In hoc signo vinces
March 7, 2023
Memorial of Perpetua and her Companions, Martyrs at Carthage, 202
May I speak in the Name of the living God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
Victim or Victor?
At the beginning of our Christian story, it seemed to be both. I am holding in my hand the bronze crucifix that I wore for my confirmation. By definition, a crucifix bears the three dimensional image of the crucified Christ, the corpus. In this crucifix the image of Christ is in relief. Arranged in letters above the corpus are the words “in hoc signo vinces,” Latin for “in this sign conquer.” Many will know that these are the words in the vision that was received by the Roman Emperor Constantine before the battle of the Milvian Bridge in 312 CE. However, it wasn’t the image of the crucified Christ that Constantine saw but instead the image of the Chi Rho which actually appeared with the Latin Phrase, “In this sign conquer.” Constantine instructed that the Chi Rho be placed on the standards which led to his success on the battlefield,— and well here we are! The Chi Rho, though a beautiful Greek symbol for Jesus Christ — does not quite have the same effect as a depiction of crucifixion with all its pain and horror. Because of this association with death as opposed to belief in Christ as the living God, the cross was not in common use at this time. But those who were converted to Christianity knew that to witness to the truth of Jesus Christ meant sacrifice and bloodshed. Long before Constantine’s conversion, and the Edict of Milan, the battle to be conquered was more personal and the stakes were much higher. (Holding the crucifix) This means something a little different — that to conquer death, one must be willing to die for Christ, for one’s faith and so to live with Christ. This paradox is at the heart of Christianity, held in tension from the beginning.
In the early years of Christianity, about a 100 years before Constantine and the Milvian Bridge, the Romans were responsible for the martyrdom of many Christians who also happened to be their own citizens. People will be familiar with the names of the virgin martyrs, Agnes, Cecilia, Agatha, Lucy and Eulalia. Today, we remember the young noblewoman, Perpetua and her companions who were martyred in Carthage early in the 3rd century. I think that it is fair to say that these Christian martyrs had to conquer their sense of alienation in Roman society. Technically, they weren’t martyred for their Christian faith, but for what they wouldn’t do — that is, offer sacrifice for the emperor. Christians were considered atheists because they refused to honour the emperor in this way, but not all Christians were subjected to this treatment. While Perpetua and her companions were incarcerated, they were helped by two deacons who moved freely, baptising them and even interacting with the authorities to provide for their needs. The conflict that Perpetua and her companions find themselves in is echoed in the reading from Esdras that speaks of the “burning wrath of the great multitude” who force God’s people “to eat what was sacrificed to idols.” Their Christian faith prevented them from committing idolatry, and yet in the eyes of the Romans they were anything but religious.
The account of Perpetua’s martyrdom gives specific details about conquering the connection to family. The scripture passage from Luke comes to mind: “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:26) Perpetua’s father begs her to reconsider and offer sacrifice. On one visit he actually throws himself at her feet, which must have been a very humiliating thing to do for the Pater Familias, the head of a Roman household. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Much like Perpetua herself, her father is willing to break away from his own culture out of love for his daughter. On his last visit when he is beaten for being so persistent, Perpetua is grieved, but remains firm in her resolve to suffer as a Christian.
Perpetua must also conquer her connection to her child, whom she loves. When her infant son is brought to her to be breastfed, she is relieved and shows concern for his wellbeing. Later, when her requests to have him brought again to her are ignored, she is reconciled to her father’s decision to deny her request. As well, the other woman in her group, her servant, Felicitas, gives birth to a child while she is imprisoned. Here are two women who will give their children up to be raised by relatives, to willingly suffer a martyr’s death rather than deny Christ. They are not only giving up their natural bonds but also conquering the fear of being hated for their choice.
From the beginning, Perpetua comes across in this narrative as the leader of her companions, with a spiritual status that outranks even her brother, Saturus. In an effort to conquer her fear, Perpetua experiences a vision of herself as a gladiator. She sees herself as a man in combat with another man. This vision informs her that this will be an epic battle with the devil himself. In light of how Perpetua presents herself before the crowds later on, the image of the gladiator is not necessarily about her identity, but instead is a symbol of her inner strength derived from her community as a believer in Christ. She is actually described as a “true spouse of Christ,” even though she isn’t a virgin. Regardless of her bodily status, it’s the state of her soul that is inviolable. After being attacked by an animal, she searches on the ground for her hair-clip because she wants to look presentable to the crowds. This gesture, which to our minds may seem odd, is regarded as a wish to look triumphant and not in mourning. Make no mistake — this is not vanity. Perpetua is conscious that this is an opportunity to witness her faith before the crowd, to become “like gold tested in fire” as described in the reading today. In the end, she takes a gladiator’s trembling hand and guides it to her own throat.
In the account of Perpetua and her companions there is a need to conquer isolation and doubt. They individually make a choice for Christ, but community is a critical piece in their martyrdom story. Jesus states in the gospel of Matthew that “many will fall away and they will betray one another and hate one another.” This would be more apt to happen if they were alone, rather than together in community. During their last meal together, they try as much as possible to make it an agape meal. And at one point in the narrative, Felicitas is in danger of being held back from the day of martyrdom with her companions because she is pregnant. The Romans would not put a pregnant woman to death. Alone, without her companions, surrounded by criminals, Felicitas could have easily and very humanly succumbed to fear and intimidation.
The martyrs bear witness to a time of great persecution of God’s Church, but what can we glean from this for ourselves in the 21st century? During this season of Lent, does a narrative like this strengthen us or are we tempted to think about it as an historical footnote from the early Church? Perpetua and her companions refused to comply with the state because they were being asked to do something that was contrary to their Christian beliefs. How much of the Christian Church aligns with the cultures that it finds itself living in, and do any issues merit second thoughts? How often do we as Christians comply and stay silent when we are invited by the Spirit to speak up? In the 19th and 20th century we have seen that compliance with the state has sometimes resulted in destruction and abuse. Since that day on the Milvian Bridge, it has sometimes been difficult to see what is, in fact, being conquered. Things are not so clear cut. We can only pray that in this sign of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit we can conquer all obstacles that separate us from the love of God. Amen.
