clement-of-alexandria

Could someone belong to Christ before Christ was born?

/ Jason Conrad / Leave a comment

When we picture the beginning of Christianity, we naturally think of Jesus calling his disciples, teaching in Galilee, dying under Pontius Pilate, and rising from the dead. Those events stand at the center of the Christian confession. Without them, we would be telling a different story.

But when the first Christians looked backward through Israel’s Scriptures, they saw something that can be easy for us to miss. They believed that the one revealed in Jesus had already been active in the lives of people who lived centuries before his birth.

Abraham, Moses, and the prophets belonged within his story. Their faith was part of the history that reached its fulfillment in him.

This helps explain a remarkable sentence from Ignatius of Antioch, writing early in the second century:

How could we live apart from him? Even the prophets were his disciples in the Spirit and waited for him as their teacher. Therefore, the one they rightly awaited came and raised them from the dead.

(Ignatius, Letter to the Magnesians 9.2, c. AD 110)

They were already his disciples, awaiting their teacher.

In our previous discussion, we considered Christ’s descent to the dead and his encounter with those who had died before his coming. Here we need to ask the question behind that encounter: What relationship did those people already have with him?

The answer opens up a much larger understanding of the people of God. It also challenges us to think carefully about what it means to belong to Christ today.

Abraham belongs inside the gospel

Our earliest Christian evidence comes from the first century. In his letter to the Galatians, written in the middle of that century to communities in Asia Minor, Paul places Abraham directly inside the gospel story:

Abraham “believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness.” Understand, then, that those who belong to faith are Abraham’s children.

Scripture, foreseeing that God would justify the nations by faith, announced the good news beforehand to Abraham: “In you all the nations will be blessed.” So those who belong to faith share the blessing of Abraham, the man of faith.

(Paul, Galatians 3:6–9)

Paul calls the promise to Abraham an advance announcement of the gospel. The law given later cannot cancel that promise. Belonging to Christ makes believers Abraham’s heirs. The chronology matters: God’s promise and Abraham’s faithful response precede the Mosaic covenant.

In his letter to the Christians in Rome, Paul makes the implications particularly clear:

Is this blessing, then, only for the circumcised, or also for the uncircumcised? We say that faith was counted to Abraham as righteousness. How, then, was it counted? When he was circumcised or uncircumcised? It was while he was uncircumcised.

He received circumcision as a sign, a seal of the righteousness he had by faith while still uncircumcised. This was so that he might be the father of all who believe without being circumcised, so that righteousness might be counted to them also, and the father of the circumcised who do more than receive circumcision: they also walk in the footsteps of the faith our father Abraham had before he was circumcised.

(Paul, Romans 4:9–12)

Abraham becomes the father of a family defined by faith that crosses the boundary of circumcision. Paul calls his readers to walk in that faith, rather than merely claim its ancestry.

For Christians, this means that our spiritual family reaches much farther back than the first century. We enter a history of promise, trust, and obedience that was already unfolding long before us.

Christ was already present in their story

Paul goes beyond saying that the ancient Israelites offer useful examples. Writing to the church in Corinth, Greece, he identifies Christ with the spiritual provision they received in the wilderness:

I do not want you to be unaware, brothers and sisters, that our ancestors were all under the cloud and all passed through the sea. They were all baptized into Moses in the cloud and in the sea. They all ate the same spiritual food and drank the same spiritual drink. For they drank from the spiritual rock that followed them, and that rock was Christ.

Nevertheless, God was not pleased with most of them, and they were struck down in the wilderness.

(Paul, 1 Corinthians 10:1–5)

Christ belongs within the wilderness story. Yet receiving divine provision did not make the people immune to judgment. Paul tells the Corinthians this because their own participation in Christian worship must not become an excuse for unfaithfulness.

Another first-century writing, addressed to believers across Asia Minor, makes an equally striking claim about the prophets:

Concerning this salvation, the prophets who foretold the grace coming to you searched and investigated carefully. They sought to understand the person or time indicated by the Spirit of Christ within them when he testified beforehand to Christ’s sufferings and the glories that would follow.

It was revealed to them that they were serving you rather than themselves in these things, which have now been announced to you through those who preached the good news by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven. Even angels long to look into these things.

(1 Peter 1:10–12)

The prophets possessed the Spirit of Christ while still searching for understanding. Their participation was real; their knowledge remained incomplete.

That distinction matters. Someone can respond faithfully to God without already understanding everything God intends to reveal.

Moses stands among the faithful

The anonymous author of Hebrews, writing in the first century, includes Moses in this same history:

By faith Moses, when he had grown up, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. He chose to suffer with God’s people rather than enjoy the temporary pleasure of sin. He considered the reproach of Christ greater wealth than Egypt’s treasures, because he was looking toward the reward.

By faith he left Egypt without fearing the king’s anger, for he persevered as though seeing the one who is invisible.

(Hebrews 11:24–27)

Moses’ costly identification with God’s people is interpreted in relation to Christ. At the chapter’s conclusion, the author gathers the faithful into a shared future:

All these were commended through their faith, yet they did not receive the promise, because God had provided something better for us, so that they would not be brought to completion apart from us.

(Hebrews 11:39–40)

Their completion is bound together with ours. The distance between their lifetime and ours does not divide God’s saving purpose into unrelated stories.

Where does that leave the law?

We should distinguish the Mosaic law’s role from the relationship faithful people had with God. A person could live within that covenant and also live by faith. Moses himself is an obvious example.

Paul can speak sharply about the law’s inability to give life, yet he also writes:

So the law is holy, and the commandment is holy, righteous, and good.

(Paul, Romans 7:12)

It would therefore be misleading to divide the story into a good Christ opposed to an evil God who gave Israel its law. Nor does Paul’s reference to the law being mediated through angels establish that those angels were wicked.

The question is what the law could accomplish, and how its role relates to the promise fulfilled in Christ. Faith was already present among people who lived before the law and among people who lived under it.

This is a Christian reading of Israel’s Scriptures. It draws its testimony about faithful trust from those Scriptures themselves. We misread the argument if we turn it into a claim that Jewish people knew only external rules while Christians discovered the possibility of loving God.

Ignatius: disciples awaiting their teacher

Now return to Ignatius, the bishop of Antioch in Syria. His letter to Magnesia was written from Smyrna in Asia Minor, conventionally dated around AD 110. Already, the geography connects Christian communities across the eastern Mediterranean.

His words about the prophets occur in an argument against Christians adopting Jewish observance. They are part of an early dispute about Christian identity, rather than a neutral description of Judaism.

Within that argument, his image is extraordinary: the prophets’ discipleship preceded their teacher’s coming in the flesh.

We should not turn this into a claim that they possessed a complete Christian creed. Ignatius locates their relationship in the Spirit. The Christian claim is that the teacher they awaited was already at work in them.

Read this alongside the New Testament passages, and the continuity becomes visible. The gospel’s fulfillment discloses the identity and purpose of the one toward whom their history was moving.

Justin: could this reach beyond Israel?

Around the middle of the second century, Justin addressed a further question. He came from Flavia Neapolis in Samaria and taught in Rome. In his defense of Christianity to the Roman authorities, he considered people who lived before Jesus’ birth, including people outside Israel:

We have been taught that Christ is God’s firstborn, and we have already explained that he is the Word in whom every race of humanity has shared. Those who lived in accordance with the Word are Christians, even if they were regarded as atheists. Among the Greeks were Socrates, Heraclitus, and others like them. Among the non-Greeks were Abraham, Ananias, Azarias, Misael, Elijah, and many others whose deeds and names would take too long to recount.

(Justin Martyr, First Apology 46, c. AD 155)

Justin’s term “Word,” or Logos, also carries the sense of reason. He interprets faithful response to truth as participation in Christ, including among certain Greek thinkers.

But he does not endorse everything those thinkers taught:

Whatever lawgivers or philosophers expressed well, they worked out by discovering and contemplating some part of the Word. But because they did not know the whole Word, who is Christ, they often contradicted themselves.

(Justin Martyr, Second Apology 10, c. AD 155–160)

For Justin, partial insight and the revelation in Christ are distinguishable. His generosity toward earlier thinkers rests on his conviction that Christ was already active beyond the boundaries of Israel.

This raises a valuable question for our encounters with others: Can we recognize a truthful insight or an act of moral courage without demanding that its author already understand everything we confess?

We can welcome what is true while continuing to examine what is false. Such openness need not weaken our commitment to Christ. It can express our confidence that truth belongs to him.

Irenaeus: God’s care reaches across the generations

Around AD 180, Irenaeus, bishop of Lyons in Roman Gaul, wrote about the same continuity. His own background connected him with Asia Minor, while his ministry placed him in what is now France.

Here is his account of the reach of Christ’s work:

Christ did not come only for those who believed in him during the time of Tiberius Caesar. Nor did the Father care only for those alive today. His care extended to all who, from the beginning, according to their capacity and in their own generation, feared and loved God, practiced justice and devotion toward their neighbors, and earnestly desired to see Christ and hear his voice.

At his second coming, he will awaken such people from their sleep, raise them along with the others who will be judged, and give them a place in his kingdom.

For the same God guided the patriarchs in his purposes and justified the circumcised by faith and the uncircumcised through faith. As we were foreshadowed in them, so they are represented in us, that is, in the church, and receive the reward for what they did.

(Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.22.2, c. AD 180)

Notice his emphasis on people’s capacity, historical circumstances, and conduct toward their neighbors.

Elsewhere he explains what he believes characterized the righteous before the Mosaic covenant:

Why, then, did the Lord not establish this covenant with the fathers? Because “the law was not laid down for the righteous.” The righteous fathers already had the meaning of the Ten Commandments written in their hearts and souls: they loved the God who made them and did no harm to their neighbor. There was therefore no need to warn them through prohibitory commands, because they had the righteousness of the law within themselves.

(Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.16.3, c. AD 180)

For Irenaeus, their righteousness had recognizable content: love of God and just treatment of other people. Freedom from the Mosaic covenant did not mean freedom from moral responsibility.

This is also a searching challenge for us. If we want to claim continuity with the faithful, our lives should bear the family resemblance. A detailed statement of belief cannot substitute for honesty, mercy, fidelity, and the willingness to do right when it costs us something.

Clement: preparation among the Greeks

Near the end of the second century, Clement of Alexandria, in Egypt, considered how Greek philosophy might have prepared people for Christ:

Before the Lord’s coming, philosophy was necessary for the Greeks for righteousness. Now it helps toward godliness, serving as preliminary training for those who come to faith through demonstration.

God is the cause of all good things, of some directly, as with the Old and New Testaments, and of others indirectly, as with philosophy. Perhaps philosophy too was given directly to the Greeks, until the Lord should call them. It trained the Greek mind as the law trained the Hebrews for Christ. Philosophy was therefore a preparation, making a way for the person who is brought to completion by Christ.

(Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 1.5, c. AD 195–205)

Clement proposes a preparatory role for philosophy. He does not identify it with the gospel. His “perhaps” also matters: part of this account is an exploration of how providence might have worked.

The comparison brings us back to a question already raised by Justin. If Christ is God’s Word, should we expect his activity to have been absent everywhere outside the communities that could name him?

These writers encourage us to take that question seriously. They do not supply an automatic verdict on every religion, philosopher, or individual. They give us a way of recognizing preparation without confusing preparation with fulfillment.

Eusebius: the name was new, but the life was ancient

By the early fourth century, Eusebius, bishop of Caesarea in Palestine, stated the idea explicitly in his account of Christian history:

Although we are evidently a new people, and the name “Christians” has only recently become known among the nations, our way of life, our conduct, and our religious teaching were not recently invented. From the beginning of humanity, so to speak, they were established through the understanding of godly people of old.

(Eusebius, Church History 1.4.4, c. AD 313–325)

He then writes:

If someone were to say that all those commended for righteousness, from Abraham back to the first human being, were Christians in reality, though not in name, that person would not depart from the truth.

(Eusebius, Church History 1.4.6, c. AD 313–325)

Eusebius offers a later Christian interpretation of the past. His wording makes explicit the distinction between bearing the Christian name and participating in the life Christians traced to Christ.

We have now encountered related ideas in writings connected with Syria, Asia Minor, Rome, Gaul, Egypt, and Palestine. This does not prove that every ancient Christian agreed on every detail. It does show that the interpretation traveled widely and endured across generations.

What are these sources actually establishing?

For a Christian reader, these passages invite us to see the faithful before Jesus as members of the same great history of salvation. Their trust, their suffering, and their hope belong to the story we confess.

For a reader examining Christianity from the outside, they establish something more limited but still important: this understanding has roots in first-century Christian writings and appears repeatedly in subsequent Christian thought. It is not simply a modern attempt to make Christianity more inclusive.

The passages do not independently prove that Abraham consciously knew Jesus of Nazareth, or that Socrates would have accepted Justin’s description of him. They show how Christian authors interpreted earlier lives in light of their convictions about Jesus.

The historical evidence and the theological claim are related, but they are not identical. Whether that interpretation is true depends ultimately on the larger question of who Jesus is and whether the Christian witness to him is trustworthy.

The claim itself is substantial: the one who appeared within history had already been at work throughout history.

A family larger than our own moment

There is something humbling about entering a story this large.

We did not invent faithfulness. We did not discover the need to trust God, refuse evil, care for our neighbors, or endure suffering for what is right. When Christians confess Jesus, we understand ourselves to be joining a family whose history stretches far beyond our own congregation, nation, or century.

That should affect how we treat one another.

If we can recognize kinship with believers separated from us by thousands of years and enormous differences in understanding, we should be willing to work patiently toward unity with Christians who share our central confession today. We will still have disagreements that deserve serious attention. But those disagreements should be approached with the desire to recognize and serve the people Christ is gathering.

This is a practical responsibility. We can pray together, care for people in need, speak honestly about our differences, and refuse to make contempt part of our religious identity.

Our shared confession should become shared work.

Are we living as his disciples?

The phrase “Christians before Christ” can be fascinating enough that we forget its personal challenge. We may spend our energy asking how far the name can reach backward, while giving too little attention to what it asks of those who bear it now.

Paul gives us a concise expression of the life that matters:

In Christ Jesus, neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any force, but faith working through love.

(Paul, Galatians 5:6)

For us, that means asking more than whether we can defend a position. Are we becoming truthful? Are we willing to repent? Does our faith make us more attentive to people who are lonely, hungry, vulnerable, or difficult to love?

We have received a confession about Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection that earlier generations could only anticipate. That gives us reason for gratitude and a responsibility to respond. The clarity of what we profess should deepen the faithfulness of how we live.

The image of the prophets awaiting their teacher remains powerful because it holds together belonging and expectation. They could be his while still awaiting what they had not yet seen.

We too live between what has been revealed and what remains ahead. We confess the risen Jesus, seek to follow him now, and await the completion of his work in us and in the world.

We join the faithful who came before us by trusting the God they trusted and learning to love the people he places before us. Across all those generations, the Christian hope is that the teacher knows his disciples, and that the story he began will reach its fulfillment in him.

When the Savior Entered Hades

/ Jason Conrad / Leave a comment

When Jesus died, his followers knew where his body had been placed. Joseph of Arimathea had laid it in a tomb. But what had happened to Jesus himself? And what did his coming mean for the generations who had already died?

Those questions bring us to an ancient Christian conviction that deserves more attention: Christ descended to the dead.

In our previous studies, we considered the condition of the righteous after death and their expectation of blessings still to come. Now we turn to the person at the center of that hope. What did Christians believe Jesus had done for those who were already beyond the reach of his earthly ministry?

The sources lead us through four questions. Did Christ truly enter the world of the dead? What did his coming mean for those awaiting him? What changed for them? And how far did that deliverance extend?

Along the way, we will hear teachers, poets, and storytellers. Each helps us understand ancient Christian belief, although they do not all provide the same kind of evidence. Their shared conviction is easier to identify than one shared explanation of every detail.

Christ’s saving work reached into death itself.

Did Christ Truly Enter the World of the Dead?

The New Testament starting point

In Acts, Peter explains the resurrection through Psalm 16. David had spoken of someone whom God would not abandon to Hades. Peter identifies that person as Jesus:

Brothers, I can speak openly to you about the patriarch David: he died and was buried, and his tomb remains among us today. Since he was a prophet and knew that God had sworn to place one of his descendants on his throne, he looked ahead and spoke about the Messiah’s resurrection: he was not abandoned to Hades, and his flesh did not undergo decay. God raised this Jesus, and we are all witnesses of it.

(Acts 2:29–32)

Hades here means the realm of the dead. The passage connects Christ’s release from death with his bodily resurrection. It does not yet describe a meeting between Jesus and other departed people.

For that, Christians turned especially to First Peter:

Christ also suffered for sins once, the righteous one for the unrighteous, to bring you to God. He was put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit. In the spirit he also went and made proclamation to the spirits in prison, who had formerly disobeyed when God waited patiently in Noah’s days while the ark was being prepared. In it a few people, eight in all, were brought safely through water.

Corresponding to this, baptism now saves you through Jesus Christ’s resurrection. It is an appeal to God for a good conscience, rather than a washing of dirt from the body. Jesus has entered heaven and is at God’s right hand, with angels, authorities, and powers placed under him.

(1 Peter 3:18–22)

This passage identifies a proclamation to imprisoned spirits associated with Noah’s generation. It does not state the proclamation’s content or explicitly place it between Jesus’ burial and resurrection.

Christians have understood the spirits as departed human beings or as rebellious spiritual beings. Another interpretation sees Christ’s Spirit preaching through Noah to people who subsequently died. Many ancient writers understood the passage as a ministry among the departed, but their interpretation should remain distinguishable from the passage’s explicit statements.

The next chapter adds:

They will give an account to the one who stands ready to judge both living people and the dead. For this reason the good news was announced even to the dead, so that, although judged in the flesh as human beings are, they might live in the spirit according to God.

(1 Peter 4:5–6)

Here the message is explicitly good news. The sentence leaves open whether its recipients heard it after death or during lives that had since ended.

Ephesians supplied another important passage:

Therefore it says, “He ascended to the heights, took captives in his procession, and gave gifts to people.”

What does “he ascended” mean except that he also descended into the lower regions of the earth? The one who descended is also the one who ascended far above all the heavens, so that he might fill everything.

(Ephesians 4:8–10)

Several ancient Christians understood the lower regions as the realm of the dead. Another reading understands the phrase as the lower region that is the earth, describing Christ’s coming from heaven. The captives themselves are not identified.

These passages provided the foundation on which Christians reflected. Their conviction grew around the same central event: the crucified Jesus had been raised, and death had failed to hold him.

Justin: salvation announced to the departed

Around AD 155–160, Justin Martyr, a Christian teacher associated with Rome who originally came from Roman Palestine, quoted this saying:

The Lord God remembered his departed people Israel, lying in their graves, and went down to announce his salvation to them.

(Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 72, c. AD 155–160)

Justin attributed the saying to Jeremiah. It does not occur in our surviving text of Jeremiah, and Justin’s allegation that it had been removed does not establish that this happened.

Its value for our question is straightforward: it shows that Justin knew and accepted a tradition of salvation being proclaimed to the departed. We should cite it as a saying preserved by Justin, rather than as an authenticated passage from Jeremiah.

Tertullian: Jesus accepted the condition of the dead

By c. AD 210, Tertullian was writing in Carthage, in Roman North Africa, now Tunisia. He grounded the descent in Christ’s real humanity:

Although Christ is God, he is also human. He died according to the Scriptures and was buried according to those same Scriptures. He fully accepted the law of his human condition by remaining in Hades in the condition of someone who had died. He did not ascend to heaven’s heights before descending to the earth’s lower regions, so that there he could bring the patriarchs and prophets into participation in himself.

(Tertullian, On the Soul 55, c. AD 210)

Tertullian sees Jesus sharing the experience of death and bringing his presence to those already there. His humanity reaches into the condition we fear, while his saving purpose extends to the people who preceded him.

He went where the dead were.

What Did His Coming Mean for Those Awaiting Him?

The prophets meet their teacher

Ignatius was bishop of Antioch in Roman Syria. Early in the second century, writing from Smyrna in Asia Minor to Christians in nearby Magnesia, he described the prophets’ relationship with Christ:

How could we live apart from him? Even the prophets were his disciples in the Spirit and waited for him as their teacher. Because of this, the one they rightly awaited came and raised them from the dead.

(Ignatius of Antioch, Letter to the Magnesians 9.2, c. AD 110)

The prophets already belonged to the one who was coming. Their earlier lives were part of his story, and their hope reached toward him.

Ignatius does not explain the mechanics of their raising. What he gives us is the relationship: disciples waiting for their teacher, and a teacher whose coming reaches them even in death.

The dead recognize their deliverer

The anonymous Odes of Solomon, commonly dated somewhere within the second century and often associated with Syria, express the hope through poetry. In the concluding ode, the speaker is understood here as Christ:

Sheol saw me and was distressed. Death released me, and many others with me. I experienced gall and bitterness and descended with him into his deepest depths. He released both head and feet, unable to endure my presence.

Among his dead I formed a living congregation, and I addressed them with living lips, because my word would not be fruitless.

Those who had died hurried toward me and cried, “Son of God, show us mercy and act toward us with kindness. Release us from darkness’s chains and open the door through which we may come to you. We see that our death has not overcome you. Let us share in your redemption, because you are our redeemer.”

I heard their cry and sealed my name upon their heads. They are free, and they belong to me. Hallelujah.

(Odes of Solomon 42, concluding passage, c. AD 100–200)

The poem pictures recognition, appeal, response, and belonging. Its vivid language expresses deliverance rather than supplying a geographical itinerary.

The king welcomes his heralds

By c. AD 350, Cyril of Jerusalem was teaching people preparing for Christian initiation in Roman Palestine. His description gives names to the gathering:

The holy prophets hurried toward him, together with Moses the lawgiver, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, Samuel, Isaiah, and John the Baptist. All the righteous whom death had swallowed were redeemed. It was fitting that the king they had proclaimed should become the redeemer of his noble heralds.

Then each righteous person said, “Death, where is your victory? Grave, where is your sting? The conqueror has redeemed us.”

(Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechetical Lectures 14.19, c. AD 350)

Cyril is a later witness, describing the event more fully than Ignatius. Yet the relationship is recognizable: those who proclaimed Christ are received by Christ.

Across these accounts, the earlier righteous remain people with a future. Their earthly lives have ended, but their relationship with God has not.

What Changed for Them?

The writers describe forgiveness, incorporation into Christ’s people, release from death’s power, and, in some accounts, movement into a higher rest. Those claims overlap, but they are not interchangeable.

Hermas: one church across the generations

In second-century Rome, the Shepherd of Hermas pictured the church as a tower built from people represented by stones. Some stones stand for righteous people who died before receiving the Christian proclamation.

The vision explains how they enter:

These apostles and teachers who proclaimed the Son of God’s name, after falling asleep in the Son of God’s power and faith, proclaimed it also to those who had fallen asleep and gave them the seal of the proclamation.

They therefore went down into the water with them and came up again. The apostles and teachers went down alive and came up alive, while those who had previously fallen asleep went down dead and came up alive. Through them they received life and learned the Son of God’s name. Therefore they came up together and were fitted together into the tower, being built into it without needing to be cut. They had fallen asleep in righteousness and great purity, but lacked this seal.

(Hermas, The Shepherd, Similitude 9.16.5–7, c. AD 140–150)

The seal is baptism. Here departed apostles minister to earlier righteous people. The vision’s result is one church built from both groups.

From the rest below to the rest above

The Epistula Apostolorum, or Epistle of the Apostles, is an anonymous second-century Christian work presented in the apostles’ collective voice. Its origin is uncertain, with Egypt and Asia Minor among the proposed settings.

It places this explanation in Jesus’ mouth:

For this purpose I went down to Lazarus’s place and proclaimed the message to the righteous and the prophets, so that they might leave the rest below and enter the rest above. With my right hand I poured over them the water of life, forgiveness, and deliverance from every evil, just as I have done for you and for those who believe in me.

But if someone believes in me and does not keep my commandments, confessing my name brings that person no benefit. Such a person runs without purpose and will encounter destruction, having disregarded my commandments.

(Epistula Apostolorum 27, c. AD 140–170)

This literary presentation of Jesus’ teaching describes a transition between two conditions of rest. The Ethiopic version explicitly uses baptismal language.

It also joins hope with responsibility: confessing Christ carries a commitment to obey him. The passage describes a particular advance in blessing, rather than establishing an endless sequence of advances.

Irenaeus: the same forgiveness that reaches us

Around AD 180, Irenaeus was writing in Lyons, in Roman Gaul, now France. His background also connected him to Asia Minor.

He explained Christ’s descent this way:

For this reason the Lord also descended to the regions beneath the earth. There too he announced his coming and the forgiveness of sins for those who believe in him. Those who had placed their hope in him believed: those who had announced his coming and followed God’s arrangements, the righteous, the prophets, and the patriarchs. He forgave their sins just as he forgives ours. We should not hold those sins against them, unless we intend to despise God’s grace.

(Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.27.2, c. AD 180)

Earlier believers receive forgiveness through the same Christ who forgives us. Irenaeus makes this a reason for humility in how we speak about them.

He then places the generations within a single purpose:

Christ did not come only for those who believed in him during the time of Tiberius Caesar. Nor did the Father exercise his care only for people who are alive now. He did so for all people who, from the beginning, according to their ability and in their own generation, feared and loved God, practiced justice and devotion toward their neighbors, and earnestly desired to see Christ and hear his voice.

At his second coming he will therefore first awaken people of this kind from their sleep. He will raise them, together with the others who are to be judged, and give them a place in his kingdom.

For the same God guided the patriarchs in his purposes and justified the circumcised by faith and the uncircumcised through faith. Just as we were foreshadowed in them, they are represented in us, that is, in the church, and receive the reward for what they did.

(Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.22.2, c. AD 180)

His account embraces both those who came before Jesus and those who follow him now.

Hippolytus: death loses its power

A work associated with Hippolytus, traditionally connected with Rome, explains Christ’s authority in every realm:

He is Lord of what is in heaven, because he was begotten as God’s Word before all ages; of what is on earth, because he became human among us to recreate our Adam through himself; and of what is beneath the earth, because he was counted among the dead, announcing the good news to the souls of the saints and conquering death through death.

(Hippolytus, On Christ and Antichrist 26, c. AD 200)

The same work extends John the Baptist’s role into Hades:

After Herod put him to death, he also preached first to those in Hades, becoming a forerunner there, so that there too he might announce that the Savior would descend to redeem the souls of the saints from death’s power.

(Hippolytus, On Christ and Antichrist 45, c. AD 200)

John’s activity is an additional tradition beyond the New Testament account. It illustrates how Christians developed the story around Christ’s victory.

Deliverance could coexist with waiting

Did these writers therefore believe that the intermediate state had ended?

Irenaeus still expected the disciples to await bodily resurrection:

The Lord went into death’s shadow, where the souls of the dead were. Afterward he rose bodily and, following his resurrection, was taken up. It is therefore clear that the souls of his disciples, for whose sake he underwent these things, will also go to the unseen place God has assigned them. They remain there awaiting the resurrection. Then they receive their bodies and rise as complete people, bodily, just as the Lord rose, and thus enter God’s presence.

For a disciple does not stand above the teacher, but everyone fully prepared will be like the teacher. Our teacher awaited the resurrection time appointed by the Father, as Jonah’s story had foreshadowed, and after rising on the third day was taken up. We too should await the resurrection time God has appointed and the prophets foretold. Then, having risen, those whom the Lord judges worthy will be taken up.

(Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.31.2, c. AD 180)

The blessing of the departed and the restoration of the whole person are distinguishable.

Tertullian likewise disputed Christians who thought Christ’s descent meant believers would no longer enter Hades. He generally retained a waiting place while giving martyrs a special privilege. These differences prevent us from assigning every writer an identical account of where the righteous went.

For our own understanding, the distinction matters. Christ’s people can receive blessing and belong securely to him while still awaiting a further transformation. Resurrection restores embodied human life. Its place in the story need not imply that every blessing has already been experienced beforehand.

How Far Did That Deliverance Extend?

Once Christians affirmed Christ’s ministry among the dead, another question followed. Did it concern only the righteous of Israel? Could others respond? Was everyone released?

Here the differences become more pronounced.

Clement: what about people outside Israel?

Around AD 200, Clement of Alexandria in Egypt reasoned through the possibilities:

In my judgment, the Savior also exercises his power because saving is his work. He did this by drawing to salvation those who, wherever they were, became willing through the proclamation to believe in him.

If the Lord descended to Hades to proclaim the good news, as indeed he did, he proclaimed it either to everyone or only to the Hebrews. If to everyone, then all who believe will be saved, even if they are Gentiles, when they make their confession there. For God’s punishments aim at salvation and correction, leading toward conversion; he desires the sinner’s repentance rather than death.

(Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 6.6, c. AD 200)

Clement explicitly considers belief and salvation after death. His wider discussion also assigns a ministry to departed apostles. This is his argument about divine justice and saving purpose, rather than a position every ancient Christian shared.

Origen: an ancient critic challenges the claim

By c. AD 248, Origen, originally from Alexandria and then working in Caesarea in Roman Palestine, was answering the pagan critic Celsus. Celsus had written around AD 175–180.

Origen preserves the objection and responds:

Celsus next says to us: “Surely you will not claim that, after failing to persuade people in this world, he went to Hades to persuade the people there?”

Whether Celsus likes it or not, we maintain that Jesus, while in the body, won over a great many people, so many that a conspiracy arose against him because of the number of his followers. We also maintain that, when his soul was separated from its bodily covering, he lived among souls likewise without bodies. He brought to himself those willing to turn to him, or those whom he knew, for reasons known to him alone, to be more suited to this.

(Origen, Against Celsus 2.43, c. AD 248)

The criticism indicates that the belief was already attracting objections in the second century. Origen defends Christ’s active ministry among departed souls, including their response to him.

Gregory: a question still being asked

Writing in fourth-century Cappadocia, in Asia Minor, Gregory of Nazianzus invited his hearers to contemplate the same issue:

If he goes down to Hades, go down with him. Learn Christ’s mysteries there too: what purpose governs this twofold descent? Does his appearing save everyone without exception, or does it save there also those who believe?

(Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 45.24, c. AD 383)

Gregory gives us a question rather than an explicit resolution. His words show that affirming the descent did not automatically settle the scope of its effects.

Augustine: confidence and restraint

In AD 414, Augustine, bishop of Hippo Regius in North Africa, now Algeria, distinguished his confidence in Christ’s descent from his uncertainty about precisely whom Christ delivered:

But it would be presumptuous for us to determine who these people were. If we say that everyone found there was delivered without exception, who would not rejoice if we could establish it?

(Augustine, Letter 164.2.4, AD 414)

He also asked why First Peter singled out Noah’s generation if it meant that Jesus preached to the dead after the crucifixion. Why mention those people rather than the countless others who had died?

Augustine’s questions help us state the historical conclusion accurately. The descent was widely affirmed. Its recipients, effects, and relationship to particular biblical passages remained subjects of interpretation.

We can recognize the breadth of the shared belief without pretending the details were settled.

How Christians Told the Story

Alongside these theological discussions, Christians expressed the descent through narratives. Those accounts reveal how believers pictured the event, but their dramatic details require a different assessment from a biblical statement or an argument about its meaning.

A voice at the resurrection

The second-century Gospel of Peter, an anonymous work written under Peter’s name, includes an extraordinary resurrection scene. Figures emerge from the tomb, followed by a cross:

A voice from heaven was heard: “Have you proclaimed the message to those who sleep?” An answer came from the cross: “Yes.”

(Gospel of Peter 10.41–42, second century)

Its precise origin is uncertain, although a gospel bearing Peter’s name was known in the Syrian region by around AD 200. The speaking cross belongs to the narrative itself.

For our purposes, the passage shows proclamation to the dead woven into a resurrection story. It offers no clear identification of those who heard or of what happened to them.

Christ takes Adam by the hand

The later Gospel of Nicodemus develops the scene much further. It is a composite work with several versions; its descent narrative is commonly associated with fifth- or sixth-century development. Its author and precise origin are unknown.

In one Latin version, Christ addresses the righteous:

The Lord extended his hand and said, “Come to me, all my holy ones who bear my image and likeness. You were condemned through the tree, the devil, and death; now see the devil and death condemned through the tree.”

Immediately the saints gathered together under the Lord’s hand. Taking Adam by his right hand, the Lord said, “Peace to you and to all your children who are my righteous ones.”

(Gospel of Nicodemus, Descent, Latin A 8.1; also numbered 24.1)

The story later brings them into paradise under Michael’s guidance. Its conversations and staging dramatize deliverance. They should not be treated as independently verified information from the first century.

The image, however, expresses the theology memorably: Christ reaches for humanity’s first ancestor and leads him toward life.

What About the Saints Raised in Matthew?

Matthew’s account belongs to the New Testament evidence itself:

Jesus cried out loudly again and gave up his spirit. At that moment the temple curtain split in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, rocks split apart, and tombs opened. Many bodies of holy people who had fallen asleep were raised. After Jesus’ resurrection they came out of the tombs, entered the holy city, and appeared to many people.

(Matthew 27:50–53)

Matthew connects the opening tombs with Jesus’ death and places the saints’ emergence and appearance after his resurrection. Their names, subsequent lives, and ultimate destination remain unstated.

This helps explain why Christians could speak of Christ’s victory reaching people who had already died. Cyril explicitly connects the descent with this passage.

But Matthew does not identify these saints as every righteous person in Hades or say that they ascended with Jesus. His account presents a sign of death losing its hold, while leaving many of our questions unanswered.

We should allow the sign to speak with its full force without supplying the missing biographies ourselves.

Why Does the Apostles’ Creed Say “He Descended into Hell”?

Many Christians encounter this teaching through the Apostles’ Creed. Its traditional English wording can confuse readers because “hell” often suggests final punishment, whereas the descent tradition concerns Christ entering the realm of the dead.

“He descended to the dead” expresses that distinction clearly.

The creed developed through baptismal confessions and has no identifiable single author. Its familiar wording accumulated over time. Around AD 404, Rufinus of Aquileia in northern Italy observed:

The clause “He descended into hell” does not appear in the Roman church’s creed or in those of the Eastern churches. Its meaning, however, seems to be included in the statement that he was buried.

(Rufinus, Commentary on the Apostles’ Creed 18, c. AD 404)

Rufinus also illustrated the descent:

Imagine a king entering a prison, opening its doors, undoing its restraints, breaking its chains and bars, and leading the prisoners into freedom. He restores those who sit in darkness and death’s shadow to light and life.

(Rufinus, Commentary on the Apostles’ Creed 17, c. AD 404)

The belief therefore preceded the clause’s widespread inclusion in creeds. The king enters to liberate.

The Victory They Celebrated

To hear the joy behind these discussions, we can return to second-century Asia Minor. Melito, bishop of Sardis, celebrated Christ’s victory in his Easter homily:

“I am the one who destroys death, and triumphs over the enemy, and crushes Hades.”

(Melito of Sardis, On Pascha 100, c. AD 160–170)

Melito’s concluding proclamation presents Christ as humanity’s liberator, life, resurrection, and king. The risen Christ summons people to forgiveness and promises to bring them to the Father.

This is the conviction that gives the descent its place within Christian hope. The one who died has overcome death, and his victory concerns others as well as himself.

The sources we have read differ in important ways. Some emphasize the earlier righteous. Some consider a wider opportunity to respond. Some describe continuing rest and expectation; others describe movement into a higher rest or paradise.

Across those differences, Christ remains the center.

Why This Matters for Us

These writings carry us across Rome, Gaul, Egypt, North Africa, Palestine, and Asia Minor, with additional texts often associated with Syria. They show a belief expressed through letters, visions, poetry, sermons, theological arguments, and narratives.

That geographical breadth demonstrates how widely Christians considered Christ’s relation to the dead. It does not turn every writer into an independent witness to an event in Hades. They shared Scriptures, inherited traditions, and sometimes drew on one another.

For a critic, the distinction matters. These sources establish what Christians believed and how they understood the implications of Christ’s resurrection. They do not provide direct observation of the unseen world. The foundational question remains the one around which this series has been built: what reasons do we have to believe that God raised Jesus?

For Christians, the descent brings depth to our confession of his real humanity and saving power. He entered the condition we will enter. Those who died before his earthly ministry remained within his concern.

It also broadens our understanding of the church. Ignatius calls the prophets Christ’s disciples. Hermas pictures earlier and later believers built into the same tower. Irenaeus places the generations within one saving purpose.

We should recognize the implications for our life together. People who confess the same Lord and share the same hope of resurrection have strong reasons to practice patience, unity, and charity. Our unresolved questions should not obscure the person around whom we gather.

Nor should our interest in the afterlife distract us from the lives entrusted to our care now. The dying, the grieving, the isolated, and the forgotten need our presence. Hope in Christ should make us more willing to move toward them.

Revelation gives the risen Jesus the final word:

Do not fear. I am the first and the last, the living one. I died, but now I live for all eternity, and the keys of death and Hades belong to me.

(Revelation 1:17–18)

We do not possess a complete account of every experience awaiting us. These ancient writers did not possess one uniform account either. What they proclaimed was a Savior whose authority extended into the realm they had not yet entered.

That is why the Christian can look forward with hope. Rest can still hold promise. Blessing can still open toward further blessing. Resurrection restores the whole person, and our future belongs to the one who has overcome death.

Christ has gone before us. Death cannot place us beyond his reach.

Conversion Forbidden, Courage Unstoppable: Severus and the Early Church

/ Jason Conrad / Leave a comment

The assassination of Commodus on December 31, AD 192 plunged Rome into civil war. In what became known as the Year of the Five Emperors (AD 193), power passed rapidly between Pertinax, Didius Julianus, Pescennius Niger, and Clodius Albinus. Finally, Septimius Severus—an African-born general from Leptis Magna—emerged victorious. He would rule for nearly two decades (193–211).

For Christians, nothing new is recorded under these brief emperors—only the continued, by now ancient, tradition that those accused of the name and refusing to deny it could be put to death. This tradition reached back to Nero’s precedent, when Christians were first condemned in Rome.

Once Severus consolidated power, however, a new wave of persecution broke out. By his tenth year (AD 202/203), we find evidence across Africa and Egypt of Christians martyred, catechumens executed, and great teachers forced to reckon with Rome’s hostility. And although only one late source names it directly, the tradition survives that Severus had issued a law forbidding conversions to Judaism and Christianity.

The Edict, Plainly Stated

Historia Augusta, Life of Severus 17.1 (Loeb):

“He forbade anyone to become a Jew, and he enacted severe penalties against those who attempted to convert to Judaism and Christianity.”

This is our sole explicit witness to the edict. The Historia Augusta was written in the 4th century and is often unreliable. But the law it describes explains why, at precisely this time, catechumens and teachers were executed from Carthage to Alexandria.

Eusebius: A Wave of Persecution

Eusebius, Church History 6.1.1–2 (Loeb):

“When Severus had been emperor for ten years, he stirred up persecution against the churches, and illustrious testimonies of martyrdom were given at that time. At Alexandria the great teachers of the faith were most distinguished, and in other regions also a great many received crowns of martyrdom with all kinds of tortures and punishments. At that time Origen, a young man, devoted himself with all earnestness to the divine word, while his father Leonidas received the crown of martyrdom.”

Here Carthage and Alexandria are linked. In North Africa, women and slaves were led to the arena. In Egypt, a father was executed, leaving his son to become the greatest theologian of early Christianity.

The Martyrs of Carthage: Perpetua, Felicitas, and Saturus (North Africa, AD 203)

The most vivid testimony of Severus’ persecution comes from the Passion of Perpetua and Felicitas. Its uniqueness lies in the fact that it is partly autobiographical—the first-person diary of Perpetua herself, later woven together with Saturus’ vision and an eyewitness account of their deaths.

When her father begged her to deny Christ, Perpetua answered with a simplicity Rome could not overcome:

“Father, do you see this little pitcher? Can it be called by any other name than what it is? … So too I cannot call myself anything else than what I am, a Christian.” (Passion 3–4)

She was imprisoned with several other catechumens. Among them was Saturus, a Christian teacher who had not been arrested at first but chose to surrender himself so he could share their chains. His voluntary imprisonment made him a model of pastoral courage, and in Perpetua’s visions he appears as her guide.

At first, Perpetua struggled with the darkness and the crowding of prison, but her greatest fear was for her baby:

“I was horrified, for I had never experienced such darkness. Oh, terrible day! The crowding of the mob, the harsh treatment by the soldiers, the extortion of the jailers. Then I was distressed by anxiety for my baby.” (Passion 3–5)

Eventually she was allowed to nurse her son in prison:

“Then I was allowed to nurse him in prison, and I recovered my strength, and my prison became to me a palace, so that I would rather have been there than anywhere else.” (Passion 5)

Later the baby was given into the care of her family. Though she grieved, she found freedom to face martyrdom without distraction:

“I endured great pain because I saw my infant wasted with hunger … Then I arranged for the child to stay with my mother and brother. For a little while I took care of the child in prison, but later I gave him up. And immediately the prison became a place of refreshment to me, and my anxiety for the child no longer consumed me.” (Passion 6)

That is the last we hear of her son, who survived, raised by his grandmother. The absence of any mention of her husband is striking. Whether she was widowed or separated we do not know; the editor of the Passion was not interested in her social status, but in her confession of Christ.

Perpetua’s visions gave her courage. She saw a narrow bronze ladder stretching to heaven, lined with swords and hooks, with a dragon lurking at its base. Saturus climbed first, and she followed, treading on the dragon’s head and entering a garden where a shepherd gave her milk turned into a cake, and all around said “Amen” (Passion 4).

Her fellow prisoner Felicitas faced her own trial. She was a slave woman, eight months pregnant when arrested. Roman law forbade executing pregnant women, and she feared she might be separated from her companions. She prayed to give birth before the day of the games, and her prayers were answered. When mocked by a jailer for her cries in labor, she replied:

“Now I myself suffer what I suffer, but then another will be in me who will suffer for me, because I am to suffer for him.” (Passion 15)

At last came the day of execution:

“The day of their victory dawned, and they marched from the prison into the amphitheater, as if into heaven, with cheerful looks and graceful bearing. Perpetua followed with shining step as the true spouse of Christ. When the young gladiator trembled to strike her, she guided his hand to her throat, for it was as if such a woman could not be slain unless she herself were willing.” (Passion 18, 21)

Rome called it punishment; the Christians called it victory. The amphitheater was meant to shame them before the crowd, but Perpetua, Felicitas, and Saturus walked into it as though into heaven.

Tertullian of Carthage (North Africa, c. 197–220)

Before the main outbreak of persecution under Severus, another Carthaginian gave voice to the church in Latin: Tertullian. A lawyer by training and a fiery Christian apologist, he addressed his works to Roman officials, governors, and pagan audiences who misunderstood the church. His writings prove that Christians in Africa were already living under suspicion and facing punishment years before Severus’ edict of 202/203.

In his Apology (c. AD 197), addressed to the provincial governors and magistrates of North Africa, Tertullian insists that Christians are everywhere:

Apology 37 (Loeb):

“We are but of yesterday, and we have filled every place among you—cities, islands, fortresses, towns, marketplaces, the very camp, tribes, companies, palace, senate, forum; we have left nothing to you but the temples of your gods.”

Persecution was already a reality. Christians were blamed for every disaster:

Ad Nationes 1.7:

“If the Tiber rises as high as the city walls, if the Nile does not rise into the fields, if the heavens give no rain, if the earth quakes, if there is a famine or a plague, the cry at once is, ‘The Christians to the lion!’”

And yet, persecution only multiplied them:

Apology 50:

“We multiply whenever we are mown down by you: the blood of Christians is seed.”

Later, in To Scapula (written around AD 212 to Scapula, the proconsul of Africa), he warned Rome’s governor directly:

To Scapula 5 (Loeb):

“Kill us, torture us, condemn us, grind us to dust; your injustice is the proof that we are innocent. … The more often you mow us down, the more we grow; the blood of Christians is seed.”

Tertullian’s writings show that persecution was not sudden but constant. By the time Severus issued his edict, the soil had already been watered with blood—and, as Tertullian argued, that blood was the seed of growth.

Clement of Alexandria (Egypt, c. 190–203+)

Meanwhile in Alexandria, the church had established a tradition of Christian teaching known as the catechetical school. Its master was Clement of Alexandria, a philosopher-turned-Christian who wrote in Greek to the city’s educated elite.

Clement’s trilogy of major works shows the breadth of his teaching:

Protrepticus (Exhortation to the Greeks):

“Leave the old delusion, flee from the ancient plague; seek after the new song, the new Logos, who has appeared among us from heaven. He alone is both God and man, the source of all our good.” (Protrepticus 1.5)

Paedagogus (The Instructor):

“The Word is all things to the child: father and mother, tutor and nurse. ‘Eat my flesh,’ He says, ‘and drink my blood.’ Such is suitable food for children, the Lord Himself made nourishment, love, and instruction.” (Paedagogus 1.6)

Stromata (Miscellanies):

“The true gnostic is one who imitates God as far as possible: he rests on faith, is founded on love, is educated by hope, and is perfected by knowledge. He has already attained the likeness of God, being righteous and holy with wisdom.” (Stromata 7.10)

On martyrdom, he wrote plainly:

“Many martyrs are daily burned, confined, or beheaded before our eyes, so that not only in ancient times but also among ourselves may one see such examples, being set forth in their thousands.” (Stromata 4.4)

And on wealth and charity:

Who Is the Rich Man That Shall Be Saved? 27:

“Wealth is not to be thrown away. It is a material for virtue, if it be rightly used. Riches are called good if they are distributed well; for they can become instruments of righteousness. Let the rich man do good, let him give liberally, let him share willingly, and he will be perfect.”

For Clement, charity was not about ascetic rejection but about transformed stewardship. Wealth was a tool, not a curse—its danger was in clinging to it selfishly, its virtue in giving it freely. He presented charity as a spiritual discipline: rational, cheerful, and loving generosity for the good of others.

When Severus’ persecution reached Alexandria around AD 202, Clement fled the city and took refuge in Cappadocia, never to return. Leadership of the Alexandrian school passed to the teenage Origen. But Clement’s writings remained a legacy: in the empire’s intellectual capital, he had given Christianity an intellectual defense, a moral handbook, and a vision of charity rooted not in fear but in love.

Origen and Leonidas (Alexandria, Egypt, AD 202/203)

When Leonidas, Origen’s father, was executed, Origen was only about seventeen years old. He was the eldest of seven children, and his family’s property was confiscated. He suddenly found himself destitute, responsible for his widowed mother and six younger siblings.

Eusebius, Church History 6.2.2–3 (Loeb):

“Leonidas, the father of Origen, was beheaded. Origen was eager to accompany him and to die as a martyr, but his mother prevented him by hiding all his clothes and thus compelled him to remain in the house. And he wrote to his father in prison, saying: ‘Take heed not to change your mind on our account.’”

Eusebius, Church History 6.3.9–11 (Loeb):

“Leonidas would often, when Origen was sleeping, uncover his breast and reverently kiss it, as though it were already sanctified by the divine Spirit within him. He educated his boy not only in general studies but above all in the Holy Scriptures.”

To support his family, Origen opened a school of grammar and literature, teaching pagans by day and catechumens by night. He lived with radical austerity, sleeping on the ground and fasting, so he could provide for his mother and siblings. In time, wealthy patrons like Ambrose of Alexandria also supported him, funding secretaries to copy his works.

When Clement fled, Origen inherited the catechetical school. This “school” (didaskaleion) was not simply a building but a tradition of Christian teaching in Alexandria, begun by Pantaenus, a Stoic philosopher turned Christian. Now, still in his teens, Origen became its master. From there he wrote commentaries on nearly every book of the Bible, debated pagan philosophers, and composed On First Principles, the first systematic theology in Christian history.

The persecution that took his father’s life launched his own.

Hippolytus of Rome (Italy, c. 200–215)

In Rome, the church was codifying its order even under threat. Hippolytus, writing in Greek, preserved the earliest liturgy and church order that has survived.

Apostolic Tradition (On Ordination, ch. 3):

“Let the bishop be ordained after he has been chosen by all the people. … Let all lay hands on him and pray, saying: ‘O God, pour forth the power of your Spirit upon this your servant, whom you have chosen to be shepherd of your people.’”

Apostolic Tradition (On Baptism, ch. 21):

“Do you believe in God the Father Almighty? … Do you believe in Christ Jesus, the Son of God, who was born … crucified … and rose again … and will come to judge the living and the dead? … Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, and the holy Church, and the resurrection of the flesh? … And so he is baptized a third time.”

Apostolic Tradition (On the Eucharist, ch. 4):

“We give you thanks, O God, through your beloved Son Jesus Christ, whom you sent to us as Savior and Redeemer … and when he had given thanks, he said: ‘This is my body, which is for you.’ … Remembering therefore his death and resurrection, we offer to you this bread and this cup, giving thanks to you.”

From the same hand we also have the Refutation of All Heresies, in which he exposed pagan astrology and Gnostic sects:

Refutation 4.37:

“If everything is under the control of fate, then let no one be blamed for sins, nor praised for virtues. But if this is absurd, then their teaching is false. For man has been made free by God.”

Refutation 9.7:

“There are those who, under the name of Christ, corrupt the truth by their deceit. But we have the tradition from the apostles, delivered through the succession of bishops, and we guard it in the Church by the Holy Spirit.”

Hippolytus shows us that in Rome itself—at the empire’s heart—Christians were not retreating underground but continuing to baptize, ordain, and celebrate the Eucharist. At the very time Severus forbade conversions, Rome’s church was still welcoming new converts and defending its doctrine.

Minucius Felix (Rome or North Africa, c. 197–210)

Octavius is the earliest surviving Christian apology written in elegant Latin. It is framed as a dialogue between Caecilius, a pagan, and Octavius, a Christian, with Minucius himself as arbiter.

On slanders against Christians, Caecilius charges:

Octavius 9:

“It is said that in your sacred rites you slay an infant and drink its blood, and that after the banquet you join in incestuous unions in shameless darkness. These are the fables you believe of us—things which you would not even believe of your own enemies.”

Octavius replies with a portrait of Christian life:

Octavius 31–32:

“They love one another before they know one another; they call one another brother and sister, and with reason. They are ready even to die for one another. … We neither keep our religion hidden, for our life is made known by its teachings, nor are we silent, since we are always being accused.”

On worship:

Octavius 33:

“We do not worship the images you make, for we know they are made of stone and wood. … Our sacrifice is a pure prayer proceeding from a pure heart.”

On persecution:

Octavius 35:

“Do you think that we are to be pitied, who are counted as your enemies? When we are slain, we conquer; when we are struck down, we are crowned; when we are condemned, we are acquitted.”

Minucius shows us Christianity in Rome’s own idiom: clear, concise, legal Latin rhetoric. He captures both the accusations Christians faced in Severus’ time and the moral beauty of their reply—love, openness, prayer, courage.

Bardaisan of Edessa (Syria/Mesopotamia, c. 200–222)

Far from Rome and Carthage, in the eastern frontier city of Edessa, the philosopher Bardaisan defended Christianity in Syriac against astrology and fatalism. His Book of the Laws of Countries, preserved by his disciples, is a dialogue on fate, free will, and culture.

On free will:

Laws of Countries 617 (Wright trans.):

“The constellations do not compel a man either to be righteous or to be a sinner, nor does fate constrain him to be rich or poor. But every man, according to his own will, approaches what is right, and departs from what is evil.”

On cultural diversity:

Laws of Countries 619:

“The same stars shine everywhere, yet laws differ among the Parthians, the Romans, and the Syrians. If fate compelled, all would live the same way. But men live according to their laws, and these laws are the fruit of free will.”

On the universality of Christianity:

Laws of Countries 622:

“The new law of our Lord is not written on stone but on the heart. Because of it, men from every nation have renounced their former customs and are ready to suffer and even to die rather than transgress it.”

On martyrdom:

Laws of Countries 623:

“This law has not only been written and spoken, but it is practiced. For in all places and in every land, men and women, young and old, endure persecution for the sake of this law, and they do not deny it.”

Bardaisan’s “law” is not Roman statute or Jewish Torah, but the gospel of Christ written on the heart. He stresses that this law is already global: Romans, Syrians, Parthians alike live by it, and all are ready to suffer for it. From the eastern frontier of the empire, Bardaisan shows us Christianity as a universal faith that conquers fatalism with freedom, and unites nations in one confession.

Conclusion

The reign of Septimius Severus (AD 193–211) was decisive for Christianity.

  • The edict: remembered in the Historia Augusta, forbidding conversion.
  • The martyrs: Perpetua, Felicitas, and Saturus in Carthage; Leonidas in Alexandria.
  • The writers:
    • Tertullian (Carthage) — lawyer turned apologist, addressing governors and magistrates, insisting that persecution was constant and blood was seed.
    • Clement (Alexandria) — philosopher turned teacher, whose writings shaped Christian virtue, charity, and knowledge before he fled persecution.
    • Origen (Alexandria) — teenage prodigy, shaped by his father’s death, who built the greatest Christian school of the ancient world.
    • Hippolytus (Rome) — presbyter preserving baptismal, eucharistic, and ordination rites, proving the church’s order survived in the capital.
    • Minucius Felix (Rome/Africa) — polished Latin lawyer refuting slander and showing Christian innocence and love.
    • Bardaisan (Edessa) — philosopher on the frontier, proclaiming the gospel as the new law written on the heart, freely obeyed in every nation.

By Severus’ reign, Christian voices were speaking from every corner of the empire. Rome tried to choke Christianity at its source—conversion—but instead gave the church martyrs, apologists, and theologians whose words and courage still inspire today.