Lives of the Stoics: The Art of Living From Zeno to Marcus Aurelius

Justin had in fact studied under a Stoic teacher in Samaria but left the school in favor of the burgeoning Christian faith. Many of Justin’s writings would evoke similarities between the Stoics and the Christians and he may well have been familiar with Junius’s own philosophical work. He quite reasonably expected a favorable ruling from his Stoic judge. As a devout Christian, he knew that a century before, Seneca’s brother had fairly judged and and freed Saint Paul in Corinth.

But this was Rome in a very different time, and Rusticus was not simply a pen-and-ink philosopher. His job was to protect the peace. These Christians refused to acknowledge the Roman gods, the supremacy of the Roman state. That was crazy, disruptive, dangerous. Wasn’t Rusticus’s job to enforce the laws? To prevent these kinds of things from happening? And, perhaps, with Marcus away at the front and no one to check him, Rusticus was a little lost in the sway of his own power.

In her 1939 novel about Christianity in ancient Rome, written as fascism was crushing religious minorities in Europe, Naomi Mitchison has a Stoic philosopher, Nausiphanes, attempt to explain this collision course between the Stoics and the Christians. “[The Christians] were being persecuted,” he says, “because they were against the Roman state; no Roman ever really bothered about a difference of gods; in religious matters they were profoundly tolerant because their own gods were not of the individual heart but only social inventions—or had become so. Yet politically they did and must persecute: and equally must be attacked by all who had the courage.”

We think we are doing the right thing. We think we are protecting the status quo. We do terrible things in the process.

The proceedings of the trial, and its all too modern undertones, are recorded in The Acts of Justin. Rusticus gets right down to business, demanding an account of how Justin is living. Is he a Christian?

Yes. Yes, I am, he says, admitting that he knows his beliefs are seen as a threat by the powers that be. That power is not Rusticus, but the empire he represents. Even so, Rusticus seems to take personally Justin’s claim that that it is the Romans who “hold fast in error.” “Are the [Christian] doctrines approved by you, wretch that you are?” Rusticus demands, and their encounter spirals out of control from there.

As pride goeth before the fall, contempt goeth before injustices and moral failings.

Seneca had written his famous essay On Clemency to Nero in 55–56 AD. It’s likely, given how Nero turned out, that Rusticus was not a big admirer of Seneca’s philosophy. Yet in this case, the thrust of that essay—about how the decisions that the powerful make in regard to the powerless define who they are—was desperately relevant. Here, Rusticus controlled the full weight of the Roman legal system. Justin was just a small man, one man dissenting against a widely held belief. His example mattered very little. He could have been allowed to go free.

He deserved mercy. Most everyone does.

Rusticus was too frustrated to give it. He was baffled by Justin’s faith, by his firm belief in something that the Roman system did not countenance. That’s why Justin was sitting in court before Rusticus in the first place.

“Listen,” Rusticus says, “if you were scourged and beheaded, are you convinced that you would go up to heaven?” Justin replies, “I hope that I shall enter God’s house if I suffer that way. For I know that God’s favor is stored up until the end of the whole world for all who have lived good lives.”

Marcus said that from Rusticus he had learned “to show oneself ready to be reconciled to those who have lost their temper and trespassed against one, and ready to meet them halfway as soon as ever they seem to be willing to retrace their steps.” Where was that readiness with Justin? How much better would Rusticus have come off if he had managed to muster it?

He gave Justin a chance to repent, to submit to the law and go on his way. Justin didn’t have to mean it. He just had to do as every other Roman was expected to do. “Now let us come to the point at issue,” Rusticus said, “which is necessary and urgent. Gather round then and with one accord offer sacrifice to the gods.” The punishment for not doing so would be the same as for any Roman who dared impiety, who spurned the gods whose favor the empire believed it needed.

He was presenting Justin with the same choice offered to Agrippinus, to Cato, to Thrasea, to Helvidius. Go along to get along. Thrasea had faced it, had a chance at reprieve, but refused even help from Arulenus, Rusticus’s grandfather. Now, years later, the roles were reversed. It was not a tyrant demanding obeisance from a Stoic. It was a Stoic demanding it of a Christian.