What are the standards for humility in the face of martyrdom? I recently had the chance to reread the St. Crispin’s day speech from King Henry V. Ever since first running across this play, I have become increasingly impressed with Shakespeare’s portrayal of Henry as a Christ figure. In this speech, Henry encourages his men with the honor that will be theirs for fighting in the upcoming battle. The battle is not to be fought by just anyone. Henry makes it clear that he does not want to be in the company of those who have no stomach for this sort of thing. He will, in fact, give such men safe passage home. The honor is to go only to those who have joined together in a fellowship of death. Death, however, is not the point. There is no desire here on the king’s part to end his existence. He covets honor and will share it with all those who are united with him. Henry declares all those who shed their blood with him to be his brothers. Yet, this doesn’t mean stoic resignation. This shedding of blood serves as the basis for the relationship; by serving as a purification, or, in more theological terms, a blood atonement, it becomes a bond of eternal reconciliation between Henry and the vilest of men. “This day,” he declares, “shall gentle his condition.” The St. Crispin’s day speech is not about death. It is an affirmation of life and, by showing how this band of brothers will be remembered until the end of the world, of resurrection.
It is a popular conception of salvation that Christ died so that we would not have to. Not to diminish the doctrine of vicarious atonement, but this is not the whole story. Paul does say that he lives “by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” But this is not life that has escaped death; it is life that has gone through death. Paul begins this passage by saying, “I have been crucified with Christ.” Christ died, not that we might avoid death, but that, dying with him, we might also be raised with him into eternal life. Paul’s doctrine of his union with the sufferings of Christ did not stop at the forensic aspects of the crucifixion. He identified his whole life with that of Christ. It was his desire to know Christ-“the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of his sufferings.” He even wanted those in the church to join with him in this privilege. Two things had been granted to them: to believe on Christ and to suffer. This was not suffering for its own sake, but for the sake of Christ. It would result in everyone attaining the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Paul was so taken up with his identification with Christ that he now wanted what Christ had earned, both for himself and for other believers. But this was far from impudence on his part. More than anything, the apostle was overwhelmed with a sense of godly covetousness.
Death is vicious. Christ has tamed it. A necessity of the curse becomes a portal to glory. In the opening chapters of Genesis, two genealogies are recorded in close proximity. One is a simple list from Cain to Lamech. The other records the progression of the covenant line. With one notable exception, this genealogy bears a consistent refrain absent in the first: “and he died.” The story of Enoch is miraculous, yet, it does not distinguish itself by showing how unfortunate the other people in his family line were. It is, rather, a sign pointing to their ultimate end. These were the people of the Lord; consequently, he regarded their deaths as something precious. The consistent refrain is not evidence of God’s displeasure; it is a badge of honor. Not death in itself: anyone can die. The honor belongs to all whose lives have testified of Christ and to no one else. As Henry said, “We would not die in that man’s company that fears his fellowship to die with us.”
All of this by way of background. I had been thinking along these lines when I ran across this response by Josiah in which, based on the fact that the groups with which we associate ourselves are relatively insignificant in the larger scheme of the world, he makes a plea for humility when it comes to knowledge claims. There very well may be objective truth, but how can we know that we have it? In many cases, he’s right. We should, perhaps, question our sense of omniscience and take other people’s views into consideration. Yet, as appropriate as his argument may have been in its original context (I do not wish to address this), my recent thoughts alerted me to a glaring exception. He spoke of our slice of the church and, yes, I do admit that, at times, we can get a bit carried away with our denominational distinctives. But how do our common confessions speak of the church? We believe in the holy catholic church. This is a catholicity that extends, not only to the elect who have yet to pass through death for themselves, but to the elect of all time.
As is always the case in literature, the analogy breaks down at some point. Henry speaks of his band of brothers as “we few, we happy few.” Not so with the fellowship of the redeemed. We are part of a multitude without number whose significance is eternal. Still, we have no chance of fully grasping the magnitude of our situation until Christ returns or until we can be counted among those of whom it is written “and he died.” If we have trouble comprehending our own significance, how much less must the world see it? We do need to act with extreme humility. So I return to my original question. What are the standards for humility in the face of martyrdom?
I have chosen to qualify the question in this manner because it is our status as martyrs that identifies us as a part of the catholic church. Not that our deaths will always be the direct result of our testimony for Christ, but because they will always attest to the fact that we have been crucified with Christ. Remember the gifts of Christ. Belief and suffering go hand in hand. But what if we are called upon to die for our faith? Martyrs, in this restricted sense of the word, are almost always executed because it is understood that they are making a knowledge claim. They refuse to recant the knowledge that is theirs due to the revelation of Christ. In the last book written before his own execution, Paul asserts, “I know whom I have believed.” This is certainly a knowledge claim and it was spoken in humility; however, it was not the kind humility that questioned the possibility of his knowledge. It was humility before his Lord. Such knowledge had been revealed to him; he dare not pretend ignorance.
Paul knew that he was part of something much larger than himself. Not only in the hours before his death, but throughout his life as a convert he attested to this fact. He was a martyr all along. The same must be true of us. As Christians, we can never let the rest of the world think that we regard our faith as anything less than gospel truth. If we do, we might find ourselves to have been excluded from the fellowship. The king will give us safe passage home and enter into his honor without us.
Posted by kcourter at agosto 19, 2003 8:28 PM