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The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History
The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History
The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History
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The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History

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Brush up on the people, places, and events every Christian should know about with this fascinating, accessible guide. Ideal for pastors and speakers.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 1, 1998
ISBN9781585581290
The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History
Author

A. Kenneth Curtis

A. Kenneth Curtis (1939-2011) was the founder of Gateway Films/Vision Video and Christian History Institute. He authored and edited several publications, including In Context, Glimpses, and Christian History magazine.

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    The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History - A. Kenneth Curtis

    CURTIS

    Dates With Destiny

    These are the dates we identified as some of the most important ones in church history.

    64 The Fire in Rome

    Nero at the burning of Rome.

    Without the Roman Empire, Christianity might never have spread so successfully. You could say the empire was a tinderbox awaiting the spark of Christian faith.

    The empire’s unifying elements aided in the expansion of the Gospel: Roman roads made travel easier than it had ever been before; throughout the realm, people spoke Greek; and the mighty Roman army kept peace. As a result of the increased mobility, pockets of migrant craftsmen settled for a time in a major city—Rome, Corinth, Athens, or Alexandria—then moved on to another.

    Christianity stepped into an open climate, religiously. In a sort of new age movement many people had begun to embrace eastern religions—the worship of Isis, Dionysus, Mithras, Cybele, and others. Worshipers searched for new beliefs, but some of these religions had been declared illegal, because they were suspected of offensive rituals. Other faiths were officially recognized—like Judaism, which had enjoyed a protected position since the days of Julius Caesar, though its monotheism and biblical revelation set it apart from the other ways of worship.

    Taking full advantage of the situation, Christian missionaries traveled throughout the empire. In the Jewish synagogues, craftsmen’s quarters, and tenements, they shared their message and won converts. Soon all the major cities, including the imperial capital, had churches.

    Rome, center of the empire, drew people like a magnet. Paul had wanted to visit the city (Romans 1:10–12), and by the time he wrote his letter to the Roman church, he could greet many Christians there by name (Romans 16:3–15)—perhaps because he had met them on his travels.

    When Paul arrived in Rome, he did so in chains. The Book of Acts closes with the apostle under rather loose house arrest, receiving guests and teaching them.

    Tradition tells us that Peter, too, spent time with the Roman church. Though we have no definite numbers on it, we can guess that under the leadership of these two men the church grew strong, including nobles and soldiers as well as craftsmen and servants.

    For three decades the Roman officials perceived Christianity as a branch of Judaism—a legal religion—and had little interest in persecuting the new Jewish sect. But many Jews, scandalized by the new faith, went on the attack, even trying to draft Rome into the conflict.

    Roman obliviousness to the situation may be shown in the report of the Roman historian Tacitus. In one of the tenements of Rome he reports a disturbance among the Jews at the instigation of a certain Chrestus. Tacitus could have misheard; the people were probably arguing about Christos, that is, Christ.

    By A.D. 64, some Roman officials had begun to realize that Christianity differed significantly from Judaism. The Jews rejected the Christians, and more and more others saw Christianity as an illegal religion. Even before Rome’s fatal fire, public opinion may have begun to turn against the fledgling faith. Though the Romans eagerly accepted new gods, Christianity was not willing to share honors with any other faith. As Christians challenged the deep-set polytheism of Rome, the empire struck back.

    On July 19 a fire broke out in a working-class section of Rome. For seven days it raged, consuming block after block of crowded tenements. Ten of the fourteen wards were destroyed, and many people died.

    Legend has it that Emperor Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Many of his contemporaries thought Nero was responsible for the fire. When the city was rebuilt, at great public expense, Nero seized a substantial hunk of land for himself and built his Golden Palace on the site. The fire may have been a quick way to achieve urban renewal.

    Deflecting the blame from himself, the emperor established a convenient scapegoat—the Christians. They had set the fire, he charged. As a result, Nero vowed to hunt them down and have them killed.

    The first wave of Roman persecution lasted from shortly after the fire until Nero’s death in 68. With barbaric bloodthirstiness, he had Christians crucified and set afire. Their bodies lined the Roman roads, providing torchlight. Christians dressed in animal skins were mauled by dogs in the arena. According to tradition, both Peter and Paul became martyrs in Nero’s persecution; Paul was beheaded, and Peter was crucified upside-down.

    But persecution occurred sporadically and remained localized. An emperor might heat up the persecution for ten years or so, but a time of peace would follow, only to be abruptly broken when a local governor lashed out at the Christians in his area—with Rome’s blessing. This pattern lasted for two and a half centuries.

    Tertullian, a second-century Christian writer, said, Blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church. Amazingly, each time persecution erupted, there were more Christians to persecute. In his first letter, Peter had encouraged Christians to endure suffering, confident of the ultimate victory and rule that would be established in Christ (1 Peter 5:8–11). The growth of the church under such pressure in part proved his words.


    70 Titus Destroys Jerusalem

    At the Roman Forum, in Rome, the Arch of Titus celebrates his victory in Jerusalem.

    Gessius Florus loved money and hated Jews. As Roman procurator, he ruled Judea, caring little for their religious sensibilities. When tax revenues were low, he seized silver from the Temple. In 66, as the uproar against him grew, he sent troops into Jerursalem to crucify and massacre some of the Jews. Florus’s action sparked the explosion of a rebellion that had been sizzling for some time.

    For the previous century, Rome had not handled the Jews very well. First Rome had propped up the hated usurper Herod the Great. For all the beautiful public buildings he erected, Herod could not buy his way into the people’s hearts.

    Herod’s son and successor, Archelaus, was so bad that the people cried to Rome for relief. Rome obliged by sending a series of governors—Pontius Pilate, Felix, Festus, and Floras. These and others had the unenviable task of keeping the peace in a volatile land.

    The Jews’ independent streak had never died. They looked back with fondness to the days of the Maccabees, when they had thrown off the yoke of their Syrian overlords. Now their own petty divisions and the awesome rise of Rome had put them back under the thumb of foreigners.

    The heartbeat of revolution had continued during Herod’s rule. Zealots and Pharisees, each in their own way, looked for change to occur. Messianic fervor ran high. When Jesus warned that people would say, Here is the Christ—or there! He wasn’t kidding. That was the spirit of the age.

    At Masada (a virtually impregnable hunk of rock that looked out over the Dead Sea, where Herod had built a palace and the Romans had erected a fortress), the Jewish revolt would have its beginning—and its bitter end.

    Inspired by the atrocities of Florus, some crazy Zealots decided to attack the fortress. Amazingly they won, slaughtering the Roman army encamped there.

    In Jerusalem, the Temple captain declared open rebellion against Rome by stopping the daily sacrifices for Caesar. Soon all Jerusalem was in an uproar, expelling or killing the Roman troops. Judea revolted, then Galilee. For a brief time it looked as if the Jews might pull an upset.

    Cestius Gallus, the Roman governor of the region, marched from Syria with 20,000 soldiers. He besieged Jerusalem for six months and failed, leaving behind 6,000 dead Roman soldiers and a fair amount of weaponry that the Jewish defenders picked up and used.

    Emperor Nero sent Vespasian, a decorated general, to quell the revolt. Vespasian nibbled away at the rebels’ strength, putting down the opposition in Galilee, then Transjordan, then Idumea. Then he circled in on Jerusalem.

    But before the coup de grace, Vespasian was called back to Rome. Nero had died. A leadership struggle concluded with the eastern armies calling for Vespasian to be emperor. In one of his first imperial acts, he appointed his son, Titus, to conduct the Jewish War.

    The tide had turned for Jerusalem, now isolated from the rest of the nation. Factions within the city fought over defense strategies. As the siege wore on, people were dying from starvation and plague. The high priest’s wife, who once basked in luxury, scavenged for crumbs in the city streets.

    Meanwhile the Romans employed new war machines to hurl boulders against the city walls. Battering rams assaulted the fortifications. Jewish defenders fought all day and struggled to rebuild the walls at night. Eventually the Romans broke through the outer wall, then the second wall, finally the third wall. Still the Jews fought, scurrying to the Temple as their last line of defense.

    That was the end for the valiant Jewish defenders—and for the Temple. The Jewish historian Josephus said that Titus wanted to preserve the Temple, but his soldiers were so angry at their resilient opponents that they burned it.

    The fall of Jerusalem essentially ended the revolt. Jews were slaughtered or captured and sold as slaves. The Zealot band who had taken Masada stayed there for three years. When the Romans finally built their siege ramp and invaded the mountain fortress, they found the defenders dead. They had committed suicide to avoid being captured by foreigners.

    The Jewish revolt marked the end of the Jewish state, at least until modern times.

    The destruction of Herod’s Temple signified a change in the Jews’ worship. When the Babylonians had destroyed Solomon’s Temple, in 586 B.C., the Jews had established synagogues, where they could study God’s law. The destruction of Herod’s Temple ended the Jewish sacrificial system and forced them to rely on the synagogue, which increased in importance.

    Where were the Christians during the Jewish revolt? Remembering Christ’s warning (Luke 21:20–24), when they saw armies surrounding Jerusalem, they fled. They refused to take up arms against the Romans and escaped to Pella, in Transjordan.

    Once the Jewish nation and its Temple had been destroyed, the Christians could no longer rely on the empire’s protection of Judaism. There was nowhere to hide from Roman persecution.


    Circa 150 Justin Martyr Writes His Apology

    The young philosopher walked along the seashore, his mind active, always active, seeking new truths. He had studied the teachings of the Stoics, of Aristotle, and of Pythagoras—now he was following Plato’s system. Plato had promised a vision of God to those who delved deeply enough into truth. That is what Justin the philosopher wanted.

    As he walked, he came across an elderly Christian man. Justin was struck by his dignity and humility. The man quoted from Jewish prophecies, showing that the Christian way was indeed true; Jesus was the true expression of God.

    That was Justin’s turning point. Poring over those prophetic writings, reading the Gospels and letters of Paul, he became a devoted Christian. For the remaining thirty or so years of his life, he traveled, evangelized, and wrote. He played a crucial role in the church’s developing theology, in its understanding of itself, and the image it presented to the world.

    Almost from the start, the church functioned in two worlds—Jewish and Gentile. The Book of Acts depicts the slow and sometimes painful opening of the bud of Christianity onto the Gentile world. Peter and Stephen preach to Jewish hearers, and Paul speaks to Athenian philosophers and Roman governors.

    In many respects Justin’s life paralleled Paul’s. The apostle was a Jew born in a Gentile area (Tarsus); Justin was a Gentile born in a Jewish area (ancient Shechem). Both were well-educated and used the gift of argument to convince Jew and Gentile of the truth of Christ. In Rome each was martyred for his faith.

    During the reigns of first-century emperors like Nero and Domitian, the church had focused on surviving, continuing its tradition, and showing Christ-like love. Outsiders saw Christianity as a primitive sect, an offshoot of Judaism noted for its strange teachings and practices.

    By the middle of the second century, under the reasonable rule of emperors like Trajan, Antoninus Pius, and Marcus Aurelius, the church had a new concern: explaining itself to the world in convincing terms. Justin became one of the first Christian apologists, those who explained the faith as a reasonable system. Along with later writers such as Origen and Tertullian, he interpreted Christianity in terms familiar to the educated Greeks and Romans of his day.

    Justin’s greatest work, the Apology, was addressed to Emperor Antoninus Pius (in Greek the title is Apologia, a word that refers to the logic upon which one’s beliefs are based). As Justin explained or defended his faith, he contended that it was wrong for the Roman authorities to persecute Christians. Rather, they should join forces with Christians in exposing the falsehood of the pagan systems.

    For Justin, all truth was God’s truth. The great Greek philosophers had been inspired by God, to some extent, but had remained blind to the fullness of the truth of Christ. So Justin borrowed freely from Greek thought, explaining Christ as its fulfillment. He seized on John’s principle of Christ as Logos, the Word. God the Father was holy and separated from evil humanity—Justin could agree with Plato on this. But through Christ, His Logos, God could reach out to human beings. As the Logos of God, Christ was part of God’s essence, though separate, as a flame lit from a flame. (Thus Justin’s thought was instrumental in the church’s developing awareness of the Trinity and the Incarnation.)

    Yet Justin had a Jewish stream of thought along with his Greek leanings. He was fascinated by fulfilled prophecy. Maybe this went back to his encounter with the old man by the sea. But he saw that Hebrew prophecy confirmed the unique identity of Jesus Christ. Like Paul, Justin did not abandon the Jews in his move toward the Greeks. In Justin’s other major work, Dialogues with Trypho, he writes to a Jewish acquaintance, presenting Christ as the fulfillment of the Hebrew tradition.

    Besides his writing, Justin traveled extensively, always arguing for the faith. He met Trypho in Ephesus. In Rome, he encountered the Gnostic leader Marcion. On one trip to Rome, he alienated a man called Crescens the Cynic. When Justin returned to Rome in about 165, Crescens denounced him to the authorities. Justin was arrested, tortured, and beheaded, along with six other believers.

    He had once written: You can kill us, but cannot do us any real harm. The apologist carried that conviction to his death. In so doing, he won the name he would wear throughout history: Justin Martyr.


    Circa 156 The Martyrdom of Polycarp

    Polycarp.

    The heat was on. The Smyrna police hunted for Polycarp, the revered bishop of that city. Already they had put other Christians to death in the arena; now a mob cried for the leader.

    Polycarp had left the city and was hiding out at the farm of some friends. As the soldiers moved in, he fled to another farm. Though the aged churchman felt no fear of death and had wanted to stay in the city, his friends had urged him to hide, perhaps fearing that his death would demoralize the church. If so, they were quite wrong.

    When the police reached the first farm, they tortured a slave boy to learn Polycarp’s whereabouts. Then they rushed, fully armed, to apprehend the bishop. Though Polycarp had time to escape, he refused. God’s will be done, he resolved. Instead, he welcomed his captors as guests, offered them food and asked for an hour alone to pray. He took two hours.

    Some of the captors seemed sorry to be arresting such a nice old man. On the way back to Smyrna, the police chief tried to reason with Polycarp: What harm is there in saying, ‘Lord Caesar’ and offering incense?

    Polycarp announced calmly that he would not do it.

    The Roman authorities had developed the idea that the spirit (or genius) of the emperor (Caesar) was divine. Most Romans, with their pantheon of gods, had no problem doing homage to the emperor, too; they saw it as a matter of national loyalty. But Christians knew this was idolatry.

    Because the Christians refused to worship the emperor or the other gods of Rome and worshiped Christ quietly and secretly in homes, most people thought they had no faith. Away with the atheists! cried the people of Smyrna as they hunted down the Christians. Because they only knew that Christians didn’t participate in the many pagan festivals or perform the usual sacrifices, the crowd attacked this unpatriotic, impious group.

    So Polycarp entered an arena filled with an angry mob. The Roman proconsul seemed to respect the bishop’s old age. Pilate-like, he wanted to avoid an ugly scene, if possible. If only Polycarp would perform the sacrifice, everyone could go home.

    Have respect for your age, old man, the proconsul pleaded. Swear by the fortune of Caesar. Change your mind. Say, ‘Away with the atheists!’

    The proconsul obviously intended for Polycarp to save his own life by dissociating himself from those atheistic Christians. But Polycarp just gazed up at the jeering crowd, gestured toward them, and said, Away with the atheists!

    The proconsul tried again: Take the oath, and I shall release you. Curse Christ!

    The bishop stood firm. Eighty-six years have I served him, and he never did me any wrong. How can I blaspheme my king who has saved me?

    Tradition has it that Polycarp had studied with the Apostle John. If so, he was probably the last living link with the apostolic church. About forty years earlier, when Polycarp began his ministry as bishop, the church father Ignatius had written him a special epistle. Polycarp had written an epistle of his own to the Philippians. Though it is not especially brilliant or original, it passes on the truths he had learned from his teachers. Polycarp

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