A Faithful Pastor… Until the Pressure Became Too Much
Take a look at the picture of this dude—he’s an older man, somewhat weathered by decades of seemingly faithful ministry. He’s served the same congregation for years and years and years. Like Paul, he has baptized too many to count. He was there when a parishioner was dying. He’s visited the sick, preached through the Bible, and even has a decent singing voice and is in the choir (OK, the last part is an embellishment).
His name is Felix. He’s the bishop of Aptunga. We will just follow the tradition and give this guy a full name accordingly: Felix Aptunga.
Enter: Diocletian Hell
Everything changes. Emperor Diocletian enters stage left. He is gonna restore the glory of Rome—and he knows how. At least he thinks he knows how: restore the old gods and get rid of this Christian God. They had tolerated this guy named Christ too long.
To do this, Rome demands that every citizen—especially Christian leaders—offer incense to the emperor or hand over sacred Scriptures. All they had to do was say Kaisar Kurios (“Caesar is Lord”). It’s a repudiation of your faith, but is it really that big of a deal? To some, it is. In fact, the official Christian take is that you never deny your faith. It’s in the Bible.
So this was a loyalty test. And it was deadly serious. Refuse, and you risk imprisonment, torture, or death on a cross or in the lion’s den. Many Christians stood firm and lost an arm, leg, or eye. Many became martyrs. Others ran and hid. And some… caved to the pressure.
And if you gave in—if you did the deed and offered the sacrifice—you got a little piece of paper called a libellus.
It was an official Roman certificate stating that you had sacrificed to the gods or handed over the Scriptures. It was your proof of compliance. A kind of spiritual receipt:
“This one is safe. This one has done their duty. Don’t question them.”
Some Christians really offered sacrifice and received a libellus honestly. Others bribed Roman officials or obtained forged ones to avoid persecution. (Like I had a fake ID at 19 to get into bars—well, not exactly the same). Either way, this document became a symbol of denial—a symbol of Christian shame. It was a ticket back into Roman favor, but it became a significant wedge between you and the Church.
Unfortunately, Ol’ Felix—In Ol’ Aptunga Fashion—Is One of Them That Caved
We don’t know all the details. Maybe he was threatened with death. Maybe they got a hot knife and placed it very close to his eye, and he wasn’t good with pain. Or—worst of all—maybe they took his entire family and threatened to hang them all on a cross or feed them to wild beasts if he did not say those two words. That is what always makes me think I could cave…Sorry, I would try not too, but I don’t know how to….nevermind. I don’t want to think about it.
So, whether he gave in out of fear or heartbreak, we don’t know. But the early Church had a name for this: traditor—Latin for “one who hands over.” It’s where we get our English word traitor. (No duh, Michael!).
Whether it was the Scriptures or the faith itself, the shame was severe.
The persecutions ended after a few years, and Constantine legalized Christianity.
Everything had changed.
A Consecration That Sparked a Schism
And that might’ve been the end of the story—except a few years later, Felix Aptunga consecrates another bishop. A man named Caecilian.
This single act set off one of the biggest church controversies of Church History.
Caecilian is elected bishop of Carthage in 311. But almost immediately, his appointment is challenged. Why? Because his ordination came through Aptunga, Felix Aptunga—yeah, him. The only one you know of (or, the only one of which you know).
Felix was a man now known (or at least rumored) to have betrayed the faith. And suddenly the church has to ask: Does a bishop’s personal failure make his ministry invalid? What about those he has baptized or ordained into ministry? Are they still legit?
This wasn’t just a theological debate from afar—it was a burning question right in the heart of North Africa, the same region where Augustine himself would later rise up and become one of the greatest defenders of grace and unity in the Church.
A rival group says yes. They reject Caecilian and appoint their own bishop. That breakaway group would grow into a full-blown movement: the Donatists. This was an early church split.
This is known as the Donatist Controversy.
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The Donatists and the Demand for Purity
The Donatists believed the Church had to be completely pure. If someone handed over sacred texts or denied Christ under pressure—if anyone ever got a real (or even a fake) libellus—they were out. And if your bishop had been ordained by a traditor—even years later—then your ordination didn’t count. Your sacraments didn’t count. Your church didn’t count.
The movement took its name from Donatus, a bishop who rose to lead the opposition against Caecilian after an earlier rival, Majorinus, passed away. Donatus became the face of the purity movement—a man who believed holiness wasn’t just personal, it was institutional. If the Church had been tainted by this kind of betrayal, it needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. If a man were truly in Christ, he would never give in.
Caecilian’s supporters—and eventually Augustine himself—pushed back. Hard. They argued that the grace of God isn’t dependent on the moral purity of the minister. Sacraments don’t work because the priest is holy—they work because Christ is.
I love that. We’ve taken some dumb turns over the last two millennia, but this wasn’t one of them.
Ex Opere Operato or Ex Opere Operantis
And for those of you who’ve been in The Theology Program and followed me for a while, this probably rings a bell. We talk about this exact issue when we cover sacraments and Holy Orders. It’s where we get those two Latin phrases:
ex opere operato and ex opere operantis.
The first one, ex opere operato, means “by the work performed.” It holds that the validity of a sacrament doesn’t depend on the holiness of the person administering it—it depends on Christ, and on the action itself being done rightly.
The second, ex opere operantis, means “by the work of the worker.” That was more in line with the Donatist view—if the minister isn’t morally worthy, then the sacrament doesn’t work.
The Church chose the first one. We had to. Because if the power of grace depends on the one handing it out, we’re all in trouble. Grace would collapse under the weight of human failure. But thank God it doesn’t.
Get Your Own!
Back to Felix…
Anyway, as usual, I am all over the place because I get too excited. What were we talking about? Oh year, Ol’ Aptunga—Felix Aptunga.
All of this development of doctrine goes back to one controversy which was sparked by one moment of weakness.
A single bishop.
A single document.
A single (possibly understandable) failure.
If I know Felix (and, as you can see, I know him well), I know he didn’t intend to start a schism. But his story reminds us that sometimes, the cracks that bring change come from very obscure places.
And that’s why Felix—not Caecilian, not Donatus—is this week’s Who’s Not Who in Church History.
A Libellus for Our Time?
Let me take a quick detour. Of course, today we’re not facing lions. No one’s demanding that we burn incense to Caesar. But the pressure is often still very real—just different.
Over the past decade, as cultural norms shifted—especially around issues like gender, sexuality, and identity—some within the Church, including pastors, teachers, and public voices, quietly changed their views. Or not so quietly. In many cases, it looked like they gave in to pressure—not because they had become convinced by Scripture or tradition, but because they didn’t want to be mocked, canceled, or exiled from the cultural table.
No one handed them a literal libellus. But you could feel the same dynamic at play:
Just say the right thing and you can stay safe. You can keep your job, your platform, your book deal. Otherwise, we will cancel you on our cross and feed you to our lions of irrelevance.
When the Tide Turns Back
But now, things are shifting again. We seem to be having a kind of 313 Edict of Milan moment—that turning point when Constantine and Licinius legalized Christianity. Eventually, it wasn’t just legal—it was the cool thing to be.
And maybe we’re seeing a similar shift.
Some who once walked away from biblical convictions are starting to circle back.
I can see them rethinking. Regretting. Reengaging.
And honestly? I sort of feel sorry for them.
Because now they’re facing the same dilemma the early Church faced:
- What do we do with people who caved under pressure… and then came back?
- Do we welcome them with grace?
- Do we make them prove themselves first?
- Do we ever trust them with ministry again?
(I know, I should have stopped right before “A Libellus for Our Time?”)
One more thing, I bet this picture I produced of good ol’boy Felix is the only one in existence. If I was comfortable talking to the dead, even in jest (and wasn’t scarred by the phrase “Your take something home with you”), I would say to Felix, “You’re welcome, my friend. Glad to do it.”
(I also know I’m in a weird mood today. And, no, I’m not back on opioids!)
