–161 Book of Acts 5, 15, 25 Book of Matthew 35–36 Book of Revelation 54, 57, 85, 88, 91, 103, 115–116, 173, 179 Brown, Peter 160 Byzantium 155 Caesar, Julius 95 Caligula (Roman emperor) 96, 140 cannibalism 73, 104–105, 179; accusations of 73 canonical gospels 43, 45, 47, 48, 51, 172 canonical writings 48 Caracalla (Roman emperor) 128, 131, 132, 137, 142

190

Index

Carpus (martyr) 87 Carroll, James 152, 153 Carthage/Carthaginian 113, 114; Christian community of 116; congregations to 114; French excavations in 128; theology 116 catechumens 66, 73, 123–124 Catherine of Alexandria 178 Catholic Christians 166 Celsus (Greek philosopher) 92, 100 charges 81–86 charismatics 68–69; community 16; gifts 6–7, 21, 46–47, 55; leaders 170; prophets 68 charity 19, 21, 38, 68, 69, 71, 165 child sacrifice 120 Chi-Rho symbol 151, 151, 152 Chrestus, instigation of 24 Christendom 127, 178 Christians/Christianity 3, 9, 11, 31, 47, 74, 82, 122, 132–133, 135, 144, 150, 154, 157, 171, 172, 179–180; accusations against 81, 122; action against 140; attraction of 84; beliefs 105, 169; burial practices 110–111; commitment to 117; communities of 18, 38–39, 65–66, 71, 103–104, 106, 114, 120, 128, 137; concept of 77; congregations of 2, 50, 65, 74–75, 85–86, 116; critics of 74–75; culture of 178; development of 3–4; diversity 98–99; Empire confiscated property of 154; euphoria among 153; gospels 117; historians of 38; history of 77, 156, 176; hunger 178; identity 43–46; interpretations of 3; in jails 109; Jewish origins of 61; Jewish roots of 49; leadership 138–139; in Lyon 95–97, 100; Mithraic debt to 74; movement of 92; mystery of 67; nature of 153; orthodox 103; pagan critic of 98; persecutions of 56, 92, 133, 153; persecutors 133; popularity of 91–92; progress of 177; responses 104–106; rituals 73; Rodney Stark's projections of 135; settlements of 34; spread of 1, 118, 170; statistical data of 1; strength of 133; superiority of 174; symbol 152; tenacity of 175; texts and language 151–152; trials against 104; violence against 2; willingness of 86; writings 56–57; see also communities; religion/ religious

church 3; beliefs of 172–173; of good vs. evil 179–180; of heretics 171; historians 176; history of 168, 174, 180; Reformation split 178–179; services 63, 73; transformation of 149 church of power 149; bond of the common mind 158–161; Constantine 149–154; imposing uniformity 161–162; Jerusalem 156–158; martyrs 162–166; property 154–156 Circumcellions 165 circumcision, requirement of 36 civic penalties 162 Claudius (Roman emperor) 24–25, 96 Clement of Alexandria 87 Clement of Rome 31 cognitio system 82 collective salvation 21 Commodus (Roman emperor) 120 communal meals 65 communal prayer 62–63 communal rituals 65 communities 3–4; celebrations 64; of Christ-followers 17; Christian 38–39; definition of 17; destruction of Jerusalem 31–35; forging and maintaining 18–22; problems under Emperor Domitian 35–38; social activities of 100–101; well-being of 91–92 confessors, status of 176–177 conflagration 28 congregation 2, 38, 43, 47, 52–53, 61–62, 65, 71, 75, 90, 123–125, 134, 154, 156, 165, 166, 168, 171; of Carthage 119; of Christians 35, 67; collection of 149; collective experience 127; doctrinal disputes within 104; formal organization of 71; growth of 21; of Jewish 45; separate 161 Constantine (Roman emperor) 3, 153–154, 168–171, 173–175, 179; attacks on heresies and Judaism 164; augusta 153–154; buildings 163; cavalry 152; church 175; constructions in Rome 163; designation of 156; fourth-century church of 160; imperial reign 155; imperial religion 164; imperial title 150; precedent-setting influence of 158–159; prominence (and wealth) of eastern provinces 155; reign of 151; revolution 168; soothsayers and generals 150; top-down church of power 158; vision 152

Index Constantinople: building projects in 156; reign of 163 Corinth/Corinthians 13, 19, 64 corporate entity 154 Council of Nicaea 158 creation, labors of 60–61 creditors 165 Crescens 91 criminals: executions 101–102; justice 104; proceedings 82–83; to sacrifice 103 crucifixion, sentence of 45 Cybele (Great Mother of the Gods) 96 Cynics 16 Cyprian of Carthage 21, 135, 138, 145 Damascus 10–11 deacons, authority of 70 death penalty 82–83 death rituals 67 Decius (Roman emperor) 136–139, 163; authority of 138; persecutions of 176 “declared” gods 121 diaspora synagogues 14 Dinocrates, afterlife 125 Diocletian (Roman emperor) 140–141, 149, 154; administrative structure 139; autocratic policies 140; persecutions of 155, 176, 178; representatives 177 Dionysius of Alexandria 173 discrimination 100 disputed texts 173 distressed persons 134 diversity 41, 162 Docetism 79 Domitian 35, 37, 55, 56; economic pressure 38; persecution of Christians 37 Domna, Julia 121 Donatism 164 Donatists church buildings 164 dream/visions, form and interpretation of 150 Dura Europos 14, 160 early gospels 42, 42 Easter 160, 161 Edict of Milan 153 egalitarian organization 70 Ehrman, Bart D. 48, 49, 172 Elagabalus (Roman emperor) 132 end times, reinterpreting 54–57 Ephesus 12, 13, 15, 16, 21, 22, 25, 78, 88, 91 Epistle of Barnabas 61, 175

191

ethical teaching 174–175 Eusebius 37, 53–54, 115, 136, 138, 141–142, 150, 157, 163, 168–169, 173, 175–176, 178–180; claim of victory 178; contribution of 175; Council of Nicaea 169; history marks 179; history of church 170–171; History of the Church 163–164; Martyrs of Palestine 163–164; structure 170; telling of 152 evil-doers, responsibility of 86 evil, forces of 173–174 faith 2, 60–61, 117, 120, 158, 161–162, 166, 177; baptism 65–68; celebration of lord’s supper 64–65; consensus of 161; elements of 77; guiding communities 69–71; house church services 61–64; intellectual approach to 74; matters of 180; perceptions of Romans 71–75; wandering preachers and charismatics 68–69 false prophets 68 Felix, Marcus Minucius 72 festal seasons 164 festivals 100 festive communal meals 64–65 First Ecumenical Council of the Church 158 Freeman, Charles 21, 113 Frend, W.H.C. 114–115 Galilee 7–10; Jesus's mission in 8; prosperous villages of 8 Galileo 144–145 Gallienus (Roman emperor) 139 gatherings 16, 60; central mystery of 63; in Jerusalem 5 Gaul 95, 96, 99, 102, 104, 110, 111 gentiles 14–17, 20, 25, 26, 46, 53, 54, 61, 67, 74 gladiators 101–102, 108, 127 glossolalia 6, 21 gnosis 47 Gnosticism/Gnostics 47, 50, 98, 105, 171; beliefs 50; characteristic of 105; Christians 99; invalidity of 80; Irenaeus's long tract against 105; martyrdom's refutation of 80; repudiating 51–54; scathing refutation of 99; texts 47–51; writers 50 God: demanding 114; intelligible utterance of 81; miracle of 110; sacrifice to 80; spiritual abstractions of 155–156

192

Index

good vs. evil 179–180 gospels 43; Aramaic translation of 44; combination of 42; fragments of 46; proliferation of 168; writers 43, 51 Great Persecution 139–142, 147, 149–150 Greek Christians 156 Greek orthodox church 161 Gregory of Nyssa and Origen 119 Hadrian (Roman emperor) 33, 85, 91, 106, 157 Hagia Sophia 155–156 Hebrew Bible 46 Hebrew Scriptures 14, 33, 49 Helena of Constantinople 157, 158 heresies, Constantine attacks on 164 heretical Christians 179 heretical contemporaries 164 heretics: in North Africa 87; problem of 171; property of 161–162 Hilarianus (Roman governor) 123–125, 127 Hippolytus 68, 71 history/historians 168; modern 35; organization of 169–170 holiness, warnings and proofs of 69 Holy Cross, relics of 157 Holy Peace 155–156 Holy Spirit 7, 69, 77, 79, 118, 138, 145, 159, 162, 163; in communities 16; gifts of 109; grace of 81; influence on apostles 170 house churches 19, 66 human sacrifice, Carthaginian practice of 113–114 Ichthys 151 Ignatius of Antioch 78–81, 88, 99, 102, 103; death of 86 immortality 147 imperial church 1, 161, 180 imperial decree 149 imperial policy 132, 135–136 incendiarism, crime of 29 India 34, 35, 48, 132 influential leadership 136–137 influential martyrs 127 influential persecution 104 inscription 152 institutional hierarchy 16 Irenaeus (bishop) 97–99, 103–105 Israel, salvation of 7–8

Jefferson, Thomas 173 Jerusalem 7–11, 17, 24, 45, 157; destruction of 31–35; fall of 157; Holy Cross in 157 Jesus 5, 102, 117, 119; actual teachings 168; birth claiming 44; crucifixion 22; death 45; followers of 7, 10, 16, 31; Hebrew genealogy of 52; life and missions 53; messages 41; mission 54, 168; of Nazareth 5; Resurrection 170; suffering of 152 Jews/Jewish 10, 53, 158; communities 16–17; community 25, 30, 114; diaspora 44; gospels 46; law 16–18, 45–46, 99; neighbors 14; practice 62; worship 16 John (gospel) 2, 52–55, 64, 88, 115–116, 172; identification of Jesus 170; importance of 98; visions 56–57 Josephus, Flavius 26, 32, 33, 35 Judaism 10, 27, 31, 65–66, 122, 160, 174; Constantine attacks on 164; practice of 80; relationship with 79 Justin (apologist) 73–74, 86, 91–92 "just war" 165 Lactantius 140–141, 150–153 landowners 165 leadership: in church 69–70; positions of 70 legitimacy, martyrs mantle of 165 Licinius (Roman emperor) 178; from imperial decisions 153 Lord’s Day 164 Lord’s supper, celebration of 64–65 Luke in Acts 7, 170 Lyon 95, 97; bishop of 104; Christianity in 99–100; Christians in 97; citizens of 100; gnostics in 98; map of 95; martyrdom in 50; Romans and Christians in 103; sacrifices 102; trouble in 100–101 Marcion of Sinope 50 Mark (gospel) 44, 45, 47 marriage: ceremony 67; renunciation of 70 Marseilles 97, 150 martyrdom 88, 102, 116, 140, 162–163, 177; Christian concept of 77; definition of 78–81; description of 3; experience and idea of 120; future tales of 90; idea of 77; memory of 169, 178; modifying accounts of 178; of Montanus and Lucius 145; periodic

Index 179–180; of Polycarp 87–91; spirit of 135 martyrs 2, 8, 85, 91–92, 123, 126, 128, 176–179; accounts of 142, 179; bodies 110; converting people to Christianity 134; deaths 86; elements of 77; influence of 134; in Lyon 95–97; manual 79; resilience of 144, 146, 149–150; sacrifice of 102, 108; status of 176–177; voluntary 86–87 Martyrs of Lyon 177 Mary (gospel) 172–173 material blessings 20 Matthew (gospel) 6, 35–36, 44, 52 Maxentius (Roman emperor) 150, 152 Mediterranean, map of 97 memories 41, 168–169; Eusebius 169–171; importance of 169; of martyrs 169, 176; recording of 168; reinterpreting martyrdom 176–178; selecting 171–176 metaphors 56 Middle Ages 159–160, 162; millenarian groups 160 Milavec, Aaron 69 millenarian groups 173–174 Mithraism 74 modern church historians 118 Montanism 115, 118, 124, 162 Montanus 170–171; description of 115 Mosaic Law 16–17 Moss, Candida 90, 176, 179 Muslims 158; see also religion/religious mystery religions 74 neo-Platonism 53 Nero: persecution on Jews 37; violence 35 New Prophecy 115 New Testament 19, 171, 173, 174, 176 Nicaean Creed 159 nobility, sense of 77 non-citizen criminals 144 North Africa 113–114, 135; arrival of Christianity 114–116; congregations 135; martyrs 122–128 obedience, unity and 81 Oedipean marriages 104–105 one empire/one religion policy 132–134; problem of imposing 132 oppression tranquility 18

193

orthodox/orthodoxy 172, 174; Christians 111; community 99; service of 177–178; staunch defender of 118 Orwell, George 168 pagan/paganism 140, 176; celebrations 102; community 101; philosophy 71–72 Pagels, Elaine 38, 50 Pakistan 132 Palestine 169; violence in 8 Papylus 87 partial truths 72 paternal customs 35 Paul (apostle) 10–13; baptism of 11; birth of 10; congregations 20–21, 39; contributions of 13; conversions 25–26; in Damascus 10–11; description of services 63; exhortations 19; journeys of 11, 11–12, 12; letters 19, 20; summary of spiritual gifts 21; teachings 26 Paul II, Pope John 111 peace 115 Pentecost 5, 7, 16, 47 Pergamum 55, 97, 103 Perpetua 123–126; diary 126–127; imprisonment 125; sanctity 127; visionary dreams 125 Perpetua Mosaic (martyrs) 127, 128 persecution 81, 142, 149–150, 162–163, 179; authorities during 96–97; of Christians 85, 153, 164; description of 97; of Diocletian 155; personal face of 103; political motivation for 136; in Smyrna 89; sporadic 133 Peter the Apostle 45, 166 Philippus, Marcus Julius 136 Phrygia 97, 110, 115, 171 physical sacrifice 80 physical suffering 80 Pilate, Pontius 44, 45, 56, 161 pilgrims 157 Pius, Antoninus 85, 86, 91 Platonism 53, 156 Pliny the Younger 81–82 Plutarch 113, 114, 122 Polycarp 78, 90, 102, 103; death 90–91; martyrdom of 87–91 Ponthinus (bishop) 103, 106, 177 pontifex maximus 121 Pothinus (bishop) 97, 99, 103 power: hazards of holding 133; of historian 169; physicality of 156

194

Index

preachers 68–69 preliminary questioning 104–106 priests: emerging hierarchy of 109; in North Africa 141 prisons 125–126 private bathing facilities 100 private philanthropy 96 procreation, renunciation of 70 professional urban citizens 44 property holders 165 prophecy/prophet/prophetic 162; disruptions of 162; excitement for 116; gifts 47; influence of 162; killers 115; reliance on 118; revelations 54 prosperity 115 prosperous immigrants 96–97 proto-martyr 8 psalms 63 Ptolemaeus 86 public disturbances 24, 85 public executions 107 public rituals 96, 137 Puritans 165–166 Quakers 165–166 religion/religious 10, 153; advocacy of 132; allegiance 105; beliefs 10, 83; description of 131; enthusiasm 38; escalating persecution under Decius and Valerian 136–139; fervor, description of 115; Great Persecution 139–142; holidays 61; ideas 149, 166; novelty 10; one empire/one religion 132–134; passionate expression of 162; policy 153; quarrels 85; regardless of 10; revolution 2; seekers 133; stages of 168; texts 2; third-century Christian growth 134–136; torture 142–147, 143; unanimity 171; violence 132 repression 153 resilience of martyrs 149–150 resurrection, theology of 111 Revelation of John 55–56, 173 rituals: cleansing 65–66; deaths 107; eating 61; fasting 61; meal 65; practices 67–68; prayer 62; respect 121 Roman Empire 122, 156–157; urban centers of 168; see also specific types Romans 63–64, 135, 142, 144; calendar 60; church 1; crowds 150; historical practice 170; law 82, 83; perceptions of 71–75; religious sensibilities 157; treasury 154

Rome: building projects in 156; churches outside 155; church in 134; commu­ nications with 96; communities in 25; giant celebration in 136; Jewish community 28; power of 3; restoration of 96; traditional gods 137; upper classes of 138–139 rumors 27–28 Rusticus (Roman teacher and politician) 91–92 Sabbath celebrations 113–114 Sabina, Poppaea 26–28, 32 sacred festivals 84 sacrificial/sacrifice 102, 119, 140–141, 154; children 114; of criminals 102; to God 24; killing 128; to Rome’s gods 138; suicide 127; "thanksgiving" 64; virtue of 101–104 salvation: dramatic themes of 19; physicality of 156 Sanctus of Vienne 103, 107, 108, 145 Saturn 113–115; traditional worship of 115 Saturus 114, 124, 127 scholars 15 Scillitan Martyrs 122 scriptures 159, 172, 175; canon of 52, 175 Second Vatican Council of 1965 45 secret knowledge 49 self-torture 146 sensory deprivation 146 Septimius Severus 120–122, 137; edict against conversion to Christianity 124; innovation 121; spiritual aspirations 121 sexual/sexuality: intercourse 70; renunciation of 70 Sibylline Books 150 slaves 142–144 Smyrna 78, 88; Christian congregation at 90–91 Socrates 74, 159 songs 63 speech impediment 177–178 spirits of fertility 9 spirituals: entity 79; gifts 18; language 47; leader 124; practice of secret wisdom 98; things 132 sporadic persecutions 133 sporadic violence 86 Stark, Rodney 19, 26, 38–39, 115–116, 135 St. Peter’s Square 30

Index Strabo (Greek geographer) 96 Suetonius (historian) 25, 35 synagogue inscriptions 14 Synod of Hippo 175 synoptic gospels 64 Tacitus (historian) 28–31 Temple of Venus 157 Tertullian (writer) 73, 84, 101, 116–120, 126, 135, 137, 145; caution 179; faith 117–118; ideas of justice and identity 119–120; influential theological principles 118; personal life 116–117; pivotal work 127; recording visions 124 Tetrarchy, rule of 139 texts 168–169, 175–176; composers of 177; disputed 173; diversity of 62; Eusebius 169–171; martyrdoms 135; recording of 168; reinterpreting martyrdom 176–178; selecting 171–176 theology/theologians 15, 117, 171; fourth-century view of 170; of resurrection 111 Thomas (gospel) 34, 47, 48, 168, 172 Thrax, Maximinus 133 Tomb of St. Thomas, Chennai 34, 35 torture 142–147, 143; extensive studies of 146; modern experience of 143; psychology of 146; purpose for 144–145; response to 145; slaves 103–105; threat of 145

195

traditional Romans 73; gods 155; religion 123 Trajan (Roman emperor) 81, 84, 85; directive to Pliny 106; initial response to Pliny 109 trial and death in arena 106–111 True Cross 157 truth: demonstration of 133–134; requirements of 177–178 unchaste behavior 86 Valerian (Roman emperor) 136–139 Vatican Hill 24, 25 Vespasian (Roman emperor) 32–35 Veyne, Paul 121 Vincent of Saragossa 142, 177 violence 31–32, 45, 71, 103, 179; against Christians 2; decades of 165; immediate aftermath of 29–30; Jews for 7; in Palestine 8 voluntary martyrdom 86, 119; prohibitions of 87; warnings against 89 voluntary martyrs 86–87 white-garbed observers 125 Williams, Michael 49–50 witness 29–30 worship 6–7, 33, 60, 61, 73, 83, 84, 96–98, 100, 113, 115 Worship of Mithra 73