The Roman poet Horace (d. 8 BC) famously declared that Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (roughly, “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s homeland”). Even better, perhaps, was to survive and win on the battlefield, especially if you happened to be the Roman general in charge. Such a victorious commander could expect a triumphus hosted by the Senate in his honor, a grand parade through the streets of Rome with his captured enemies in tow. A triumphus was near the pinnacle of public honor in Ancient Rome; the man who received one could rest assured that he had cemented a very high place in society for himself.
For those not serving in the Roman military, there were other ways of gaining and retaining social standing. The most prominent of these was the patron-client system. Wealthy members of Roman society (patrons) would provide legal assistance, food security, and physical protection to those less fortunate (clients). In return, clients were expected to make public displays of deference — they were required, for instance, to greet their patron every morning at the latter’s house and then escort him to the forum — and to support their patron’s political ambitions. Patrons who could afford to collect and maintain large numbers of clients enjoyed considerable prestige.
Such was the social environment to which the church in Rome was born. The new Christians would have been intimately familiar with the competition amongst elites to solidify their status by amassing armies of adoring clients. In his letter to the Roman church, in fact, the Apostle Paul actively encourages social competitiveness — just in reverse: “Outdo one another in showing honor” (Rom 12:10). For Paul, the game is really about how much honor you can bestow, not how much you can command. Christians look for ways to affirm the status of others in their community. The apostle is a little bit light on specifics here, but in the previous section he had urged respect for the various gifts of the Spirit, including and especially those one might not personally possess. Attempts to carve out a new “spiritual” hierarchy to replace the old Roman one were absurd. All believers have been gifted by the Spirit, all serve indispensable functions in the body of Christ, and all are worthy of honor (1 Cor 12:22ff).
What Paul tacitly acknowledges to the Romans, and elsewhere, is that human beings need honor — that is, there is something fundamentally human about seeking to have one’s place in the community affirmed and celebrated. We are, after all, social animals; however much we lionize independence, we need the esteem of other human beings almost like we need food and water.
Ironically, directly seeking the regard of others rarely works out well in the long run. The game is simply unwinnable: “Likewise the desire for glory is not satisfied by the acquisition of glory … nor is the desire for praise satisfied by praise” (Luther). Moreover, people are notoriously fickle and their memories short-lived. If even Elvis is being forgotten, which I’ve heard anecdotally is the case, then all glory really is fleeting.
Honor, then, is like love, acceptance, affirmation or emotional support. We can demand it, fight for it, beg for it, compete for it. We may even deny that we need it at all, perhaps clothing our denials in religious language (e.g. “God’s opinion of me is the only one that matters,” which is one of those things that is ultimately true but also typically not very helpful on a given Tuesday afternoon). But it’s most valuable when we receive it as a gift — an unanticipated “good job” from a coworker, an older congregant at church expressing that he’s really glad you’re here.
For Paul, giving yourself to others is the best cure to the incessant grasping that makes the pursuit of honor (or love, acceptance …) so frustrating and ultimately unrewarding. Systems like the Roman patron-client relationship cannot finally escape an Ecclesiastes-like outcome: “[T]he eye is not satisfied with seeing, or the ear filled with hearing” (1:8). Prestige is a wasting asset. If you’re incredibly good at what you do, then it may last a very long time indeed. But it will eventually run out.
In Paul’s game, you make sure that others in the community are getting the affirmation, respect and opportunities they need. The implicit promise is that you’ll get what you need in return — not in some crudely quid-pro-quo way, but as a (probably unanticipated) gift. This is risky. “Likewise he who wishes to have much power, honor, pleasure, satisfaction in all things must flee rather than seek power, honor, pleasure, and satisfaction in all things. This is the wisdom which is folly to the world” (Luther, again). It’s certainly not hard to see why people would count this as folly. But Rome’s way isn’t working out. And the God we serve isn’t in the habit of giving his children stones when they need bread.
