Early Christians depicted in the catacombs. “Am I willing to give my life for truth?” asks Colleen Roy. (Jules Eugene Lenepveu, The Martyrs in the Catacombs. Wikimedia)
I have a friend I rarely see. We email each other once in a while, and it’s usually about the same thing: books. This friend works in a library and we share a passion for quality children’s literature. We both love Michael O’Brien, and I plan to lend her my copy of his new biography. She passes books on to me, through a kind third-party delivery man who she sees at morning Mass, and sends me lists of books she thinks my family would appreciate. It’s a friendship I value because it is one based on a Christian ideal; the growth in mind and soul of my children, and ourselves.
A book that was passed on to us, and is now more than overdue, is the 1951 Fabiola, by Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman. My eldest finished it, and I decided I would read it before passing the book on to our kind, third-party delivery man.
The story takes place in early fourth-century Rome. Diocletian is about to begin his reign of terror upon the Christians, who are already in hiding. Saints Agnes and Sebastian are a part of the story, and we are constantly shown the joy, courage, and tireless sacrifices of the early Church. A young woman, Fabiola, is a modern Roman pagan. She sneers at the idea of the superstition of her times. She searches out truth and philosophy, and believes in virtue of a type, while at the same time abusing her slaves and believing them lesser humans than herself. She follows the propaganda of her time, that Christians are to be abhorred and believing they perform child sacrifices and worship the head of an ass.
Fabiola has a slave woman, Syra, a Christian who refuses to be separated from her mistress despite the abuses she receives. Syra is pleased to suffer the abuses and does so joyfully because she loves her mistress and wants nothing more than to win her for Christ through their conversations. Fabiola is drawn to Syra and finds herself wanting more of the wisdom she speaks of.
The story is perhaps a bit idealistic; I can’t say for certain. I guess it’s hard to imagine, in our times of ambivalence and luxury, that Christians were as set apart in heart and mind as those in the story are.
Idealistic or not, I have found myself many times throughout the day thinking about the contrast between those early Christians and myself. Can it be that these men, women, and children really, truly, risked their lives to meet and receive the Eucharist? Did they really sell all their belongings to care for the poor and one another? And how is it possible that they faced the Colosseum smiling and singing the Psalms?
Tertullian wrote that the Romans observed these odd “Christians,” saying, “See how they love one another!” This is what the first centuries of Catholicism were known for – love. But it wasn’t a sentimental, cheque-writing kind of love. It was that idealistic “I will die for you, give you my last coin, forgive you, walk with you, visit you, pray for you, suffer for you kind of love.”
When I look honestly at my day-to-day life I wonder if Christ would say he knew I loved him because of those I had fed, clothed, visited, welcomed, and cared for. Yes, I do these things for my children. But I wonder if I use that as an excuse to stay safely in my comfortable home, eating well, and enjoying life’s good things.
Does the world see us, those who call ourselves Christians, and know that we are set apart in joy and charity, and willing to give our lives for truth? Is my home a witness to Christ’s transforming power? Am I willing to give my life for truth? Are you?
Idealistic or not, the story has made me reflect on the real meaning of Christianity – how extreme it is. And if that reflection only gives me a greater humility that leads me to deeper joy and allows me to more authentically love others, then it will be a divine type of reflection. Because I think that, in this time of scandal and confusion, our only hope surviving the persecutions to come is in joy, and love for one another.
What a gift to Christ, that others might see us and say, “See how they love one another!”