Vulgata XX Editorial

In 43 AD, the Emperor Claudius' legions arrived on the shores of Brittania and began to conquer the local tribes. Claudius had two powerful weapons in his arsenal: the first was the might of the Roman Legions, but this, in and of itself, had already proved insufficient when Julius Ceasar attempted to conquer the island 88 years earlier. The second was the Roman Villa, Roman Education, the promise of a Roman way of life. Claudius needed both of these weapons to succeed; the first he plied against the true enemies of Rome, the second against those chieftains who were not entirely zealous in opposing the conquest. Both those who resisted, and those who did not, ultimately fell under the power of empire.

Satan is not entirely unfamiliar with this principle of warfare. He knows, as well as Claudius did, that there is no point in attacking those who can peaceably be turned into allies, or at least into tacit collaborators. When the fire of Christian evangelism was sweeping across the Roman world, burning away the corrupt and decadent empire that he had so long brooded over like a hen over a malformed egg, the Devil became angry. He kindled the flames that would consume the martyrs, whetted the appetites of the lions, and sharpened the swords that would slice the heads off of Christians. Here there was a danger, a true threat to all that he had been working to build, and he reacted with predictable violence.

And what about now? As the fires of the gospel slowly sputter out in the wet wood of an increasingly lukewarm faith, the devil sits back and puts his feet up. The machinery is all there: it is possible to have anyone arrested, for any reason, or no particular reason -- all the Enemy would have to do is cry "Christian terrorist" instead of "Muslim terrorist" and the gates of Guantanamo would open to us as the gates of the Colliseum did to the martyrs of old. But why bother?

It is said that there is a certain kind of faith that does not bother the Devil. He knows perfectly well that as soon as the blood starts flowing through the streets, as soon as there are fresh exemplars of the faith for the faithful to emulate, that our courage will be rekindled. He knows that if we have seen our friends and fellow parishioners carried off and executed, that we will suddenly be ashamed of the faith that we have now. Instead of feeling sorry for ourselves because our stocks are failing, or worrying that we might become so poor that we have to cut the cable TV; instead of griping about our sexual needs, and squabbling with our spouses; instead of wandering aimlessly about in department stores, and squandering our lives on the pursuit of empty luxuries, we will gather in secret to pray. We will turn to God in earnest and beg for His mercy on ourselves and on our generation. We will find that strength that is lurking there, somewhere in our hearts, hampered by the overwhelming weight of luxury.

But, on the other hand, provided there are no obstacles, we can be left to strum our guitars and croon about how blessed we are in peace. Not Christ's peace, of course, but the peace of the world. The peace of the self-satisfied, the delicate, the pampered, the glutted, the rich. The pax Satanica, as powerful an instrument as the peace which Claudius brought to Brittania two-thousand years ago.