Read Matthew 4:18–20

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For ‘In him we live and move and exist.’ As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’” (Acts 17:28 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Part 5: Ichthys (Fish). Today the fish is everywhere. It’s on bumper stickers, etched into business cards, printed on T-shirts. For many, it’s become a logo more than a creed, a kind of Christian branding that invites parody as often as reverence. (Who hasn’t seen the Darwin fish with legs mocking its message?) What was once dangerous has become kitsch. And yet beneath that overfamiliar outline lies a story Rome itself would have found shocking.

In the first century, Christians lived in a world far more complicated than the straw-man Rome we sometimes imagine. Rome wasn’t blindly anti-religion; in fact, the empire welcomed a multitude of gods. Egyptian Isis, Persian Mithras, Greek Dionysus—their cults thrived openly. Jews were even granted exemptions to avoid sacrifices that violated Torah. Rome wasn’t looking to stamp out every foreign faith. What Rome demanded, however, was loyalty. Religion was fine as long as it didn’t undermine social order or civic devotion to the emperor.

That’s where Christians drew suspicion. They refused to burn incense before Caesar’s statue. They insisted on saying “Jesus is Lord”—a direct contradiction of “Caesar is Lord.” Neighbors whispered about their secret agapē feasts, communal meals of fellowship and prayer. But to outsiders, “love feasts” sounded like sexual orgies. Add in the scandal slaves ate alongside free men and women were leading congregations—erasing sacred household and societal hierarchy—and suspicion grew that Christians were destroying morality itself.

Then came the Eucharist. In hushed gatherings, believers repeated Jesus’ words: “This is my body…this is my blood.” Outsiders concluded they were cannibals, devouring human flesh and blood. Some rumors even accused them of killing infants, flouring their bodies, and eating them in grotesque rites. Writers like Minucius Felix preserved these accusations, proof that many Romans truly believed Christians were monsters.

And above all, the heart of their devotion was a man crucified as a traitor. Crucifixion was the most shameful punishment, reserved for rebels, runaway slaves, and insurrectionists. To worship one Rome had executed in this way was baffling at best, treasonous at worst. To gather in his name was to declare allegiance to a condemned enemy of the state.

From Rome’s perspective, Christians weren’t harmless eccentrics. They were politically suspect, socially disruptive, morally perverse, and religiously dangerous. In many ways, they were the “illegals” of their time—their worship unauthorized, their gatherings unsanctioned, their very existence beyond the boundaries of law and order. The Emperor Trajan’s letter to Pliny the Younger made the policy clear: don’t go on a witch hunt, but if someone is accused of being Christian and refuses to prove loyalty to Caesar, punish them. Even Pilate, infamous for cruelty, was removed from duty when he went too far—Rome was pragmatic, concerned with order. And this little sect seemed like chaos incarnate.

So they needed a way to recognize each other. That’s where the fish entered. Before Christ, the fish was a common symbol—tied to fertility in Greco-Roman cults, abundance in Jewish tradition, and ordinary life in markets and meals. No one blinked at a fish scratched on a wall. But Christians flipped it. In Greek, the word for fish—ichthys—became an acronym: Iēsous Christos Theou Yios Sōtēr (“Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior”). A simple doodle in the dirt carried an entire creed. Ordinary to the empire, explosive to believers.

Back then, that fish was rebellion. It meant: I belong to the traitor you crucified. My allegiance is not to Caesar but to Christ. And I am not alone. It was a secret sign of solidarity, a whisper of defiance under empire’s nose. Today, slapped on bumpers, it often says little more than “shop at my store.” But reclaiming the fish means more than nostalgia. It means living its spirit—courage in quiet ways, loyalty that refuses to bend, solidarity that confounds the powers.

The question is not whether we put a fish on our car. The question is whether our lives bear the mark of subversive allegiance. Where are we quietly refusing to burn incense to Caesar today? Where are we carving out little signs of solidarity with Christ—and with all who are crushed by empire’s demands? That’s what the fish still asks of us.

Because the empire is always watching. Sometimes it wears togas and laurel crowns. Sometimes it drapes itself in flags and slogans. Sometimes it cloaks itself in Scripture verses and cross necklaces, waving the Bible in one hand while pushing a partisan agenda in the other. Sometimes it hides behind markets and consumer brands. But in every age it whispers the same command: conform, compromise, give your loyalty here. And in every age, the fish whispers back: Christ alone is Lord.

So maybe the real challenge is not to slap a symbol on the back of our car, but to etch it into the choices we make. To refuse the sacrifices empire demands: silence in the face of injustice, complicity with violence, indifference to the poor. To live in such a way that if someone scratched a fish in the dust at our feet, we’d know exactly what it meant. And we’d answer in kind: I’m with you. You’re not alone.

That is the rebellion of the fish. That is the allegiance that endures.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The fish isn’t cute. It’s code for rebellion.

PRAYER
God of courage, you called the first disciples from their nets with a word of summons and a sign of faith. Give us that same boldness to follow Christ, even when our loyalty looks suspect to the world. Teach us to bear witness not with slogans, but with lives marked by quiet faith, stubborn hope, and radical love. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).