In the literary marketplace of the second century, one voice rang out with mockery rather than malice—Lucian of Samosata, the Epicurean satirist and master of classical Greek prose. Though he scorned all religion, including Christianity, his ridicule proved less corrosive to the faith than it was to paganism itself. In mocking the sacred, Lucian unwittingly spotlighted its permanence against the transient amusements of satire.
The Satirist and His Context
Lucian (c. 120–c. 200), born in Samosata in Syria, lived and wrote during a time of great religious diversity and cultural confusion. Often compared to Voltaire for his scathing wit, he was a literary skeptic who attacked the prevailing religions and philosophies of his day with merciless humor. In his dialogues and essays, he exposed the hypocrisies of Greco-Roman worship, Eastern mysticism, and philosophical schools such as Stoicism and Cynicism.
His attitude toward Christianity was dismissive but not hostile. He never calls for persecution, nor does he insult Christ as Celsus does. Rather, he refers to Jesus as a “crucified sophist”—a term that could carry admiration or scorn depending on context. Lucian viewed the Christian religion as one of many eccentric movements springing from the irrational depths of human imagination. Yet, he did not find it worthy of philosophical refutation—only of laughter.
The Tale of Peregrinus Proteus
Lucian’s chief satire on Christianity appears in his fictionalized account of the life of Peregrinus Proteus, a flamboyant Cynic philosopher who lived in the second century. The narrative, written with irony and color, portrays Peregrinus as a morally debauched man—guilty of adultery, pederasty, and even parricide—who then aligns himself with the Christians in Palestine. There he gains esteem, becomes a leader among them, and is nearly deified by their veneration. Eventually, he is excommunicated for eating food sacrificed to idols and turns back to Cynicism, adopting its ragged lifestyle and parading through the empire as a moral provocateur.
The climax of Lucian’s parody comes when Peregrinus, in an effort to immortalize himself, throws his body onto a blazing pyre at Olympia, c. 165 AD. Lucian mocks this death as a farcical attempt at eternal fame, a caricature of Christian martyrdom. Scholars have noted the possible allusion to Polycarp, the bishop of Smyrna martyred by fire in 155, though Harnack doubts any direct connection.
Lucian’s View of Christianity
Lucian’s attitude toward Christians is not venomous, but pitying. He admires, if ironically, their brotherly love, their charity, and their bravery in the face of death. Yet he sees all of this as foolishness—enthusiasm without reason. Miracles are, to him, mere sleight of hand. Resurrection and immortality, illusions. Faith, a delusion of the masses. He mocks Christianity not for its morality, but for its claims to divine origin and metaphysical truth.
Yet his satire cuts deeper into paganism than Christianity. By ridiculing all belief systems indiscriminately, Lucian helps reveal the emptiness of late paganism. His rejection of religious meaning underscores the hunger of his age for something more enduring. In the end, his clever nihilism only hastens the decline of the old gods.
The Limits of Satire
Lucian’s witty skepticism offered no substitute for the truths he scorned. His Epicurean indifferentism—the refusal to engage deeply with metaphysical or spiritual questions—proved sterile. While Christian apologists like Justin, Origen, and Tertullian were constructing enduring frameworks of theology and moral transformation, Lucian laughed from the sidelines. In the long sweep of history, his irony withered, while the object of his ridicule endured.
Even his most famous satire, Peregrinus, betrays more about Cynicism than Christianity. As Bernays observed, the target of Lucian’s scorn may well have been the living Cynic philosopher Theagenes, not the Christian faith. If so, Christianity appears in the narrative as a convenient backdrop—a foil for the real object of Lucian’s derision. Yet in so doing, Lucian preserved for us a backhanded testimony to the generosity, zeal, and cohesion of the early Christian community.
Though he intended to mock, Lucian’s pen has become an indirect witness. In attempting to caricature the church, he left a shadow sketch of its strength. In seeking to dismiss its Founder as a mere sophist, he granted the name of wisdom—even crucified wisdom. In his laughter, he preserved memory. And in his indifference, he confirmed the spiritual hunger that only a deeper truth could satisfy.
