190 AD - Susanna and Purity and Defiance

Published on: 2025-07-23 20:11

In the catacombs of Rome, early Christians painted Susanna from the Book of Daniel as a symbol of chastity and resistance to sexual corruption. During the reign of Commodus, her image became a moral emblem for the faithful, shaping Christian art and identity through an unexpected, visual theology of purity.

She walked into her own garden, unaware that it would become a courtroom.

The morning was warm. Quiet. Safe. Susanna, the wife of Joakim, stepped behind the trees where her maids prepared the bath. The garden was walled, enclosed, private. But eyes were watching.

Two elders—men appointed as judges of Israel—had been there many days before. Men who should have taught the Law, not twisted it. They had watched her, plotted together, and waited. When her maids were sent away, they came out from hiding.

“Lie with us,” they said. “If you refuse, we’ll say we caught you committing adultery. The people will believe us.”

Susanna didn’t scream. She didn’t argue. She looked at them and at the sky above her.

“I am trapped,” she said. “If I do this, it is sin. If I refuse, you will destroy me. But I will not sin before the Lord.”

They carried out their plan. She was arrested. Dragged through the streets. The crowd gathered for judgment, because in her day, even false witnesses could summon the stones of execution.

She stood alone.

The elders testified.

She wept and said nothing, except to pray.

“O eternal God, who sees what is hidden… deliver me.”

Then a voice from the crowd: “I am innocent of this woman’s blood!”

The boy’s name was Daniel.

He rebuked the people for condemning without inquiry, then demanded the elders be questioned separately. What tree was the act done under? One said a mastic. The other said an oak.

It was over. Their lie collapsed under the weight of their own words.

Susanna was vindicated. The elders were sentenced.

And for the early Christians living in Rome nearly four hundred years later—when many Hebrew scrolls were silent, and the Septuagint was their Scriptures—this story from the Book of Daniel was not just memorable. It was sacred.

Not for its ending.

But for its moment of refusal.

Because what stayed with them—what was painted on the walls of catacombs, beside the tombs of young believers—was not the trial or Daniel’s brilliance.

It was the moment in the garden.

When a woman, threatened with death or disgrace, chose to obey God with her body.

And made that choice alone.

They painted that Susanna.

Not as a heroine.

But as a mirror.

Why would Christians in 190 AD surround their dead with images of her?

What were they trying to say about purity… in a city that had none?

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’re going back to the year 190 AD, under the rule of Emperor Commodus. Rome is the capital of the world—and the playground of its worst desires. Chastity is mocked. Lust is law. Women are exploited. Men are expected to indulge.

But beneath the surface—literally—a different story is unfolding.

In the dark passageways of the catacombs, early Christians begin to paint a woman on their walls. Not a martyr. Not a saint. Not even someone from the Hebrew canon.

Her name is Susanna. And they paint her moment of crisis—when she stood alone and chose obedience over survival.

She became a symbol. Not of piety. But of courage.

Because for the persecuted believers burying their dead beneath Roman streets, the fight wasn’t just about survival.

It was about integrity.

So why Susanna?

Why would a second-century church, fighting for breath under the empire’s foot, turn to her?

Susanna’s story, as preserved in the Septuagint’s version of Daniel, circulated widely among early Christians. Though absent from the Hebrew canon, it was read in the churches, cited by theologians, and—most tellingly—painted.

In the Priscilla Catacomb, one of the oldest Christian burial sites in Rome, frescoes show her turning away from two men. The moment is unmistakable. She isn’t speaking. She isn’t defended. She’s resisting.

It was a deliberate choice to capture that precise second—the garden decision—rather than the courtroom rescue.

That says something about the church that painted her.

Tertullian, writing around the same time in North Africa, referenced her in On Pudicity. (Paraphrased) She chose death before dishonor. Her virtue wasn’t passive. It was defiant. The early church didn’t see purity as a fragile trait—they saw it as armor.

Rome certainly didn’t.

By 190 AD, Emperor Commodus had institutionalized decadence. The empire prized sexual dominance and mocked restraint. The arenas, the brothels, the bathhouses—they all preached the same gospel: indulge.

But Susanna didn’t.

That’s why Christians took her story underground.

They weren’t just memorializing a woman.

They were making a statement.

The church didn’t need her to be a martyr.

They needed her to be a mirror.

In those earliest decades, Christian art was still forming. The fish. The anchor. The shepherd. And quietly, among those symbols, Susanna appeared—not as theology in argument, but as character in crisis.

Her posture became instruction.

Clement of Alexandria, in Stromata 4.19, held her up as an example of disciplined virtue. (Paraphrased) She did not waver. She chose what was godly, not what was safe. Her story didn’t just belong to women—it belonged to the whole church.

And it belonged especially to the young.

Because Rome’s young believers weren’t living in monasteries. They were walking to school past temples of Venus, standing in markets where flesh was sold, living in families where sexual abuse was legal and expected. Men were raised to take. Women were trained to please. Self-denial wasn’t a value—it was a liability.

That’s why Susanna mattered.

She wasn’t a preacher or prophet.

She was someone who had a choice.

And made the hard one.

Christian families buried their children—especially their daughters—beneath her image. Some were consecrated virgins. Others just believers trying to live pure in a rotten world.

But to paint her on a tomb?

That wasn’t grief.

That was a declaration.

She didn’t win with a sword.

She won with a “no.”

That’s what early Christians held onto.

Not that Susanna was saved, but that she refused before she knew she would be.

That moment—between threat and consequence—is where purity lives.

The church didn’t retell her story for drama. They recalled it to remind themselves what courage looks like before deliverance. Because that’s where most of them lived: under threat, in temptation, without guarantees.

They didn’t know if help would come.

They just knew obedience mattered.

Boys in Rome were taught to take what they wanted. Girls were trained to be quiet about what was taken. Christians said: neither.

And Susanna proved it.

Burials in the catacombs sometimes bear inscriptions like “virgo fidelis”—faithful virgin—or “intacta in Christo”—untouched in Christ. They weren’t bragging. They were bearing witness.

A different kind of martyrdom.

Not of blood.

But of self.

Susanna faded from canon debates but never left the walls.

Her image survived in brushstrokes and mosaics. Not because she was central to doctrine, but because she was central to discipleship.

She taught what the world refused to:

And the church didn’t forget.

We need that reminder.

Because we live in a world where boys are expected to fall, and girls are punished for standing. Where modesty is mocked and regret is common. Where purity is seen as weakness or shame—or worse, impossible.

But Susanna tells a different story.

To the man struggling with lust: your body isn’t in charge.

Susanna isn’t there to shame you.

She’s there to remind you what’s possible.

And to prove the church once believed it was worth painting.

You don’t need a catacomb to make a statement.

You just need to decide what your body is for.

If you're listening to this and battling temptation—know this: purity is not a myth. It's not a relic. It's resistance. It’s the refusal to be bought, used, or broken by a world that sells lies wrapped in pleasure.

If you're a guy who thinks it’s hopeless, that lust always wins—Susanna’s silence speaks louder than your shame. You are not beyond restoration.

If you're a girl who feels invisible unless you show more—her story says your value was never meant to be displayed. It was meant to be guarded.

If you regret where you’ve been—then let today be your “no.” The early Christians didn’t paint her because she was flawless. They painted her because she fought. That’s the part they honored.

And maybe, if you choose courage, someone will look at your life one day and feel seen.

Not because you were perfect.

But because you said no—when it counted.

So wear chastity like armor.

Let it guard your dating, your scrolling, your weekends, your memories, your body.

Let it speak when words fail.

Let it echo what those Christians once painted in stone:

We belong to God.

If this story of Susanna’s Purity 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 Amazon links so you can get them for your own library while giving me a little bit of a kickback. As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. Who knows? Maybe I can earn up to a whole dollar this year!

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

On Mondays, 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.

References and Amazon Links

Z-Notes (Zero Dispute Notes)

POP (Parallel Orthodox Perspective)

SCOP (Skeptical or Contrary Opinion Points)

QUOTES

REFERENCES AND AMAZON LINKS

Equipment and Audio Credits

Audio Credits

Video Credits