Frustrations come in many forms. When they involve playing a game, they can normally be set aside as unimportant or irrelevant. Nevertheless....
There were only a handful of video games that ever interested me, and my favorite was Super Mario Brothers 3. When I owned it about 15 years ago, I got to be pretty good at it. I never got bored with it even after beating it became somewhat routine. A few months ago, I discovered that it had been re-released for the Wii. I tried playing against my daughter when visiting her once and discovered that I couldn't complete even a single level in world 1. So naturally, I had to download it onto my own Wii to practice.
While working at it over the past few months, I'm slowly getting better, but it frustrates me that it's taking so long. Granted, I'm not spending hours and hours doing it, but I can't be getting THAT old, that my reflexes have become so slow.
The two things that give me the most trouble are the note boxes and the sliding duck. For the most part, the note boxes are not vital to the game and I can do them well enough to at least get by. But the sliding duck is crucial at certain levels, and my inability to make it work more than once in every 15-20 tries (it's probably actually worse than that) is getting me down.
The second fortress in world 6 is one of those crucial places that I've been working on lately. There's a spot in there that if you can't make it through, then even if you do continue on and make it to Boom-Boom's hall, it will be as small Mario, and since he's one of the more trickier ones in the game, he's tough to beat when you're small.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Fond Baseball Memory
One of my fondest memories is of when I was 8 years old and my uncle took be to an Indians' game against the Yankees. I had been to one game with my father the previous year when I was 7, but that was a day game and the only thing I remember about it was that the Indians won against, I think, the Tigers. Because memory is such a tricky thing, I tried to research the game to see how much of my memory is trustworthy. Turns out I had a few things wrong. I thought it was on September 8th on a Wednesday, but it was actually on September 9th on a Tuesday. I also thought Billy Martin was on the Indians and was actually the last batter in the game, but he didn't actually play for the Indians until the following season. And I thought the Indians scored 10 runs in the fifth, but it was only 8.
Those minor things aside, my basic memory was correct. It was a night game. I got to see Mickey Mantle hit a home run, and I remembered that the Indians catcher Russ Nixon hit two home runs in that game. The Indians were behind 2-1 when they came up in the bottom of the fifth. They proceeded to score 8 runs. They had the bases loaded with 2 outs and whoever the batter was (I thought it was Martin, but I guess it couldn't have been) had a 2-2 count when it started pouring rain and the umpires stopped play.
We sat for exactly one hour until the game was officially ended due to the rain. This caused me to believe that there was a rule that if a game was stopped for rain, they would wait one hour, and then call it. Funny the conclusions you draw from experience as a kid. The Indians won since they were the home team and were ahead in the bottom of the fifth.
It seems as I get older, memories such as that become more precious.
Those minor things aside, my basic memory was correct. It was a night game. I got to see Mickey Mantle hit a home run, and I remembered that the Indians catcher Russ Nixon hit two home runs in that game. The Indians were behind 2-1 when they came up in the bottom of the fifth. They proceeded to score 8 runs. They had the bases loaded with 2 outs and whoever the batter was (I thought it was Martin, but I guess it couldn't have been) had a 2-2 count when it started pouring rain and the umpires stopped play.
We sat for exactly one hour until the game was officially ended due to the rain. This caused me to believe that there was a rule that if a game was stopped for rain, they would wait one hour, and then call it. Funny the conclusions you draw from experience as a kid. The Indians won since they were the home team and were ahead in the bottom of the fifth.
It seems as I get older, memories such as that become more precious.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Less Than Perfect Ending
By the time Thursday rolled around, I think we were both just too tired. We went to Yorktown, which, like Jamestown, is divided into two parts. Yorktown Victory Center has a museum with artifacts from the time period of the battle, as well as a movie. They also have a re-creation of part of the camp so we could see the little tents with hay on the floors that the soldiers had to sleep in. There is also a working farm there in the style of the 18th century, so that was pretty interesting. The second part is part of the national park system and includes the actual battlefield, which still has the siege mounds from back then. There are also a lot of plaques around the place.
In both places, we more or less sleepwalked through it. It would be something that I would have to do again sometime if I wanted to really get anything out of it.
The real problems came on Friday, when we tried to come home. There was some kind of accident on I-64 that came into play shortly after we left that left us mostly sitting for nearly two hours. Along with a few other things that caused problems, particularly at a service plaza in Pennsylvania, where they didn't have a Cinnabon place like we expected (this made Kim cranky because she had sort of promised Kelly) and problems with the gas pump where no attendant is on duty, which made me have to go find someone (this made me cranky), I then drove straight home without stopping to eat, which made both of us crankier.
I promise, though, that it will not ruin the memory of a good vacation.
In both places, we more or less sleepwalked through it. It would be something that I would have to do again sometime if I wanted to really get anything out of it.
The real problems came on Friday, when we tried to come home. There was some kind of accident on I-64 that came into play shortly after we left that left us mostly sitting for nearly two hours. Along with a few other things that caused problems, particularly at a service plaza in Pennsylvania, where they didn't have a Cinnabon place like we expected (this made Kim cranky because she had sort of promised Kelly) and problems with the gas pump where no attendant is on duty, which made me have to go find someone (this made me cranky), I then drove straight home without stopping to eat, which made both of us crankier.
I promise, though, that it will not ruin the memory of a good vacation.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Williamsburg Part II
Tuesday and Wednesday we spent walking around Colonial Williamsburg. It was the capital of Virginia during colonial times. The re-created village is built on the ruins of the original town, so it's pretty authentic. The visitor's center is about half a mile away where you park and take a shuttle bus (or walk) around the village. Many of the places to visit are shops where people in costume do make things like shoes, clothing, and newspapers, the same way they were made back then. Additionally, there are actors in the streets that act out the parts of various characters that lived back then, as well as stage performances at different places. My favorite was of Lafayette giving a speech outside the governor's palace of the "recent" arrival of General Washington's troops to prepare for the battle of Yorktown. He was really entertaining.
At the other end of town there was a performance outside the old Capitol Building where the Declaration of Independence was read from the balcony, aided by other characters standing in front of the building. Characters scattered through the crowd would shout "Huzzah" at appropriate times, and it was just so easy to picture the real thing.
If was very tiring spending two days walking throughout the village visiting the shops and stores. It's not a really huge area, maybe a mile from one end to the other, and less than half a mile wide. But some of the museums are rather large, and I'm not as young as I used to be.
But really, the only negative experience I had was looking at price tags of things that were for sale. I know and fully expect to pay high prices at tourist traps, but I don't think I've ever been anywhere with prices as high as these. A simple hand-made girls shawl is $150, and a ceramic cup goes for $40. Even a boys size tri-cornered hat was $25. Fortunately, I'm not easily swayed.
All in all, it's been a great visit. My only regret is not realizing how much there is to do here. I thought visiting the triangle would be a part of our vacation in between doing other things at the resort. Instead it has sort of become the vacation. Maybe we should just plan on coming back again someday.
At the other end of town there was a performance outside the old Capitol Building where the Declaration of Independence was read from the balcony, aided by other characters standing in front of the building. Characters scattered through the crowd would shout "Huzzah" at appropriate times, and it was just so easy to picture the real thing.
If was very tiring spending two days walking throughout the village visiting the shops and stores. It's not a really huge area, maybe a mile from one end to the other, and less than half a mile wide. But some of the museums are rather large, and I'm not as young as I used to be.
But really, the only negative experience I had was looking at price tags of things that were for sale. I know and fully expect to pay high prices at tourist traps, but I don't think I've ever been anywhere with prices as high as these. A simple hand-made girls shawl is $150, and a ceramic cup goes for $40. Even a boys size tri-cornered hat was $25. Fortunately, I'm not easily swayed.
All in all, it's been a great visit. My only regret is not realizing how much there is to do here. I thought visiting the triangle would be a part of our vacation in between doing other things at the resort. Instead it has sort of become the vacation. Maybe we should just plan on coming back again someday.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Williamsburg Part 1
We arrived in Williamsburg on Friday for our 7 night $250 vacation. On Saturday morning we sat through the 2 hour time share sales pitch to get an $80 voucher for dinner at Opus 9 and 2 movie tickets. We could have just gotten a $75 gift card for anywhere, but decided this would be a good opportunity to go to the type of restaurant we normally can't afford, and considered the movie tickets as sort of a bonus.
Good choice! The steaks were great! In fact, everything about the place is superb, including the service. Of course, the prices reflect it. So for just two of us, with an appetizer, two steak dinners and no desert, we still paid out $40 besides the $80 voucher and a 10% off coupon. I was generous with the tip, even for me, but still!
We spent two hours after we got back to the resort trying to find a church to go to on the internet, but had no luck. Should have researched this sooner.
Sunday afternoon turned out to be so beautiful and so warm for this time of year that we drove over to Norfolk where the nearest beach is, and just walked up and down the beach. It wasn't a clean beach, and I've never cared much for the Atlantic coast anyway. But we ignored that part and just enjoyed the warmth. We'll be back in Ohio soon enough.
Monday was Jamestown day. There are two parts to a Jamestown visit, which require separate admission prices. First, you go to Jamestown Settlement, which is about a mile from the actual site of the original Jamestown. There is a rather large museum there which goes into a lot of detail about the period from 1607-1700. In fact, there is a separate section for each decade. It's a typical musuem, with artifacts, models, re-creations, and movies about various aspects of the colony. Outside the museum, there are authentic re-creations of the original fort and of the Powhatan village, as well as of some of the ships that brought settlers over. All re-creations are based on solid evidence from the time as to what different things looked like, and in most cases where they couldn't be sure, they just don't include it.
The second part of a Jamestown visit is to drive about a mile to the national park that includes the site of the original Jamestown. There's a smaller Welcome Center there, and you walk from there down to the archaelogical dig site where the original fort stood. Up until 1994, it was thought that the site of the original fort had eroded into the James River, but that year archaeologists discovered otherwise. It turns out that only the site of one corner of the triangular fort was underwater. Ever since then they've been digging it up a litle at a time, removing whatever artifacts they find, then back fill it and then mark the places where original walls stood. As time goes on, they get more and more of a feel for the sizes and locations of everything in the fort.
All in all, I think the visits were well worth the price.
Almost forgot. Included with the visit to the Jamestown site is a short drive to a glass blowing shop where you can watch them make glass things. You can also buy them if your name is Rockefeller. The modern plant is about 100 feet from where the original plant stood in the 1600s. It's considered to be the first industrial enterprise in America.
Good choice! The steaks were great! In fact, everything about the place is superb, including the service. Of course, the prices reflect it. So for just two of us, with an appetizer, two steak dinners and no desert, we still paid out $40 besides the $80 voucher and a 10% off coupon. I was generous with the tip, even for me, but still!
We spent two hours after we got back to the resort trying to find a church to go to on the internet, but had no luck. Should have researched this sooner.
Sunday afternoon turned out to be so beautiful and so warm for this time of year that we drove over to Norfolk where the nearest beach is, and just walked up and down the beach. It wasn't a clean beach, and I've never cared much for the Atlantic coast anyway. But we ignored that part and just enjoyed the warmth. We'll be back in Ohio soon enough.
Monday was Jamestown day. There are two parts to a Jamestown visit, which require separate admission prices. First, you go to Jamestown Settlement, which is about a mile from the actual site of the original Jamestown. There is a rather large museum there which goes into a lot of detail about the period from 1607-1700. In fact, there is a separate section for each decade. It's a typical musuem, with artifacts, models, re-creations, and movies about various aspects of the colony. Outside the museum, there are authentic re-creations of the original fort and of the Powhatan village, as well as of some of the ships that brought settlers over. All re-creations are based on solid evidence from the time as to what different things looked like, and in most cases where they couldn't be sure, they just don't include it.
The second part of a Jamestown visit is to drive about a mile to the national park that includes the site of the original Jamestown. There's a smaller Welcome Center there, and you walk from there down to the archaelogical dig site where the original fort stood. Up until 1994, it was thought that the site of the original fort had eroded into the James River, but that year archaeologists discovered otherwise. It turns out that only the site of one corner of the triangular fort was underwater. Ever since then they've been digging it up a litle at a time, removing whatever artifacts they find, then back fill it and then mark the places where original walls stood. As time goes on, they get more and more of a feel for the sizes and locations of everything in the fort.
All in all, I think the visits were well worth the price.
Almost forgot. Included with the visit to the Jamestown site is a short drive to a glass blowing shop where you can watch them make glass things. You can also buy them if your name is Rockefeller. The modern plant is about 100 feet from where the original plant stood in the 1600s. It's considered to be the first industrial enterprise in America.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
21 - The Meeting of the Ways
In the midst of a wall of shields, the two apostles walked, hand in hand, chained to a soldier on either side. As they walked, they continuously murmured, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. . .”
The centurion in command, who had lately felt a certain friendliness toward the Christians, had allowed them to go together, saying to his men, “Let them go together as far as the Porta Ostiensis. But they must be separated there. The old man goes to the Trans-Tiber and to the Vaticanum to be crucified. But this one is a Roman citizen and must be taken to the Cesti Pyramid and beheaded."
Before they were led away, Paul had bent down over the opening in the ground, and called out to the prisoners in the dungeons, “The grace of our lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit! Amen!”
After him Peter called down, “Peace be with you who are in the lord Messiah! Amen!”
A chorus of voices floated up from the depths below from the strong, the weak, the firm and the tremulous, “Peter and Paul! Pray for our souls!”
And for the first time the two names were intertwined in a single cord of salvation.
When they reached the Porta Ostiensis, they embraced one last time.
“Peace be with you, brother Paul!”
“Peace be with you, brother Peter! I bow to you who lived with our lord.”
“And I bow to you who carried the gospel to all the world.”
As they were led away from each other they turned their heads back.
“I will see you soon in the lord’s presence,” cried Peter.
“Pray for me, apostle to the Jews.”
Old Simon, with his bloody feet, was led uphill. Beyond the Porta Trigemina lay the Sublicius Bridge. How often the faithful had led him this way to the assemblies in Priscilla’s house on the Aventine hill! Simon looked up the slope, where a few passersby stopped and paused. Their lips moved unmistakably in prayer, and Simon recognized them. And as the procession drew through the narrow streets of the Jewish quarter the cortege grew. A proclamation seemed to run ahead, for heads appeared at the windows of the high houses.
“They’re leading the apostle to the cross,” was heard.
Simon saw a multitude of sad faces. He smiled at them and they tried to draw enough courage to smile back.
“Don’t cry. I’ll be with the lord soon to live with him forever. And you too will one day be with him as well. I promise you this in the name of our Father in heaven, who is the God of all grace. Peace to you all.”
After passing through the Jewish quarter, he began the climb to the place of execution, where his cross waited for him. But before they nailed him to the cross, the law required that he be scourged first. They bound him to a wooden block, and two soldiers wielded the lead-loaded whip over him. His blood gushed out under the lashes, but no sound came from the old man. His lips moved silently in prayer of thanksgiving for the privilege of suffering like his lord.
Suffer like his lord? Who was he to compare himself with the lord? How often he’d denied him, how often he’d fled from the cup again and again. How could he possibly say that he was dying the death of his lord?
They unbound him from the block and half led, half carried him, toward the cross. They asked him if he wanted a cup of sour wine, for even a slave was allowed this.
No, but he did have a last request. In the broken Greek he’d picked up in the years of his wandering, he asked them to nail him to the cross head down.
The executioners thought maybe they misunderstood his broken Greek.
“Head down?”
The old man nodded and feebly moved his hands to indicate his meaning.
“Head down. Nail me to the cross head down.”
As strange as this request was, they accommodated him, nailing his two feet to the arms of the cross, and his hands to the upright.
Two naked feet looked down from the crosspiece, the toes twisted and broken, like the roots of an old olive tree. But they were mighty limbs, broad boned, and gnarled like tree trunks. Blood ran from his wounds, which were like open mouths. And as the bleeding feet looked heavenward, the gray, mighty head with its short, tangled beard, hung earthward. And still the eyes smiled, seeking the little group of men and women who stood at a distance, and still the lips moved in prayer and greeting.
After a time his voice was heard clearly, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”
Men and women lifted their faces heavenward and repeated, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”
There was silence as blood descended, pulse-by-pulse, into his head. His feet were now as white as snow, but his face was crimson, like a flame. And now the old man pulled his head violently away from the cross. His bloodshot eyes were wide open. In a hoarse, joyous voice, he called out, “My Rabbi! My Rabbi!”
His head fell back on the cross, and was motionless.
* * * * *
At the same time that the apostle to the Jews was being nailed to a cross at one end of Rome, the apostle to the Gentiles was being dealt with at the other end. A small group of faithful also accompanied him on his last earthly journey, walking behind at a discreet distance. Luke the physician and Eubulus the soldier were among them. Pudens and Linus plus two or three women were there also, and Paul greeted them with his last looks and commended them to God with his last thoughts.
He had no fear now for the future of the congregations. He’d planted their roots deep, and the storm would only drive those roots deeper. He’d done his work well and there were strong hands to continue it.
“I have fought a good fight,” he said to himself as he stood at the execution place.
In his final moments he once again reviewed the years that linked Saul with Paul. There was nothing he would change. The errors and sins he committed when he was Saul were brought to nothing. He’d cleansed them with his blood, sweat, and sorrows. And Saul too had sought God, in his own way, according to the light he’d been given. Everything had been as it had to be, according to its own time. He’d always done what he understood to be right in the eyes of God, and he’d never done anything with a view to his own advantage. His life had been a sacrifice laid on God’s altar.
Even that part of his life that had been without Christ, and even against Christ, had been consecrated to God. It had been one long pursuit of the divinity.
Now the pursuit was over, and he was at the end of his course. His life was whole; his death was just the next part of his mission. Everything was as it should be. He had discharged his obligations, and now a crown of righteousness was laid up for him.
Firm in the bond of peace between him and the Lord of the world, he approached the block on which his head would be severed from his body with unfaltering steps.
As a Roman citizen, he was spared the final humiliation and torture of the lash. A soldier approached him, to bind his eyes.
“Must this be done?” he asked.
“It’s the law,” said the soldier, and Paul submitted, for his respect for the law did not abandon him even then.
As he knelt and placed his head on the block, Paul spoke one last time.
“The grace of our lord, Jesus Christ, be with you all.”
In those final seconds, Paul saw the vision once again of the white, radiant angel, his body steeped in stones, his arms lifted up for flight. And now Paul felt himself transformed into the angel. He felt himself being lifted up, he was in flight, the world was below him.
“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”
These were the last words of the apostle to the Gentiles.
* * * * *
A few days later, word came from Jerusalem that the long awaited storm in Judea against the might of Rome had finally broken out. The Jews had risen in rebellion and had defeated the troops of the Procurator Festus. Once again, after so many years, Jerusalem was in Jewish hands. Jerusalem was free!
The Jewish congregation in Rome received the news with mixed feelings. There was joy, certainly, but there was also uncertainty and fear. They trembled not only for themselves, but even more for the fate of the Temple. They trembled for the ultimate symbol of Jewish unity, more important in their eyes even than national independence.
But on the following Sabbath at the crowded Augustus Synagogue in the Trans-Tiber, they talked of another portentous event, the execution of the two apostles. The martyrdom of Christians had served to heal the breach between the two sections of the congregation even before the apostles’ deaths, and if any bitterness survived the common sorrow of the long persecutions, it was wiped away now. The uprising in Jerusalem and the martyrdom of the apostles became connected in the worshippers’ minds.
Zadoc, the old rabbi of the congregation, sought to restore calm in his sermon that morning.
“We don’t know whether the hand of Israel can overcome the sword of Rome. Certainly all things are possible with God, but what is the earthly power of Israel against the earthly power of Rome? Isn’t it like a thorn against a mighty forest?
“But I say to you that the spirit of God has already overcome the power of Rome, right here in the city of Rome.”
The congregation looked at the preacher in wonder.
“All things are possible with God!” cried a voice.
“All things are possible with God!” repeated Zadoc. “I say to you that Rome has already been overthrown!”
“What do you mean, rabbi?” someone asked.
“Do you see what is happening in Rome? The more they burn the believers in Christ, the more they throw them to the beasts, the mightier grow their numbers. Behold! Rome went forth against Jerusalem with the sword, and Jerusalem went forth against Rome with the spirit.
“The sword conquers for a while, but the spirit conquers forever!”
THE END
The centurion in command, who had lately felt a certain friendliness toward the Christians, had allowed them to go together, saying to his men, “Let them go together as far as the Porta Ostiensis. But they must be separated there. The old man goes to the Trans-Tiber and to the Vaticanum to be crucified. But this one is a Roman citizen and must be taken to the Cesti Pyramid and beheaded."
Before they were led away, Paul had bent down over the opening in the ground, and called out to the prisoners in the dungeons, “The grace of our lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit! Amen!”
After him Peter called down, “Peace be with you who are in the lord Messiah! Amen!”
A chorus of voices floated up from the depths below from the strong, the weak, the firm and the tremulous, “Peter and Paul! Pray for our souls!”
And for the first time the two names were intertwined in a single cord of salvation.
When they reached the Porta Ostiensis, they embraced one last time.
“Peace be with you, brother Paul!”
“Peace be with you, brother Peter! I bow to you who lived with our lord.”
“And I bow to you who carried the gospel to all the world.”
As they were led away from each other they turned their heads back.
“I will see you soon in the lord’s presence,” cried Peter.
“Pray for me, apostle to the Jews.”
Old Simon, with his bloody feet, was led uphill. Beyond the Porta Trigemina lay the Sublicius Bridge. How often the faithful had led him this way to the assemblies in Priscilla’s house on the Aventine hill! Simon looked up the slope, where a few passersby stopped and paused. Their lips moved unmistakably in prayer, and Simon recognized them. And as the procession drew through the narrow streets of the Jewish quarter the cortege grew. A proclamation seemed to run ahead, for heads appeared at the windows of the high houses.
“They’re leading the apostle to the cross,” was heard.
Simon saw a multitude of sad faces. He smiled at them and they tried to draw enough courage to smile back.
“Don’t cry. I’ll be with the lord soon to live with him forever. And you too will one day be with him as well. I promise you this in the name of our Father in heaven, who is the God of all grace. Peace to you all.”
After passing through the Jewish quarter, he began the climb to the place of execution, where his cross waited for him. But before they nailed him to the cross, the law required that he be scourged first. They bound him to a wooden block, and two soldiers wielded the lead-loaded whip over him. His blood gushed out under the lashes, but no sound came from the old man. His lips moved silently in prayer of thanksgiving for the privilege of suffering like his lord.
Suffer like his lord? Who was he to compare himself with the lord? How often he’d denied him, how often he’d fled from the cup again and again. How could he possibly say that he was dying the death of his lord?
They unbound him from the block and half led, half carried him, toward the cross. They asked him if he wanted a cup of sour wine, for even a slave was allowed this.
No, but he did have a last request. In the broken Greek he’d picked up in the years of his wandering, he asked them to nail him to the cross head down.
The executioners thought maybe they misunderstood his broken Greek.
“Head down?”
The old man nodded and feebly moved his hands to indicate his meaning.
“Head down. Nail me to the cross head down.”
As strange as this request was, they accommodated him, nailing his two feet to the arms of the cross, and his hands to the upright.
Two naked feet looked down from the crosspiece, the toes twisted and broken, like the roots of an old olive tree. But they were mighty limbs, broad boned, and gnarled like tree trunks. Blood ran from his wounds, which were like open mouths. And as the bleeding feet looked heavenward, the gray, mighty head with its short, tangled beard, hung earthward. And still the eyes smiled, seeking the little group of men and women who stood at a distance, and still the lips moved in prayer and greeting.
After a time his voice was heard clearly, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”
Men and women lifted their faces heavenward and repeated, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”
There was silence as blood descended, pulse-by-pulse, into his head. His feet were now as white as snow, but his face was crimson, like a flame. And now the old man pulled his head violently away from the cross. His bloodshot eyes were wide open. In a hoarse, joyous voice, he called out, “My Rabbi! My Rabbi!”
His head fell back on the cross, and was motionless.
* * * * *
At the same time that the apostle to the Jews was being nailed to a cross at one end of Rome, the apostle to the Gentiles was being dealt with at the other end. A small group of faithful also accompanied him on his last earthly journey, walking behind at a discreet distance. Luke the physician and Eubulus the soldier were among them. Pudens and Linus plus two or three women were there also, and Paul greeted them with his last looks and commended them to God with his last thoughts.
He had no fear now for the future of the congregations. He’d planted their roots deep, and the storm would only drive those roots deeper. He’d done his work well and there were strong hands to continue it.
“I have fought a good fight,” he said to himself as he stood at the execution place.
In his final moments he once again reviewed the years that linked Saul with Paul. There was nothing he would change. The errors and sins he committed when he was Saul were brought to nothing. He’d cleansed them with his blood, sweat, and sorrows. And Saul too had sought God, in his own way, according to the light he’d been given. Everything had been as it had to be, according to its own time. He’d always done what he understood to be right in the eyes of God, and he’d never done anything with a view to his own advantage. His life had been a sacrifice laid on God’s altar.
Even that part of his life that had been without Christ, and even against Christ, had been consecrated to God. It had been one long pursuit of the divinity.
Now the pursuit was over, and he was at the end of his course. His life was whole; his death was just the next part of his mission. Everything was as it should be. He had discharged his obligations, and now a crown of righteousness was laid up for him.
Firm in the bond of peace between him and the Lord of the world, he approached the block on which his head would be severed from his body with unfaltering steps.
As a Roman citizen, he was spared the final humiliation and torture of the lash. A soldier approached him, to bind his eyes.
“Must this be done?” he asked.
“It’s the law,” said the soldier, and Paul submitted, for his respect for the law did not abandon him even then.
As he knelt and placed his head on the block, Paul spoke one last time.
“The grace of our lord, Jesus Christ, be with you all.”
In those final seconds, Paul saw the vision once again of the white, radiant angel, his body steeped in stones, his arms lifted up for flight. And now Paul felt himself transformed into the angel. He felt himself being lifted up, he was in flight, the world was below him.
“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”
These were the last words of the apostle to the Gentiles.
* * * * *
A few days later, word came from Jerusalem that the long awaited storm in Judea against the might of Rome had finally broken out. The Jews had risen in rebellion and had defeated the troops of the Procurator Festus. Once again, after so many years, Jerusalem was in Jewish hands. Jerusalem was free!
The Jewish congregation in Rome received the news with mixed feelings. There was joy, certainly, but there was also uncertainty and fear. They trembled not only for themselves, but even more for the fate of the Temple. They trembled for the ultimate symbol of Jewish unity, more important in their eyes even than national independence.
But on the following Sabbath at the crowded Augustus Synagogue in the Trans-Tiber, they talked of another portentous event, the execution of the two apostles. The martyrdom of Christians had served to heal the breach between the two sections of the congregation even before the apostles’ deaths, and if any bitterness survived the common sorrow of the long persecutions, it was wiped away now. The uprising in Jerusalem and the martyrdom of the apostles became connected in the worshippers’ minds.
Zadoc, the old rabbi of the congregation, sought to restore calm in his sermon that morning.
“We don’t know whether the hand of Israel can overcome the sword of Rome. Certainly all things are possible with God, but what is the earthly power of Israel against the earthly power of Rome? Isn’t it like a thorn against a mighty forest?
“But I say to you that the spirit of God has already overcome the power of Rome, right here in the city of Rome.”
The congregation looked at the preacher in wonder.
“All things are possible with God!” cried a voice.
“All things are possible with God!” repeated Zadoc. “I say to you that Rome has already been overthrown!”
“What do you mean, rabbi?” someone asked.
“Do you see what is happening in Rome? The more they burn the believers in Christ, the more they throw them to the beasts, the mightier grow their numbers. Behold! Rome went forth against Jerusalem with the sword, and Jerusalem went forth against Rome with the spirit.
“The sword conquers for a while, but the spirit conquers forever!”
THE END
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
20 - The Grace of the Lord Be With You
The word “Tullianum” filled every Roman with dread. The dungeon prison was carved out of solid rock in the Capitoline Hill on the steep side overlooking the Forum Romanum. This was one place from which there was no escape. Prisoners were lowered by ropes into its lightless depths, and high above them, around the “entrance” they could never reach without outside help, a strong guard was kept day and night.
As a rule prisoners who were lowered into the Tillianum never again saw the light of day. They weren’t starved to death so much as they were eaten alive. Food of some kind was given to them, but they in turn became food for the monstrous rats and crawling things that bred in countless numbers in the foulness of the cells and corridors.
The prisoners were chained, either to rings in the walls or to great, immovable blocks of wood. The floors were littered were human offal, moldering bodies and bones gnawed clean. The poisonous air ate into the lungs and skin. Thick ooze dripped from the walls, and dampness caused the bones and flesh to swell painfully. The prisoners’ limbs, often immovable in their chains, rotted, and became gangrenous masses. The diet of bread and water quickly undermined whatever health the prisoners brought with them. When a prisoner died, the warders unchained the carcass and rolled it over toward the nearest heap of offal, so the chains would be ready for the next one.
Simon Peter, the old fisherman from Galilee, spent his last months in the Tullianum.
He was thrown into the underground dungeon with other Christians taken at the last service in the Jewish catacombs. His name was well enough known that even Caesar himself had heard that he was one of the leaders along with the man named Paul. But at the time of Peter’s arrest, Nero wasn’t in Rome. He was in Athens looking for a sympathetic audience for his poetical and musical compositions, and officials were waiting for his return before carrying out the execution of the important prisoner.
Those months of imprisonment were like a living hell. The aged apostle was chained by both legs to a ring in the wall, and he would often awaken from a fitful sleep to feel rats gnawing at his feet. The odor of decaying flesh, living and dead, assailed his nostrils from out of the darkness. No light ever broke into the prison. Yet he endured.
He endured because he knew that his savior might come at any moment. All around him he heard the moaning of his brothers in the faith, but he couldn’t see them. They constantly called on the name of Christ, begging him to hurry. But he didn’t hurry, and some of them began to fall away from the faith in the horrors of the dungeon.
From his plot of darkness, the apostle spoke words of comfort to the dying, assuring them that Messiah waited for them beyond the portals of death. He was calling them to his cross, that they might share his sufferings and eternal life. But between these ministrations, Peter himself pressed his face against the damp stone in despair.
At other times he chanted Psalms. The warders would sometimes beat him for his interminable praying. Criminals, murderers, and thieves, who were thrown in with the Christians, if they were near enough, would reach over and strike him in the darkness. His hair and beard were sticky with blood, and if his skull weren’t so hard, it probably would have cracked when a wild hand threw it at random against the rock wall.
Gabelus, the old soldier, was one of the ones whose faith began to fail, and the apostle wept when he heard him, like the others, yielding to despair.
“Come, lord,” prayed Peter in his heart, “come and help me, for the waters have come up to my lips.”
A day came when a prisoner was lowered into the hole in the ground. Two warders fastened the newcomer to a ring in the wall opposite Peter. When they left the prisoner called out, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, Amen!”
Peter couldn’t see the prisoner’s face, but he certainly knew that voice. In sudden joy he cried out, “Is that you, brother Paul?”
The Christians, languishing in their corners, feeling the last embers of their faith dying out, started up when they heard that name. Feebly they cried out, “Paul the apostle is with us!”
“Yes, I am your brother Paul, a servant of God. I’ve come to bring you the hope of Israel in Jesus Christ. Christ calls you to share his suffering. The grace of our lord be with you all, amen!”
“It is Paul!” whispered several voices. “That’s the greeting he uses in his letters!”
All Peter could say was, “Paul, my beloved brother, Paul.”
“Yes, Peter, it is I. I’ve come to share your chains in Christ!”
“My beloved brother!” wept Peter. The tears coursing down his cheeks seemed to soften the pains in his body. “Where are you?”
From opposite walls in the narrow cell they reached across to each other with their free hands and intertwined their fingers. It was like they could feel their whole bodies through the contact, and they embraced and kissed each other in the touch of their fingers.
And as if from an inner signal, they both began to chant together, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me!”
Instantly the black chamber resounded with the song of hope, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me!”
Paul felt someone crawling at his feet. He reached out and touched a face, a beard, warm flesh.
“Paul, the bringer of salvation!”
“Gabelus, is that you?” cried Paul. “Praise be to God for giving you a share in Christ’s sufferings.”
“Praise be to God for finding me worthy to be one of his soldiers,” answered Gabelus.
“Brothers in the faith!” said Paul into the darkness. “May God, our eternal help, accept our suffering as a sacrifice! Rejoice in your sufferings, for they bring you nearer to Christ. Come, brothers, let us sing a great song. God has chosen us to suffer with Christ! Let the Name of God be praised from now on and evermore.”
From the cells along the invisible corridors, across the heaps of refuse, decaying flesh, and skeletons, through halls of death and darkness, there came a sound of voices. It was like the wind stirring through the valley of withered bones in Ezekial’s vision. The voices rose, took on power and self-assurance, and shook off the weakness of the flesh.
“God has chosen us to suffer with Christ! Let the Name of God be praised from now on and evermore.”
As they spoke the words, their voices rang louder and louder, repeating after Paul the verses of the Psalms in Greek. The Jews among the prisoners recalled the original Hebrew version, as it was sung on the Temple steps in Jerusalem, and they took up the chorus in Hebrew.
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, praise all you servants of the Lord. Praise the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endures forever.”
They repeated the Hallel, as was done on the day of a great festival amid the glory of the Temple courts. The Greek mixed with the Hebrew, the two melodies rose side by side, like double fountains of joy. The flood of strength and renewal filled the whole underground prison. Health, liberation, and hope were found again, as if a flood of sunlight had shattered the prison and the glory of the heavens had burst on the prisoners.
The criminals in the prison and the warders outside listened stupefied to this song of exaltation coming from these half dead Christians. It was utterly incomprehensible to them. And the wonder grew daily. Ever since the new prisoner was lowered into the deeps, it was like a wind of life passed through the decaying bodies and withered bones chained to the walls and blocks. It was clear that in their singing the Christian prisoners were transported to another world.
They asked each other, “Who is this man? What does he say? He shows them something we can’t see. He makes them hear something we can’t hear.”
“Enter with us!” cried Paul. “The door is open for everyone! Come to the arms of the lord, his love waits for you too!”
“Are you crazy? We’re the ones who tormented you!”
“God’s grace is boundless. For Him there is neither stranger nor kin. Those who believe in Him will not be ashamed. The Scripture says that He is the same Lord for all. Whoever calls on Him will be saved. All of you, come, the door stands wide open!”
The hell of that prison, where the darkness of despair had been secure, was transformed into a radiant threshold on which white-robed souls waited for admittance to the innermost sanctuary of God’s eternal presence. And those whose eyes were closed to the radiance were filled with deepest envy. It wasn’t just the condemned criminals who drew close, but the warders too came with wonder and desire to those whom they had tortured just yesterday.
There was a new spirit in the Tullianum. What little water and dry bread they were brought became their common meal, and in the darkness, heavy with death, the banquet of the living faith was spread.
So the lifeline of Christ was thrown out, not just to those for whom death was already prepared, but to those who watched them, the soldiers and the warders on the upper levels of the prison. Gabelus’ faith, which had been flickering toward extinction, was rekindled, and he set about the task of winning those whose comrade-in-arms he’d once been. Old Gabelus, who once led the cohorts of Caesar to victory in the battlefield, now led the soldiers of Caesar stationed in the Tullianum to victory on the field of faith.
As a rule prisoners who were lowered into the Tillianum never again saw the light of day. They weren’t starved to death so much as they were eaten alive. Food of some kind was given to them, but they in turn became food for the monstrous rats and crawling things that bred in countless numbers in the foulness of the cells and corridors.
The prisoners were chained, either to rings in the walls or to great, immovable blocks of wood. The floors were littered were human offal, moldering bodies and bones gnawed clean. The poisonous air ate into the lungs and skin. Thick ooze dripped from the walls, and dampness caused the bones and flesh to swell painfully. The prisoners’ limbs, often immovable in their chains, rotted, and became gangrenous masses. The diet of bread and water quickly undermined whatever health the prisoners brought with them. When a prisoner died, the warders unchained the carcass and rolled it over toward the nearest heap of offal, so the chains would be ready for the next one.
Simon Peter, the old fisherman from Galilee, spent his last months in the Tullianum.
He was thrown into the underground dungeon with other Christians taken at the last service in the Jewish catacombs. His name was well enough known that even Caesar himself had heard that he was one of the leaders along with the man named Paul. But at the time of Peter’s arrest, Nero wasn’t in Rome. He was in Athens looking for a sympathetic audience for his poetical and musical compositions, and officials were waiting for his return before carrying out the execution of the important prisoner.
Those months of imprisonment were like a living hell. The aged apostle was chained by both legs to a ring in the wall, and he would often awaken from a fitful sleep to feel rats gnawing at his feet. The odor of decaying flesh, living and dead, assailed his nostrils from out of the darkness. No light ever broke into the prison. Yet he endured.
He endured because he knew that his savior might come at any moment. All around him he heard the moaning of his brothers in the faith, but he couldn’t see them. They constantly called on the name of Christ, begging him to hurry. But he didn’t hurry, and some of them began to fall away from the faith in the horrors of the dungeon.
From his plot of darkness, the apostle spoke words of comfort to the dying, assuring them that Messiah waited for them beyond the portals of death. He was calling them to his cross, that they might share his sufferings and eternal life. But between these ministrations, Peter himself pressed his face against the damp stone in despair.
At other times he chanted Psalms. The warders would sometimes beat him for his interminable praying. Criminals, murderers, and thieves, who were thrown in with the Christians, if they were near enough, would reach over and strike him in the darkness. His hair and beard were sticky with blood, and if his skull weren’t so hard, it probably would have cracked when a wild hand threw it at random against the rock wall.
Gabelus, the old soldier, was one of the ones whose faith began to fail, and the apostle wept when he heard him, like the others, yielding to despair.
“Come, lord,” prayed Peter in his heart, “come and help me, for the waters have come up to my lips.”
A day came when a prisoner was lowered into the hole in the ground. Two warders fastened the newcomer to a ring in the wall opposite Peter. When they left the prisoner called out, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, Amen!”
Peter couldn’t see the prisoner’s face, but he certainly knew that voice. In sudden joy he cried out, “Is that you, brother Paul?”
The Christians, languishing in their corners, feeling the last embers of their faith dying out, started up when they heard that name. Feebly they cried out, “Paul the apostle is with us!”
“Yes, I am your brother Paul, a servant of God. I’ve come to bring you the hope of Israel in Jesus Christ. Christ calls you to share his suffering. The grace of our lord be with you all, amen!”
“It is Paul!” whispered several voices. “That’s the greeting he uses in his letters!”
All Peter could say was, “Paul, my beloved brother, Paul.”
“Yes, Peter, it is I. I’ve come to share your chains in Christ!”
“My beloved brother!” wept Peter. The tears coursing down his cheeks seemed to soften the pains in his body. “Where are you?”
From opposite walls in the narrow cell they reached across to each other with their free hands and intertwined their fingers. It was like they could feel their whole bodies through the contact, and they embraced and kissed each other in the touch of their fingers.
And as if from an inner signal, they both began to chant together, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me!”
Instantly the black chamber resounded with the song of hope, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me!”
Paul felt someone crawling at his feet. He reached out and touched a face, a beard, warm flesh.
“Paul, the bringer of salvation!”
“Gabelus, is that you?” cried Paul. “Praise be to God for giving you a share in Christ’s sufferings.”
“Praise be to God for finding me worthy to be one of his soldiers,” answered Gabelus.
“Brothers in the faith!” said Paul into the darkness. “May God, our eternal help, accept our suffering as a sacrifice! Rejoice in your sufferings, for they bring you nearer to Christ. Come, brothers, let us sing a great song. God has chosen us to suffer with Christ! Let the Name of God be praised from now on and evermore.”
From the cells along the invisible corridors, across the heaps of refuse, decaying flesh, and skeletons, through halls of death and darkness, there came a sound of voices. It was like the wind stirring through the valley of withered bones in Ezekial’s vision. The voices rose, took on power and self-assurance, and shook off the weakness of the flesh.
“God has chosen us to suffer with Christ! Let the Name of God be praised from now on and evermore.”
As they spoke the words, their voices rang louder and louder, repeating after Paul the verses of the Psalms in Greek. The Jews among the prisoners recalled the original Hebrew version, as it was sung on the Temple steps in Jerusalem, and they took up the chorus in Hebrew.
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, praise all you servants of the Lord. Praise the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endures forever.”
They repeated the Hallel, as was done on the day of a great festival amid the glory of the Temple courts. The Greek mixed with the Hebrew, the two melodies rose side by side, like double fountains of joy. The flood of strength and renewal filled the whole underground prison. Health, liberation, and hope were found again, as if a flood of sunlight had shattered the prison and the glory of the heavens had burst on the prisoners.
The criminals in the prison and the warders outside listened stupefied to this song of exaltation coming from these half dead Christians. It was utterly incomprehensible to them. And the wonder grew daily. Ever since the new prisoner was lowered into the deeps, it was like a wind of life passed through the decaying bodies and withered bones chained to the walls and blocks. It was clear that in their singing the Christian prisoners were transported to another world.
They asked each other, “Who is this man? What does he say? He shows them something we can’t see. He makes them hear something we can’t hear.”
“Enter with us!” cried Paul. “The door is open for everyone! Come to the arms of the lord, his love waits for you too!”
“Are you crazy? We’re the ones who tormented you!”
“God’s grace is boundless. For Him there is neither stranger nor kin. Those who believe in Him will not be ashamed. The Scripture says that He is the same Lord for all. Whoever calls on Him will be saved. All of you, come, the door stands wide open!”
The hell of that prison, where the darkness of despair had been secure, was transformed into a radiant threshold on which white-robed souls waited for admittance to the innermost sanctuary of God’s eternal presence. And those whose eyes were closed to the radiance were filled with deepest envy. It wasn’t just the condemned criminals who drew close, but the warders too came with wonder and desire to those whom they had tortured just yesterday.
There was a new spirit in the Tullianum. What little water and dry bread they were brought became their common meal, and in the darkness, heavy with death, the banquet of the living faith was spread.
So the lifeline of Christ was thrown out, not just to those for whom death was already prepared, but to those who watched them, the soldiers and the warders on the upper levels of the prison. Gabelus’ faith, which had been flickering toward extinction, was rekindled, and he set about the task of winning those whose comrade-in-arms he’d once been. Old Gabelus, who once led the cohorts of Caesar to victory in the battlefield, now led the soldiers of Caesar stationed in the Tullianum to victory on the field of faith.
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