Defenders of the Faith in Word and Deed

FOREWORD

When my good friend Father Charles Connor asked me to review and introduce his new book, which draws inspiration and encouragement from great figures in Catholic Church history, I was more than pleased to do so. Father Connor is an authentic teacher of history, one who makes the past come alive by writing well and at the same time drawing lessons for us from what happened in the past. His very successful series on EWTN has gone directly against our times, the prevailing view that superficially dismisses history as unimportant. Since I grew up during a previous era that some have seen as a golden age of America, from the end of World War II to the victory of civil rights, I was educated with a knowledge of and enthusiasm for history. In those days any thinking high school or college student knew the truth of the saying that those who did not study history were bound to repeat it, especially its mistakes.

It is actually amazing how quickly a working knowledge of history disappeared among young Americans and how an awareness of the fascinating history of the Catholic Church vanished from Catholic education. When I recall incidents from history to the members of my community, I am amused that our young friars think I am extraordinarily learned, but all I am actually doing is recounting what any moderately well-educated Catholic of the mid-twentieth century had been taught.

Father Connor is one of the few intrepid souls working to reverse our chronic religious, civic, and clinical amnesia. And he is all the more interesting since he is clearly not one of those historians who simply pile on the facts. Instead he teaches in order to present the broad sweep of events and their relationship to one another. Following the model of Saint Augustine’s City of God, Father Connor, like the great Bishop, relates the significant events to the history of salvation. In history thus conceived, people do not simply perform deeds, but they react to God’s unfolding Providence. Father Connor uses the very reliable method of describing people and not simply events or things. He paints portraits of important and inspiring people at significant moments in Church history, beginning with a selection of martyrs and ending with some of the most interesting people of our times like Cardinal Mindszenty, Father Walter Ciszek, and Cardinal Ratzinger.

This book will be helpful for serious students of any age, that is, people who are determined to learn for their own growth and development as human beings and Christians. While Father Connor is not presenting original research, he makes use of several primary sources and standard works that can lead the reader to more detailed accounts. Most of the great Christians we meet in this book are the subjects of serious biographies and scholarly analyses. What Father Connor does is bring to life names that may be already familiar, like Augustine and Aquinas, and some that may be less well known, like Athanasius, John Fisher, and my own dear friends Frank Sheed and Maisie Ward.

This book comes at a crucial and painful moment in Catholic Church history. The present era—one of creativity but also of dissent, of apparent development as well as confusion, of great activity but of many losing their way—is coming to end. Like most other eras, I think it will be seen as a field sown with wheat and weeds. At the beginning of the third millennium we witness an era of weakened and eroded Catholic identity. It is a time of incredible cultural mediocrity, in which many young people, despite a good deal of life experience, suffer from a seriously deficient education. This is particularly regrettable because the young obviously try and want to learn, but often they are given contrived experiences and a sadly inadequate education. A recently compiled high school text of several hundred pages about the history of the United States mentioned neither Washington nor Lincoln, because we don’t need heroes. This attitude is similar to Catholic religious education that scarcely mentions the sacraments or, God forbid, the divinity of Christ.

Defenders of the Faith—in Word and Deed is something refreshingly different. This work is part of a sea change beginning to take place now in Catholic education: history with heroes, history with passion, conviction, and heart. Here we find examples of valiant disciples of Christ who, in spite of their very bad times, remained faithful and dynamic in their response to that mysterious and unique entity that Christ established to bring his life, teaching, and sacraments to the world until the end of time.

Father Benedict J. Groeschel, C.F.R.

I

Early Christian Martyrs of

the Roman Empire

In the year A.D. 111, Pliny the Younger wrote to the Emperor Trajan, informing him how the persecution of the Christians was going:

The method I have observed toward those who have been denounced to me as Christians is this: I interrogated them whether they were Christians; if they confessed it I repeated the question twice again, adding the threat of capital punishment; if they still persevered, I ordered them to be executed. . . . The temples, which had been almost deserted, began now to be frequented . . . and there is a general demand for sacrificial animals, which for some time past have met with few purchasers.

To which Trajan replied:

The method you have pursued, my dear Pliny, in sifting the cases of those denounced to you as Christians is eminently proper . . . no search should be made for these people; when they are denounced and found guilty they must be punished; but where the accused party denies that he is a Christian, and gives proof . . . by adoring our gods, he shall be pardoned. . . . Information without the accuser’s name subscribed must not be admitted in evidence against anyone.¹

Our Lord’s Apostles brought the gospel message to a Roman Empire that, in geographical terms, did not substantially differ from the one in which Constantine proclaimed Christianity the official religion in the fourth century. Octavian Augustus is usually considered the first Roman Emperor, one who ushered in two centuries of relative tranquility. Most descriptive sources fix the boundaries of the Empire at Armenia and Mesopotamia, the Arabian Desert, the Red Sea, Nubia, the Sahara, the Moroccan mountain ranges, the Atlantic Ocean, the Irish Sea, Scotland, the North Sea, the Rhine, the Danube, the Black Sea and the Caucasus. In addition, Augustus is also credited with adding territory along the North Sea west of the Elbe and areas in the vicinity of the Danube.

In this vast political setting, religion was very much a personal affair. Families, and even individuals, could have their own deities, although it was not at all uncommon to find entire cities worshipping one god. The state tolerated this, provided the religious cult or personal belief was not hostile to the government or so exclusive as to appear suspect.

Judaism was a separate case. It had a certain exclusivity about it, in that no Jew could belong to another cult nor be allowed to participate in any type of emperor worship. One would think Jews would be severely punished, if not persecuted. Instead, Judaism was officially protected in the Empire. The reason was curious: Jews were a part of a nation subject to Rome. Their religion and nationality were synonymous, and Judaism was not a sect likely to attract non-Jewish adherents. Furthermore, their numbers were not expected to increase dramatically, hence their lot was not an unhappy one as far as being tolerated by the Empire went.

Christians would not be as fortunate. At first, the Roman officials saw them as a sect within Judaism. There were so many deities worshipped within the Empire that if a particular Jewish sect gave allegiance to one Jesus of Nazareth it made slight difference. It was the Jews themselves who first noticed all was not well within their ranks. Early followers of Christ were moving away from the strict observance in alarming numbers; their new faith seemed to be shaking Judaism to its foundation. In such a charged atmosphere, certain Jews were only too happy to report on Christians to the authorities, sparking an official scrutiny. The government agreed Christians were becoming a divisive force and were in violation of the Roman law:

To this legal suspicion of the Church as a religious conspiracy, there was added very soon the more fruitful suspicion of its members as monsters of depravity, meeting secretly for the performance of rites, bloody and unnaturally obscene.²

It is true that Christians lived in a somewhat tense atmosphere for the first three centuries of the Church’s life. It is not true that persecution was unceasing; rather, it was intermittent, sometimes limited to the city of Rome, sometimes extending throughout the Empire. A popular legend evolved through the centuries about when anti-Christian hostility became intense, believers would hide from Roman officials in the catacombs, underground burial places on the outskirts of the city. These were not secret hiding places; in fact, they were well marked on city maps. It so happened that the soft turf of the region could be easily excavated and developed into a large network of subterranean tunnels, which could be utilized for several purposes, burial among them. Christians (and, for that matter, Jews as well) found the system of underground burial ideal in a city where space was at a premium. In addition, the catacombs provided a space for gathering for the celebration of the Holy Eucharist and for Christian artists to leave for posterity a fascinating record of a vibrant faith.

This is not to minimize persecutions. They occurred with ferocity, and many martyrs and defenders of the faith came forth. They were martyrs because they died under some excruciating form of torture; they were defenders of the faith because of their witness to Christ as their only Lord, to the exclusion of all others, including the emperor. We know of their persecutions and martyrdoms from three principal sources: the accounts of non-Christian historians, the minutes of their trials (known as the Acts of the Martyrs), and eyewitness accounts.

The earliest persecutions seemed to have occurred under the Emperor Nero (54—68) and may well have been an attempt to turn the attention of Rome’s citizens away from the Emperor’s own burning of the city. It was a persecution limited to Rome itself, and both Peter and Paul are believed to have been victims of it. Tacitus, a Roman historian, pictures it vividly:

First, then, the confessed members of the sect were arrested; next, on their disclosures, vast numbers were convicted, not so much on the count of arson as for hatred of the human race. And derision accompanied their end: they were covered with wild beasts’ skins and torn to death by dogs; or they were fastened on crosses, and, when daylight failed, were burned to serve as lamps by night. Nero had offered his gardens for the spectacle, and gave an exhibition in his circus, mixing with the crowd in the habit of a charioteer, or mounted on his car. Hence, in spite of a guilt which had earned the most exemplary punishment, there arose a sentiment of pity, due to the impression that they were being sacrificed not for the welfare of the state but to the ferocity of a single man.³

Incest and cannibalism are hardly terms to be thrown about lightly. They were, however, among the most common accusations made against Christians. Even more curious was the charge of atheism. It was assumed that since Christians did not practice the religion of the state, the worship of the pagan gods, that they had no religion. If this persisted, the gods would become angry and inflict all sorts of wrath on Roman society.

To these charges were added arguments put forth by philosophers and men in political life, trying to reason on a somewhat higher level. These men claimed that Christians concentrated their proselytizing efforts on women, children, and slaves, classes of society wont to believe anything. Further, they felt this new sect had little use for Roman ancestral customs, and the objection of some to military service was highly suspect. Arguments were made against the efficacy of Christian Baptism, the consistency of scriptural accounts, and even the Incarnation: Why would a perfect, changeless God, they wondered, ever wish to become a tiny babe? Finally, the physical, bodily Resurrection of Christ was taken to be the most bizarre notion of all. According to Porphyry, a Hellenized Jew from Tyre who had studied under the philosopher Plotinus, the Paschal Mystery was

a remarkable lie . . . ! If you sang that to mindless beasts which can do nothing but make a noise in response you would make them bellow and cheep with a deafening din at the idea of men of flesh flying through the air like birds, or carried on a cloud.⁴

The Christians answered, always in charity. One of the most famous responses was a description of their community written for the benefit of civil magistrates by Tertullian of Carthage. The courage of so many Christians had converted Tertullian from paganism, and he used his great writing talent to defend his newfound religion:

We are a body knit together by the sense of one belief, united in discipline, bound together by a common hope. We form an alliance and a congregation to assail God with our prayer, like a battalion drawn up for combat. This violence God delights in. We pray, too, for the emperors, for their ministers and all in authority, for the welfare of the world, for the prevalence of peace, for the delay of final consummation. . . .

But it is mainly the deeds of love so noble that lead many to put a brand of infamy on us. ‘See how they love one another’, they say, for they themselves are animated by mutual hatred. And they are angry with us, too, because we call one another brother; for no other reason, as I think, than because among themselves names of affinity are assumed only in a mere pretence of affection. . . .

We live with you, eat the same food, wear the same clothing, have the same way of life as you; we are subject to the same needs of existence. We are not . . . living in woods and exiling [ourselves] from ordinary life. . . . We live in the same world as you: we go to your forum, your market, your baths, your shops, . . . your inns, . . . we serve as soldiers with you, and till the ground and engage in trade.⁵

The early second century witnessed persecutions under Trajan (98—117). Tradition tells us that Saint Clement of Rome was martyred at this time and that Saint John the Evangelist, the only Apostle to die a natural death, suffered an intense passion near the Latin Gate of the city of Rome.

Trajan was succeeded some forty-four years and three emperors later by the philosopher Marcus Aurelius (161—180). During his reign, the apologist Justin was sentenced in Rome and Polycarp, the saintly Bishop of Smyrna in Asia Minor, was martyred. During this period, too, we have the earliest evidence of the presence of Christianity in Gaul—the area of present-day France—and specifically the city of Lyon. In 177, the Christians of Lyon described in detail the martyrdoms of many of their own; in particular, they speak of Pothinus, a ninety-year-old bishop; Sanctus, a deacon; and Blandina, a slave girl. Eusebius, one of the earliest Church historians, noted of each martyrdom: Pothinus, with great difficulty breathing, conveyed to the tribunal by the soldiers, escorted by the city authorities and the whole multitude, who gave utterance to all sorts of cries, as if he were Christ himself; and so he gave the good witness. Sanctus, the deacon’s entire body bruised, was unbending, unyielding,. . . for he was bedewed and strengthened by the heavenly fountain of the water of life which issues from the side of Christ. Blandina, the slave girl, acknowledged even by those of the hardest heart to have been tortured beyond anything ever witnessed, was suspended on a stake, was exposed as food to wild beasts which were let loose against her.⁶

What sorts of thoughts went through the Emperor’s mind as he witnessed such happenings? What emotions swelled up inside him as reports of brutal slayings reached his ears? The famous British essayist and defender of the faith G. K. Chesterton tried to put himself into the mind of Emperor Marcus Aurelius to answer these questions:

It was not exactly what these provincials said; though of course it sounded queer enough. They seemed to be saying that God was dead and that they themselves had seen him die. This might be one of the many manias produced by the despair of the age; only they did not seem particularly despairing. They seemed quite unnaturally joyful about it, and gave the reason that the death of God had allowed them to eat him and drink his blood. According to other accounts, God was not exactly dead after all; there trailed through the bewildered imagination some sort of fantastic procession of the funeral of God at which the sun turned black, but which ended with the dead omnipotence breaking out of the tomb and rising again like the sun. But it was not the strange story to which anybody paid any particular attention; people in that world had seen queer religions enough to fill a madhouse. It was something in the tone of the madmen and their type of formation. They were a scratch company of barbarians and slaves and poor unimportant people; but their formation was military; they moved together and were very absolute about who and what was a part of their little system; and about what they said, however mildly, there was a ring like iron.⁷

The second century gave way to the third. The stories of the martyrs continued to be