Christianity, in its early expression, did not call its adherents to flee from the world, but to sanctify it—to remain in their earthly callings with a new spirit. Infused with divine purpose, the mundane became holy; and in every sphere of human endeavor, from the plow to the palace, the gospel quietly transformed society from within. Though Christians were often maligned as indifferent to public affairs, theirs was a deeper fidelity—a loyalty to a higher kingdom that yet bore fruit in the flourishing of this one.
The Sanctification of Labor and Vocation
The apostolic exhortation, “Let each man abide in that calling wherein he was called” (1 Cor. 7:20), reflects the essence of the Christian view of secular occupation. Christianity did not seek to dismantle the existing structures of labor or governance, nor to withdraw believers into isolated purity. Rather, it ennobled all honorable pursuits, demanding not abandonment but reformation—a transfiguration of work by the spirit of Christ for the glory of God and the service of man.
In this lies one of Christianity’s most sublime strengths: its power to penetrate every sphere of human life, under every regime, in every vocation, elevating the ordinary by infusing it with eternal purpose. This principle is movingly articulated in the anonymous Epistle to Diognetus, where the believer’s presence in the world is likened to the soul in the body—vital, animating, yet distinct.
Tertullian, that fierce apologist of the early Church, rejected the caricature drawn by pagan critics who likened Christians to Indian ascetics or world-renouncing mystics. “We are no Brahmins nor gymnosophists,” he declared. “We do not exile ourselves from life. We enjoy God’s creation, with moderation, that we may avoid excess. We live among you: in markets, at fairs, in inns and workshops. We engage in commerce, agriculture, and even warfare. We labor, and our labor benefits you.” (Apol. c. 42)
Forbidden Occupations and the Christian Conscience
Yet not every occupation was permissible. Those trades devoted wholly to sensuality or idolatry—such as stage-acting, idol-making, astrology, or magic—were unequivocally rejected by the Church. Converts were expected to renounce such vocations prior to baptism, acknowledging the incompatibility of these works with the gospel of holiness and truth.
Even professions necessary to society, like inn-keeping, were subject to Christian scrutiny, especially where they were tainted by common fraud or moral laxity. But the Christian conscience did not abandon these trades—it redeemed them. Theodotus of Ancyra, an innkeeper during the Diocletian persecution, transformed his house into a haven for believers and a sanctuary of prayer. For this act of devotion, he was crowned with martyrdom.
Military and Civil Service under a Pagan Empire
Among the early Christians, opinion was divided regarding service in military and civil office under a pagan government. Some, citing Christ’s words in Matthew 5:39 and 26:52, concluded that war was incompatible with the gospel’s call to nonresistance—anticipating later pacifist traditions like those of the Mennonites and Quakers. Others looked to figures such as the centurion of Capernaum and Cornelius of Caesarea, arguing that military service could harmonize with a Christian life.
Indeed, evidence of Christian soldiers—such as the famed legio fulminatrix, whose prayers were said to have won a miraculous victory under Marcus Aurelius—testify to the presence of believers in the Roman army. By the reign of Diocletian, Christians had become numerous not only in the ranks of the military but even at court and in civil administration.
Nevertheless, a prevailing wariness remained. Many Christians, regarding themselves as pilgrims and exiles in this world, hesitated to accept offices that entailed complicity with idolatry. Tertullian spoke with unmistakable clarity: nothing was more foreign to Christian identity than politics (Apol. c. 38). Public offices often required participation in sacrifices, libations, and imperial cultic rituals—acts a Christian could not perform in good conscience. Thus, a profound tension arose between civic duty and spiritual fidelity.
Christians honored the emperor as God’s appointed magistrate, the most powerful of men under heaven. They paid their taxes, as Justin Martyr attests, with scrupulous diligence. But they refused to render divine honors to any mortal. Tertullian, with trenchant eloquence, proclaimed: “Augustus refused to be called Lord, for that is a name of God. I shall call the emperor ‘lord’ freely—just not in the place of God. For I have but one Lord, the almighty and eternal God, who is also the emperor’s Lord. Far be it from me to call the emperor a god! That is not only shameful flattery, but dangerous deceit.”
The Charge of Political Apathy
Such principled detachment from political life drew accusations of indifference and even disloyalty. Pagan critics, like the historian Gibbon, mistook this separation for civic negligence or sloth. But the Church’s true posture was one of reverent resistance. Their hearts were fixed on the heavenly city. Their estrangement from Roman politics arose not from disdain for the common good, but from a holy revulsion at the pervasive idolatry that defiled even the noblest institutions of the empire.
They abstained from rebellion and violence, though they suffered provocation, mockery, and persecution. Unlike many Roman factions that undermined the empire through revolt and internal strife, the Christians proved to be its most peaceful subjects. Their influence was reformative, not revolutionary. In quiet dignity, they cultivated a higher ethic—one that illumined the path of virtue in both private and public life.
A Higher Patriotism
The patriotism of ancient Athens or republican Rome—however heroic—was ultimately narrow. It was a glorified tribalism, magnified by the power of the state and the disregard for individual or foreign dignity. Stoic philosophers like Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius glimpsed a broader humanism. Terence gave it voice in his immortal line: “Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto”—“I am human; nothing human is alien to me.”
But only Christianity truly fulfilled this vision. It taught the fatherhood of God, the universal redemption through Christ, the brotherhood of believers, and the sacred image of God in every person. These truths fostered a deeper loyalty—one not limited by blood or boundary, but radiating charity toward all mankind.
It is true that, by the third century, the rise of monasticism introduced a strain of ascetic withdrawal. Monks renounced the world, not to reform it, but to escape it. Many withdrew to the desert, severing ties with city and state. This movement siphoned spiritual fervor from civic life and left society, for a time, exposed and depleted. Yet even in the wilderness, these monks preserved the fire of sanctity. Their lives of radical self-denial became a furnace of spiritual power that, in time, helped tame the barbarian conquerors and laid the foundation of a new Christian civilization.
Christianity and the Preservation of Civilization
The fall of the Roman empire was, in many respects, inevitable. Yet Christianity did not hasten its collapse; it softened the blow. In the East, it prolonged imperial vitality; in the West, it humanized the victors and infused a shattered world with hope. Gibbon himself conceded that though Constantine’s conversion may have hastened Rome’s political decline, “the victorious religion broke the violence of the fall.” Milman echoed this: “If the Church betrayed the empire, it remained faithful to mankind.” Lecky observed that the clergy, by their charity and arbitration, helped mitigate the devastations of imperial dissolution, wielding a moral authority beyond the reach of worldly patriots.
Amid the sack of Rome by the Goths, Augustine records in The City of God that the churches and crypts of the martyrs stood as sanctuaries. Fugitives—Christian and pagan alike—found safety there. Even as some blamed Christ for Rome’s fall, His Church sheltered them. Thus, the suffering Body of Christ became a refuge for the world—a foreshadowing of that eternal city whose foundations shall never be shaken.
