Pontius the Deacon

The account of Cyprian’s life and martyrdom comes to us not from a distant admirer or later legend, but from Pontius, a deacon who served directly under Cyprian and accompanied him during his exile. Pontius was not merely a clerical subordinate, but a close associate and eyewitness to the final period of Cyprian’s life. His proximity to Cyprian places his testimony among the earliest and most reliable sources for understanding both Cyprian’s character and the circumstances of his death.

Pontius wrote The Life of St. Cyprian shortly after Cyprian’s martyrdom in the mid–third century. His purpose was not to embellish Cyprian’s reputation, which was already secure through his writings and leadership, but to preserve an accurate memory of how Cyprian lived and suffered for the faith. In an era when Christian leaders were exiled and executed for refusing to participate in pagan worship, such accounts served both as historical records and as moral instruction for future believers.

Unlike later medieval biographies, Pontius’ work reflects the mindset of the early Church. Martyrdom is presented not as spectacle or legend, but as obedience. Authority is not located in imperial power or religious office, but in faithfulness to God’s commandments. Pontius writes with humility, repeatedly expressing his sense of inadequacy to describe Cyprian’s life fully, yet feeling compelled to record it so that future generations might learn from his example.

What follows, therefore, is not a mythologized saint’s life, but the testimony of a contemporary witness who believed that Cyprian’s faithfulness: both in life and in death: deserved to be remembered. In the sections that follow, I will render Pontius’ words in my own language, preserving the meaning and intent of his account while presenting it in a form accessible to modern readers.

The Life of St. Cyprian, written by Pontius the Deacon (paraphrased)

St. Cyprian, that devout priest and illustrious witness of God, produced many writings through which the memory of so great a name will endure. The richness of his eloquence and the abundance of God’s grace at work in him were so widely diffused that his voice may well continue to speak to future ages. Yet because his life and merits rightly demand to be held before us as an example, it seemed fitting to set down a brief account of him; not because his life is unknown, even beyond the Church, but so that his extraordinary example might be handed on to generations yet to come.

It would be unjust to pass over the martyrdom of so great a priest and martyr. Even lay believers and catechumens who attained martyrdom have been honored by detailed records of their sufferings, written for the benefit of those not yet born. How much more should the witness of Cyprian be preserved; Cyprian, whose life itself taught lessons beyond his final testimony in death. To conceal what he did in his life would be equally wrong.

His deeds were so remarkable, so noble, that the very greatness of them overwhelms the one who tries to describe them. I readily confess my inability to do justice to such a subject. Only the sheer weight of his accomplishments speaks adequately for itself. Yet your desire to hear of him; your longing to know his works, even though his own voice is now silent; presses me on. I am constrained on both sides: by the magnitude of his excellence and by the urgency of your request.

Where, then, should I begin, if not with faith; his true beginning; and with his birth from above? For the life of a man of God ought to be reckoned not from earthly pursuits, but from the moment he is born of God. Whatever he was before; educated, gifted, engaged in honorable arts; I pass over, for these belonged to the advantages of this life alone. But once he had learned sacred truth and passed from worldly shadows into spiritual light, I will recount what I myself witnessed and discovered of his higher works, asking that any shortcomings in this account be attributed to my ignorance, not to his greatness.

Even in the earliest stages of his faith, he recognized that nothing was more fitting toward God than the practice of self-restraint. For the heart becomes rightly ordered, and the mind fully capable of truth, when bodily desire is subdued by a healthy and unbroken discipline of holiness. Who has ever recorded such a wonder? Before the new birth had fully illumined him with divine light, he was already overcoming the darkness of his former life by the first rays of that light.

More remarkable still, when he encountered teachings from Scripture; absorbing them not slowly, as a beginner might, but swiftly through faith; he immediately put into practice what he read as pleasing to the Lord. He gave his wealth to support the poor, converted entire estates into money, and distributed them freely. In doing so, he achieved two things at once: he renounced the pursuit of the world, which is so harmful to the soul, and he embraced mercy; a virtue God prefers even to sacrifice. By this eager and anticipatory devotion, he reached spiritual maturity almost before he had time to learn what it meant.

Who among the ancients did such things? Who among the most honored elders of the faith, trained over many years by divine teaching, dared anything like this? Yet he, new in faith and scarcely known, surpassed former generations by the splendor of his deeds. Normally one does not reap immediately after sowing, nor harvest grapes from a young vine, nor expect fruit from newly planted roots. But in him, all these impossibilities came together. The harvest preceded the sowing; the vintage came before the vine had grown; the fruit appeared before the root had taken firm hold.

The Apostle warns that novices should not be elevated too quickly, lest lingering ignorance lead them astray. Yet Cyprian stands as a rare; perhaps unique; example that faith can advance more swiftly than time. The Ethiopian eunuch in the Acts of the Apostles was baptized immediately because he believed with his whole heart, but the comparison falls short. That man was already steeped in Scripture and hope for the Messiah. Cyprian, by contrast, came from pagan ignorance and yet possessed at the very beginning a faith as mature as few attain even at the end.

There was no delay in his reception of God’s grace. Indeed, he was quickly ordained to the presbyterate and the priesthood. Who would hesitate to entrust such honors to a mind so fully given to belief? Even as a layman, he performed many noble deeds; as a presbyter, many more; and throughout his life he closely imitated the righteous men of old, devoting himself wholly to the service of God.

Whenever he read in Scripture of someone praised by God, he would urge us to ask what deeds had pleased God in that person. If Job was called a true worshipper, unmatched on earth, Cyprian taught that we must do what Job did if we wish to receive the same testimony. Job despised the loss of his wealth and remained steadfast in virtue. Poverty did not break him, grief did not move him, his wife’s pleas did not weaken him, nor did physical suffering shake his resolve. His house was open to all: widows were not sent away empty, the blind were guided, the weak were supported, and the oppressed found in him a defender.

“These,” Cyprian would say, “are the deeds required of those who wish to please God.” By imitating the best examples of the righteous, he himself became an example for others to follow.

He was closely bound to a just and venerable man among us, Caecilius, a presbyter both by age and office, who had guided him from the errors of the world to the knowledge of the true God. Cyprian honored and loved him deeply, not merely as a friend or brother, but with the reverence due to one who had been, in a spiritual sense, the father of his new life.

And so it came about that Caecilius, comforted by such devoted care, was drawn; quite naturally; into a deep and abiding affection for him. When his own departure from this life was near, he entrusted to Cyprian his wife and children. In this way, having first welcomed him into fellowship, he ultimately made him the heir of his love.

It would take too long, and require too great an effort, to recount every detail of Cyprian’s holy deeds. As sufficient testimony to his virtue, it may be said that by the will of God and the unanimous goodwill of the people, he was chosen for the priesthood and raised to the rank of bishop while still newly converted and widely regarded as a beginner in the faith.

Though he stood at the very threshold of his spiritual life, his noble character already shone so brightly that, even before he held office, he gave clear promise; at least in hope, if not yet in position; of fully embodying the responsibilities of the priesthood soon to be laid upon him. Nor should this be overlooked: while the entire people, moved by God, poured out their love and honor upon him, he himself withdrew in humility, yielding precedence to older men and judging himself unworthy of so great a title. By refusing honor, he became all the more worthy of it. For the one who declines what he deserves is made greater thereby.

At that time the people were stirred with deep spiritual longing. As later events would confirm, they were not seeking merely a bishop, but in the one who hid himself; yet was called forth by divine prompting; not only a priest, but a future martyr. A great multitude surrounded the doors of his house; devoted concern filled every approach. One might imagine that, had he already shared the Apostle’s rank, the scene could have echoed the escape of Paul, lowered through a window to avoid the crowd.

All others waited in anxious anticipation, and when he finally appeared, received him with overwhelming joy. I say this reluctantly, yet truth requires it: some even resisted him, hoping by opposition to secure his acceptance. But how patiently, how gently, how kindly he endured them. He forgave them so fully that he later counted them among his closest friends; to the astonishment of many. For who would not marvel that a memory so faithful could become so forgetful of injury?

Who could adequately describe how he conducted himself thereafter? How great was his kindness, his firmness of mind, his mercy, and his discipline. Such holiness and grace shone from his face that it unsettled the observer. His expression was both serious and warm; neither gloomy severity nor careless familiarity, but a perfect balance of both; so that one scarcely knew whether to revere him more or love him more, except that he rightly commanded both.

His manner of dress matched his character: restrained and measured. He neither pursued the pride of worldly display nor affected a showy poverty, knowing that exaggerated simplicity can be as ostentatious as luxury. As for his care for the poor once he became bishop; those whom he had already loved even as a catechumen; let those devoted to works of mercy judge whether such compassion is learned from office or owed by the shared bond of the Gospel. In Cyprian’s case, the bishop’s chair did not form him; it found him already formed.

For such merits, it followed swiftly that he also gained the distinction of public persecution. It was only fitting that one who abounded inwardly with the full honors of faith and devotion should also become known outwardly among the Gentiles. Indeed, given the speed with which he advanced in every virtue, he might even then have hastened toward the appointed crown of martyrdom; so rapidly did he grow into all that he was called to be.

The calls summoning him “to the lions” were frequent. Yet had he been taken at that moment to the crown of martyrdom, before passing through every stage of glory, the Church; then under grave threat; would have been deprived of the help of so rich and capable a mind. For consider: had he been removed so early by the reward of martyrdom, who would have shown how grace matures through faith? Who would have restrained wandering women, as with a bridle, by shaping the Lord’s teaching into a disciplined rule of chastity and holiness? Who would have instructed the fallen in repentance, the heretics in unity, the schismatics in reconciliation? Who would have taught the children of God the peace of the Gospel and the law of prayer? Who would have stood against the blasphemies of the Gentiles by answering false accusations with truth? Who would have comforted grieving Christians, crushed by loss of friends or; worse; by weakness of faith, with the hope of things to come? From whom would mercy have been learned, patience acquired? Who would have calmed the poisonous bitterness of envy with the sweetness of healing counsel? Who would have strengthened the ranks of martyrs with exhortations drawn from divine wisdom, and stirred confessors; already marked for a second crown; to hasten forward as living examples of martyrdom?

Surely, then, it was divinely ordered that a man so necessary for so many good purposes should be delayed from the final consummation of martyrdom.

You may be certain that his withdrawal at that time did not arise from fear; at least not from cowardly fear. For he did suffer later, and would surely have shrunk from suffering then as well, had he been governed by mere dread. Rather, it was a righteous fear: fear of offending the Lord, fear that preferred obedience to God’s commands over receiving a crown at the cost of disobedience. A mind wholly surrendered to God, and a faith bound entirely to divine instruction, judged that even suffering itself would be sinful if it came without obedience to the Lord who at that moment commanded retreat.

Something more should be said about the benefit of this delay, though I have already touched on it. Events that soon followed prove clearly that this withdrawal did not arise from human weakness but was truly ordained by God. The people of God were soon ravaged by a fierce and relentless persecution. The cunning enemy, unable to defeat all by one method, attacked in many forms, striking wherever the unwary exposed themselves. What was needed was someone who, when wounds were inflicted and darts hurled by shifting tactics, possessed heavenly remedies suited to each case; sometimes to pierce, sometimes to soothe. Thus there was preserved a man uniquely shaped by God to guide the Church along a steady middle path amid the crashing waves of contending schisms.

Is such design not divine? Could it exist apart from God’s governance? Let those judge who think such things happen by chance. The Church herself answers aloud that she neither allows nor believes that her necessary champions are preserved without the providence of God.

Let me pass on to what followed. A dreadful plague soon broke out, and a hateful disease swept relentlessly from house to house through the terrified population, carrying off countless people daily with sudden violence. Panic spread everywhere: flight, fear of contagion, the heartless abandonment of infected friends; as though casting the dying into the streets could banish death itself. Meanwhile, throughout the city lay not merely the sick, but corpses, appealing silently to the compassion of passers-by through the shared certainty of human fate.

Yet no one thought beyond selfish gain. No one took warning from the fate of others. No one did for another what he wished done for himself. It would be a grave injustice to pass over how Christ’s priest conducted himself in these circumstances; he who surpassed the leaders of this world as much in mercy as in truth of doctrine. First, he gathered the people together, urging upon them the excellence of mercy. He taught from Scripture how greatly acts of compassion avail before God. Then he reminded them that it is nothing remarkable to care for one’s own; even pagans do that. True perfection lies in doing more; overcoming evil with good, loving even enemies, and praying, as the Lord commands, for those who persecute us.

God, he said, causes His sun to rise and sends rain not only upon His own people but upon strangers as well. If we claim to be children of God, should we not imitate our Father? “We must live in a way worthy of our birth,” he taught. “Those reborn of God should not degenerate. The goodness of a good Father must be shown in His children.”

I pass over many important details for lack of space. But this much suffices. Had even pagans heard such teaching publicly, they might well have believed at once. What, then, should Christians do, whose very name begins in faith? Accordingly, tasks of service were immediately divided among the people according to each person’s strength and circumstances. Those too poor to give materially offered something more valuable; their own labor; performing services more precious than riches.

Under such a teacher, who would not hasten to take part in this holy struggle, striving to please God the Father, Christ the Judge, and so worthy a priest? Good works overflowed toward all, not only toward fellow believers. Indeed, they surpassed even the renowned charity of Tobias. Before Christ, much was possible; after Christ, even more, since fullness belongs to His time. Tobias buried only his own kin; here, mercy knew no such limits.

To these great works of compassion, exile soon followed. Such is the world’s return: evil repaying good. I need not recount what God’s priest answered the proconsul; those details are preserved elsewhere. He was banished from the city whose health he had labored to protect, he who had worked tirelessly so that the living would not be forced to behold horrors worse than death itself. His sleepless vigilance in charity; his very crime; had preserved a deserted and destitute land from the sight of countless abandoned dead.

But exile is punishment only in the eyes of the world. To Christians, whose true homeland lies elsewhere, the whole world is home. Even in one’s own city, one is a stranger when one lives by the Spirit and not by the desires of the flesh. And in trials endured for virtue’s sake, what seems punishment becomes glory. If exile were truly punishment, then those who impose it on the innocent would stand condemned by their own conscience.

Let us imagine even the harshest place; desolate, barren, without water or beauty, surrounded by forests and rocks in the farthest reaches of the earth. Such a place might deserve the name exile; unless Cyprian, priest of God, were there. For if human help failed him, birds would serve him as they did Elijah, or angels as they did Daniel. Far be it from us to believe that even the least confessor of Christ would lack what he needs; much less one who had devoted his life so completely to mercy.

Finally, let us give thanks that what we only supposed was indeed provided: a place suited for such a soul, bright, sufficient, and hidden, exactly as promised to those who seek first the kingdom and righteousness of God. And not to dwell yet on the constant visits of his brethren, or even on the affection of the townspeople themselves, which supplied him with all he required…

Before His Death: His “Crime,” Which Was None

Before we look at the death of St. Cyprian, we must first be clear about his alleged crime; because in truth, there was none.

Cyprian was not condemned for violence, sedition, or moral corruption. He was not accused of harming the state, plotting rebellion, or stirring civil unrest. His sole offense was this: he refused to worship false gods. He would not sacrifice to images, statues, or the religious system of Rome. He would not confess many gods where he knew there was only One.

For this, and this alone, he was beheaded.

It is worth pausing here to reflect; especially for Christians today; on what Cyprian might think if he could witness the modern Church bowing before images and statues, kneeling before carved forms, burning incense before representations of saints, or praying toward material objects. He, who went to his death rather than offer a pinch of incense to an image, would surely grieve to see Christians defending practices that so closely resemble what he died resisting.

Cyprian was not confused about the issue. His confession before the Roman authorities was simple and uncompromising:“I know no other gods but the one true God, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them.”

This was not political defiance. It was fidelity. He prayed even for the emperors who condemned him; not because he recognized their gods, but because he recognized God’s sovereignty over all rulers. His conscience was bound, not by fear of death, but by obedience to God.

If he feared anything, it was not suffering; it was disobedience.

Rome did not uphold God’s commandments; it redefined them, preserving the veneration of images and statues by appealing to distinctions such as dulia and latria; distinctions unknown to the New Testament. But God judges deeds, not theological psychology.

The Proceedings Against Him

When the Roman authorities questioned him, they did not dispute his character, nor could they charge him with any moral crime. Instead, they demanded conformity. The Emperor Valerian had issued orders that all who did not follow Roman religious rites must return to them publicly. Cyprian was asked his name and his religion.

He answered plainly:“I am a Christian and a bishop.”

He affirmed that Christians prayed daily; not only for themselves, but for all people, including the emperors themselves. When asked whether he would abandon this confession, he replied that a purpose once devoted to God could not be changed.

For this, he was exiled; not as punishment for wrongdoing, but as pressure to yield.

Later, under a new proconsul, he was recalled and brought to trial again. This time, the demand was absolute: conform to Roman rites, or die.

Cyprian refused without hesitation. He did not argue. He did not plead. He did not deliberate.

“Execute the Emperor’s orders,” he said. “In a matter so clear, there is nothing to consider.”

The sentence pronounced against him accused him of being an enemy of Roman religion and a leader of an “unlawful association.” This was the legal fiction used to justify the execution. In reality, the court itself admitted that repeated attempts to make him conform had failed. His guilt lay only in steadfastness.

Rome beheaded Cyprian for refusing to bow to pagan images, yet revealed its hypocrisy by later defending the very practice God had forbidden.

His Death

When the sentence of death by beheading was read, Cyprian answered with words that have echoed through Christian history:

“Thanks be to God.”

The assembled Christians cried out that they wished to die with him. He was led calmly to the place of execution. There was no panic, no resistance, no spectacle of terror. He removed his outer garments, knelt, and prayed. He gave money to the executioner; not as bribery, but as an act of deliberate charity even at the threshold of death.

Unable to fasten his own clothing, fellow clergy assisted him. He covered his eyes with his hands and received the blow.

This was not the death of a fanatic. It was the death of a shepherd.

His body, briefly displayed to satisfy pagan curiosity, was later taken by night and buried with reverence by the faithful, with prayers and lamps and honor befitting one who had borne witness to truth without compromise.

Cyprian’s death confronts the Church with an uncomfortable question: If he died for refusing religious gestures toward images, how lightly do we now treat what he sealed with blood?

He did not die instead of worship. He died for worship; pure, undivided, uncompromised worship of the living God. His martyrdom stands not merely as a historical event, but as a judgment and a warning.

He was not executed because he was wrong. He was executed because he would not pretend that wrong was right.

And that is why his death still speaks.

I invite you to read it and judge for yourselves.

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