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250 AD The Catacombs of Faith - Rome's Hidden Worship
Published on: 2025-07-04 09:36
Around 250 AD, during Decius’ persecution, Rome’s Christians worshipped in secret within the Catacombs of Callistus. Carved beneath the city, these tunnels housed altars and frescoes of fish and crosses. Presbyters like Gaius led Eucharist services for hundreds, hiding from Roman patrols. Deacons smuggled scriptures through narrow passages, while families buried martyrs’ relics in loculi. Informants betrayed some entrances, leading to raids and arrests. Survivors painted biblical scenes, like Jonah’s whale, on walls. The catacombs, spanning miles, sheltered Rome’s church, enabling secret gatherings despite relentless Roman searches for Christian leaders.
https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJdTG9noRxsEKpmDoPX06VtfGrB-Hb7T4&si=W7jZcm46Ka3eJlm5
Transcript
The entrance looked like a hole in the hillside—nothing remarkable. Just off the Appian Way, it was easy to miss. But if you stepped inside and lit a torch, the earth opened up into silence.
Passages. Chambers. Wall after wall of rectangular tombs.
And voices.
Some prayed in Latin. Others wept quietly. A presbyter lifted a piece of bread and whispered words first spoken in an upper room centuries earlier. Somewhere nearby, a child traced the image of a fish into the dust. This wasn’t a funeral. It was worship.
Above them, the Roman Empire was hunting them down. It was the year 250 AD, and Emperor Decius had unleashed one of the fiercest persecutions the church had ever faced. Soldiers demanded sacrifices to the gods and proof on paper—libelli, they called them. Christians who refused were arrested. Or worse.
But beneath Rome, in a place of death, the church was alive.
Here in the Catacombs of Callistus, worship didn’t stop. It went underground. Faith was practiced beside the graves of martyrs. Art was scratched into walls. Communion was taken in whispers.
The church didn’t just survive.
It descended.
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 return to the year 250 AD, a time when Christianity in Rome was forced into the shadows—literally. Above ground, the Empire enforced one of its harshest edicts yet. Below ground, the faithful gathered among tombs to pray, sing, and break bread.
This episode tells the story of the Catacombs of Callistus, a sprawling underground cemetery that became one of the church’s boldest sanctuaries. We won’t just explore what Christians endured—we’ll look at how they lived their faith in the middle of it.
We’ll examine the political pressures that made open worship dangerous. We’ll walk through the tombs where bishops were buried and believers found shelter. And we’ll study the images painted on the walls—pictures of rescue, resurrection, and quiet courage.
In a world demanding conformity, Rome’s Christians found creative ways to stay connected to Christ. Not by challenging Caesar in the streets, but by gathering beneath his feet. In these tunnels, you won’t find thrones or swords.
But you will find crosses scratched into stone—and a church determined to endure.
Let’s go underground.
To understand why Rome’s Christians fled underground, we need to understand the emperor who drove them there.
Gaius Messius Quintus Decius, often simply known as Decius, rose to power in 249 AD amid a rapidly destabilizing empire. Military threats loomed on multiple borders. The economy faltered. And many Romans blamed their misfortunes on what they saw as the neglect of traditional gods.🅉
Decius responded with what seemed to him a patriotic solution: enforce Roman religion. He issued an empire-wide decree in early 250 AD, requiring every citizen—regardless of social status—to offer sacrifice to the Roman gods and to the genius of the emperor. Once completed, the act was certified by an official document called a libellus.🅉
The edict did not explicitly single out Christians. But its effect was chilling. For believers, offering sacrifice wasn’t a political gesture—it was idolatry. To burn incense to Jupiter was to deny Christ.🅉
There had been persecution before, often local and short-lived. But this was different. Decius’ order was universal and bureaucratically enforced. Christians who refused to comply were imprisoned, tortured, or executed. Even those who fled risked betrayal by informants hoping to curry favor with officials.
In Rome, many Christians turned to the catacombs, which had originally been excavated as burial grounds. The Catacombs of Callistus, located along the Appian Way, were among the largest and most organized. Dug into soft volcanic stone called tufa, they stretched for miles beneath the surface and contained multiple layers of chambers, tombs, and narrow corridors.🅉
These spaces had always been sacred to Christians. Generations of believers had buried their dead here, including bishops, martyrs, and loved ones. Now, during Decius’ persecution, the catacombs became more than cemeteries. They became sanctuaries.
It’s important to note that this wasn’t a theatrical retreat or a symbolic gesture. The church in Rome adapted under intense pressure. Worship didn’t cease. It simply moved. Prayers were whispered among tombs. Scripture was read in low light. The Eucharist was shared where martyrs lay.
Above ground, Rome thundered with rituals to pagan gods. But beneath its feet, the people of Christ remembered another kingdom—one not made with hands.
What the empire tried to crush, the underground helped preserve.
By the spring of 250 AD, the Roman streets were tense with fear—and not just fear of persecution. There were whispers of betrayals. Neighbors turned neighbors in. Soldiers raided homes and marketplaces. Anyone without a libellus risked interrogation.
It was in this climate that the Catacombs of Callistus took on a new role.
The site, already known as the official cemetery of the Roman church, became a lifeline. Christians moved through its corridors in near silence. Some brought bread and wine. Others carried scraps of Scripture—copied by hand and hidden in cloaks or oil jars.🅉 Deacons often acted as couriers, navigating the tunnels and delivering supplies to those who had gone into hiding.🅉
At the heart of these catacombs were chambers carved intentionally for gathering, not burial. Arched recesses in the walls—called arcosolia—held the bodies of revered martyrs. But the spaces between were cleared for prayer and fellowship. In some rooms, you can still see the marks of benches cut directly into the stone.
These weren’t large assemblies. At most, a few dozen believers could crowd into a chamber. But what they lacked in size, they made up for in intensity. They shared communion not in grand basilicas, but in the company of the dead. The body and blood of Christ, offered in whispers, under threat of arrest.
Some of the earliest Christian art appeared here—not in museums, but on the walls of tombs. You’ll find simple line paintings of the Good Shepherd, carrying a lamb across his shoulders. There’s Jonah and the great fish, a symbol of burial and resurrection. On one wall, Noah’s ark rides the flood. On another, Daniel stands surrounded by lions, untouched.🅉
These were not ornamental. They were confessions in color.
The presence of these images during Decius’ reign suggests that believers not only worshipped underground, but decorated their worship spaces with truth—truth that reminded them God delivers.
Presbyters like Gaius, recorded in church documents, may have presided over these secret services. It’s likely that bishops continued administering sacraments underground even as official lists marked them for arrest.🅉 The Roman government saw catacombs as cemeteries. But to the church, they were cathedrals carved into the earth.
Sometimes raids happened anyway.
Roman guards—tipped off by informants—stormed certain entrances. Arrests followed. A few managed to escape through hidden shafts or alternate tunnels. But others, including leaders, were dragged out and never returned.
Yet the gatherings continued. If one entrance was compromised, another chamber was used. The church remembered the layout by heart. Faith was mapped into stone.
And every fresco they painted, every hymn they whispered, said what Rome didn’t want to hear:
Christ is still King—even underground.
At the peak of Decius’ crackdown, the Roman underground was more than a refuge. It was a declaration.
One recorded incident tells of a group of Christians cornered in a chamber deep within the catacombs. The service had already begun—bread broken, wine blessed—when sounds echoed from the tunnel: footsteps. Voices. A metal clash. The presbyter reportedly turned to those gathered and said, “Let us finish what we started.” And they did.
Moments later, Roman soldiers burst into the room.
Some fled through connecting passages. Others were arrested. And yet, none of them recanted. The libellus they could have obtained was within reach. All it required was a pinch of incense.
But they had already offered their sacrifice—at the Table of the Lord.
These stories aren’t just legends. They’re embedded in the architecture, the art, and the memory of the church. And their impact reaches forward to us.
In the modern world, few believers face Roman swords. But we are still tempted to compromise—to offer our own kinds of incense. We’re asked to sacrifice truth for social comfort, to mute our faith to fit the mood of the moment.
The Christians in the catacombs didn’t stage revolts or write manifestos. They simply remained faithful when it was hardest. They whispered creeds when shouting was forbidden. They served communion where tombs reminded them that Christ had already faced death—and won.
Today, in places like North Korea, Iran, or parts of northern Africa, underground churches still gather much like those in ancient Rome. They risk arrest to meet. They memorize Scripture because scrolls can be confiscated. They whisper songs.
And they echo the catacomb church.
But this isn’t just about persecution. The catacombs also challenge modern Christians in comfort. Are we gathering with the same urgency? Do we treasure worship enough to risk anything for it? When silence is safer, do we still speak?
Rome tried to bury the church.
But instead, the tombs became a cradle for courageous faith.
And in a way, they still are.
Because every time a believer refuses to deny Christ—even quietly, even alone—they join that underground chorus of those who would rather worship in a grave than forget who their Savior is.
The Catacombs of Callistus did not disappear when the persecution ended. In fact, they became a kind of archive—stone testimonies that carried the story of the underground church into the future.
After Decius’ death in 251 AD, some relief came. But the pattern of persecution resumed under later emperors like Valerian and Diocletian. The catacombs remained active sites for burial, worship, and remembrance well into the early fourth century.🅉 When Constantine legalized Christianity in 313 AD, the need to hide finally vanished—but the memory did not.
By the 400s, pilgrims from across the empire visited the catacombs. They left inscriptions, scratched prayers into the walls, and sometimes retrieved relics of martyrs to take back to their churches.🅉 The underground had become sacred—proof that the church had endured fire and storm.
Today, archaeologists have uncovered over 500 individual paintings in the Catacombs of Callistus. These images are among the earliest visual expressions of Christian theology—predating formal creeds or councils. They reveal a faith rooted in hope, resurrection, and deliverance.🅉
Even more revealing are the inscriptions. Phrases like “In pace” (“In peace”) and “Vivas in Deo” (“May you live in God”) appear again and again, echoing a belief that death was not the end.🅉 These weren’t just markers of grief—they were declarations of triumph.
In the modern world, the catacombs serve as a reminder that faith is not tied to public visibility or political acceptance. It thrives wherever believers gather, even in silence.
And this legacy continues.
In recent decades, churches under pressure—from communist regimes, Islamic extremists, or authoritarian governments—have revived the ancient practices of Rome’s underground church. They meet secretly, pass Scripture by hand, and sometimes worship in basements, caves, or forests.
But perhaps more powerfully, the catacombs speak to us who live in freedom.
They ask: what are you doing with the liberty they never had?
Are we using our open access to worship with the same intensity they used in hiding? Or have we forgotten what it means to risk for the sake of Christ?
Their courage didn’t just shape their moment—it calls ours to account.
We live in a time of light—free to gather, to speak, to worship. And yet, sometimes, our faith flickers. Not from outside pressure, but from inside neglect.
The Christians of 250 AD didn’t have microphones or sanctuaries. They had tombs. They had tunnels. And they had a Savior worth worshipping in the dark.
What do we have?
We shy from bold confessions, yet creeds once whispered underground unified churches across continents. We chase convenience, while they braved arrest to share the bread and cup. We scroll past Scripture while they etched fish into stone because paper could be seized.
Their world demanded silence. They whispered truth.
Our world demands relevance. Will we live it?
The catacombs of Rome are still there. Tourists walk through them. Historians study them. But what matters more is whether we carry their witness forward. Because their story isn’t just about hiding—it’s about holding fast. They remind us that worship was never meant to be easy. It was always meant to be faithful.
So here’s the question: What would drive you underground?
And a better one: What would keep you faithful when you got there?
If this story of Rome’s hidden worship 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.
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
🧭 Parallel Interpretations within the Orthodox Framework
Lampe, Peter, From Paul to Valentinus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), ISBN 9780800631004 — argues catacomb communities functioned as integrated house-church networks. [Paraphrased]
⚖️ Direct Challenges or Skeptical Positions
Moss, Candida, The Myth of Persecution (New York: HarperOne, 2013), ISBN 9780062104526 — argues the early church exaggerated martyrdom to forge identity. [Paraphrased]
📌 Numbered Footnotes
Frend, W.H.C., Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965), ISBN 9780631147587. [Summarized] [used as: Decian edict context]
🅉 Z-Footnotes
Decius’ edict required libelli (sacrifice certificates).
Amazon Affiliate Links for References and Equipment
Disclosure: As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.
Below are the Amazon affiliate links for the provided references for the Christian Catacombs episode and the current equipment for That’s Jesus Channel production, where available. Some references (e.g., specific chapters, journal articles, or out-of-print editions) are excluded if unavailable on Amazon.
Christian Catacombs Episode References
Lampe, Peter, From Paul to Valentinus (Fortress Press, 2003)
Snyder, Graydon F., Ante Pacem (Mercer University Press, 2003)
Osiek, Carolyn & Snyder, Graydon F., Buried Together (Baker Academic, 2006)
Meeks, Wayne A., The First Urban Christians (Yale University Press, 1983)
Jensen, Robin M., Understanding Early Christian Art (Routledge, 2000)
Fiocchi Nicolai, Fabrizio, The Christian Catacombs of Rome (Vatican: Pontifical Commission, 1999)
Brent, Allen, Cyprian and Roman Carthage (Cambridge University Press, 2010)
Moss, Candida, The Myth of Persecution (HarperOne, 2013)
Chadwick, Henry, The Early Church (Penguin, 1993)
Beard, Mary, SPQR (Liveright, 2015)
MacCulloch, Diarmaid, Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years (Viking, 2010)
Lane Fox, Robin, Pagans and Christians (Knopf, 1987)
Grant, Robert M., Christianity and Roman Society (University of Chicago Press, 1977)
Goodenough, Erwin R., Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, Vol. II (Princeton University Press, 1953)
Filoramo, Giovanni, A History of Gnosticism (Blackwell, 1992)
White, L. Michael, From Jesus to Christianity (HarperOne, 2004)
Frend, W.H.C., Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Blackwell, 1965)
Kelly, J.N.D., Early Christian Doctrines (Harper & Row, 1978)
Wilken, Robert, The Spirit of Early Christian Thought (Yale University Press, 2003)
Pelikan, Jaroslav, The Christian Tradition, Vol. 1 (University of Chicago Press, 1971)
Schaff, Philip, History of the Christian Church, Vol. 2 (Eerdmans, 1910)
Brown, Peter, The Rise of Western Christendom (Wiley-Blackwell, 2003)
Ferguson, Everett, Church History, Vol. 1 (Zondervan, 2005)
Stark, Rodney, The Rise of Christianity (HarperOne, 1997)
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Audio Credits
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250 AD The Catacombs of Faith - Rome's Hidden Worship
Published on: 2025-07-04 09:36
Around 250 AD, during Decius’ persecution, Rome’s Christians worshipped in secret within the Catacombs of Callistus. Carved beneath the city, these tunnels housed altars and frescoes of fish and crosses. Presbyters like Gaius led Eucharist services for hundreds, hiding from Roman patrols. Deacons smuggled scriptures through narrow passages, while families buried martyrs’ relics in loculi. Informants betrayed some entrances, leading to raids and arrests. Survivors painted biblical scenes, like Jonah’s whale, on walls. The catacombs, spanning miles, sheltered Rome’s church, enabling secret gatherings despite relentless Roman searches for Christian leaders.
https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJdTG9noRxsEKpmDoPX06VtfGrB-Hb7T4&si=W7jZcm46Ka3eJlm5
Transcript
The entrance looked like a hole in the hillside—nothing remarkable. Just off the Appian Way, it was easy to miss. But if you stepped inside and lit a torch, the earth opened up into silence.
Passages. Chambers. Wall after wall of rectangular tombs.
And voices.
Some prayed in Latin. Others wept quietly. A presbyter lifted a piece of bread and whispered words first spoken in an upper room centuries earlier. Somewhere nearby, a child traced the image of a fish into the dust. This wasn’t a funeral. It was worship.
Above them, the Roman Empire was hunting them down. It was the year 250 AD, and Emperor Decius had unleashed one of the fiercest persecutions the church had ever faced. Soldiers demanded sacrifices to the gods and proof on paper—libelli, they called them. Christians who refused were arrested. Or worse.
But beneath Rome, in a place of death, the church was alive.
Here in the Catacombs of Callistus, worship didn’t stop. It went underground. Faith was practiced beside the graves of martyrs. Art was scratched into walls. Communion was taken in whispers.
The church didn’t just survive.
It descended.
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 return to the year 250 AD, a time when Christianity in Rome was forced into the shadows—literally. Above ground, the Empire enforced one of its harshest edicts yet. Below ground, the faithful gathered among tombs to pray, sing, and break bread.
This episode tells the story of the Catacombs of Callistus, a sprawling underground cemetery that became one of the church’s boldest sanctuaries. We won’t just explore what Christians endured—we’ll look at how they lived their faith in the middle of it.
We’ll examine the political pressures that made open worship dangerous. We’ll walk through the tombs where bishops were buried and believers found shelter. And we’ll study the images painted on the walls—pictures of rescue, resurrection, and quiet courage.
In a world demanding conformity, Rome’s Christians found creative ways to stay connected to Christ. Not by challenging Caesar in the streets, but by gathering beneath his feet. In these tunnels, you won’t find thrones or swords.
But you will find crosses scratched into stone—and a church determined to endure.
Let’s go underground.
To understand why Rome’s Christians fled underground, we need to understand the emperor who drove them there.
Gaius Messius Quintus Decius, often simply known as Decius, rose to power in 249 AD amid a rapidly destabilizing empire. Military threats loomed on multiple borders. The economy faltered. And many Romans blamed their misfortunes on what they saw as the neglect of traditional gods.🅉
Decius responded with what seemed to him a patriotic solution: enforce Roman religion. He issued an empire-wide decree in early 250 AD, requiring every citizen—regardless of social status—to offer sacrifice to the Roman gods and to the genius of the emperor. Once completed, the act was certified by an official document called a libellus.🅉
The edict did not explicitly single out Christians. But its effect was chilling. For believers, offering sacrifice wasn’t a political gesture—it was idolatry. To burn incense to Jupiter was to deny Christ.🅉
There had been persecution before, often local and short-lived. But this was different. Decius’ order was universal and bureaucratically enforced. Christians who refused to comply were imprisoned, tortured, or executed. Even those who fled risked betrayal by informants hoping to curry favor with officials.
In Rome, many Christians turned to the catacombs, which had originally been excavated as burial grounds. The Catacombs of Callistus, located along the Appian Way, were among the largest and most organized. Dug into soft volcanic stone called tufa, they stretched for miles beneath the surface and contained multiple layers of chambers, tombs, and narrow corridors.🅉
These spaces had always been sacred to Christians. Generations of believers had buried their dead here, including bishops, martyrs, and loved ones. Now, during Decius’ persecution, the catacombs became more than cemeteries. They became sanctuaries.
It’s important to note that this wasn’t a theatrical retreat or a symbolic gesture. The church in Rome adapted under intense pressure. Worship didn’t cease. It simply moved. Prayers were whispered among tombs. Scripture was read in low light. The Eucharist was shared where martyrs lay.
Above ground, Rome thundered with rituals to pagan gods. But beneath its feet, the people of Christ remembered another kingdom—one not made with hands.
What the empire tried to crush, the underground helped preserve.
By the spring of 250 AD, the Roman streets were tense with fear—and not just fear of persecution. There were whispers of betrayals. Neighbors turned neighbors in. Soldiers raided homes and marketplaces. Anyone without a libellus risked interrogation.
It was in this climate that the Catacombs of Callistus took on a new role.
The site, already known as the official cemetery of the Roman church, became a lifeline. Christians moved through its corridors in near silence. Some brought bread and wine. Others carried scraps of Scripture—copied by hand and hidden in cloaks or oil jars.🅉 Deacons often acted as couriers, navigating the tunnels and delivering supplies to those who had gone into hiding.🅉
At the heart of these catacombs were chambers carved intentionally for gathering, not burial. Arched recesses in the walls—called arcosolia—held the bodies of revered martyrs. But the spaces between were cleared for prayer and fellowship. In some rooms, you can still see the marks of benches cut directly into the stone.
These weren’t large assemblies. At most, a few dozen believers could crowd into a chamber. But what they lacked in size, they made up for in intensity. They shared communion not in grand basilicas, but in the company of the dead. The body and blood of Christ, offered in whispers, under threat of arrest.
Some of the earliest Christian art appeared here—not in museums, but on the walls of tombs. You’ll find simple line paintings of the Good Shepherd, carrying a lamb across his shoulders. There’s Jonah and the great fish, a symbol of burial and resurrection. On one wall, Noah’s ark rides the flood. On another, Daniel stands surrounded by lions, untouched.🅉
These were not ornamental. They were confessions in color.
The presence of these images during Decius’ reign suggests that believers not only worshipped underground, but decorated their worship spaces with truth—truth that reminded them God delivers.
Presbyters like Gaius, recorded in church documents, may have presided over these secret services. It’s likely that bishops continued administering sacraments underground even as official lists marked them for arrest.🅉 The Roman government saw catacombs as cemeteries. But to the church, they were cathedrals carved into the earth.
Sometimes raids happened anyway.
Roman guards—tipped off by informants—stormed certain entrances. Arrests followed. A few managed to escape through hidden shafts or alternate tunnels. But others, including leaders, were dragged out and never returned.
Yet the gatherings continued. If one entrance was compromised, another chamber was used. The church remembered the layout by heart. Faith was mapped into stone.
And every fresco they painted, every hymn they whispered, said what Rome didn’t want to hear:
Christ is still King—even underground.
At the peak of Decius’ crackdown, the Roman underground was more than a refuge. It was a declaration.
One recorded incident tells of a group of Christians cornered in a chamber deep within the catacombs. The service had already begun—bread broken, wine blessed—when sounds echoed from the tunnel: footsteps. Voices. A metal clash. The presbyter reportedly turned to those gathered and said, “Let us finish what we started.” And they did.
Moments later, Roman soldiers burst into the room.
Some fled through connecting passages. Others were arrested. And yet, none of them recanted. The libellus they could have obtained was within reach. All it required was a pinch of incense.
But they had already offered their sacrifice—at the Table of the Lord.
These stories aren’t just legends. They’re embedded in the architecture, the art, and the memory of the church. And their impact reaches forward to us.
In the modern world, few believers face Roman swords. But we are still tempted to compromise—to offer our own kinds of incense. We’re asked to sacrifice truth for social comfort, to mute our faith to fit the mood of the moment.
The Christians in the catacombs didn’t stage revolts or write manifestos. They simply remained faithful when it was hardest. They whispered creeds when shouting was forbidden. They served communion where tombs reminded them that Christ had already faced death—and won.
Today, in places like North Korea, Iran, or parts of northern Africa, underground churches still gather much like those in ancient Rome. They risk arrest to meet. They memorize Scripture because scrolls can be confiscated. They whisper songs.
And they echo the catacomb church.
But this isn’t just about persecution. The catacombs also challenge modern Christians in comfort. Are we gathering with the same urgency? Do we treasure worship enough to risk anything for it? When silence is safer, do we still speak?
Rome tried to bury the church.
But instead, the tombs became a cradle for courageous faith.
And in a way, they still are.
Because every time a believer refuses to deny Christ—even quietly, even alone—they join that underground chorus of those who would rather worship in a grave than forget who their Savior is.
The Catacombs of Callistus did not disappear when the persecution ended. In fact, they became a kind of archive—stone testimonies that carried the story of the underground church into the future.
After Decius’ death in 251 AD, some relief came. But the pattern of persecution resumed under later emperors like Valerian and Diocletian. The catacombs remained active sites for burial, worship, and remembrance well into the early fourth century.🅉 When Constantine legalized Christianity in 313 AD, the need to hide finally vanished—but the memory did not.
By the 400s, pilgrims from across the empire visited the catacombs. They left inscriptions, scratched prayers into the walls, and sometimes retrieved relics of martyrs to take back to their churches.🅉 The underground had become sacred—proof that the church had endured fire and storm.
Today, archaeologists have uncovered over 500 individual paintings in the Catacombs of Callistus. These images are among the earliest visual expressions of Christian theology—predating formal creeds or councils. They reveal a faith rooted in hope, resurrection, and deliverance.🅉
Even more revealing are the inscriptions. Phrases like “In pace” (“In peace”) and “Vivas in Deo” (“May you live in God”) appear again and again, echoing a belief that death was not the end.🅉 These weren’t just markers of grief—they were declarations of triumph.
In the modern world, the catacombs serve as a reminder that faith is not tied to public visibility or political acceptance. It thrives wherever believers gather, even in silence.
And this legacy continues.
In recent decades, churches under pressure—from communist regimes, Islamic extremists, or authoritarian governments—have revived the ancient practices of Rome’s underground church. They meet secretly, pass Scripture by hand, and sometimes worship in basements, caves, or forests.
But perhaps more powerfully, the catacombs speak to us who live in freedom.
They ask: what are you doing with the liberty they never had?
Are we using our open access to worship with the same intensity they used in hiding? Or have we forgotten what it means to risk for the sake of Christ?
Their courage didn’t just shape their moment—it calls ours to account.
We live in a time of light—free to gather, to speak, to worship. And yet, sometimes, our faith flickers. Not from outside pressure, but from inside neglect.
The Christians of 250 AD didn’t have microphones or sanctuaries. They had tombs. They had tunnels. And they had a Savior worth worshipping in the dark.
What do we have?
We shy from bold confessions, yet creeds once whispered underground unified churches across continents. We chase convenience, while they braved arrest to share the bread and cup. We scroll past Scripture while they etched fish into stone because paper could be seized.
Their world demanded silence. They whispered truth.
Our world demands relevance. Will we live it?
The catacombs of Rome are still there. Tourists walk through them. Historians study them. But what matters more is whether we carry their witness forward. Because their story isn’t just about hiding—it’s about holding fast. They remind us that worship was never meant to be easy. It was always meant to be faithful.
So here’s the question: What would drive you underground?
And a better one: What would keep you faithful when you got there?
If this story of Rome’s hidden worship 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.
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
🧭 Parallel Interpretations within the Orthodox Framework
Lampe, Peter, From Paul to Valentinus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), ISBN 9780800631004 — argues catacomb communities functioned as integrated house-church networks. [Paraphrased]
⚖️ Direct Challenges or Skeptical Positions
Moss, Candida, The Myth of Persecution (New York: HarperOne, 2013), ISBN 9780062104526 — argues the early church exaggerated martyrdom to forge identity. [Paraphrased]
📌 Numbered Footnotes
Frend, W.H.C., Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965), ISBN 9780631147587. [Summarized] [used as: Decian edict context]
🅉 Z-Footnotes
Decius’ edict required libelli (sacrifice certificates).
Amazon Affiliate Links for References and Equipment
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Below are the Amazon affiliate links for the provided references for the Christian Catacombs episode and the current equipment for That’s Jesus Channel production, where available. Some references (e.g., specific chapters, journal articles, or out-of-print editions) are excluded if unavailable on Amazon.
Christian Catacombs Episode References
Lampe, Peter, From Paul to Valentinus (Fortress Press, 2003)
Snyder, Graydon F., Ante Pacem (Mercer University Press, 2003)
Osiek, Carolyn & Snyder, Graydon F., Buried Together (Baker Academic, 2006)
Meeks, Wayne A., The First Urban Christians (Yale University Press, 1983)
Jensen, Robin M., Understanding Early Christian Art (Routledge, 2000)
Fiocchi Nicolai, Fabrizio, The Christian Catacombs of Rome (Vatican: Pontifical Commission, 1999)
Brent, Allen, Cyprian and Roman Carthage (Cambridge University Press, 2010)
Moss, Candida, The Myth of Persecution (HarperOne, 2013)
Chadwick, Henry, The Early Church (Penguin, 1993)
Beard, Mary, SPQR (Liveright, 2015)
MacCulloch, Diarmaid, Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years (Viking, 2010)
Lane Fox, Robin, Pagans and Christians (Knopf, 1987)
Grant, Robert M., Christianity and Roman Society (University of Chicago Press, 1977)
Goodenough, Erwin R., Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, Vol. II (Princeton University Press, 1953)
Filoramo, Giovanni, A History of Gnosticism (Blackwell, 1992)
White, L. Michael, From Jesus to Christianity (HarperOne, 2004)
Frend, W.H.C., Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church (Blackwell, 1965)
Kelly, J.N.D., Early Christian Doctrines (Harper & Row, 1978)
Wilken, Robert, The Spirit of Early Christian Thought (Yale University Press, 2003)
Pelikan, Jaroslav, The Christian Tradition, Vol. 1 (University of Chicago Press, 1971)
Schaff, Philip, History of the Christian Church, Vol. 2 (Eerdmans, 1910)
Brown, Peter, The Rise of Western Christendom (Wiley-Blackwell, 2003)
Ferguson, Everett, Church History, Vol. 1 (Zondervan, 2005)
Stark, Rodney, The Rise of Christianity (HarperOne, 1997)
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Audio Credits
Background Music: “Background Music Soft Calm” by INPLUSMUSIC licensed under Pixabay Content License, available at https://pixabay.com/music/upbeat-background-music-soft-calm-335280/