One of the great works of St. Pope John Paul II was
re-establishing links between Eastern and Western Christianity, between Roman
Catholics and the Orthodox churches. He was not the first to struggle for unity,
nor the last; the task is not completed yet. One detail of his great work for
unity was re-establishing a habit of thinking through issues in part by drawing
on the wisdom of the Fathers of the Church. Reading the encyclicals of the past
century, it struck me that for decades the teaching was often somewhat
self-referential: the popes quoted previous popes, making sure that the
continuity from one to the next was clear. But then, around the time of the Second
Vatican Council, the encyclicals returned to the teaching of the past, drawing
extensively on Scripture. And then John Paul II took another step, and began
drawing extensively on Patristic literature.
I’m
sure many people know better than I why he made that change. But I thought it
was because he was Polish, from a nation that struggled for identity – caught between
Catholic (and Protestant) Europe and Orthodox Russia. But whatever the reason,
he made a great change, and I have tried to follow in his footsteps, tried to
draw on the wisdom of the Church throughout the ages.
When I
embarked on this effort, I drew up a list of Fathers and Doctors, and their
major works. Then I hunted out an easy one: a short narrative work. I started
with “The Martyrdom of Polycarp,” written by St Irenaeus. St. John the
Evangelist lived to a ripe old age, and so did Polycarp; so the account of
Polycarp’s death may have been written late in the second century, but was
nonetheless an account of the life of a man who knew the apostles. (That is, setting
aside scholarly disputes, the following may be approximately right: John may
have been exiled in 95 AD, and lived for years afterward; Polycarp lived from about
69 to about 155, and he knew John and other apostles; and Irenaeus lived from
about 130 to 202, so he spent many formative years with Polycarp.) I have
accepted the story as translated into English by J. B. Lightfoot, a 19th
century Anglican bishop of Durham and a renowned Patristics scholar.
Polycarp
was the bishop of Smyrna, a Greek city on the Aegean coast of what is today
Turkey. Smyrna is north of Ephesus, in an area where St. Paul preached. On-again
off-again persecution was a part of Christian life at that time, and Polycarp
was swept up.
His pursuers
were hunting for “atheists.” From their polytheistic perspective, monotheists
and atheists were pretty much the same, and they deserved to die for their lack
of piety. When Polycarp first heard that he was being hunted, he left Smyrna,
persuaded that he should try to stay alive. The question of how to deal with
martyrdom was a pressing issue then: should you turn yourself in and try to get
executed, or flee? Not long after Polycarp’s death, large groups of Christians
turned themselves in and demanded to be executed; officials cooperated with
some requests, but then decided it was a nuisance, and told the would-be
martyrs to go hang themselves. But there were others who turned themselves in,
then saw death approaching and re-calculated. Polycarp was a moderate on the
issue: he fled, but calmly.
While
he was on the run, he stayed with friends. That is, one of the last acts of his
ministry was hospitality – visiting friends. While he was with them, he and
they prayed for the whole world, and for the whole church.
When he
caught, he asked his hosts to provide food and drink for the arresting
officers, as much as they wanted. While they were eating, he stood up to pray
and preach, at length; so one could perhaps argue cynically that this
hospitality was just a ruse, to buy time. In any case, Irenaeus records that
the pursuers were impressed, and began to repent that they had come out to
chase a venerable old man.
When he
was hauled into court, the prosecutor – the proconsul – demanded that Polycarp
cooperate with Roman authorities and denounce atheism. He groaned a bit, but
decided he could do that; he agreed to cry out, “Away with the atheists!” But the
proconsul amended and focused his command: “Denounce Christ!” And that point,
Polycarp dug in: “I have served him for 86 years and he never did me any
injury! How, then, can I blaspheme my king and my savior?” To me, it seems that
this decision to embrace martyrdom was not cerebral, not about lofty
principles; it was, rather, a simple statement of love and affection, issuing
from a loyal heart.
After a
little debate, Polycarp was bound and burned. Irenaeus records that witnesses
tell of miracles at his death. They said that the fire swirled around him in
the shape of an arch, like the sail of a ship when filled with the wind. Within
this circle of fire, Polycarp didn’t look like burnt flesh; instead, he looked
more like baked bread, or gold and silver glowing in a furnace. And the odor of
the fire didn’t have the stench of burnt flesh; it was more like frankincense
or some other precious spice smoking there.
The
account of Polycarp’s martyrdom, then, has three references to hospitality. (1)
Among the final acts of his ministry was visiting friends. (2) When he was
taken prisoner, he asked that his hosts provide hospitality to his pursuers.
(3) When he was burned at the stake, witnesses did not see a horror; instead,
their recollections of the event include images of freedom – sailing with the
wind – and purification – like gold in a furnace – and prayer – like incense –
and a sacrificial meal – like baked bread. To be sure, these recollections may
be pious reconstructions. But even if these accounts are just reconstructions,
only loosely based on facts, the reconstructions include the central image of
hospitality: to explain Polycarp’s death, like the death of Jesus, we would
like to talk about the bread that we share.