“Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ. And he came in the Spirit into the temple, and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the Law, he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, ‘Lord now you are letting your servant depart in peace…’”

Men and women who have grown old in friendship with the Lord sometimes say that they are ready to “go home.” We might be reminded of St. Paul who “would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (2 Cor. 5:8). Such eagerness for death would be perverse were it not for “the Lord’s Christ,” who is “the consolation of Israel.” Why is it, Origen wonders, that Simeon “held [Jesus] in his arms, and kept rejoicing and exulting”? Because Simeon knew that “the little child he was carrying had come to release captives and to free Simeon from the bonds of the body,” and Jesus alone could do this “with hope of life to come.”

Origen goes further. We are all, he suggests, Simeon. Death comes for us all. But, says Origen, if someone wishes “to go forth and reign” after this life, he too “should enfold [Jesus] in his arms, and fully grasp him in his bosom. Then he will be able to go in joy where he longs to go.” But how can we hold Jesus like Simeon? The same way as Simeon did: by following the Spirit into the temple. The temple, Origen explains, is the Church. But just coming physically to church is not enough. We must walk by the Spirit so that our way of life becomes “worthy of the title ‘church.’” Origen concludes the homily with the first known prayer to the infant Christ: “let us pray to Jesus himself, the little child. We long to speak to him and hold him in our arms, to whom is glory and power for ages of ages. Amen.”[1]

 [1] Summary by John Sehorn with the use of Origen, Homily 15 on Luke, in Homilies on Luke, trans. Joseph T. Lienhard, S.J., Fathers of the Church 94 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 62–64.

“Now there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ. And he came in the Spirit into the temple, and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him according to the custom of the Law, he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, ‘Lord now you are letting your servant depart in peace…’”

Men and women who have grown old in friendship with the Lord sometimes say that they are ready to “go home.” We might be reminded of St. Paul who “would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (2 Cor. 5:8). Such eagerness for death would be perverse were it not for “the Lord’s Christ,” who is “the consolation of Israel.” Why is it, Origen wonders, that Simeon “held [Jesus] in his arms, and kept rejoicing and exulting”? Because Simeon knew that “the little child he was carrying had come to release captives and to free Simeon from the bonds of the body,” and Jesus alone could do this “with hope of life to come.”

Origen goes further. We are all, he suggests, Simeon. Death comes for us all. But, says Origen, if someone wishes “to go forth and reign” after this life, he too “should enfold [Jesus] in his arms, and fully grasp him in his bosom. Then he will be able to go in joy where he longs to go.” But how can we hold Jesus like Simeon? The same way as Simeon did: by following the Spirit into the temple. The temple, Origen explains, is the Church. But just coming physically to church is not enough. We must walk by the Spirit so that our way of life becomes “worthy of the title ‘church.’” Origen concludes the homily with the first known prayer to the infant Christ: “let us pray to Jesus himself, the little child. We long to speak to him and hold him in our arms, to whom is glory and power for ages of ages. Amen.”[1]

 [1] Summary by John Sehorn with the use of Origen, Homily 15 on Luke, in Homilies on Luke, trans. Joseph T. Lienhard, S.J., Fathers of the Church 94 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 62–64.

In 1899, Pope Leo XIII issued an apostolic letter, Testem benevolentiae, in which he expressed concern regarding the development of “those views which, in their collective sense, are called by some ‘Americanism.’”[1] The issue was complicated, but at its root was Leo’s concern that certain American cultural norms—in particular the Protestant privileging of the authority of private judgment and of equality over hierarchy—were infiltrating and corrupting the Church in America. The recent celebration of Independence Day gave occasion to reflect on this issue. Over Fourth of July weekend, I experienced two very different patriotic sermons: one that nearly presented the Founding Fathers as crypto-Catholics, the other that reminded us that while love of country is a virtue, Catholic patriotism must be tempered by the acknowledgment that America was founded on the Enlightenment principle of autonomous reason. Historically, the second view is undeniably the accurate one: “Nature’s God” is not the Triune God of Christianity. This should not trouble us. The Church has a long history of Christianizing pagan political structures; think no further than the Roman Empire and Germanic feudalism. Our unique challenge today is the inability of many American Catholics to see that our political structures and traditions need Catholicizing—either due to a misguided understanding of disestablishment or, worse, a misguided belief that they are in some sense already Catholic. Leo’s fears of American cultural norms corrupting the Church may have been unwarranted in the late nineteenth century but proved prophetic of what was to come. 

The struggle over Americanism in the late nineteenth century actually revealed the strength of a distinctly Catholic life within America. The Protestant and egalitarian influences that Leo feared were at most the dalliance of a small elite; the real battle lines of Americanism were drawn in the areas of ethnicity and parochial schools. “Americanist” bishops such as John Ireland of St. Paul feared that the persistence of ethnic cultures among Catholics in America and the maintenance of a separate parochial school system set Catholics apart from mainstream America, marking them as foreign, subversive, un-American. These bishops were in some sense correct, but most Catholics preferred to be American on their own terms rather than have those terms dictated to them by anti-Catholic bigots.[2] The passage of immigration restriction in the 1920s dealt a blow to ethnic Catholicism, yet parochial schools continued to sustain a distinct subculture: patriotic, within the limits of Catholicism. This subculture found its greatest support in the simple geographic fact of Catholics living together in tight-knit, urban parishes. The Catholic politics of this period had very little to do with The Spirit of ’76 and everything to do with political “machines” distributing patronage and other material benefits that often stood as the only difference between mere working-class poverty and life-threatening destitution. This type of local city politics only reaffirmed the sense among non-Catholics that Catholics were a people apart, not to be trusted.

Post-World War II Catholics aspiring to national political power sought to move beyond this local model by appealing broader political principles. Two strategies converged by about the year 1960: in We Hold These Truths, the Jesuit theologian John Courtney Murray argued that American political traditions are compatible with Catholicism because they are rooted in natural law; in the same year, the Catholic presidential candidate John F. Kennedy assured the nation that his Catholicism would have nothing to do with how he conducted himself as president.[3] These two somewhat contradictory principles—America is pretty close to Catholic on its own terms or has nothing to do with Catholicism at all—have set the boundaries for most mainstream Catholic engagement with American politics. Kennedy’s strong words—striking for the sharpness of their separation of private faith and public life—were perhaps even more significant for the lack of controversy they generated among most American Catholics in 1960. Catholics at the time were too caught up in the thrill of seeing one of their own elected as president. Kennedy’s assassination three years later seemed to seal the deal: a martyrdom that forever put to rest all the old doubts about the rightful place of Catholics in America. Two years later, the Vatican itself seemed to confirm this victory with the guarded endorsement of religious liberty expressed in the Vatican II document Dignitatis humanae (drafted in large part by none other than John Courtney Murray himself).[4]

This marriage turned out to be no more than a honeymoon—and a short-lived one at that.  For a hundred years, America deemed the Church un-American due to its failure to endorse democracy; following St. Pope Paul VI’s encyclical Humanae vitae in 1968, America would once again judge the Church deficient, this time for its failure to approve of artificial contraception and, by implication, abortion. This time, however, the assault on Catholicism came as much from within the Church as from outside it. American Catholics overwhelmingly rejected Humanae vitae and sided with the external critics of the Church. Certain Catholic theologians invoked the theological principle of conscience as justification for their dissent from the encyclical. Most Catholics never ventured into theological abstractions; their visceral rejection instead grew out of their prior embrace of a middle-class family ideal predicated on small families, the aberration of the Baby Boom notwithstanding. Theologians tend to view the battle over Humanae vitae as one between orthodoxy and heresy; this historian views it more as the first post-Kennedy test-case as to how Catholics would deal with a conflict between Catholic faith and American culture. On the issue of birth control, American Catholics sided overwhelmingly with American culture. It was a harbinger of things to come, not only in private faith but in public life.

The decades following Humanae vitae would see Leo XIII’s fears of “Americanism” realized, though on terms he could not have anticipated. Democracy did not re-make the Church in the image of congregationalism, but American politics succeeded in making American Catholics indistinguishable from other Americans. Liberal Catholics follow liberal non-Catholics in promoting social justice in the name of the common good while supporting abortion and a radically privatized understanding of sexual freedom that undermines the common good; conservative Catholics follow conservative non-Catholics by opposing abortion yet promote a radically privatized understanding of economic freedom that likewise undermines the common good. Liberal and conservative Catholics differ on specific issues but share the same tendency to view their faith through their politics. It is by now a commonplace that the social teachings of the Church are, by American political standards, economically “liberal” and culturally “conservative.” American Catholics have failed to promote this unified vision in mainstream American politics for fear of seeming un-American—in the sense of failing to conform to the prevailing ideological alignments of mainstream American politics. 

Efforts to unify Catholics through the metaphor of the “seamless garment” of Catholic social teaching have only met with partisan responses. Liberal Catholics interpret the unity in terms of equivalency, as if caring for the poor absolved one of responsibility to defend the un-born; conservative Catholics interpret the unity in terms of hierarchy, as if defending the unborn absolves them of the “lesser” good of caring for the poor. Efforts to close these loopholes through the idea of a “consistent life ethic” have failed to correct liberal and conservative inconsistencies.[5] Perhaps Leo was more prophetic than he knew: this partisan, politicized Catholicism reflects nothing if not the triumph of “private judgment,” the freedom to fashion a Catholicism to suit our own personal preferences. This is the triumph of Americanism in our own time.

So what, to the Catholic, is the Fourth of July? Looking back, it is a day of gratitude to a country that provided a home for millions of uprooted immigrants and enabled them, for a time, to recreate authentic Catholic communities in America. Looking forward, it is gratitude for the freedom to recreate communities of faith once again—different communities under different circumstances, but part of a tradition of Catholic life ever recreating itself in continuity with the enduring truths of the faith. In America, this recreation will inevitably be, in part, a political task, for communities are never purely private. The forces undermining Catholic culture have never been only cultural, but always also political, social and economic; they must be met with appropriate counterforce. Catholics capable of seeing beyond our current political polarization should also be able to see that if American political freedom means anything it means the ability to envision and enact political alternatives, even alternative political parties. As we contemplate the Fourth of July, it is time for Catholics once more to decla

In 1899, Pope Leo XIII issued an apostolic letter, Testem benevolentiae, in which he expressed concern regarding the development of “those views which, in their collective sense, are called by some ‘Americanism.’”[1] The issue was complicated, but at its root was Leo’s concern that certain American cultural norms—in particular the Protestant privileging of the authority of private judgment and of equality over hierarchy—were infiltrating and corrupting the Church in America. The recent celebration of Independence Day gave occasion to reflect on this issue. Over Fourth of July weekend, I experienced two very different patriotic sermons: one that nearly presented the Founding Fathers as crypto-Catholics, the other that reminded us that while love of country is a virtue, Catholic patriotism must be tempered by the acknowledgment that America was founded on the Enlightenment principle of autonomous reason. Historically, the second view is undeniably the accurate one: “Nature’s God” is not the Triune God of Christianity. This should not trouble us. The Church has a long history of Christianizing pagan political structures; think no further than the Roman Empire and Germanic feudalism. Our unique challenge today is the inability of many American Catholics to see that our political structures and traditions need Catholicizing—either due to a misguided understanding of disestablishment or, worse, a misguided belief that they are in some sense already Catholic. Leo’s fears of American cultural norms corrupting the Church may have been unwarranted in the late nineteenth century but proved prophetic of what was to come. 

The struggle over Americanism in the late nineteenth century actually revealed the strength of a distinctly Catholic life within America. The Protestant and egalitarian influences that Leo feared were at most the dalliance of a small elite; the real battle lines of Americanism were drawn in the areas of ethnicity and parochial schools. “Americanist” bishops such as John Ireland of St. Paul feared that the persistence of ethnic cultures among Catholics in America and the maintenance of a separate parochial school system set Catholics apart from mainstream America, marking them as foreign, subversive, un-American. These bishops were in some sense correct, but most Catholics preferred to be American on their own terms rather than have those terms dictated to them by anti-Catholic bigots.[2] The passage of immigration restriction in the 1920s dealt a blow to ethnic Catholicism, yet parochial schools continued to sustain a distinct subculture: patriotic, within the limits of Catholicism. This subculture found its greatest support in the simple geographic fact of Catholics living together in tight-knit, urban parishes. The Catholic politics of this period had very little to do with The Spirit of ’76 and everything to do with political “machines” distributing patronage and other material benefits that often stood as the only difference between mere working-class poverty and life-threatening destitution. This type of local city politics only reaffirmed the sense among non-Catholics that Catholics were a people apart, not to be trusted.

Post-World War II Catholics aspiring to national political power sought to move beyond this local model by appealing broader political principles. Two strategies converged by about the year 1960: in We Hold These Truths, the Jesuit theologian John Courtney Murray argued that American political traditions are compatible with Catholicism because they are rooted in natural law; in the same year, the Catholic presidential candidate John F. Kennedy assured the nation that his Catholicism would have nothing to do with how he conducted himself as president.[3] These two somewhat contradictory principles—America is pretty close to Catholic on its own terms or has nothing to do with Catholicism at all—have set the boundaries for most mainstream Catholic engagement with American politics. Kennedy’s strong words—striking for the sharpness of their separation of private faith and public life—were perhaps even more significant for the lack of controversy they generated among most American Catholics in 1960. Catholics at the time were too caught up in the thrill of seeing one of their own elected as president. Kennedy’s assassination three years later seemed to seal the deal: a martyrdom that forever put to rest all the old doubts about the rightful place of Catholics in America. Two years later, the Vatican itself seemed to confirm this victory with the guarded endorsement of religious liberty expressed in the Vatican II document Dignitatis humanae (drafted in large part by none other than John Courtney Murray himself).[4]

This marriage turned out to be no more than a honeymoon—and a short-lived one at that.  For a hundred years, America deemed the Church un-American due to its failure to endorse democracy; following St. Pope Paul VI’s encyclical Humanae vitae in 1968, America would once again judge the Church deficient, this time for its failure to approve of artificial contraception and, by implication, abortion. This time, however, the assault on Catholicism came as much from within the Church as from outside it. American Catholics overwhelmingly rejected Humanae vitae and sided with the external critics of the Church. Certain Catholic theologians invoked the theological principle of conscience as justification for their dissent from the encyclical. Most Catholics never ventured into theological abstractions; their visceral rejection instead grew out of their prior embrace of a middle-class family ideal predicated on small families, the aberration of the Baby Boom notwithstanding. Theologians tend to view the battle over Humanae vitae as one between orthodoxy and heresy; this historian views it more as the first post-Kennedy test-case as to how Catholics would deal with a conflict between Catholic faith and American culture. On the issue of birth control, American Catholics sided overwhelmingly with American culture. It was a harbinger of things to come, not only in private faith but in public life.

The decades following Humanae vitae would see Leo XIII’s fears of “Americanism” realized, though on terms he could not have anticipated. Democracy did not re-make the Church in the image of congregationalism, but American politics succeeded in making American Catholics indistinguishable from other Americans. Liberal Catholics follow liberal non-Catholics in promoting social justice in the name of the common good while supporting abortion and a radically privatized understanding of sexual freedom that undermines the common good; conservative Catholics follow conservative non-Catholics by opposing abortion yet promote a radically privatized understanding of economic freedom that likewise undermines the common good. Liberal and conservative Catholics differ on specific issues but share the same tendency to view their faith through their politics. It is by now a commonplace that the social teachings of the Church are, by American political standards, economically “liberal” and culturally “conservative.” American Catholics have failed to promote this unified vision in mainstream American politics for fear of seeming un-American—in the sense of failing to conform to the prevailing ideological alignments of mainstream American politics. 

Efforts to unify Catholics through the metaphor of the “seamless garment” of Catholic social teaching have only met with partisan responses. Liberal Catholics interpret the unity in terms of equivalency, as if caring for the poor absolved one of responsibility to defend the un-born; conservative Catholics interpret the unity in terms of hierarchy, as if defending the unborn absolves them of the “lesser” good of caring for the poor. Efforts to close these loopholes through the idea of a “consistent life ethic” have failed to correct liberal and conservative inconsistencies.[5] Perhaps Leo was more prophetic than he knew: this partisan, politicized Catholicism reflects nothing if not the triumph of “private judgment,” the freedom to fashion a Catholicism to suit our own personal preferences. This is the triumph of Americanism in our own time.

So what, to the Catholic, is the Fourth of July? Looking back, it is a day of gratitude to a country that provided a home for millions of uprooted immigrants and enabled them, for a time, to recreate authentic Catholic communities in America. Looking forward, it is gratitude for the freedom to recreate communities of faith once again—different communities under different circumstances, but part of a tradition of Catholic life ever recreating itself in continuity with the enduring truths of the faith. In America, this recreation will inevitably be, in part, a political task, for communities are never purely private. The forces undermining Catholic culture have never been only cultural, but always also political, social and economic; they must be met with appropriate counterforce. Catholics capable of seeing beyond our current political polarization should also be able to see that if American political freedom means anything it means the ability to envision and enact political alternatives, even alternat

Our earliest literary record of Christianity in North Africa is a court record. It is very short and straightforward. On July 17, 180, Publius Vigellius Saturninus, the proconsul of Africa, was saddled with the irksome duty of interrogating a group of seven men and five women from the obscure town of Scilli. They stood before him in Carthage accused of “living as Christians”—literally, “living by the Christian rite” (ritu Christiano…vivere). According to policy set by the Emperor Trajan in 112, this was a capital offense, and the twelve Scillitan martyrs—Speratus (the Christians’ spokesman, perhaps a member of the clergy), Nartzalus, Cittinus, Veturius, Felix, Aquilinus, Laetantius, Januaria, Generosa, Vestia, Donata, and Secunda—were all summarily beheaded.

It did not have to end that way. Trajan had also stipulated that Christians who recanted their Christianity and proved it “by praying to our gods” (supplicando dis nostris) could be granted “pardon for their repentance” (veniam ex paenitentia). Saturninus was quick to remind the Scillitans of this: “You can gain the indulgence of our lord the emperor if you come back to your senses.” Saturninus even seemed open to glossing over the bit about renouncing Christ. All Speratus and his companions had to do was to swear an oath by the emperor’s genius (his personal divinity) and pray for his wellbeing. Saturninus was prepared to wink at the rest. But the recalcitrant bumpkins refused to budge.

Saturninus was obviously annoyed with the whole proceeding. The gesture of goodwill toward the emperor that he demanded was a very small thing, an everyday thing, routine as purchasing wares or paying taxes—which the Christians admitted they did. These obnoxious people were also strangely inconsistent. One of them, Donata, openly said that they paid “honor to Caesar as Caesar, but fear to God” (cf. 1 Pet. 2:17). Well, that is really all Saturninus was asking for: a simple token of honor to Caesar. Surely there was some misunderstanding. These folks were worked up, maybe overexcited by their ordeal in the big city. They needed time to cool off and get a grip. But they just kept saying, again and again, “I am a Christian.” Saturninus tried to give them a thirty-day grace period to think things over. Speratus repeated, “I am a Christian,” and all the rest agreed.

Reluctantly, Saturninus passed his sentence. Absurdly, the Christians reacted with joy: “We give thanks to God!” “Today we are martyrs in heaven! Thanks be to God!”

Parts of Tertullian’s Apology, written within two decades of the Scillitans’ martyrdom, read almost like a theological commentary on these events. A Carthaginian who had likely trained in law, Tertullian was surely aware of the Scillitans’ appearance before Saturninus, whom Tertullian identifies as the first Roman official to put Christians to the sword in North Africa (To Scapula 3). Tertullian explains that Christians refuse to swear oaths by the emperor’s genius not because they wish the emperor harm but because the genii are in fact demons (Apology 32). Christians do pray for the emperor’s welfare, as well as for imperial security, for the emperor’s household, for a valiant military, for a loyal senate, for an upstanding citizenry, for world peace—only they offer such prayers to the one true God who providentially appointed the emperor (Apology 30, 33).

Tertullian’s assertion that Christians recognize the divinely ordained legitimacy of the emperor seems at loggerheads with Speratus’s protestation, “I do not acknowledge the Empire of this world … I acknowledge my Lord, the Emperor of kings and of all nations [cf. Rev. 1:5].” But the context is one in which Saturninus has insistently equated honoring Caesar with swearing by his genius. He has rejected the distinction Tertullian and other Christians observed between the emperor and the demon to whom pagans sacrificed on his behalf. In the person of its proconsular representative, the Roman Empire has thus aligned itself with “the Empire of this world [huius seculi]”—that is, of “the world” whose prince is the evil one (2 Cor. 4:4) and which is at enmity with God (Jas. 4:4).

All this, naturally, was lost on the inconvenienced Saturninus, who was not interested in being lectured by rural religious fanatics. To him, this was madness. He referred to it, literally, as dementia. So it would have appeared to most Romans. With the eyes of faith, the martyrs and their Christian brothers and sisters could recognize martyrdom as a glorious victory over the power of darkness. Sometimes the martyrs’ comportment was an occasion of grace leading to the conversion of onlookers. But most of the time non-Christians simply found the martyrs pathetically obstinate. Pliny observed to Trajan that, even if the fantastic rumors of Christians committing horrible crimes were false, their uncivil stubbornness was reason enough to eliminate them from society. Many who watched martyrdoms taunted and jeered. Others must have just shaken their heads at such tragic folly. They did not see praiseworthy heroism but foolish, unnecessary suffering.

I do not know whether Christians in the West will be faced with state-sanctioned red martyrdom in the future. What I do know is that when Christians are called upon either to betray their Master or to give up their reputation, liberty, property, or life, they should not expect to be applauded by neutral public observers. They should not expect to be widely congratulated on social media for their unwavering adherence to principle. They should not seek praise from men (John 5:41, 44). They should expect to be reviled and mocked. That is what the Lord himself promised.

There is an opposite danger as well. Some zealous believers might take the lesson of the Scillitan martyrs and others as an invitation to make themselves a nuisance. This too is a mistake. St. Paul taught us to pray “that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way” (1 Tim. 2:2). Early martyrdom accounts condemn the theatrics of hotheads like a certain Quintus, who turned himself in voluntarily, thinking to make himself a hero, then buckled under the pressure and apostatized (Martyrdom of Polycarp 4). Jesus blesses, not self-righteous provocateurs, but whose who are slandered falsely on his account (Matt. 5:11).

May the holy Scillitan martyrs pray for us, that we might serve our Lord, “the Emperor of kings and of all nations,” with undivided hearts, so that we can announce with them, in all our words and deeds, with simplicity and humility, “I am a Christian.” If we do, when we are called upon to suffer for the Name, we, like the Scillitan martyrs, will rejoice and be glad (Matt. 5:12).

Our earliest literary record of Christianity in North Africa is a court record. It is very short and straightforward. On July 17, 180, Publius Vigellius Saturninus, the proconsul of Africa, was saddled with the irksome duty of interrogating a group of seven men and five women from the obscure town of Scilli. They stood before him in Carthage accused of “living as Christians”—literally, “living by the Christian rite” (ritu Christiano…vivere). According to policy set by the Emperor Trajan in 112, this was a capital offense, and the twelve Scillitan martyrs—Speratus (the Christians’ spokesman, perhaps a member of the clergy), Nartzalus, Cittinus, Veturius, Felix, Aquilinus, Laetantius, Januaria, Generosa, Vestia, Donata, and Secunda—were all summarily beheaded.

It did not have to end that way. Trajan had also stipulated that Christians who recanted their Christianity and proved it “by praying to our gods” (supplicando dis nostris) could be granted “pardon for their repentance” (veniam ex paenitentia). Saturninus was quick to remind the Scillitans of this: “You can gain the indulgence of our lord the emperor if you come back to your senses.” Saturninus even seemed open to glossing over the bit about renouncing Christ. All Speratus and his companions had to do was to swear an oath by the emperor’s genius (his personal divinity) and pray for his wellbeing. Saturninus was prepared to wink at the rest. But the recalcitrant bumpkins refused to budge.

Saturninus was obviously annoyed with the whole proceeding. The gesture of goodwill toward the emperor that he demanded was a very small thing, an everyday thing, routine as purchasing wares or paying taxes—which the Christians admitted they did. These obnoxious people were also strangely inconsistent. One of them, Donata, openly said that they paid “honor to Caesar as Caesar, but fear to God” (cf. 1 Pet. 2:17). Well, that is really all Saturninus was asking for: a simple token of honor to Caesar. Surely there was some misunderstanding. These folks were worked up, maybe overexcited by their ordeal in the big city. They needed time to cool off and get a grip. But they just kept saying, again and again, “I am a Christian.” Saturninus tried to give them a thirty-day grace period to think things over. Speratus repeated, “I am a Christian,” and all the rest agreed.

Reluctantly, Saturninus passed his sentence. Absurdly, the Christians reacted with joy: “We give thanks to God!” “Today we are martyrs in heaven! Thanks be to God!”

Parts of Tertullian’s Apology, written within two decades of the Scillitans’ martyrdom, read almost like a theological commentary on these events. A Carthaginian who had likely trained in law, Tertullian was surely aware of the Scillitans’ appearance before Saturninus, whom Tertullian identifies as the first Roman official to put Christians to the sword in North Africa (To Scapula 3). Tertullian explains that Christians refuse to swear oaths by the emperor’s genius not because they wish the emperor harm but because the genii are in fact demons (Apology 32). Christians do pray for the emperor’s welfare, as well as for imperial security, for the emperor’s household, for a valiant military, for a loyal senate, for an upstanding citizenry, for world peace—only they offer such prayers to the one true God who providentially appointed the emperor (Apology 30, 33).

Tertullian’s assertion that Christians recognize the divinely ordained legitimacy of the emperor seems at loggerheads with Speratus’s protestation, “I do not acknowledge the Empire of this world … I acknowledge my Lord, the Emperor of kings and of all nations [cf. Rev. 1:5].” But the context is one in which Saturninus has insistently equated honoring Caesar with swearing by his genius. He has rejected the distinction Tertullian and other Christians observed between the emperor and the demon to whom pagans sacrificed on his behalf. In the person of its proconsular representative, the Roman Empire has thus aligned itself with “the Empire of this world [huius seculi]”—that is, of “the world” whose prince is the evil one (2 Cor. 4:4) and which is at enmity with God (Jas. 4:4).

All this, naturally, was lost on the inconvenienced Saturninus, who was not interested in being lectured by rural religious fanatics. To him, this was madness. He referred to it, literally, as dementia. So it would have appeared to most Romans. With the eyes of faith, the martyrs and their Christian brothers and sisters could recognize martyrdom as a glorious victory over the power of darkness. Sometimes the martyrs’ comportment was an occasion of grace leading to the conversion of onlookers. But most of the time non-Christians simply found the martyrs pathetically obstinate. Pliny observed to Trajan that, even if the fantastic rumors of Christians committing horrible crimes were false, their uncivil stubbornness was reason enough to eliminate them from society. Many who watched martyrdoms taunted and jeered. Others must have just shaken their heads at such tragic folly. They did not see praiseworthy heroism but foolish, unnecessary suffering.

I do not know whether Christians in the West will be faced with state-sanctioned red martyrdom in the future. What I do know is that when Christians are called upon either to betray their Master or to give up their reputation, liberty, property, or life, they should not expect to be applauded by neutral public observers. They should not expect to be widely congratulated on social media for their unwavering adherence to principle. They should not seek praise from men (John 5:41, 44). They should expect to be reviled and mocked. That is what the Lord himself promised.

There is an opposite danger as well. Some zealous believers might take the lesson of the Scillitan martyrs and others as an invitation to make themselves a nuisance. This too is a mistake. St. Paul taught us to pray “that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way” (1 Tim. 2:2). Early martyrdom accounts condemn the theatrics of hotheads like a certain Quintus, who turned himself in voluntarily, thinking to make himself a hero, then buckled under the pressure and apostatized (Martyrdom of Polycarp 4). Jesus blesses, not self-righteous provocateurs, but whose who are slandered falsely on his account (Matt. 5:11).

May the holy Scillitan martyrs pray for us, that we might serve our Lord, “the Emperor of kings and of all nations,” with undivided hearts, so that we can announce with them, in all our words and deeds, with simplicity and humility, “I am a Christian.” If we do, when we are called upon to suffer for the Name, we, like the Scillitan martyrs, will rejoice and be glad (Matt. 5:12).

With this lovely poem by Belloc in honor of Our Lady, Faith&Culture begins a series of reflections upon the nobility of the human face.

Of Courtesy, it is much less

Than Courage of Heart or Holiness,

Yet in my Walks it seems to me

That the Grace of God is in Courtesy.

On Monks I did in Storrington fall,

They took me straight into their Hall;

I saw Three Pictures on a wall,

And Courtesy was in them all.

The first the Annunciation;

The second the Visitation;

The third the Consolation,

Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.

The first was of Saint Gabriel;

On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;

And as he went upon one knee

He shone with Heavenly Courtesy.

Our Lady out of Nazareth rode—

It was Her month of heavy load;

Yet was Her face both great and kind,

For Courtesy was in Her Mind.

The third it was our Little Lord,

Whom all the Kings in arms adored;

He was so small you could not see

His large intent of Courtesy.

Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son,

Go bless you, People, one by one;

My Rhyme is written, my work is done.

With this lovely poem by Belloc in honor of Our Lady, Faith&Culture begins a series of reflections upon the nobility of the human face.

Of Courtesy, it is much less

Than Courage of Heart or Holiness,

Yet in my Walks it seems to me

That the Grace of God is in Courtesy.

On Monks I did in Storrington fall,

They took me straight into their Hall;

I saw Three Pictures on a wall,

And Courtesy was in them all.

The first the Annunciation;

The second the Visitation;

The third the Consolation,

Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.

The first was of Saint Gabriel;

On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;

And as he went upon one knee

He shone with Heavenly Courtesy.

Our Lady out of Nazareth rode—

It was Her month of heavy load;

Yet was Her face both great and kind,

For Courtesy was in Her Mind.

The third it was our Little Lord,

Whom all the Kings in arms adored;

He was so small you could not see

His large intent of Courtesy.

Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son,

Go bless you, People, one by one;

My Rhyme is written, my work is done.

“And he came to her and said, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you!’ But she was greatly troubled at the saying, and tried to discern what sort of greeting this might be.”

In reflecting on Gabriel’s salutation to the Virgin Mary, St. Bonaventure, the Franciscan Doctor of the Church, explains how the angel’s message reveals her “threefold excellence” and how her response displays her commendable nature.

First, the angel’s greeting shows her “dignity, virtue and charity.” Bonaventure teaches us that the angel “shows her to be commendable because of the fullness of goodness, and therefore lovable; to be commendable because of her great dignity, and therefore venerable; to be commendable because of the grandeur of her praise, and therefore honorable.” The angel, who speaks as a messenger of God, shows to us that Mary is lovable, venerable and honorable. Bonaventure shows how she is implicitly compared with Esther in her “incredible beauty,” and how she is worthy of veneration because the Lord dwells within her. Indeed, the Virgin Mary, who carries the Christ child in her womb, is foreshadowed by the Ark of the Covenant and the Temple, where the presence of God dwelt in a special way. Bonaventure also compares her to the heroines of the Old Testament—Abigail, Jael and Judith, who are all called “blessed” and who thus prefigure Mary in her blessedness. 

Second, Bonaventure reflects on the Virgin’s response, commenting that she is “triply commendable, namely, in hearing, affection, and thought.” She listens to the message from the Lord with docility and silence, demonstrating a prompt obedience. Her affective response of being troubled by the angel’s words reveals her modesty. Her thinking on the message shows her sound judgment—the Seat of Wisdom herself thinking about Wisdom. 

In these two short verses, we find so much to reflect on. The character of the Virgin Mary is shown to us. Her virtues are made manifest and we begin to see how God prepared her for this heroic moment for which she was destined. This scene should console us when the world seems to be spinning out of control, that the Lord is sovereign over history. He has a plan even when we do not. In addition, the Virgin Mary shines through in this moment as worthy of our veneration and imitation. We ought to imitate her dignity, virtue and charity in the moral life and her hearing, affection and thought in the spiritual life. [1]

[1] Summary by Mark Giszczak with the use of Bonaventure, Commentary on the Gospel of Luke: Chapters 1–8, trans. and ed. Robert J. Karris, Works of St. Bonaventure, vol. VIII, Part I (Saint Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 2001) 64–68. Text of Lk. 1:28 ESVCE modified slightly to reflect Bonaventure’s commentary.  

“And he came to her and said, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you!’ But she was greatly troubled at the saying, and tried to discern what sort of greeting this might be.”

In reflecting on Gabriel’s salutation to the Virgin Mary, St. Bonaventure, the Franciscan Doctor of the Church, explains how the angel’s message reveals her “threefold excellence” and how her response displays her commendable nature.

First, the angel’s greeting shows her “dignity, virtue and charity.” Bonaventure teaches us that the angel “shows her to be commendable because of the fullness of goodness, and therefore lovable; to be commendable because of her great dignity, and therefore venerable; to be commendable because of the grandeur of her praise, and therefore honorable.” The angel, who speaks as a messenger of God, shows to us that Mary is lovable, venerable and honorable. Bonaventure shows how she is implicitly compared with Esther in her “incredible beauty,” and how she is worthy of veneration because the Lord dwells within her. Indeed, the Virgin Mary, who carries the Christ child in her womb, is foreshadowed by the Ark of the Covenant and the Temple, where the presence of God dwelt in a special way. Bonaventure also compares her to the heroines of the Old Testament—Abigail, Jael and Judith, who are all called “blessed” and who thus prefigure Mary in her blessedness. 

Second, Bonaventure reflects on the Virgin’s response, commenting that she is “triply commendable, namely, in hearing, affection, and thought.” She listens to the message from the Lord with docility and silence, demonstrating a prompt obedience. Her affective response of being troubled by the angel’s words reveals her modesty. Her thinking on the message shows her sound judgment—the Seat of Wisdom herself thinking about Wisdom. 

In these two short verses, we find so much to reflect on. The character of the Virgin Mary is shown to us. Her virtues are made manifest and we begin to see how God prepared her for this heroic moment for which she was destined. This scene should console us when the world seems to be spinning out of control, that the Lord is sovereign over history. He has a plan even when we do not. In addition, the Virgin Mary shines through in this moment as worthy of our veneration and imitation. We ought to imitate her dignity, virtue and charity in the moral life and her hearing, affection and thought in the spiritual life. [1]

[1] Summary by Mark Giszczak with the use of Bonaventure, Commentary on the Gospel of Luke: Chapters 1–8, trans. and ed. Robert J. Karris, Works of St. Bonaventure, vol. VIII, Part I (Saint Bonaventure, NY: Franciscan Institute, 2001) 64–68. Text of Lk. 1:28 ESVCE modified slightly to reflect Bonaventure’s commentary.