Pagans and Christians in the City

by Steven D. Smith

  Even a modern, thoroughly secular observer can presumably appreciate the Roman concern with Christians like Andrew who went about undermining the pagan assumptions on which the Roman state was founded, however implausible those assumptions may seem today. Even a broad-minded and pragmatic Roman official who personally doubted the gods—the kind of official described or at least hypothesized by Gibbon, in other words78—might well have objected to this kind of subversiveness.

  But, of course, many Romans would not have looked at the matter in this merely pragmatic way. Many honestly believed in the gods, either in a literal sense or in the more philosophical sense elaborated by the Stoic character Balbus in Cicero’s dialogue. If you were a Roman of this mind, you would have believed that the gods were real, and that they were willing and able to guide the state so long as they were properly honored and propitiated. Conversely, if the gods were insulted or offended, they might visit ruin on the community (as they so often had done in the pagan classics of Homer and Virgil).

  From this perspective, again, Christianity would inevitably appear as a profoundly subversive force—not merely because its doctrines contradicted the religious premises on which the state was founded but, even more importantly, because Christians defied and insulted the gods. The very existence of Christianity, with its perverse and sacrilegious doctrines—sacrilegious relative to pagan piety, that is—was a kind of desecration, or “desacralization.” In sum, Christianity did not merely undermine people’s belief in the gods; even more importantly, it interfered with the actual relation between the people and their rulers and their gods. It disrupted the pax deorum—the peace of the gods.79

  The Roman concern with Christian desecration is evident in the fact that persecution of Christians typically picked up during difficult times. Gibbon observed that “if the empire had been afflicted by any recent calamity, by a plague, a famine, or an unsuccessful war; if the Tiber had, or if the Nile had not, risen beyond its banks; if the earth had shaken, or if the temperate order of the season had been interrupted, the superstitious Pagans were convinced that the crimes and the impiety of the Christians . . . had at length provoked the Divine Justice.”80

  Here Gibbon’s Enlightenment contempt for anything “superstitious,” normally directed against the Christians, is applied to the pagans. But in fact, the pagan attribution of calamities to Christianity was not merely irrational scapegoating; under the premises of pagan piety, at least, the attribution was logical enough. Indeed, it was not only pagan premises that supported this logic. In the Bible, a transgression by a single individual can sometimes bring down God’s wrath on the entire community of Israel.81

  Under this logic of desecration, the “Great Persecution” under the emperor Diocletian was initially provoked—or so contemporaries related—when frustrated augurs blamed their failures on Christians who had made the sign of the cross. In fury, Diocletian directed his wrath against all Christians in the immediate vicinity,82 and what became the most savage of all persecutions was unleashed.

  Liberty (and Dignity)

  The considerations discussed thus far—the Christians’ refusal to register their allegiance by performing required sacrifices, Christianity’s contradiction of and thus subversion of the beliefs on which the Roman state rested, Christianity’s effective desecration of the relation between the Romans and their gods—seem more than sufficient to explain why Romans could not accept coexistence on the terms offered by Christian apologists like Tertullian. In addition, though, there was another, more amorphous but also in one sense even more fundamental consideration that helps to complete the picture—and that illuminates as well the ongoing tension between Christianity and the kind of immanent religiosity reflected in Roman paganism. That consideration can be explained by reference to a value that in modern times might be articulated in terms of liberty—of religious, intellectual, and moral liberty—or perhaps also of “dignity.”

  As noted in chapter 5, modern scholars have sometimes tried to explain the difference between Christianity and paganism by asserting that Christianity was and paganism was not concerned with truth, or that Christianity was and paganism was not concerned with morality.83 Our survey suggested that hard-and-fast distinctions in these terms are overdrawn. Nonetheless, Christianity did manifest a commitment to formulating theological truths in precise creeds and doctrines, and to identifying and proscribing theological falsehoods or heresies, that was wholly foreign to a pagan mentality. As Robin Lane Fox remarks, “There was . . . no pagan concept of heresy.”84 Similarly, Christians exhibited an intense, perhaps puritanical concern for morality—sexual morality, for example—that was alien to pagan sensibilities.85

  These Christian commitments followed from the belief in a transcendent deity who stood outside the contingencies of this-worldly time and space, and who prescribed the “straight and narrow path” to “eternal life.”86 In the Christian view, all of human life transpired “under the aspect of eternity”—and thus under and subject to a transcendent standard. We might say that all of human life was subject to judgment.

  For devout Christians, this fact of a transcendent standard or judgment was not an infringement of liberty. On the contrary. “You shall know the truth,” Jesus had taught, “and the truth shall make you free.”87 Augustine concurred: it was the gospel that brought “true liberty.”88 “[A] good man is free,” he explained, “even if he is a slave, whereas the bad man is a slave even if he reigns: a slave, not to one man, but, what is worse, to as many masters as he has vices.”89 By contrast, the mere absence of moral restrictions would amount to “a vagrant liberty.”90

  Moreover, it was the belief in a transcendent standard that in time would permit Christians to pronounce a practice—infanticide, gladiatorial combat, eventually slavery—to be unjust and immoral even if it had been widely practiced and accepted by all known human cultures. “Man is the measure of all things,” Protagoras had declared.91 On that premise, if a practice (like slavery or infanticide) was widely accepted by human beings, what other evaluative criterion was there to appeal to? But Christianity emphatically rejected the Protagorean premise. Not man but rather God was ultimately the measure of all things,92 and hence even a universally accepted practice—like slavery—might be deeply wrong.

  In a different and thoroughly understandable sense, though, the assertion of a perpetual, all-encompassing divine standard of truth and morality could be viewed—and resented—as an oppressive limitation on a man’s liberty to think and to worship and, within legal limits, to live as he pleased. (The masculine gender remains apt here.) Within a pagan framework, a man was free to choose what to believe, which deities to worship, and, within broad limits, how to conduct himself sexually. In Christianity, conversely, this kind of freedom was denied. Or rather, the freedom might formally persist, but some exercises of the freedom would be approved while others would be condemned as incorrect, even damnable. It was as if a stern Big Brother was watching with a censorious eye your every deed, your every word, your every wayward or lustful thought. Keith Hopkins remarks on the pagans’ adverse reaction to “early Christians’ magnification of guilt.”93

  Even if the Christians’ censorious views were not implemented in law (and of course, they could hardly be legally enforced while Christians remained a powerless minority), so that liberty was not restricted through legal sanctions, the condemnation of pagan views and practices might nonetheless be resented as an offense against what in modern terms might be described as the pagans’ “dignity.” The possibility is displayed in a third-century dialogue called the Octavius written by the Christian apologist Minucius Felix. The dialogue purports to relate a conversation between two of Minucius’s friends—one (Octavius) a committed Christian and the other (Caecilius) a pagan. As the three are walking to enjoy the baths at Ostia, just outside Rome, they pass an image of the god Serapis, and Caecilius follows the pagan custom of pressing a kiss with his hand to the image’s lips.94 Octavius immediately reproves Minuciu
s, in Caecilius’s hearing, for allowing his friend “in broad daylight . . . to give himself up to stones.”95 Caecilius is predictably resentful, protesting that “Octavius’ speech has bitterly vexed and worried me,”96 and he goes on to argue that the Christians’ god “runs about everywhere, and is everywhere present: they make him out to be troublesome, restless, even shamelessly inquisitive, since he is present at everything that is done, wanders in and out of all places.”97

  In the dialogue, the breach between Octavius and Caecilius is healed, almost miraculously, when Octavius, in a long speech, convinces the pagan of the truth of Christianity. Caecilius thanks the Christian for this service, and the friends depart “glad and cheerful.”98 For social interactions not culminating in such an improbably happy conclusion, though, it is understandable that Christian censoriousness might be resented as an irksome or even intolerable curtailment of liberty, or (as advocates today would likely put the point)99 as an offense against the “dignity” of the censured pagans. Gibbon observes that “the Pagans were incensed at the rashness of a recent and obscure sect, which presumed to accuse their countrymen of error, and to devote their ancestors to eternal misery.”100 And there is at least a hint of this kind of objection in Pliny’s criticism of Christians as given to “unshakeable obstinacy,” and in his assertion that they were on that basis worthy of chastisement even though he had not found them guilty of any actual crime.101

  During Christianity’s first three centuries, of course, Romans were entirely free to ignore or reject Christianity, and hence to reject the constraints on pagan liberty that Christianity entailed;102 and that is precisely what the vast majority of Romans did. Even so, resentment of the seemingly unreasonable restrictions that Christianity sought to impose—unreasonable from a pagan perspective—and of the Christians’ perceived censorious and dogmatic attitudes, likely reinforced the reasons why Roman pagans were suspicious of Christianity and unwilling to embrace peaceful coexistence on the terms proposed by Christians such as Tertullian.

  Paganism’s (Unacceptable) Terms of Coexistence

  Although pagans could not accept the terms of the Christian proposal for coexistence, they could and did make a counteroffer. In effect, pagans proposed their own terms for peaceful coexistence. And these terms would have seemed entirely fair—from a pagan perspective, anyway. So the Christians’ obstinate dismissal of the eminently reasonable pagan proposal would have provided further justification for repression of Christianity.

  In essence, the possibility held out by paganism was that Christians and Christianity might be accepted on the same terms under which a vast variety of other cults and rituals were embraced within the broad canopy of paganism. For the most part, Romans had managed to accommodate a wide range of cults and deities on terms of reciprocity: I will respect your preferred deity if you will respect mine. Why couldn’t Christianity be accepted on the same basis?103 After all, the family of “the gods” could be extended almost without limits. It could include not only the original Roman deities but also the entire Greek pantheon, as well as deities imported from Egypt and Syria and elsewhere. It could surely have been augmented to include the god of the Christians on these same embracingly ecumenical terms. Or so it might have seemed, from a pagan perspective.

  Thus, according to the church historian Eusebius (who took the report from Tertullian), the emperor Tiberius had heard of Jesus and had sua sponte proposed to add him to the pantheon of deities; the senators declined to approve the emperor’s proposal only on the ground that they were insufficiently informed regarding the new religion.104 The accuracy of this report may well be doubted;105 even so, the story describes a development that, under proper circumstances and with proper solicitation, might have been possible. Later, the empress Mammaea sought out the learned Christian philosopher and apologist Origen to converse about theological matters. And her ecumenical son, the emperor Alexander Severus, placed a statue of Jesus in his private chapel (alongside statues of Abraham, Orpheus, and Apollonius); there was even a rumor that Alexander intended to erect a temple to Jesus. Another rumor had it that the emperor Philip the Arab had actually converted to Christianity.106 The erudite pagan philosopher Porphyry, though one of Christianity’s most vehement critics, wrote a treatise that included Jesus among human sages who had been elevated to divinity after his death.107

  Other Roman authorities would likely have been willing to extend the same terms of acceptance if Christians had been agreeable.108 And in fact, some Christians were agreeable; as noted, some performed the small sacrificial gestures to the gods and otherwise mingled congenially with their pagan neighbors.109 One modern historian who enthusiastically approves of such conciliatory conduct suggests that Christians who were willing to accept these terms seem to have gotten along well enough in the Roman world.110

  We saw earlier that the Christian proposal for coexistence might be articulated in a Rawlsian vocabulary: though Christian and pagan “comprehensive doctrines” differed radically, both positions converged in prescribing obedience to earthly rulers, and that convergence might provide the “overlapping consensus” on which a just political community could be constructed. But the pagan proposal for coexistence might equally or even more persuasively be cast in Rawlsian terms. In effect, the pagan approach attempted to ground community not in claims of truth, or of Truth, but rather in what we could call “reasonableness”—of reasonableness understood in terms of sociability and willingness to accept others’ practices and commitments on terms of reciprocity and mutual respect.111

  In this spirit of “reasonableness,” the Roman demands of allegiance would have seemed inoffensive and easy to comply with. All that was required, really, was a simple and innocuous gesture. “If [the Christians] consented to cast a few grains of incense upon the altar,” Gibbon explained, “they were dismissed from the tribunal in safety and with applause.”112 “Why can’t you compromise?” Keith Hopkins has an educated pagan press on a Christian friend. “It surely wouldn’t be too dreadful if someone told you Christians to take an oath ‘by an emperor,’ or pour a simple libation ‘to the emperor’s health.’ Could you just participate in our public festivals, for the sake of form . . . ?”113

  And yet the more fervent Christians were unwilling to make this seemingly innocent gesture, or to enter into this “reasonable” and fair arrangement for cooperation. On the contrary, they refused the sort of respectful reciprocity by which most other cults had been assimilated into the Roman religious system. Christians insisted, rather, that their God was the one true God, and that the various Roman deities were false gods, or demons. From a distance, it is easy to see why from the pagan perspective the Christian stance would have seemed arrogant, unsociable, and unreasonable. “The Christians were seen as religious fanatics,” Robert Wilken explains, “self-righteous outsiders, arrogant innovators, who taught that only their beliefs were true.”114

  And yet it is understandable as well why devout Christians (like the Jews before them)115 did not and could not view the matter in these terms—why they could only view the ostensible reciprocity of the Roman arrangement as a sham. The Christian faith taught, after all, that Jesus was the one true God. So any pagan offer to accept Jesus as one god among many was not really an invitation of inclusion; it was instead a proposal that the Christians renounce their faith and become polytheistic pagans instead. A Christ understood as one god among many would no longer be the Christ that Christians believed in and worshiped. As Lactantius explained, “If the honour paid to Him is shared by others, He altogether ceases to be worshipped since His religion requires us to believe that He is the one and only God.”116 So the general Roman policy, understood by Romans as “We’ll accept you and your god if you’ll accept ours,” inevitably sounded to the Christians like disingenuous or at least ignorant double-talk: “We’ll accept your religion if you will effectively renounce it and accept our pagan religion instead.”117

  A modern (imperfect) analogy may help. Proponents of i
ncluding creationism in the school curriculum sometimes use the language of inclusion and reciprocity. “You evolutionists and we creationists have different theories about how life came about,” they suggest, “so let’s just teach both theories—on equal terms.”118 From one point of view, this can seem like an eminently reasonable, broadly tolerant proposal. But for many scientists and educators, the proposal reflects a spurious reciprocity, because the “theories” are not comparable: one theory is scientifically supported and the other is not. So the “equal time” proposal is analogous to a shady trader’s offer: “I’ll accept your (legally valid) money if you’ll accept my (counterfeit) currency.” Treating evolution and creationism as competing “theories” would amount to a travesty and indeed a betrayal of science. That, in any case, is how evolutionists often see the matter.

  Christians in the Roman Empire were in an analogous position—even if pagans applying their own religious perspective could not understand the fact, and thus perceived the Christians as inflexible, dogmatic, and undeserving of accommodation. Athenagoras tried to explain the Christian perspective to the emperor Marcus Aurelius as one philosopher speaking with another.119 To conceive of divinity in terms of a host of finite and changeable deities who often behave in ways that would be shameful even for humans is obviously unacceptable. Isn’t it? Conversely, even pagan philosophers and poets have acknowledged that, ultimately, God must ultimately be one. Why then, Athenagoras pleaded, should Christians be punished for declining to worship the finite deities and instead confining their worship to the one, true, infinite God?

  Repeatedly flattering the emperor’s philosophical acumen, Athenagoras was hopeful that Marcus would see the justice in this position. His hope was not rewarded.

  Augustine later explained the ultimate conflict in lucid terms. Both Christians and pagans, he said, “make common use of those things which are necessary to this mortal life.” The heavenly city, or the community of Christians, “must of necessity make use of this [earthly] peace also,” and “for as long as it does so, it does not hesitate to obey the laws of the earthly city.” And hence “a harmony is preserved.” The problem arises when pagans insist on the worship of multiple gods. “But the Heavenly City knows only one God who is to be worshipped. . . . Because of this difference, it has not been possible for the Heavenly City to have laws of religion in common with the earthly city. It has been necessary to dissent from the earthly city in this regard, and to become a burden to those who think differently. Thus, she has had to bear the brunt of the anger and hatred and persecutions of her adversaries.”120