Here in Part 2 of my look at Candida Moss’s The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom, I’m going to try to look at chapters 2-3. Let’s dive right in…
Chapter 2: Christians Borrowing of Jewish and Pagan Martyrdom Traditions
Moss’s basic argument in chapter 2 is that early Christians invented their own martyrdom stories by retreading Jewish and Pagan “myths.” Of course, the first example she gives isn’t a myth—it’s the account of the death of Socrates. She claims the account of the death of Jesus in the Gospel of Luke is patterned after the death of Socrates. To make this case, Moss first claims that in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus is an emotional wreck who goes to the cross a broken and defeated man. Well, that was really humiliating for early Christians! Moss points to the second century pagan critic Celsus as evidence that this story was humiliating for Christians and says, “For some Christians readers…Jesus appears a little too human. It’s human to die, but to many it seemed a little weak to whine about it ahead of time” (58). Therefore, according to Moss, in order to make Jesus more appealing to the Gentile world, Luke “corrected what he saw as mistakes in Mark’s Gospel,” in order to push his own theological vision—namely, Jesus faced his death head on…just like Socrates, or at least like a noble philosopher of some sort: “The effect is that the death of Jesus appears as a kind of philosophical martyrdom. Luke’s audience would understand the death of Jesus as the heroic death of an emboldened philosopher” (60).
That is quite the claim. First, while one can argue Jesus appears a bit more bold in Luke, not only is there quite a lot of shame and betrayal going on in both Mark and Luke (not to mention Matthew and John), but in both accounts, when Jesus is before the Sanhedrin, he boldly proclaims that they will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds. Second, Moss’s argument that Luke was concerned with what second century pagan philosophers like Celsus would feel about the death of Jesus is bizarre. I do not believe Luke at the ability to time travel. And third, Moss seems to miss the memo that the Gospel story doesn’t end with the crucifixion. Luke, as do all the Gospel writers, proclaims that Jesus resurrected from the dead. Given that clear claim, the idea that Luke would be worried that Jesus doesn’t come across as macho enough facing his death (so let’s make him look like Socrates!) is simply ridiculous.
Moss also argues that in The Martyrdom of Polycarp, Polycarp is presented as…you guessed it…a kind of Socrates in the way he boldly faces his death. After all, they are both described as “noble,” and both are charged with atheism. Never mind those connections are thin at best, Moss thinks those are iron clad. Of course, we must ask, “Why would mid-second century Christians in their account of Polycarp’s martyrdom to inspire fellow Christians, make Polycarp look like a Socrates?” Moss’s answer is mystifying: Socrates would have been more famous than Jesus in the second century. In fact, Moss goes so far to claim that since Polycarp tells his executioners that he doesn’t have to be nailed to the stake, that Polycarp “one-ups Jesus.” Therefore, in Moss’s opinion, the Christian authors who wrote about Polycarp’s martyrdom wanted “to make Polycarp into the kind of hero any Greek or Roman might admire” (65).
Moss discusses a number of other examples (Justin Martyr’s account of Ptolemy in his Second Apology; the martyrs of Lyons and Vienne; Perpetua) and makes similar claims—that the writers were trying to portray these martyrs as either good, honorable pagans in the way they faced death, or as the Maccabean martyrs who died under Antiochus Epiphanes). She concludes by stating that Christians were influenced by Greek, Roman, and Jewish traditions about death, and that “The heroes of the classical world were reshaped into soldiers for Christ” (79). Therefore, it is shocking to find that Christianity “borrowed from or was dependent upon morally questionable failed religions” (80).
Now, although one could make an argument that on some level the way these martyrdom stories were written do reflect certain cultural and philosophical attitudes towards death (after all, the Christian writers were still part of the Greco-Roman world), the fact is Moss has not, in any way, shape, or form, proven that early Christians were dependent upon stories like that of Socrates or the Maccabean martyrs. Besides, even if the writers were consciously drawing connections between, let’s say, the death of Polycarp and Socrates, that doesn’t mean the stories were fictions. It means the writers were highlighting certain things by drawing connections to these other events. So, sure, one can acknowledge that perhaps early Christians saw such connections. So what?
Well, apparently this is a big scandal for Christians, according to Moss, because, according to her, Christians “have said that it is unique to Christianity, thoroughly new, and a mark of Christianity’s sole possession of the truth. Christianity is true, it is said, because only Christians have martyrs” (81). I’m sorry, that does not make logical sense. If Christians have always claimed that, and if Moss is pointing to early Christian writings about martyrs in which there are (for the sake of argument) connections made with other pagan and Jewish martyrs, then wouldn’t those early Christian writings prove that Moss’s claim about what Christians have always claimed isn’t true? As it stands, Moss completely overplays and exaggerates her claims, and even if one acknowledges some possible valid points, the Christian martyrdom stories she discusses refutes her overall argument that Christians claim Christianity is true because the martyr stories are unique. If the actual Christian martyrdom stories allude to pagan and Jewish stories occasionally, then the early Christians were clearly not claiming what Moss says Christians have always claimed.
Chapter 3: Inventing Martyrs in the Early Church
In chapter 3, Moss addresses the six earliest martyrdom accounts that have been long been considered to be historical. Her basic argument for all six comes down to this: because they have been edited, creatively shaped, and use a certain amount of artistic license, they’re not reliable at all—they’re fake.
She first takes aim at The Martyrdom of Polycarp. It is generally accepted that Polycarp was martyred some time around 150-155 AD. And while Moss acknowledges Polycarp was probably executed by the Romans, nothing more can be certain. First, she notes that the use of the “first person” at certain points in the narrative (“those of our people who were present heard the voice”) seems suspicious—as though the writer was fabricating an eyewitness account.
Second, there are clear literary parallels between Polycarp’s story and the arrest, trial, and crucifixion of Jesus—too convenient for Moss: “these kinds of literary flourishes make it impossible for us to imagine that The Martyrdom of Polycarp is a historical account” (100). Yes, literary creativity in the telling of a historical account is simply impossible to do!
Third, there is the person of Quintus, who claimed to be a Christian and who volunteered to be martyred, but who essentially chickened out and ended up offering the required incense. Well, according to Moss, “voluntary martyrdom” only became an issue in the 3rd century, where we find Clement of Alexandria condemn it. Besides, Moss finds it is very convenient that this Quintus in the story comes from Phrygia…where the Montanist movement started. And since Montanus himself didn’t start preaching until 168 AD, the clearly this account wasn’t written until much later, and this little story about Quintus is really a jab at Montanism! Such logic is truly dizzying.
Fourth, there is the mention in the account how the Christians collected Polycarp’s bones, laid them to rest in an undisclosed location, and then meet at that place every year to celebrate his martyrdom. Well, according to Moss, the veneration of relics didn’t become a thing until the 3rd century! There is no mention of that sort of thing in the 2nd century! Put all that together, and Moss concludes that The Martyrdom of Polycarp was a 3rd century “pious fraud.”
It should be clear that there is nothing in Moss’s argument that solid at all. It is all hyper-skepticism and questionable assertions. Simply put, it is not convincing to any objective, clear-thinking person.
Moss then takes aim at Justn Martyr’s account of Ptolemy and Lucius in his Second Apology. The main point she makes is that Justin presents this Ptolemy as a kind of Christian philosopher and a Christian martyr. Moss then says that there are other sources (of which she doesn’t cite) that speak of a Ptolemy in the 2nd century who was a Valentinian—a heretical sect. She doesn’t prove the Ptolemy Justin speaks of is this heretic, she just asserts it could be. But then she launches into a mind-numbing rant about how the Gnostics were just Christians who enjoyed “marrying Greek philosophy to early Christian scripture” (106). She clams the Gnostics “sincerely and intellectually asked and answered questions about the nature of the world, the identity of Christ, and the human condition” (107) and says that the portrayal of them as horrible heretics was an overblown and inaccurate polemic “written by the orthodox, historical victors” (107).
Irenaeus of Lyons wrote a book titled Against Heresies in which he painstakingly spells out what the 2nd Century Gnostics taught—it is in no way, shape, or form anything like historical Christian teaching. But for Moss, if traditional Church teaching—and the teaching of the early Church Fathers—says Gnosticism was a heresy, that must mean Gnosticism was pretty cool, because Justin, Polycarp, Irenaeus—all of them—are fraudulent liars.
Moss employs the same kind of “reasoning” when it comes to The Acts of Justin and Companions, The Martyrs of Lyons, The Acts of the Scillitan Martyrs, and The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity. With all of them, Moss ends up dismissing them as unreliable because the accounts were crafted and shaped and clearly have a Christian bias. She nitpicks at the strangest things to “prove” that the stories are fictitious. For example, in The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity, Perpetua insists on breastfeeding her child. Oh, but she came from a Roman family, and most Roman citizens used wet-nurses to care for their infants!
Using questionable reasoning and arguments like that, Moss concludes that “all of the early Christian martyr stories have been altered” and therefore are not historically reliable or accurate. She then backtracks a little (as she does throughout the book) and says, “This does not mean…that there were no martyrs at all or that Christians never died.” It’s just all the martyr stories are historically unreliable and frauds! Actual “persecution” never really happened!
…and that is what we will look at in my next post, when I cover Chapter 4: “How Persecuted Were the Early Christians?” and Chapter 5: “Why Did the Romans Dislike Christians?”
