112 AD - Pliny’s Dilemma: Judging Christians

Published on: 2025-07-21 03:00

Description: In 112 AD, Roman governor Pliny the Younger faced a troubling problem in the province of Bithynia. Christians—people he had never personally encountered before—were being anonymously accused of illegal behavior. Unsure of how to proceed, he did something extraordinary: he wrote directly to Emperor Trajan. What followed was the earliest surviving Roman government correspondence explicitly about Christians. In his letter, Pliny describes interrogating suspected believers, giving them multiple chances to renounce their faith, and executing those who refused. He was baffled by the stubbornness of their devotion and confused by their harmless worship habits—meeting early to sing hymns, swearing not to steal or lie, and sharing food. But what disturbed him most was their refusal to curse Christ. This episode explores the content of Pliny’s letter, Trajan’s response, and what it reveals about early Christian identity, government policy, and the cost of confession. Pliny’s Dilemma isn’t just a Roman legal case—it’s a snapshot of a world where following Jesus could get you killed, and where even your enemies admitted… you were different. Today, it challenges modern believers to reflect: what would we say under pressure? And what would our accusers say about us?

He had never seen people like this before.

Roman governor Pliny the Younger had interrogated rebels, fraudsters, political dissidents—but these weren’t criminals. They weren’t violent. They weren’t even rude. Yet they stood before him in chains, calmly confessing a name he couldn’t understand.

“I am a Christian,” they said. And they said it again. And again. No hesitation. No bribes. No fear.

It was 112 AD in the northern province of Bithynia, and Pliny was stuck.

He wasn’t sure what the crime was. He just knew that Christianity was spreading—and that it wasn’t Roman. So he gave them three chances. He ordered incense to the gods. He demanded they curse their Christ.

And they wouldn’t.

So he executed them.

Then he did something almost no governor ever dared—he wrote the emperor for advice.

Pliny’s letter to Trajan has survived. It’s the oldest known Roman government record dealing with Christians. It’s not Christian propaganda. It’s not hearsay. It’s an honest, perplexed report from a Roman trying to make sense of believers who wouldn’t bend.

And the emperor’s reply? It shaped Roman policy toward Christians for the next hundred years.

This wasn’t just legal bureaucracy. It was the Roman Empire coming face-to-face with a new kind of people.

People who refused to die like Romans—because they had already died to themselves.

From the That’s Jesus Channel, welcome to COACH—where we trace Church Origins and Church History. I’m Bob Baulch.

On Mondays, we stay between 0 and 500 AD.

Today, we journey to the year 112. Christianity was spreading quietly through Roman provinces, unnoticed by many—but not for long. In the remote northern region of Bithynia, a Roman official named Pliny the Younger faced an unusual legal problem: people were being anonymously accused of being Christians. He had never dealt with them before. He didn’t understand their beliefs. But he had authority—and now, he had a dilemma.

This wasn’t a full-scale persecution. There were no mobs or emperors issuing decrees. Just one governor, one region, and one question:

What do we do with Christians?

So Pliny followed Roman procedure. He interrogated. He tortured. He executed. But what he discovered confused him more than it clarified.

These weren’t revolutionaries. They weren’t even politically disruptive. They just worshipped differently. And they wouldn’t deny their faith.

Pliny’s letter to Emperor Trajan is one of the most important early records we have—because it wasn’t written by a theologian or a bishop. It was written by a Roman trying to understand why these people wouldn’t let go of a name that could cost them everything.

Let’s go back to Bithynia—and open the scroll that changed Roman policy forever.

Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus—better known to history as Pliny the Younger—wasn’t new to government. He’d served in multiple high-level Roman posts, including consul. By 112 AD, Emperor Trajan appointed him as governor of Bithynia-Pontus, a coastal province along the Black Sea. His assignment was to bring order to the region, improve infrastructure, and root out corruption.

What he didn’t expect was Christianity.

Pliny began receiving anonymous accusations against local citizens. Their crime? Being a Christian. But there was a problem: he had no clear law to enforce. Christianity wasn’t officially banned. It wasn’t even defined. So he used the only tool he had—interrogation.

In his now-famous letter to Trajan, Pliny explained how he handled the situation. He would ask the accused if they were Christians. If they confessed, he would warn them. If they persisted, he would ask again—up to three times. If they still held firm, he would execute them.

“Those who denied that they were or had been Christians,” he wrote, “and who invoked the gods at my dictation, and offered prayer with incense and wine to your image... I thought it proper to discharge.”

(Verbatim – Q1)

But many didn’t recant.

Pliny was baffled. He described their practices: meeting on a fixed day before dawn, singing hymns to Christ “as to a god,” and binding themselves by oath—not to break the law, but to avoid theft, adultery, and falsehood.

There was no talk of rebellion. No political plots. Just strange, stubborn faith.

(Paraphrased – Q2)

Pliny’s dilemma was real. He wasn’t bloodthirsty. In fact, his entire letter reads like someone hoping for clarification, even mercy. But his Roman logic couldn’t make sense of people who wouldn’t submit. He even tortured two deaconesses “to discover what the truth was,” but still found no real crime—just a “perverse and extravagant superstition.”

(Verbatim – Q3)

So he wrote Trajan.

He didn’t ask whether the religion was true—he asked whether being a Christian was punishable by death. And he wanted to know: should age matter? Should recanting save someone? Should mere association with the name Christian be a crime?

This letter gives us something no other document from that time does: a window into what early Christians actually looked like to the outside world.

And to Pliny, they looked... disturbingly innocent.

Why risk everything—status, safety, even life—just to cling to a name?

Trajan’s response to Pliny was brief but set Roman policy: don’t hunt Christians, but if accused and unrepentant, punish them. Recanters who worshipped Roman gods were spared. Anonymous accusations were ignored—a pragmatic balance of justice and restraint.

(Summarized – Q4)

This exchange made Christian identity legally perilous for a century. Christians faced death not for crimes but for refusing to renounce Christ, as Rome prioritized loyalty to its gods over civic behavior.

Rome saw religion as civic duty, binding the empire. Sacrificing to Jupiter or the emperor was patriotic. Christians, loyal to another kingdom, refused to offer incense or curse Christ, baffling Pliny. Their existence challenged Rome’s religious unity.

His words capture the unease: “For the contagion of this superstition has spread not only to the cities but also to the villages and farms.”

(Verbatim – Q5)

Pliny feared their influence, not violence. Christianity grew quietly—relentlessly—without fading.

His letter reveals three truths about the early church.

First, it spread without organized leadership. Pliny found ordinary believers, some lapsed, others steadfast, clinging to Christ’s name without bishops or apologists.

Second, their worship was ethical, not political. They swore oaths against theft, lies, and adultery. Pliny called their practices “harmless” but illegal under Roman law.

(Paraphrased – Q6)

Third, their identity hinged on one thing: the name of Christ.

This name triggered judgment—life or death. Christians needed no other crime; refusing to deny Him was enough.

Pliny’s account offers a rare outsider’s view: a church loyal, peaceful, yet stubbornly faithful, puzzling a governor and unsettling an empire.

For Pliny, the climax wasn’t a dramatic trial. It was the silence.

He had power. He had protocol. But he didn’t have understanding.

Why would anyone choose death over a simple word?

He tried everything. Gave them chances. Offered mercy. Ordered incense. Tortured truth from slaves. And still—some wouldn’t budge.

What terrified Pliny wasn’t violence. It was conviction.

He’d encountered proud men, fanatics, rebels. But these Christians were different. They didn’t shout. They didn’t beg. They didn’t accuse. They simply stood still and said, “Yes. I am a Christian.”

And they died.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Roman society was built on negotiation and pragmatism. You swear the oath, burn the incense, say the words—and you live.

But what happens when people don’t play by Rome’s rules?

Pliny found out.

His letter is a window into the cost of discipleship at a time when Christians had no legal standing, no political clout, no earthly reward. And yet they wouldn’t let go of that name.

Pliny called it superstition. But superstition doesn’t breed sacrifice. It doesn’t form communities of joy and worship and truth. It doesn’t explain why even under pain and threat, they refused to deny their Lord.

What explains that kind of loyalty?

Here’s the challenge: we often fear being uncomfortable. But they faced execution. We avoid awkward conversations. They were marched to death.

The question echoes across time: could we stand as firmly?

Could we speak as clearly?

If accusation came—would we confess the name?

Because here’s the truth: the name that brought judgment before Trajan is the same name we carry today. And the early church didn’t just bear that name in secret. They declared it, lived it, and died with it on their lips.

“Christian.”

That was their confession—and their verdict.

Pliny’s letter was never meant to last. It was a temporary report, a bureaucratic inquiry—written on parchment, sent across the empire, filed away in some Roman archive.

But by providence or preservation, it survived. And it now stands as one of the most significant early records of Christian life outside the New Testament.

What makes it so valuable isn’t just its age—it’s the perspective. This wasn’t propaganda. It wasn’t written by someone defending the faith. It was penned by a pagan, baffled by people who seemed peaceful, ethical, and socially harmless—but utterly unbreakable in their devotion.

It shows us that even at the margins of Roman power, Christianity had taken root—rural towns, farming communities, ordinary people. No titles. No armies. Just gatherings at dawn, songs to a crucified man, and oaths of integrity.

That quiet legacy still speaks.

Today, we live in a world obsessed with image, acceptance, and survival. We change identities to avoid rejection. We soften convictions to maintain comfort.

But these believers—forgotten by their cities, condemned by their courts—had no incentive but Christ Himself.

They weren’t perfect. But they were faithful.

And their story confronts us: What defines us? What would we endure? What name would we refuse to renounce?

Because the Romans didn’t kill Christians for what they did.

They killed them for who they followed.

The Christians in Pliny’s letter weren’t trying to be heroes.

They didn’t demand rights. They didn’t organize protests. They didn’t seek attention. They simply refused to lie.

They said who they were—and they paid the price.

It’s tempting to read their story as ancient history. A different empire. A different world. But the truth is, the pressure to deny Christ never really disappears. It just changes form.

For some, it comes in the workplace. For others, in family tension. Sometimes it’s subtle—a sideways comment, a social exclusion. Sometimes it’s sharper—a lost opportunity, a legal threat, a public backlash.

And when it comes, we face our own version of Pliny’s question: “What should be done with those who bear the name?”

Do we hide it?

Soften it?

Or stand with it?

If this story of Pliny’s Dilemma challenged or encouraged you, would you consider sharing this episode with a friend? You never know who might need to hear it. It would really be appreciated if you went above and beyond by leaving a review on your podcast app! And don’t forget to follow COACH for more episodes every week.

Make sure you check out the show notes for sources used in the creation of this episode – and if you look closely, you’ll probably find some contrary opinions – and some Amazon links so you can get those resources for your own library while giving me a little bit of a kickback. Not trying to brag, but as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. Who knows, maybe I can earn a whole dollar this year!

Well, you never know what we’ll cover next on COACH! Every episode dives into a different corner of church history.

But on Monday, we stay between 0 and 500 AD.

And if you’d rather watch me tell these stories instead of just listening to them, you can find this episode—and every COACH video—on YouTube at the That’s Jesus Channel.

Thanks for listening to COACH – Church Origins and Church History. I’m Bob Baulch with the That’s Jesus Channel. Have a great day—and be blessed.

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