In the cruel city of Rome, founded on its seven hills, in the reign of Diocletian, Saint Sebastian died.
The charcoal fires were burning in every courtyard in the city, for the night was cold and dark and sifting snow. But deep beneath the Emperor’s palace, bound in irons, there was no fire to warm the Christian martyrs, who shivered, chains rattling, waiting for death to come. Very late that night, or it may have been very early in the morning, a figure moved through the streets, wrapped in a black cloak that the wind seemed not to touch. This figure, he made no sound; he left no trail. He floated through the falling snow like a specter, and came to a darkened doorway that gaped like a hungry black throat; it swallowed him up.
Inside the prison, each torch gasped out as he moved by. And as each was extinguished, the darkness grew, and the Christians in their chains soon realized, something was coming. The figure stopped before them, one torch remaining, and raised a shadowed hand to its cowl. He pulled it back; he was Sebastian, a soldier in the Praetorian Guard. In the early morning hours, he often brought the Eucharist to those doomed to die that day, for he shared their faith, and he tended to those who were captive.
But this morning, of all mornings, someone had seen him come, and quickly the report was carried to the Emperor. And so, that evening, Sebastian found himself in the prisoners’ place, in the captives’ cell, in the chains reserved for an outlawed faith.
The Emperor barked the command, and Sebastian was tied to a silver tree by his former comrades. The famed Muritanian Archers were called, who stood, each in his place, who drew their bows as one, who let their arrows fly. Blood flowered at each wound; it pooled at his feet and steamed in the snow, and Sebastian was soon as full of arrows as an urchin is full of pins. The soldiers took his body from the palace; they threw it out, into the street.
In the frozen night, a she-wolf stalked the seven hills. She gave a howl that echoed through stony streets. The white snow fell, and soon wrapped Sebastian’s body as a shroud. And it was there that Saint Irene came upon him, and set about to prepare him for burial. Yet as she cleaned his wounds, she realized that he still was breathing, a crystal cloud in the frozen air. The ghost still inhabited his body.
Irene nursed him back to health; she bound his wounds and sewed his flesh. And the moment he could stand, Sebastian returned feebly to the Emperor’s palace to stand upon the stairs when the Emperor would descend.
As Diocletian came to his marble steps, he beheld Sebastian leaning against the fluted rail, his flesh a pallid hue, body stitched together with thread as an old quilt. A pale fire burned in the saint’s eyes. “A ghost,” the Emperor said to himself, “or very much worse . . . a zombie!”
Sebastian began to move toward him, and gave a groan from the pain.
“Yes,” thought Diocletian, “assuredly a zombie.”
When the Emperor’s bodyguards saw Sebastian shambling forward, each drew his gladius and they closed ranks. “My liege,” said one, “is this not Sebastian, whom you had killed?”
“Indeed,” said Sebastian, “but the Lord recalled me to life.”
“To life?” spat Diocletian. “Nay! You may not be dead, but you are certainly not alive. ‘Undead,’ I name thee!”
The soldiers exchanged puzzled looks.
“The Lord recalled me to life,” continued Sebastian, “that I might meet you here and tell you this: what you do is wrong, when you persecute the servants of Christ, for they do not seek your harm, but pray daily that God would bless you.”
The Emperor scoffed. “What are you prattling on about? You should barely be able to form words; the extent of your vocabulary should be ‘Uuuuh’ and ‘Braaains’. You’re the most talkative zombie I’ve ever met.”
“What’s a zombie?” asked one of the soldiers, a certain Milton by name, from the region of Cappadocia.
“Nevermind,” replied the Emperor, “an anachronism. Just don’t let him bite you.”
“Bite us?”
“I don’t want to bite anyone,” said Sebastian.
But Diocletian had made up his mind. He gave the command and had Sebastian martyred a second time. He ordered his soldiers to use clubs and cudgels, until his body was undone. “And then, make sure you cut off his head,” he warned.
“That’s not excessive?” asked Milton.
But they did it anyway, and when Sebastian’s body was thoroughly broken, and his head removed, and his ghost truly departed, what was left of him, they threw into the sewers.
And it is for this reason that Sebastian is the patron saint of martyrs, and of archers, and against plagues, and most of all, against the impending zombie apocalypse.
Sebastian Faust lives (exists?) in Nashville, Tennessee with his dog Watson, who died when a car struck him 22 years ago. He’s had several roommates who have disappeared under mysterious circumstances, never to be heard from again. And all he wants to do is eat your brains. You can follow Sebastian on Twitter, but we wouldn’t recommend it; in fact, we’re not going to disclose that information.
In the ancient city of Syracuse beside the Ionian Sea, there lived a wealthy woman and her daughter Lucy, in a great mansion.The house was so large, and only the two of them dwelt there, so that many of the rooms were left closed up, furniture covered with ghost-white sheets, cobwebs casting shadows in the corners.
On an early winter’s night, when the rainy season had just begun and the clouds marched down across the waves, Lucy was saying her prayers and she made a vow. She would not marry; she would consecrate her virginity to God and distribute her dowry to the poor. Yet on the self-same night, unaware of her daughter’s pledge, Lucy’s mother was arranging her marriage to a young man of the city, a man from a pagan family.
As thunder shook the little island, Lucy’s mother came and told her of the plans. Lucy was horrified, for she wished to honor her mother, but she had pledged herself to God. Lightning split the sky, and the wind whipped through empty halls.She threw herself at her mother’s mercy, and told her of her vow.
Now Lucy’s mother was a virtuous woman, and as her daughter begged of her, she yielded. “Keep your vow to God,” she said, “for he is father to us both.” Lucy kissed her mother’s feet, and they retired to bed, two women, alone in an ancient house battered by a terrible storm.
In the morning, the storm had passed, and Lucy went through the muddy streets, seeking out the poor and the impoverished whom she found hidden in the alleys and huddled in doorways. To each, she gave a portion of her dowry, golden coins and precious jewels.
But that night, as evening fell, the man to whom Lucy’s mother had promised her heard that she was wasting his rightful dowry on the poor, and that she refused to marry him. His anger burned like a fire within his breast, and in his fury he rushed to the Governor of Syracuse, denouncing her for her faith.
The Roman soldiers descended on Lucy’s mansion like a murder of crows and carried her off in their sharp talons, to throw her down at the feet of the Governor. He was a stern man, with a slick-oiled beard and ravenous eyes.
“What will you say for yourself, Lucy? Have you squandered the dowry that was meant for this fine man? Have you said you give yourself only to God? Are you one of these atheist Christians?” he spat. Lucy held herself strong. “I have, and I am,” she said.
The Governor brought her before the image of the Emperor, and with a smirk he commanded her to offer sacrifices to it. Though she shivered, Lucy refused and as she cast her eyes upward to heaven, suddenly she was possessed by the Holy Ghost which spoke through her to the Governor, “You shall soon be punished for your deeds, and the Emperor himself will not save you, for he, too, is soon to die.”
The Governor saw the faith in Lucy’s eyes as she looked to heaven, and he flew to rage. With a furious command, he ordered his men to seize her and to put an end to her vision. As she stood, held in their grasp, he descended from his seat and reached out his hands like claws. She screamed in pain as, with each sharp thumb, he gouged out poor Lucy’s eyes.
Though blind and bleeding, still she refused to betray her vow to God. The Governor wiped his hands on his tunic and told his men, “She says she shall be chaste for God. I will not have it. Take her to the brothel; let men pay to defile her!”
But as those who held her tried to move her, they found they could not, for she was become supernaturally heavy, solid as a mountain. They brought a team of oxen and hitched them to her, but the oxen could not move her and the ropes burst.
The Governor stamped his feet and ordered her burned. They brought in bundles of wood and piled them all around her. With flint they struck the flame and the wood burned like tinder, the fire so hot that all nearby had to step back. But though the fire blazed so high, the flames round her head, it refused to touch Lucy, even to singe her snow-white dress.
Though she was blind, she seemed to look right at the Governor, and spoke from the flames. “I know you will not cease until I am dead, but know that death will only unite me to my God, whom I love above all else.”
His face went pale and his mouth snarled. The Governor snatched a sword from his soldier’s belt and he plunged himself into the fire and ran her through. And so, Lucy gave up her ghost and she was taken into the arms of God.
And it is for this reason that Lucy is now the patron saint of the Blind, and of Syracuse, and indeed, all of Malta.
Sebastian Faust lives in a dilapidated mansion overlooking Nashville, Tennessee, with three succubae and a manservant named Radley. He enjoys falconry, the blood of the chaste and pure, and reruns of Bob Ross’ The Joy of Painting. He doesn’t, however, enjoy Twitter, so you can’t follow him there.
Scott Derrickson, writer and director of such films as The Exorcism of Emily Rose and last year’s Sinister, says this about the horror genre:
“In my opinion, the horror genre is a perfect genre for Christians to be involved with. I think the more compelling question is, ‘Why do so many Christians find it odd that a Christian would be working in this genre?’ To me, this genre deals more overtly with the supernatural than any other genre, it tackles issues of good and evil more than any other genre, it distinguishes and articulates the essence of good and evil better than any other genre, and my feeling is that a lot of Christians are wary of this genre simply because it's unpleasant. The genre is not about making you feel good, it is about making you face your fears. And in my experience, that's something that a lot of Christians don't want to do."
"To me, the horror genre is the genre of non-denial. It's about admitting that there is evil in the world, and recognizing that there is evil within us, and that we're not in control, and that the things that we are afraid of must be confronted in order for us to relinquish that fear.” (Full interview here.)
I first encountered Derrickson in a book calledBehind the Screen: Hollywood Insiders on Faith, Film and Culture. I was just out of high school, and still very sheltered; I had not seen many true horror films. (Or does Left Behind II: Tribulation Force count?) After reading Derrickson’s contribution to the book, I decided to educate myself in horror.
After a very brief foray into the genre, I realized that while I did not love horror, I could appreciate Derrickson’s thesis: horror is a gateway to the spiritual. I found the films I watched to be intensely affecting, preoccupying me for days—especially films that invoked the name of Jesus, such as 1931’s Dracula and Derrickson’s The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Hellraiser made me ill. Donnie Darko…I did not get Donnie Darko.
Years later, however, my interest in horror was again piqued by the Netflix series Hemlock Grove and its depiction of a Christian werewolf-hunter (see my On Pop Theology review here). This past fall’s The Conjuring also concerns Christians grappling with dark spiritual forces—an especially fascinating example as it is based on the real-life characters Ed and Lorraine Warren, self-proclaimed demonologists and curators (wardens?) of an “occult museum” filled with creepy dolls, statues, mirrors and other miscellanea said to be connected with demonic manifestations.
I grew up believing that, as a Christian, I would have to contend with demonic forces, and despite the promise of victory, the thought of encountering demons was petrifying; so stories like these conjure a very real fear within me.
And it makes me wonder just what is happening when we watch a horror film or show; is it stirring the realm of the spirit that is around us and beyond us, or is it just the spirit of fear within us that is moved? If it is the former, if the fear that horror films elicit is based on a real threat, on spiritual powers at work in the world, does it evidence a sort of charismaticism universal to us all, an unconscious link to hidden realities of spiritual-warfare? And if so, can (or should) this phenomenon be used in the cause of apologetics, as Derrickson seems to suggest?
What do you think? And what examples drawn from the genre of horror have caused you to contemplate the spiritual realm?
Charity Erickson and her husband live and work together in the north woods of Minnesota. Check out her blog for more of her writing and follow her on Twitter @CharityJill. You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. You might also like:
Happy weekend! It's the weekend before Halloween and that means everybody will be dressing up and going to parties. There will be lots of candy, someone will undoubtedly play the Monster Mash, and some girl you know will where a skimpy outfit with fake ears attached and call herself a cat. It'll be fun times everybody. In honor of this celebratory weekend, the Song of the Week is Tracy Jordan's hit novelty song "Werewolf Bar Mitzvah." In case you're totally confused, this is a throwaway gag from 30 Rock except Tracy Morgan and Donald Glover actually recorded an real version of this song. It's weird, it's funny, you'll enjoy it. One tip, they didn't film a new video for the song, so just ignore the visuals and listen to the words. Werewolf Bar Mitzvah. Spooky. Scary. Boys becoming men, men becoming wolves!\ Peace, Ben
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But this morning, of all mornings, someone had seen him come, and quickly the report was carried to the Emperor. And so, that evening, Sebastian found himself in the prisoners’ place, in the captives’ cell, in the chains reserved for an outlawed faith.
As Diocletian came to his marble steps, he beheld Sebastian leaning against the fluted rail, his flesh a pallid hue, body stitched together with thread as an old quilt. A pale fire burned in the saint’s eyes. “A ghost,” the Emperor said to himself, “or very much worse . . . a zombie!”
“The Lord recalled me to life,” continued Sebastian, “that I might meet you here and tell you this: what you do is wrong, when you persecute the servants of Christ, for they do not seek your harm, but pray daily that God would bless you.”
“That’s not excessive?” asked Milton.
