eating later. So, the Hellenistic rite of animal sacrifice, as well as being a sharing of food with the gods, was, at one and the same time, also a sharing of food with the members of the local community, practices that resulted in the simultaneous strengthening of a community’s relationship with its gods and between its participant members.
That Christians were not willing to offer or participate in such cultic sacrifices might well then have been seen, at the very least, as evidence that Christians were careless of their non-Christian neighbors, despite the assertions that Christians loved all their neighbors as themselves. Indeed, that Christians absented themselves from the sacrificial cult and its associated practices could also be read as signaling that Christians were those who opted out of even those everyday little behaviors and religious customs that made a community’s daily living better together, and that especially enabled it “getting through” such liminal stages of its members’ lives as births, marriages, and deaths.
More gravely, not being willing to engage in the empire’s sacrificial cult might have been viewed as a sign of sedition and disloyalty to the province and the emperor. For not sacrificing amounted to undermining the empire’s leadership in seeking the pax Romana for all the empire’s peoples. What for Christian monotheism was an example of unwavering loyalty and faithfulness was for many a non-Christian a blatant example of selfish obstinacy, community disengagement, and unpatriotic intransigence.
Christian monotheism involved, however, not only the giving up of certain practices but also the taking up of others. One particular consequence of asserting belief in one God was asserting the equality of all before that one God. In second-century social order there was an absence of a clearly defined “merchant” class. Rather, there were relatively few benefactors and notables and many generally poor; and commonly the former paid for the amenities of civic life for the latter. For all that, within such a society the primary social distinction was not that between the “rich” and the “poor,” but that between the “free” and the “enslaved.” The second-century church largely mirrored that social stratification. That Clement of Alexandria [fl.180–200] chose to write the work Whether the Rich Man May Be Saved? presupposes the existence of some very rich Christian converts. The majority of Christians, however, were, in all probability, people of humbler origin, free men and women who might well have had at least some slaves. Some of these slaves, in all probability, also were Christians, people who along with the poor and the outcast had been attracted to Christianity because it offered them both a dignity, as children of God, and an otherworldly security, which this world denied them. In recognizing neither rich nor poor, free nor slave, but all one in Christ, the churches were therefore cutting across society’s distinctions, even divisions of class and profession. They were challenging a concept of stability to which Greco-Roman society generally adhered.
The family in which the paterfamilias exercised almost complete authority was integral to society then; so too was the distinction between “free” and “slave.” The church, however, struck at the family—a Christian mother was encouraged not to allow her non-Christian husband to rule unchecked over her children. Certain churches even allowed her to divorce such a husband. The church—even though there is early evidence of churches regularly stressing that being “one amongst equals” in the eyes of God should not be used to justify the breaking down of a household’s conventional hierarchy16—was also perceived as undermining the separation of “free” from “slave.” So, the church was thought by many in society to be striking at society’s general stability. In short, the church’s inclusivity, founded upon and informed by its belief in one God, cut across the social and economic homogeneity of second-century Greco-Roman society.
As noted, during the second century Christians seem not to have been pursued, neither systematically, nor continuously, nor for very long. When they were, some of the authorities before whom they were brought wished those accused of being Christians to deny their faith. So, for example, the proconsul, trying the arrested Bishop Polycarp of Smyrna in AD 156, repeatedly stated that, if Polycarp were to “curse Christ,” he would be released;17 and Pliny, in a letter of AD 112, reported to the emperor Trajan that he had tested that those accused of being Christians by requiring them to “curse Christ.”18 The majority, however, of the authorities before whom those accused of being Christians were brought did not demand a denial of faith. Rather, not appreciating the Christians’s strict monotheism, they required them to recognize the Christian God as one god amongst many others. They sought Christian involvement in not only Christian worship but also the empire’s cult, especially in its sacrificial system. Such they sought; and they were bemused when Christians resisted what they sought. This was partly because, as noted earlier, the empire understood religion in terms of rites and rituals, not ideas and beliefs, and so could not understand why Christian ideas and beliefs stood in the way of their being willing to engage in a sacrificial rite.
The empire’s bemusement was then deepened by the practices of the Jews and of those Christians, generically called gnostics. The Jews, the empire was aware, were willing to make a public act of sacrifice for the emperor, even though they were unwilling to sacrifice to the imperial cult; but Christians, perceived in some sense as an “offshoot” of Judaism, had no system of public sacrifices. Christians, the empire was told, did pray for the emperor; but the empire’s officials could see no obvious proof of this. To people accustomed to seeing religion as a formal, public duty, involving doing something very overtly, being told that Christians said a prayer in the privacy of a house church must have seemed somewhat unsatisfactory, certainly in contrast with the doing involved in the Jews’ public act of sacrificing for the emperor, if not wholly insufficient.
Some Christians, the empire was also aware, whilst they did not step forward to offer to sacrifice to the gods of the cults, did not, when required to sacrifice, refuse to sacrifice. What the empire did not appreciate was that these Christians, gnostics, unlike catholics, were of the opinion that the world of matter and of history was completely inconsequential. Some of these therefore abstained as rigorously as possible from the inconsequential world of matter and history. These gnostics would never sacrifice to the gods of the cults. Other gnostics, however, also believing that the world of matter and history was completely inconsequential, maintained therefore that they could be so lax in their relationship to matter that any historical act, sacrificing to the gods included, could be done, without that act, in any way whatsoever, affecting their salvation. Whereas catholic Christians would have viewed sacrificing to the gods of the imperial cults as committing the unforgiveable sin of crucifying again their already-crucified Savior,19 this latter group of gnostic Christians saw such an act as not even insignificant, but void of value. When faced with the readiness of such gnostic Christians, when asked, to sacrifice, civic authorities would not have easily understood why all Christians would not, when asked, offer sacrifices to the gods of the empire.
That incomprehension, especially when put alongside both a concentration upon rites and rituals rather than beliefs and syncretic, pluralist theologies, may help to explain, though not excuse, why prosecuting officials and their supporters sometimes forsook persuasion and took to threats in their attempt to elicit a sacrifice to the gods of their cults.
Vibia Perpetua, a twenty-two year old with an infant child at her breast, came from a religiously divided family. She, her brother, Dinocrates, and her slave, Felicitas, were Christian catechumens. Her father, mother, aunt, and other brother were pagans. In AD 202 or AD 203, Perpetua was brought before the procurator Hilarianus in Carthage and ordered to make a sacrifice.20 Pleas and threats ensued. Yet not even the pleas nor the threats of her father, the paterfamilias—whose will, pagans assumed, was always to be obeyed by his children—resulted in the desired obedience and sacrifice. So Perpetua and Felicitas were killed.
Some forty-six years earlier, in AD 156, Polycarp, the eighty-six-year-old bishop of Smyrna, although widely held in high esteem, was charged with being a Christian. On the way from the farm house in which he was found to the amphitheater in Smyrna where he was to be killed, the arresting police chief sought to persuade Polycarp to do something, anything, which
