One Year Later

Now that I've been retired for a baker's year, it seems like a good time to take stock of things. I read a lot about people who atrophy after retirement; many even die soon thereafter. They've spent their whole lives working and suddenly find themselves feeling lost and worthless. That has definitely not been the case. It is true that there are occasions, especially recently, winter blahs and all, when I find myself feeling incredibly bored, but other than that, it has been a busy 13 months.

We have done a lot of traveling, probably about as much as I anticipated. There was the wonderful trip to Disney, of course. But we also took a four week trip out west visiting 8 resorts in Tennessee, Arkansas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Missouri, and Illinois and getting our first looks at both the Grand Canyon and the grandbaby. We spent almost two weeks getting a taste of the mountains of New England in Massachusetts, Vermont and Pennsylvania. And we also had return trips to the Smokies in Tennessee as well as Myrtle Beach and Edisto Island in South Carolina. We look forward to doing as much traveling this year, having already gotten started with a trip that took us to North Carolina, Panama City Beach, Orlando and Santee. We already have plans to visit Myrtle Beach (our favorite place) in both May and November. Since I tend to plan most trips at the last minute to take advantage of discounts, I don't know where else or when, but we will go as the spirit moves us.

Here at home we were able to do a number of things with the money I had received at retirement. This included all new badly needed appliances (except the washer and dryer, which, knock on wood, seem to be doing well despite their age). We also did some remodeling and now eat dinner in an actual dining room rather than off of TV trays. This was partly made possible because after the girls moved out we were able to redo the upstairs so that Kim now has a large craft room, and I did some rearranging to allow us to use the old front room as a dining room. We still have a lot more things that need to be done, but feel we've gotten a pretty good start.

One of the best things about no longer having a work schedule is the freedom to go hiking whenever we want, or at least whenever the weather allows. Before, it seemed like we could always count on rain whenever I had a day off, but now, well, if it rains today, there's always tomorrow. So altogether, we hiked several hundred miles last year, not counting treadmill miles this winter. As a result of that and some dietary adjustments, I lost 15 pounds. But the best part is that I have not put any of it back on this winter. If I can lose another 15 pounds this summer, I will be quite happy.

There are some things I thought I would be doing that I haven't gotten to yet. I thought I would be doing more blogging and personal writing. There are some other personal things that I am working on which will be finished sometime this year, and then perhaps those other things will fall into place. But that's actually good news I think. Who would have thought that even after retirement, there are still not enough hours in the day.

Why We Own With Wyndham

My wife and I are preparing to travel back home after a lovely trip that included a visit to Florida where we stayed at a place called Vacation Village, an RCI resort in Kissimmee. Normally we stay in Wyndham resorts where we have ownership, but sometimes we stray in order to have other experiences. We never have any major complaints when we stay with RCI, but there are always little things that remind us why we stay with Wyndham.



Here are a few of the things that happened this week. During the evening of the day we checked in we were quite surprised when another couple opened the door to our unit preparing to move in. Apparently the computer had also assigned them to the same unit, and so they had to drive back over to check in to get it straightened out. While they were doing that, it appears that our unit keys were also invalidated as we discovered the next morning when we tried to get back into our unit after going out for a walk. We had to knock on someone's else's door to use their phone to get new key cards. Fortunately someone answered the phone when we called. I mention that because most of the time when I have called for whatever reason, there is either a recording saying that everyone is busy or else the phone just rings and rings. This has never happened at any Wyndham resort. And I believe this is the first resort we have ever stayed at that actually charges a $25 amenities fee to cover things like wireless internet and use of the pools. In most cases those things are covered by the rental fee.



But the biggest difference I find between Wyndham and other places is the consistency and quality of the, let's call them, products that you get in your unit. The bed, the cabinets, the silver ware, the dishes, the pots and pans, the coffee maker, to name just a few things, none of these things are Wyndham quality. Wyndham doesn't work on the cheap. For whatever faults the company does have (and I could certainly list a few), they do go out of their way to make your stay a pleasant one. And they are willing to spend the money on quality rather than on just getting by. And whenever there is an issue, you dial 0 and the problem is immediately solved.



While we were at Vacation Village, we agreed to sit through their 2 hour sales pitch in exchange for an $80 gift card. During the pitch we learned a little bit about how their point system works and how much it costs to purchase. It's different from Wyndham's but of course they're only going to emphasize the parts they consider selling points, which makes it impossible to discover if their system would be better; i.e. would RCI points that cost the same as Wyndham points get you more vacation opportunities. One thing the guy kept emphasizing was that RCI's maintenance fees are lower than Wyndham's, again a point impossible to prove based on the information they give you.



And that's when it hit me. I didn't care.



I realized that if a little higher maintenance fee is the price we pay to ensure that whenever we go to a Wyndham resort we know exactly what kind of forks and mixing bowls and coffee maker and towels and sheets, etc, etc, that we’re going to have and if something isn’t up to par there will be someone at the other end of the phone who will immediately fix it; well, I’m willing to pay that little extra.



Whoever would have thought that such a cheapskate as me would ever get to that place.

 

Outer Banks

I was going through some old keepsakes and came across a journal I had kept on a trip to the Outer Banks in 1990. What follows is a synopsis, trying to keep it short enough to be readable, but include as many highlights as I can.

We left Cleveland on Friday, August 3, met up with the Berg's, and traveled through Ohio and Pennsylvania, stopping for a picnic lunch before heading south through Maryland and a small slice of West Virginia. There was one misadventure when we tried to get gas before going through the Hampton Tunnel. We had a hard time finding an open gas station - we even tried to pump gas at one before realizing it was closed - until a kindly cab driver directed us to an open station. We spent the first night at a Red Roof Inn in Cheasapeakc, but as we pulled into the parking area, the fire alarms went off, so we had to wait and watch while police and fire units checked everything out and let us in.

When we got to the Outer Banks on Saturday, it was too early to check in, so we visited the Wright Brothers Memorial. There are markers showing the landing spots and distances of their first four flights and I found it interesting to see how close together the first three markers are, but then the fourth one went quite a distance. There's also a state park called Jockey's Ridge, home of the tallest sand dunes on the east coast, which are over 100 feet high. Due to shifting winds, they constantly change shape, but stay in relatively the same place from year to year.

The community we stayed in, Whalehead Beach, is almost as far north as you can go making it a great place to stay if you're looking to be out of the hustle, bustle, and congestion of Kitty Hawk and Kill Devil Hills. Although the house wasn't ready on time, when we finally were able to move in, we found it much to our liking. The living area is on the top floor making for a great view. The ocean is somewhat obstructed by the row of houses in front of us, but at least we can see it. There's no grass, just brush growing out of the sand. The floor underneath contains the four bedrooms. Andrew and Liz shared the small bedroom with the twin beds, and the other four girls stayed in the room with 2 sets of bunk beds.

I noticed right off that you can feel the house sway when you're sitting down. This is considered a safety feature that gives the house a better chance of surviving a hurricane. A little disconcerting though.

Though already late, we went down to the beach for an hour. This being my first time ever at an ocean beach, the salt taste is what I remember most. Liz tried going in the water, but got hit with a wave and decided to stay in the ankle deep area. Leah just stayed on the beach after seeing that. Sarah was hesitant, but did all right. The Berg's were used to it, so all plunged right in.

On Sunday, we rented some beach equipment, including boogie boards, and spent the day at the beach. The boards allowed the little ones to catch waves and ride them in farther than the adults. I did catch two good waves and found I liked it. That night we picked up a lot of shells and saw a million sand crabs scurrying around. The full moon makes a great reflection on the water.

It rained on Monday, so we drove into town to hit the stores. We also noticed that gas prices were up again for the third time in four days, as gas companies were taking advantage of the Iraq-Kuwait situation. (It was $1.14 when we left for the trip, and $1.33 when we got back. Horrors!)

That afternoon, we stopped at a restaurant for what we planned to be our one big meal out this week, but after we were seated and were getting our drinks, we realized it was just a sandwich place, so we got up and walked out. This seemed to embarass Erin greatly.

Monday night, we went to Roanoke Island to see an outdoor drama called the Lost Colony. It was very well done, and I noted that Andy Griffith had gotten his start playing the part of Sir Walter Raleigh in this play. Elizabeth was able to answer some questions we asked about it on the drive back.

On Tuesday, we watched one of the wild mustangs as he made his way into the neighborhood, stopping to rest in the yard of the house next door. We went over to take pictures, and a lady drove up with some medicine for the horse. She explained that he was sickly and had been beaten and run out of the herd after his mother was killed by a car last year. Whenever the herd comes across him, he is forced to vacate the area. Sure enough, a while later when the seven other horses came through the area, a skirmish broke out between the sick horse and one of the other stallions until he agreed to leave.

We went to the beach for a few hours, even though it rained off and on - after all, that's what we were there for -  but the water was very cold, so we mostly laid around. Sarah and Elizabeth have gotten to love the water by this time, but Leah will only go in if someone carries her, and even then will only stay a minute.

More rain on Wednesday meant more shopping, but we did get to play putt-putt during a break in the rain. There was a wheel game in one of the shops that two of us spun, each winning a $30 coupon to the Sportsmen's Restaurant. All we had to do was sit through a 90 minute sales pitch for time share the next day. We also had our dinner out at the Dune's Restaurant. The food was good, but this was also when I learned that restaurants had started automatically adding the tip to the check. At the point, in my view, it is no longer a tip; it's a service charge. We also went back to the sand dune, climbed the highest one and watched as the kids had a super time running, rolling, sliding and falling down that hill.

Although the sun was shining on Thursday, we decided to go to the sales pitch because, after all, $60 is $60. This was when I first learned about time share, and although $8000 was something we could not afford for one vacation week a year, I noted that I would like to do this someday. Although the pitch was long and the salesman rude and pushy, the free breakfast was worth it. The pancakes were as big as frisbees and were served on huge trays.

When we got back to the beach, the weather was perfect. Leah started dabbling in the shallow water a little bit. Elizabeth and Andrew were totally oblivious to the rest of the world. And we all got sunburned because we neglected to put on our sunscreen due to the cloudiness.

Friday was a perfect final day - the kind of day in which, even if it were the only good beach day of the week, would determine you to go back again. Skies were partly cloudy, temperature in the 80s. The water felt great. We swam, we ate sandwiches, we laid on the beach, we played paddle ball, and we did it all wearing our sunscreen. The hardest thing in the world was leaving that beach at 5:00. Shortly before we did however, Eric came screaming out of the water saying she had a crab in her bathing suit. Somewhere along the line he had managed to disembark, though, so there was no actual proof.

One more notable thing happened that day. We had packed as much into the cars that evening as we could to save time the next morning, and evidently while we were doing this, hundreds, perhaps thousands of sand fleas managed to get into the house, and they were covering the beds and were throughout the second floor. The outside doors were covered with others trying to get in. We shook out the blankets as best we could, turned out the lights and went back upstairs. When we came back down later, all but David and Kathy's bed seemed to be all right, so they slept elsewhere.

On Saturday, we split up to take separate routes back home, as I wanted to drive up Skyline drive in Virginia. We made several stops along the drive to look at spectacular views of the surrounding mountains and valleys. During the night at the motel, a scary thing happened as some guy was pounding on the window at 3:15 and then again at 5:20. The second time I managed to get to the window before he left and asked what he wanted. He looked surprised like he was expecting someone else and he left.

On Sunday we toured Skyline Caverns and rode the miniature train before we continued our trip home.

Post Election Thoughts

It’s been one month since the election, so I’ve had time to try to think things through and put them in a little perspective. My feeling about what the election means for our country hasn’t changed. I believe we’ve reached a tipping point where there are too many takers and not enough producers and givers. Politicians continue to pretend that we can tax the minority enough to support the majority, but as the supported class continues to grow, the productive class sees less and less reason to produce.

Now I know that just saying that marks me as one who hates the underclass and thinks that they’re all lazy. But nothing could be further from the truth. You don’t have to have a majority of dependent people to ruin a society. It’s a question of a culture that has slowly developed over the past half a century or so, and that has picked up tremendous speed in the last few years. Our country is in deep, deep economic turmoil, we are worse off now than we were four years ago, and yet we have handily reelected a man who has to bear the primary responsibility for it.

Bob Costas says that he is not against people having guns; he is worried about a gun culture, by which I assume he means a mentality whereby people think of guns as an integral part of society rather than as something that is occasionally needed to fix a temporary problem. That’s how I think of welfare. It’s great that our country is prosperous enough to help people fix a temporary unemployment problem, or who are simply incapable of working. But it seems that welfare has become a culture, or a state of permanent mind. It is not a temporary fix as it was intended. Entire generations of people grow up knowing no other way of life. Once that population gets large enough, it brings down the rest of society with it.

One of the founding fathers, I forget which one, said something to the effect that democracy only works until the people realize that they can vote anything they want for themselves. That’s where I’m afraid we are at.

The other thing that keeps intruding on my thoughts is the way in which Christianity is being bashed more and more every year. That’s also something that seems to have picked up speed in the past few years. When the Obama administration attempted to force religious employers to provide insurance for their employees that would guarantee them access to abortion, the employers naturally objected. The telling point is that the administration couldn’t even understand why they were objecting. That’s how ingrained anti-Christian thinking has become. The Chick-Fil-A fiasco was another telling incident the way some politicians and media people vehemently reacted to a business owner expressing his Christian viewpoint. They didn’t even care that there has never been any adverse action against any gay person; they just couldn’t tolerate the fact that someone could even have Christian thoughts on the subject.

There are many other examples of this sort of intolerance against Christians, and my point is not only that the number of instances of Christian bashing is increasing, but that they are becoming more and more extreme. As the secular mind becomes more and more entrenched in the world’s philosophy, it becomes more and more impossible for it to comprehend that there can even be another way of thinking. It seems like a prelude to persecution.

I truly believe that these two things, an entrenched culture of dependency and a virulent hatred of Christianity, are what is bringing our country down. Can this be reversed? Yes. Do I think it will be? No. Do I like it? Of course not. It scares the daylights out of me. But if the loss of our freedoms and the persecution of Christians are some of the things that need to happen before the Lord returns, then we will have to deal with it. And rejoice when the end comes.

He's Alive

There's a song called He's Alive. The version I have is by Mark Murphy and is probably about 20 years old. Recently I heard a version by some other artist on the radio. When it first started playing, I thought, That's interesting, it starts out at a faster tempo than the Mark Murphy version, which starts out rather slow and almost recited rather than sung. But then as the song went on, I realized that the whole thing was in the same tempo; there's no build up, no anticipation; it's just several verses of a song. It just doesn't work.

The first 2:45 of the Murphy version is almost mournful as Peter doubts and speculates as to whether Jesus is really alive as Mary claims, especially in light of his recent denials of Jesus. Then the build up runs about 45 seconds: "Then suddenly the air was filled with a strange and sweet perfume/ A light that shone from everywhere drove shadows from the room/ Jesus stood before me with His arms held open wide/ And I fell down on my knees and just clung to Him and cried./ He raised me to my feet and as I looked into His eyes/ Love was shining out from Him like the sunlight from the skies/ Guilt and my confusion disappeared in sweet release/ Every fear I ever had just melted into peace."

And then the orchestra breaks into the crescendo and a powerful voice sings: He's Alive, He's Alive, He's Alive and I'm forgiven/ Heaven's gates are open wide; lines that are repeated twice more, seemingly more powerful each time. I find it impossible to listen to, or even think about it without feeling a great tearful swelling inside.

It's a song that's meant to be experienced, not just heard.

Coming Home

Because vacation was so good, we decided to take our time coming home. After we checked out of the resort, we went to the Lost Canyon and rode the horse drawn cart through the narrow canyon. The trip actually ends right about where the resort skyway goes over the canyon near the ziplines.

Then we drove over and visited with Liz for a few minutes and toured her house. I know it's Eric's house too, but writing "their house" didn't sound grammatically correct. We drove a while longer and decided to lunch at Culver's. It's actually pretty good, sort of an upscale McDonald's.

By this time I was concerned about Chicago traffic on a Friday afternoon, but we had no problem the route we took (thanks, Leah.) The problem began when we exited I-80 to go to US 30 to get to Warsaw where our motel was located. We exited I-80 earlier than we needed to so that we could avoid the construction heading into Indiana. Big mistake. Traffic on US 30 going into Indiana is horrific. And the traffic lights all seemed designed to create the longest traffic jams.

The rest of the day and most of the travel day Saturday was routine, until we got to the Days Inn in Sandusky. Without a doubt one of the worst motels I have ever been in. There was a terrible stench in the room, and since nothing in the room, like linens, curtains or rug smelled up close, we could only conclude that there must be mold or something growing in the walls. It was made worse by the fact that the air conditioner hadn't been turned on. We couldn't really complain because the couple at the check in desk spoke such broken English, it was difficult to communicate with them. We turned on the air full blast, emptied a can of Glade and went out to dinner. By the time we got back I could tolerate it, although Kim said this morning that it was the worst night's sleep she had on the whole trip. She's always been wary of Days Inn, and now I am cured as well.

The only reason we stayed there instead of driving straight home was so we could visit Kelley's Island on Sunday. That turned out to be fun. We took the Jet Express Ferry across from Sandusky, rented a golf cart and toured the island. There's not as much to do there is at Put-In-Bay, but the more relaxed atmosphere is definitely to my liking.

So now we're home, feverishly planning our next trip. Branson, maybe?

Post Visit

There's not a lot to say about our recent stay at the resort in Wisconsin, because the people I care about the most were all there, so they all know what a great time it was. My only regret was not having more energy to be able to keep up with them. But I guess when you're the old patriarch, allowances have to be made.

After the girls and their husbands were gone, we discovered that there is even more to the Wilderness than we thought. The part we had walked and thought we were at the end really wasn't even half of it. That place is just humungous. So we did more walking, but never did cover the whole place.

We did more old people stuff, like walking around the mall, driving down to a state park, and riding a horse drawn wagon. We wanted to hike on one of the trails at the park, without realizing how difficult it was going to be. It was marked "moderate" on the map and was only a few miles long, but the change in elevation turned out to be at least several hundred feet, and much of it was spent climbing up rocks. It was exhausting. I'm really glad we didn't try one of the "difficult" trails.

Checking out was difficult, but that's life. Vacations end, and one always has to get back to reality. But it was really great to see everyone.

A Better Way

I guess it's been a long time, and there's so many things I could write about that have happened in the past 10 months. There's been so much going on, but I guess that's it. Many of the things happening are things that impact my job, or rather the thought of losing it, and so my thoughts are often occupied with things I don't really want to write about.

This week, however, I've had a thoroughly wonderful vacation trip, and so I wanted to describe it. However, on the way up to Wisconsin, and now on the way back, the thing that is currently pressed on my mind goes back to my job. As a turnpike toll collector in Ohio, I constantly live with the threat that the turnpike will be leased or sold. If this happens, there are a number of scenarios that could play out, none of which could be interpreted as good to the employees there.

I think of myself as a Republican and I voted for John Kasich. In general, I support his efforts to find ways to bring Ohio's budget back under control, and to plug any shortfalls. However, there are right ways and wrong ways to do things, and to simply give away one of the state's most valuable assets for the paltry sum of 2.5 billion dollars net is about as shortsighted as one can get.

Notice, I'm not even making the argument here, as some have, that the turnpike is NOT a state asset. Others have argued that case persuavely. I'll just concede the point and move on. There is a much better way to deal with the turnpike that would put it in state hands, and make a whole lot more money. It's called High Speed Tolls.

I discovered this while driving around Chicago last week, and I think it's a most marvelous thing. I had seen a High Speed Toll plaza in Pennsylvania near the Ohio border the last time I drove through there, and while I thought it was kind of cool, I didn't think much more than that. But the Illinois Tollway has taken that concept to a whole new level. With High Speed Tolls, drivers with transponders simply drive through the plaza area, and their transponders are automatically read without them having to even slow down from highway speed. People without transponders have to pull off down a ramp to pay in cash and then reenter the roadway. I don't know exactly how many of these on-road plazas there are, but there's a lot of them.

I believe the Ohio Turnpike could be retrofitted to accomodate high speed tolling, placing plazas along the roadway every 20-40 miles. Some of the current toll plazas could be eliminated completely, and others would be reduced to partial plazas. Now that the turnpike EZ Pass system has been in place for nearly two years, people are aware of it, and have gotten used to it, and even many more would apply for a transponder if this change were made, thus streamlining the system even more.

What about the loss of jobs that would result? Not to worry, because this system should also be instituted on other interstates in Ohio, particularly I71 and I75. About 15-20 years ago, the federal government was advocating that states build more toll roads. Some states did. Ohio did not. I never thought that it was practical to convert existing interstates into toll roads. But with high speed tolling, most of the obstacles disappear.

If the governor would institute such a plan, instead of settling for the shortsighted plan he has, Ohio would be much better off.

Frustrations

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

19 - I Have Kept the Faith

A heavy guard conducted Paul, the apostle to the Gentiles, in chains across the ruined streets of Rome, where thousands of slaves were at work. No deputation greeted him on the Via Appia this time, and no one waited for him in the city. Luke was his only companion and he walked a distance behind so as not to be seen by the guard.

Where had the apostle been during the days that led up to the frightful slaughters in Rome? It would be easier to ask where he hadn’t been. From Rome he hurried to Ephesus and its neighboring cities, where he visited new congregations he’d never been to before. He went to Colosse, Nicopolis and Berea. He visited his beloved Philippi in Macedonia, and went to Crete with Titus, where he’d been considered a holy man ever since the shipwreck. He was in Naples for a time, and from there he went to Troas, where he stayed in the house of a man named Carpus.

It was while he was in Troas that he was arrested on the charge of being a Christian and spreading pernicious and forbidden doctrine among Romans and slaves. Now he was being led to the Praetorian guardhouse until he could be brought to trial in one of the basilicas on the Forum Romanum.

So quickly had he been seized that he left most of his belongings, a mantle and a few parched documents, with Carpus. In the damp prison, he greatly needed his mantle, but he sorely missed the parchment rolls with their sacred messages.

Paul felt like a man forlorn and abandoned. All his companions were gone. Some of them he’d sent out on missions or left behind to complete his work. Crispus was in Galatia, Titus had gone to Crete and Macedonia, and Timothy was in Ephesus. And when the persecutions came about, some of his companions abandoned him. Demas, who'd served him throughout his first imprisonment in Rome, left him and returned to Thessalonica, “because he loved this world.” Trophimus fell sick in Miletus and stayed there. A certain coppersmith, Alexander, did him “much evil.” Aristarchus, his faithful servant, was taken with many other Christians at Troas, to be tried before the local courts.

Luke’s completely Greek appearance and bearing kept him from being taken. He accompanied Paul when, as a Roman citizen, the latter was called to be tried in Rome.

Paul was closely guarded in the prison this time, and it didn’t matter that he was a Roman citizen. The crime of Christianity obliterated almost all distinctions.

And yet the persecutions did not destroy all his communications with the world of believers. After a while he found a way to exchange messages with friends.

Some of the soldiers taking turns guarding him were members of Gabelus’ cohort. Gabelus himself had been arrested in the Jewish catacomb, but the Christian thread was not broken, for the gentle and noble-spirited Eubulus took Gabelus’ place. When these men were on guard, they carried messages to and from Paul and his friends. They also allowed Luke to attend the apostle, and what was of the most importance, they smuggled in writing materials to allow him to send letters to the communities.

Even at noon the cell in which he was confined was dim. By afternoon it was pitch black and remained so until morning. But Paul sat steeped in light, as though the walls around him had dissolved and the heavens were shining on him freely. He was more aware than ever of the eternal light that is kindled in us when we conquer death. “In faith there is no death, there is only eternal life,” he had taught. This made him quite incapable of understanding, let alone sympathizing with, any manifestation of panic. He expected everyone, without exception, to continue to work as diligently as before and not to withhold a single act of service out of fear of death. He was filled with contempt for those believers who fled before persecution or who refused to renew contact with him for fear of discovery. Weakness and timidity cannot be associated with faith.

Not that he lacked compassion, for he interpreted defection as the loss of a great treasure. To those who’d avoided him during his first trial in Rome, he said, “Be not ashamed of risking danger for the lord, and be not ashamed of me, his prisoner.”

Paul knew the time had come to take an accounting of himself. He looked back on the course of his life and felt that everything was as it should be. He could leave the world no man’s debtor. He even owed nothing to himself.

Faith was a great peacemaker between him and the world. For there was no death; there was only one great life that passed from this world to the next, and wherever God wanted him, well, there God would find him! Those who were afraid of death were the ones who were bringing death into life.

Ah, how he longed to plant this ultimate truth of faith into the hearts of the believers! Then there would be no timidities and no defections. Then they would reach the highest perception of Christ, and the passage through death would be nothing more than a stepping-stone across a narrow threshold.


The door of the cell swings open and daylight is diffused toward the dim corner where the apostle, seated in chains, is steeped in his own inward light. Good Eubulus leads a man in. Paul looks up to see a tall, stately, black-bearded stranger. Eubulus pulls the door to, and the stranger speaks in the darkness.

“I am Onesiphorus of Ephesus. I have come to pay my respects to the apostle to the Gentiles.”

Joyously Paul asks, “You come to greet me here, in Rome? Weren’t you afraid? Weren’t you ashamed of my chains?”

“Afraid to come to you? Ashamed of the chains Christ has given you?”

The tall stranger falls on his knees before Paul, and kisses the chains.

“These,” he says, “are the ornaments of the faithful.”
“Are there many like you?” asks Paul, eagerly.
“Everywhere the faithful encounter death with a song on their lips.”
“Don’t say death,” cries Paul. “Rather say eternal life.”

He struggles to his knees.

“Oh, praise be to Christ, who has destroyed death and revealed eternal life!”


It was under the inspiration of this visit that he wrote his farewell letter to his beloved son, Timothy. That day Eubulus smuggled in pen, ink, papyrus, and a lamp. Paul wrote laboriously by the dim flame, adjusting himself to the heavy manacles.


Paul’s condition is very different now than it was during his first imprisonment. Then he was in his own house. Now he’s in the dread Praetorium prison. Then his guards, even if not Christian, were more easily moved to friendliness. The horror of the Christian accusation hadn’t yet seized the city. Now only a Christian legionary permits himself to be friendly with the apostle, and that only when another Christian is stationed outside the cell. For even the inclination to pity the “enemies of mankind” would be regarded as a sign of that infection for which the only cure is the arena. The longest record of faithfulness in service to Caesar would mean nothing. Witness old Gabelus, awaiting his trial along with the rest. Paul’s Roman citizenship performs only one service for him. He doesn’t have to wear the frightful collar or neck manacles that are put on the arrested slaves. But one hand is chained to his jailor and one foot is chained to the wall of the cell.

A letter can be written only when the guard in the cell and the guard outside the cell are both Christians. But it must be written at one sitting, for neither the papyrus nor any of the other writing materials can be left in the cell overnight. Both guards will be changed in the morning, and neither of them may be Christians. If the letter is discovered, it is death for the guards, and death for the men and women who are mentioned in it.

And yet Paul does name names. He sends greetings from Eubulus and Pudens and Linus, and he sends greetings to Priscilla and Aquila.

He must write fast. He can’t say all that is in his heart, but he must indicate his thoughts. He knows the end is near, and yet he doesn’t seem to give up hope.

“I am ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is near at hand.” And, “If we die with him, so shall we rule with him; and if we deny him, so will he deny us.”

He remembers that no one came forward to defend him at his first trial, “Nevertheless, the Lord stood with me and strengthened me, that by me the preaching might be fully known, and I was delivered out of the lion’s mouth. And the Lord will deliver me from every evil work and preserve me until His heavenly kingdom.”

He also says about them, “I pray God that it not be charged against them.”

With incredible obstinacy the apostle makes no mention of the bloody calamities that have befallen the Christians, or of the persecutions they suffer, in this last letter to his beloved son. Is this because of his hope, or is it the same obstinacy that forbids him to mention his impending death?

He calls on Timothy to come to Rome at once, even though he knows he’s asking him to put his head in the “lion’s mouth.” “Hurry to get here before winter!” he writes.

And as if to deny his own premonitions, he asks Timothy to bring the mantle and the manuscripts he left behind with Carpus.

Life and death are mixed in the letter, as though the two are one and have become indistinguishable in his eyes. One instant he lays down plans for the future, and the next he bids a father’s farewell to his son. No matter what happens, Paul will accept it, not with stoical indifference, but with the love of faith. It is Paul’s last letter, and it pulses with the sensitiveness of his soul.

This last letter to Timothy, the one joy he has allowed himself in life, expresses a tender sentimentality that would be searched for in vain in any of his other letters.

“I greatly desire to see you, remembering your tears and the real faith that is in you, which was first found in your grandmother Lois and in your mother, Eunice.”

Timothy was the only person who awakened the instincts of family and fatherhood in Paul. Thus the peculiar touch of tenderness and the intimate recollection of his sufferings, which are not so much a complaint as an expression of closeness, a loving father-son relationship.

“Persecutions and afflictions came to me at Antioch, Iconium and Lystra, but the Lord delivered me out of them all.”

He can’t help these allusions. But he doesn’t close the letter with them. He learned from Rabbi Gamaliel that “the words of parting between rabbi and disciple shall be words of the Torah. The father parting from the son shall leave him with words of wisdom to take along on the path of life.”

Therefore he turns from the personal to the admonitory, “God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power. . . hold fast the form of sound words that you have heard from me, in faith and love that is in Jesus Christ.”

In feverish haste he sets down the leading principles of his son’s mission. “Preach the word. Be instant in season and out of season. . .watch in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of your ministry.”

And it is here that the words slip from him, “For I am now ready to be offered.”

Looking back over the long years of his life, he sees the devious routes, the detours, the returns, and he knows that in the end his feet are on the straight path. He sees that the sum of it all is just, and he adds, in complete assurance, “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course. I have kept the faith.”

He will wear a crown of righteousness, hard won by a life of labor. For all his life was given to bringing men under the sign of righteousness.

He’s never gone easy on himself; never shrunk from suffering; doesn’t shrink from death. And he imposes this same discipline on others, even on his beloved son. Just a few moments ago he wrote him with infinite gentleness. Now he bids him come to Rome! Bids him too to bring Mark with him, “for he is useful to me in the ministry.”

It’s an invitation to share his fate and the fate of the believers of Rome, both to his own son, and to the nephew of his beloved boyhood friend, Barnabas. For when the moment of personal tenderness has passed, he is back in the spirit of his service, and faith reminds him that there is no break for those who serve Christ.

The light trembles on the papyrus as he hurries through the last lines of his letter. He is motionless. His yellow, wrinkled face, his lofty forehead, shine in the half darkness. His eyes are fixed on the distance, beyond the heavy walls that imprison him. In his heart is the peace of fulfillment. He has reached the point where joy and sorrow are one. Everything that was to be done has been done, and everything that was to be said has been said. He is now ready to abandon the earthly instrument that has served him so long and so painfully.

* * * * *

The end came soon. Two days after his letter to Timothy was smuggled out of the Praetorium, Paul was brought before the Tribunal. The investigation was short. He identified himself with the words, “I am a Christian;” he refused to offer incense to the image of Caesar; he made no appeal to his Roman citizenship.

He was taken to the prison reserved for those already condemned to death, where he found Simon Peter, Gabellus, and many others he’d personally led to faith in Christ.

18 - In the Catacombs

Crives Fastanus was a gladiator who was pardoned and set free by Claudius Caesar. Sometime later he was given a position as an attendant in Nero’s circus on the Vaticanum. Now in his mid-fifties, he looked back on a life that consisted mostly of mortal struggles with four-footed and two-footed beasts and that he had persevered only because his astounding physique had endured far beyond the age at which gladiators were expected to make a good showing in the arena. But for every victorious combat, there was a sign on his body, a memento he would carry to his grave.

Indeed his body was a record, for it was covered with a network of scars, old sword wounds and the marks of teeth and claws. His nose was flat, one eye was slit and the other was missing. There was a hole in one cheek, constantly whimpering. In preserving his own life, he’d taken many others, slashed so many bodies that he lost all feeling with regard to the death of a human being. The sight of a man in his last agonies moved him about as much as the sight of a dying insect.

Yet, here was Crives Fastanus walking anxiously through the alleys of the Trans-Tiber, asking every coppersmith and sandal sewer, in a low, gentle voice, “Can you tell me where I can find Miriam the perfume mixer?”

The men he asked invariably started back from him. His vast, naked breast was like a ruined battlefield, his mighty arms were like battering rams, and his one eye emitted a dull, heavy light. His helmet showed him to be a gladiator, and the bronze tablet proclaimed him a servant in the imperial household, an attendant in Nero’s circus. And every Jew in the Trans-Tiber knew that regular meetings of Jewish Christians occurred in Miriam’s house.

Therefore every man who answered him told him no.

The Jews weren’t really sure why Miriam hadn’t been arrested, for her house was as well known among the Christians of Rome as that of Priscilla and Aquila had been in the past. So they thought this might be a belated attempt to take her. But that made no sense since a lone man would not set out to make arrests. Besides, there was something in this giant elderly man’s bearing. His voice was rough, but low and pleading.

Finally he found someone who would talk with him. Mordecai, a Christian, sold pots from a stall on the Tiber banks.

“How do you know that name?” Mordecai asked cautiously.
“One of the Christians gave it to me before he was driven into the arena.”
“Why would a Christian betray one of his kind to you?”
“I begged him for it, do you hear? I want to be one of them.”
“You want to be a Christian?”

Mordecai shrank away from the old gladiator.

“You heard me.”
“But don’t you see,” asked Mordecai, lowering his voice, “what they do to them?”
“I would rather die with you than live as I have lived till now.”

The pottery merchant remained silent, turning this over in his mind. Was this the trick of a spy? It couldn’t be. The man’s face might be brutal, but it was utterly devoid of cunning. And even the brutality was softened by something shining from within.

“You say a Christian gave you the name.”

“Yes. I was among those who drove him into the arena with the whip, and I envied him. I’ve seen many men die in pain in the arena over the years. But I’ve never seen men die as these men and women died, with a song on their lips and joy in their eyes. I want to be one of them, you hear me? I asked this Christian to give me the name of one to whom I could turn, who would take me into the company of Christians.”

Quickly Mordecai made up his mind. He turned his stall over to a neighbor and led Crives Fastanus to Miriam’s house.


A gathering of the faithful met in the little apartment on the top floor of the old house, and their clothes were torn in mourning for those who would never again break bread in this place. Miriam and her visitors sat on the floor, according to custom, for it was less than a week since her two sons and their wives had been put to death.

The few leaders who remained were there also. There was Rufus, one of the founders of the congregation, and his mother, an old woman with sorrowful eyes. She came from Jerusalem, and it had been her lifelong dream to return to the Holy City. There was Linus, a middle-aged man with a stern, strong face set in a black beard. He’d begun to reorganize the remnants of the congregation on the very day following the dread slaughter in the circus. Eubulus and Pudens helped him. There were others, too, and they sat barefoot on the ground with Miriam.

Their voices were low, and they didn’t talk about the martyrs or the past, but about the congregation and the future. After the slaughter they feared that there would be a great falling off of converts. The congregation would remain a tiny group, perhaps even scattered abroad, as in the days of Claudius. They discussed plans for bringing together those who remained alive and taking them to the Via Appia quarter, where Simon Peter was hiding. Perhaps he could comfort them.

As they sat thus talking, there was a knock at the door. Mordecai, the Jew, who was one of them, entered leading Crives Fastanus, who’d been whipping Christian prisoners just a few days before.

Many of the lives lost had been due to spies, so the group was not easily convinced that the old gladiator had pure intentions. But Crives Fastanus lay at their feet with his face turned to the floor, and begged them in a broken voice to believe him.

“I come,” he cried, “from the lovely land of Galatia. It’s a green land where the moss on the stones makes you think of spring. I was just a child when they snatched me from my mother’s side, and from that day on I’ve lived in the midst of blood. They taught me to fight and to preserve my life by taking the lives of others. Indeed, I lived only to take the lives of others. I believed that the greatest happiness was to be alive and that nothing mattered but whatever helped me to stay alive.

“I believed this until I saw your men and women dying with songs on their lips and joy in their hearts. And then I knew my belief had been a false one, and there is greater happiness than life. There is eternal happiness. I beg you, take me back to the springtime of my childhood, to the heavenly fields where the good shepherd, Jesus Christ, feeds his flock. I want to be one of his sheep.”

“When did you hear them speak this way?”

“During their imprisonment and in the hour of their death. I heard them sing of green pastures by still waters, and of the shepherd. All my life I’ve sent men to their death, but I never heard one go with a song on his lips. And before the last of them were driven into the arena, I begged them to take compassion on me and tell me who could make me one of them. There was a man who believed me, and he gave me the name of a woman I could talk to. Please don’t turn your faces from me, but lead me to the good shepherd, Jesus Christ, whose name I’ve learned to call on.”

The believers looked at each other, and one said, “Surely God has sent the tormentors to take the places of the martyrs in the congregation. Blessed be the Name of God!”

They received the gladiator into the faith that day and taught him all the signs of the faithful.

* * * * *

As it was with Crives Fastanus, so it was with many others who’d witnessed the deaths in the arena by day and on the campus at night. It was the first time masses of Romans heard the song of hope and triumph from those entering the shadows of the underworld, and many of them were seized with an irresistible desire to learn the secret of the faith that transformed the darkness of the underworld into the light of everlasting life.


Figures came stealing through the streets while Rome slept. They came from rich homes and they came from crowded shelters where the homeless lived. There were Jews and Gentiles, freedmen and slaves. They exchanged the secret signs of the faith, drawing the symbol of a fish in the air, or an anchor on the ground, and they whispered instructions to each other. The gathering was to take place on the Via Appia where they would break bread, eat the common meal, and hear words of comfort from Simon Peter.

And so it was that the fears of the congregational leaders were proved false; for the torment visited on the believers only strengthened the growth of the faith. It was as if a competition had set in tacitly between the two powers, the cruelty of Nero and the love of Christ over the heart of man. It turned out that the greater the danger to the Christian congregation, the larger were the numbers that were drawn to it.

Among the non-Christian Jews the deaths of the Christians created a profound impression. Martyrdom itself was part of the Jewish tradition, so the newcomers, who died as Jewish martyrs had died from time immemorial, came to be regarded as brothers.

The Jewish synagogue, legal by Roman law, became the cover to the Christian faith. It was to a Jewish synagogue in the catacombs that the Christians were now hurrying. They slipped through the darkness across the Sublicius bridge, down from the Aventine hill, and even from the slopes of the Palatine toward the Porta Capena and the Via Appia.

Now these particular catacombs were new and not yet known to Tigellinus’ spies and so provided a second layer of protection to the believers’ secret meetings. There was a large subterranean hall at the center of the catacombs, from which extended the labyrinthine corridors. Funeral services were held here, as were congregational assemblies and anniversary services for the dead. The walls were decorated with sacred designs, candelabra, citrus fruits, grapes and palm branches. Images of the ram’s horn, the shofar, appeared here and there. It was the symbol of the resurrection that would come with Christ. There were drawings of Abraham and Isaac, representing the sacrifice, and of Jonah in the belly of the fish. Here the Christians found refuge and a place of worship under the light of oil lamps.

On this first re-assembly of Christians after the great calamity, there were strange and moving encounters. Servants and masters who had no idea that the other was of the faith came face to face as brothers. Men and women who’d hidden their inner lives from each other out of fear of betrayal embraced and wept with joy. The blood Nero shed, the sword he still held over the community, drew the Christians together in a bond that was stronger than ever. More than brothers and sisters of one family, they were more like members of one body. No one knew when he would be called on to testify for Christ, but they all knew that sooner or later death would be their common portion. And beyond death, which was but a gate, rebirth and everlasting life would be their common portion.

When the believers had taken their places, Simon Peter was brought in from his hiding place. They crowded around him as he spoke. He said a prayer and then observed a time of silence with all the others, on their knees with faces buried on the ground. After a long pause, bread was broken and distributed and the cup of wine was passed from hand to hand. They all felt they were sanctified and united in Christ and in his sufferings.

* * * * *

One night the hall of the catacombs was surrounded by a band of legionaries. Tigellinus’ spies had discovered the secret meeting place of the Christians. There was no cry of terror, or sign of panic, when the soldiers broke into the service. The worshippers remained where they were, their faces pressed against the cold stone, their thoughts stubbornly given to Christ. And even when they were chained and dragged out into the night, they said not a word, but meditated on their faith.

Among the prisoners were the disciple Simon Peter and the one-time gladiator Crives Fastanus.

17 - Kaddish

Late that evening the Jews assembled in the great synagogue received the message of the account of the slaughter in the arena and of the fiery sacrifice at nightfall. The worshippers who’d been fasting and praying all day under Zadoc’s leadership now learned that the souls for which they’d been praying had departed in all purity, with forgiveness on their lips.

Zadoc rose and said, “My brothers in Israel, blessed is he that has drawn so many souls into the shelter of the divine wings.

“This is a great day for Israel. Many souls have been born to our father Abraham this day. God’s Name has been sanctified throughout the world, and it will be sanctified wherever the name of the martyrs is carried, from now on forevermore. Sanctified be all those who have perished in Him, and whether they be Jews or Gentiles, from this day forth, they are our brothers.

“Therefore let us rise and bless their memory. Let us say a great Kaddish for their souls to the one living God of Israel.”

Then the rabbi stood before the scrolls and cried out, “Judge of the world, Father of all living, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, accept the blood of your servants that has been poured out before You like water. It is for You alone that this sacrifice was made. Therefore let it be acceptable in Your sight. Assemble the martyred souls under the wings of Your glory and bind them in the bond of eternal life.

“Let not the blood of Your servants be shed in vain, but let it be a pillar of fire to be a guide to Your people in the wilderness, and let Your Name be spread in all the corners of the earth, so that every knee may come and bow before You, for Yours alone is the glory and the praise. Let all people make a bond to serve You in utter trust. Let Your justice be unfolded over the earth, so that evil may cease and the reign of Messiah begin, for we can wait no longer.

“Look on our pain and our wretchedness, have mercy on Your creatures, eternal God of Israel!”

The rabbi could no longer hold back the tears. His voice shook as he began to intone the Kaddish for the martyrs, “Magnified and sanctified be the Name of God.”

The whole congregation of widows, orphans, brothers, and sisters of the martyrs repeated the Kaddish in tears, “Magnified and sanctified be the Name of God.”

* * * * *

Late that night groups of Jews stole out of the pent alleys of the Trans-Tiber, carrying little oil lamps. Quietly they wound their way through the streets and open places and crossed the Janiculum to the Vaticanum. A few crosses still stood smoldering there, but most of them had fallen into ashes, and in the ashes lay the bones of the martyrs. The silent group went from cross to cross, gathering up the bones and wrapping them in cloth. The sleepy soldiers on the campus didn’t interfere, for the Jews were within their rights. In addition to the crosses, there was a great heap of garbage that had been carried out from the circus, and the Jews searched it for human remains. Carefully and lovingly they gathered up bodies, limbs, bloody fragments, and wrapped them in cloth.

When they’d collected everything that appeared to have belonged to a human body, they went in procession to the Jewish burial place, which was a cave far out in the Trans-Tiber. A great weeping broke out there. But the leaders of the Jewish community and the leaders of the new faith, who accompanied them in the task of giving Jewish burial to the remains of the martyrs, said that it wasn’t fitting at this moment to weep for the martyrs. It was fitting, rather, to sanctify the Name of God, even as the martyrs had done.

So the orphan sons were led forward and ranged about the large common grave, and the whole people accompanied them in the saying of the Kaddish.

“Magnified and sanctified be the Name of God.”

16 - In Green Pastures

A single cry of mourning and desolation went up from the Trans-Tiber for every single Jewish home had at least one person missing. In fact, some families rejoiced if only one of its members had been dragged off to Nero’s circus on the Vatican. The congregation gathered in the synagogue from early morning till late at night praying and chanting psalms for the martyrs agonizing in the cellars and crypts of the arena.

A ring of Jewish wives, daughter, mothers, and sisters lingered by the walls of the circus. Their grief broke out in passionate gestures and in a high wailing that tore its way through constricted throats and quivering lips. Hands were lifted frantically to heaven, imploring the compassion of the Almighty. Some women tore their clothing and threw ashes on their heads. Others beat their breasts with clenched fists.

In a wider ring around them the Roman masses, dressed in festive attire with garlands on their heads, enjoyed these preliminaries to the great entertainment to come.

Meanwhile the circus was filling with people, aristocrats as well as commoners. They all brought plenty of food and wine, either from home or from the many booths set up on the Vatican, for it would be a long and thrilling spectacle. One day wouldn’t be enough for all the blood and victims needed to compensate Rome for its calamity.

Never before had so many human victims been prepared for a single spectacle. The crypts were jammed with “Christians” to provide a wide variety of entertainments. The Roman mob licked its chops in anticipation of seeing tender children who could offer no resistance, and strong men making frantic and futile efforts to escape or to defend themselves. There would be old people shrinking from the jaws and fangs of the animals.

The latecomers lamented that they would have to sit in the outer ring and wouldn’t be able to hear the bones crunch.

The women were no less feverish than the men, pushing through the crowd just as furiously and threatening to scratch out the eyes of the men and women who jammed the entrances. The ushers could not maintain order. The struggle carried the mob right up to the very walls of Caesar’s loge. Some scuffles took place as patrician slaves cracked skulls right and left to clear a path for the litters.

At last the gigantic circus was so filled that the gates had to be closed leaving only those who were too late to get in and the ring of wailing Jewish women outside.

Once the movement ceased, some sort of order was restored, and the spectators settled as best they could into their places, a sea of white togas, garlanded heads, and half naked bodies. Caesar lolled on his throne surrounded by his intimates, while Poppea, swollen with pregnancy and shamelessly uncovered, sat at his side. A squad of Praetorians, resplendent in silver breastplates and horned helmets, guarded the imperial loge, under Tigellinus’ command.

Because of the heat Nero had dropped his toga and sat comfortably in his light tunic, which was considered an act of disrespect toward the people. But Nero didn’t have the discipline to submit to physical discomfort even if he was trying to woo them. His wreath, so carefully arranged by his slave, had already slipped to one side of his head, as though he were already drunk. The smell of sweaty flesh rising from the imperial loge was as heavy and sickening as that which rose from the masses jammed into the tiers.

In another disappointment Nero did not stage any formal demonstration. He just sat slumped on his throne like a resting butcher. He did lean over now and then to whisper something to a member of his suite and he threw kisses to people in other loges. Only Poppea, half-naked though she was, seemed disturbed by this utter lack of dignity.

The procession of victims that always preceded a spectacle of this kind to whet the appetites of the spectators, also fell short of expectations. The men, women and children who were driven into the arena at the point of a spear came out wailing and lamenting. Only Jew-Christians would have the nerve to spoil such a great festival in this way. Even the men made no effort to display the courage proper to those who were about to die in the presence of Caesar. The highly disgusted Romans saw only a pitiful mob of miserable Jew-peddlers who refused to play up the occasion.

The ones who’d been dressed up in animal skins, such as lions, foxes and sheep, wouldn’t even respond with the expected behavior. In short, the sacrificial procession was a miserable failure, due to the lack of public spirit by the Jews. Only the women made a certain contribution, for having been stripped naked, they struck a most amusing pose as they tried to cover their private parts with their hair or their hands.

And when these half-crippled tatterdemalions were driven past the imperial loge, they didn’t even have the respect to look up at Caesar. Instead, they just muttered to themselves words that the mob couldn’t make out due to their own uproar.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” they said, their voices becoming firmer as they went along. “He makes me lie down in green pastures.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.”

This was the armor they wore as they advanced into the place of death, and it worked wonders for them. They saw tranquil meadows beyond the abyss of death. And on the meadows they saw one with open arms, saying, “Come to me, all you who suffer and are heavily burdened.”

The murmur grew stronger and it swelled into a chant that became audible over the obscene uproar of the circus.

“I hope for you, O God. I commit my spirit into Your hands.”

Tigellinus, sitting in Nero’s loge, bit his lips. The filthy Christians had spoiled the parade. He just knew that they’d deliberately done this to disgrace him. So he signaled the overseers in the arena, and they drove the victims back into the vaults.

Lucan said, “A flock of sheep would have shown more courage, O Caesar.”

But on the other side Petronius said, “No, the trouble is they show too much courage. They have the courage to ignore even you, O Caesar.”

In any case, it was time to get down to the day’s business. Caesar gave the sign, the trumpets blew a fanfare, and the cage doors holding the wild beasts were opened.

The first to be released were a herd of wild oxen. As they moved out from the shadow of the circus wall, they were bewildered, blinded by the sudden light, and irritated by the tumult. The audience gasped in delight, however, for they saw that a woman had been loosely tied to the horns of each ox. Their white bodies flashed as the sunlight struck them. And even in this extreme danger, the women were still contorting themselves in shame, trying to cover their nakedness with their hands.

The beasts were roused from their stupor as the women’s hair fell across their eyes. They started rearing, stamping, and flinging themselves about wildly trying to rid themselves of their human cargo. One by one, the women were thrown into the air. A scream, an unintelligible outcry, and the body was lifted into the air again, but this time on, not between, the horns of the ox. The body quivered, and the blood spurted. The smell of fresh blood sent the beasts into a frenzy, so that they pranced and circled with their impaled victims, snuffing the hot steaming air. Again the bodies were thrown down on the sand and lifted up, and what had been, just a few moments ago, a human being, was now a mass of ripped and trampled flesh, covered with splashes of red.

The audience rose to its feet, applauding wildly, and a great roar of salute to Caesar rolled across the arena.

A few moments later the attendants charged in and herded the oxen back to their cages. Half a dozen carts were rolled in, and the bodies were thrown into them pell-mell. Fresh sand was scattered over the red patches, and the second spectacle began.

The doors to the prison vaults were opened and a gang of slaves drove out a group of men, women, and children covered with animal skins fastened around the shoulders tightly enough that they couldn’t be thrown off. Some were standing; others were forced to crawl. Some of the women held infants to their breasts. The horrible, motley group shrank back, but the whips fell on them and they moved forward in a confused mass.

Again no face was turned toward Caesar. Again the strange infuriating chant rose from the assembly, “Though I walk through the valley. . .” The slave attendants tried in vain to scatter them apart by lashing their faces, but they would not scatter, nor would they approach the imperial loge. They clung together, a compact mass, chanting psalms.

Who can fathom the secret of such souls? Who can penetrate to the mystery wrought by God in His elect at that moment? Only one who has been touched by God’s grace and who has rested in the shadow of His love can understand how God lifted His chosen ones to Himself and in that moment transformed their earthly anguish into heavenly glory. For they no longer saw with the eyes of flesh, they no longer knew what was taking place around them. Translated into spheres inaccessible to us, they were beyond the reach of mortal evil.

Successful in this last test, they walked out into the arena to see Christ even before their eyes closed in death. He came to them and stood before them with open arms; he drew them up to him on the cross, so that their sufferings might mix with his and they might become one with him.

Though their bodies shrank from death, their souls were filled with bliss.

“I rejoiced when they said to me, Come let us go to the house of the Lord.”
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, praise Him all servants of the Lord!”

The gates of the cages were pulled back, and a pack of wild bloodhounds emerged. They’d been starved over the last few days and they bounded toward the human group huddled at the center of the arena and then paused for a moment, a few steps away. They lifted their muzzles, sniffed, and emitted a long howl.

That was the moment the men and women clinging together saw Christ distinctly and unmistakably in front of them.

“Christ is with us!” one cried. “I see him!”
At once a dozen voices rose around her, “I see him too!”
“Lord, lord, take us to you!”

This burst of excitement startled the bloodhounds. Their throats moaned and they paused. The spectators rose in one mass, astounded by the picture. Men, women and children were singing and the beasts were hesitant in front of their prey. Then one of the bloodhounds crept forward, sniffed, and closed its jaws suddenly on a piece of goatskin covering a child. It’s nostrils quivered at the smell of the uncovered human flesh and, as if stung by an arrow, it reared and flung itself with fangs and claws on the little one.

That was the signal; in an instant the spell was snapped. The howling, baying pack dashed forward, the skins were ripped down, and wild canine jaws closed on human flesh. The victims did not struggle. Their flesh was ripped, blood burst forth, and all that was heard were those strange words so terrible in Roman ears.

“Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”
“O Lord, take us to you.”

During the blood bath, something happened that took the crowd’s breath away. As the bloodhounds tore the victims apart, a man was putting up a fight! But he wasn’t fighting for himself. Kneeling on all fours, he was shielding a little child with his ripped flesh. He held the child with one hand, and with the other, as well as with a foot, he was trying to beat off the bloodhound’s attack, while edging his way toward the side of the arena. But strangely, the bloodhound seemed intent on the child rather than on the protecting adult. It kept pushing its muzzle under the man’s belly, to get at the white flesh of the little one. The man somehow managed to twist and squirm and push so as to keep himself between and beast and the victim.

This spectacle aroused a mixture of emotions in the Romans. There was suspense as to the outcome, of course, but there was also a strange feeling of pity, utterly out of keeping with the event. The bloodhound finally fastened it jaws on the man’s leg and began to drag him backwards. When they reached Caesar’s loge, the dog stopped and the eyes of tens of thousands of spectators were riveted to the scene. The man was ripped from head to foot and the blood streamed from a hundred wounds. But with a last conscious effort he was still shielding the infant.

A mother offering this mad and hopeless resistance to the inevitable probably wouldn’t have drawn as much attention. But that a father should display this desperate love, this tenderness at the gates of death, was strange and somehow moving.

And the spectators lifted their thumbs, and shouted to Caesar, “Let him be!”

But Caesar didn’t give the signal of the upturned thumb, and the man in the arena came to the end of his strength. With bloody claws and dripping fangs the dog thrust and snapped at the infant, ripping the man’s limbs. One last snap of the jaws overturned the man, and the dead child rolled into the sand. The bloodhound dragged it off.

The man lay motionless and was taken for dead. But suddenly he stirred, and stemmed his gashed elbows against the ground. He couldn’t struggle to his knees. He only managed to lift his head, and to make a signal toward Caesar’s loge with one hand.

Then, in a loud, clear voice, he called out, “Tigellinus! The child you rejected is now with the lord!”

Tigellinus recognized Antonius, his slave.

Then he dropped into the sand again, murmuring, “Lord, take me to you!”

Attendants cleared the hounds from the arena, carried out the remnants of the dead bodies, and sprinkled new sand on the ground to make ready for the third spectacle.


And so it went throughout the day. Group after group of human beings, pack after pack of wild beasts, until the mob became bored. It was always the same, men, women, children, blood, prayers, roaring, claws, fangs. The hot sun beat down, and the stink of dead meat and of living perspiring flesh hung in the air. It was just too much.

But then all of Nero’s enterprises went this way, lacking proportion and producing the opposite of the intended effect. Besides, the Christians wouldn’t fight. They just prayed and let themselves be eaten. The spectators might as well have been watching a group of butchers at work. People were nodding off and many would have gladly slipped away, but they were afraid of the countless spies scattered throughout the circus. It wasn’t safe to be lacking in the proper enthusiasm at a great spectacle generously arranged for the Roman masses by Caesar. But after each spectacle the applause became lighter; no roars of salutation rolled toward the imperial loge.

Even Nero himself was bored. He didn’t move though. He just lay there perspiring, his thick flesh oozing out of his tunic. Petronius had used up all his prepared jests, trying to keep up Caesar’s interest, and he was racking his brain for something to say. In his soul he cursed Nero for this interminable, monotonous, unimaginative slaughtering of Jews. Even Poppea, for all her cold, insolent bearing, was weary to the soul. Her attendants kept pouring perfumes on her to drive away the stink of blood and perspiration. But most disgusting to her was the nearness of the imperial carcass. And Nero himself would have been glad to call a halt, but he felt obscurely that the longer he sat there, the more he suffered the dreary, bloody spectacle, the more completely he would erase from the Roman minds their original suspicion of his guilt.

Once again his gross and stupid strategy miscarried. For as the masses became over sated with the slaughter and their restlessness increased with the long day, their attention and resentment swung from the arena to the emperor. There was nothing left to hate in the miserable Christians for even the dulled, brutish hearts of the Romans were touched by the spectacle of so many women and children being fed to the wild beasts.

Some even dared to whisper to their neighbors, “Is this how criminals die? Could these kind of people set fire to a city?”

If not for the presence of Tigellinus’ men, such remarks would have been made more loudly and grown into a demonstration. But his men were everywhere. So the people feigned enthusiasm, and in their hearts they wished that Nero and Tigellinus were the ones in the arena instead of the Christians.

The signal finally came to stop the spectacle. The mob dashed out of the circus as furiously as it had dashed into it, stopping at the food booths to snatch up the reeking sausages and stuff them into their mouths, washing them down with gulps of sour wine. And here came Nero moving through the crowd with his suite, determined to show the Romans that he was with them on this day. Petronius, who’d been cursing him in his heart for the hideous and revolting show in the arena, cursed him even more heartily for being compelled to take part in this demonstration of democratic sentiment.


This was by no means the end of the great punishment, for a double row of crosses stretched along the middle of the campus on the Vatican hill, and a human form was nailed to each one. The bloody limbs of the victims were steeped in oil, and the crosses were heavily overlaid with wax. The crucified ones had already been suffering on them throughout the day, but death was not to be granted to them until nightfall.

At dusk the human torches were kindled. Then, at one end of the alley of blazing bodies, Nero appeared in his chariot, wearing a red tunic, the symbol of Jupiter. An attendant at his side held up the imperial eagle of Rome. Tigellinus, dressed in green, Nero’s color in the races, flashed a white cloth, and Nero tugged at the reins.

The white horses started forward, and the imperial chariot sped down the alley between the blazing crosses. A wail of pain accompanied him down the flickering alley.

An old Jew, hanging on one of the first crosses, cried out, “Father in heaven, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

And down the long course of fiery crosses the cry was repeated, “Father in heaven, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

The old Jew gathered enough strength to raise his voice again, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One!”

And again down the double line of torches the cry rang out, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One!’


Even this last spectacle failed to cleanse Nero from the suspicion that he had set fire to Rome. The impression left on the masses had nothing to do with the guilt of the Christians. It centered, instead, on the picture of a man crawling around the arena on all fours, keeping his body between the fangs of the bloodhound and the infant he protected.

And the exhausted Romans asked, “Did infants also set fire to Rome?”

“What do you think, Petronius,” asked Lucan, “did infants too set fire to Rome?”

“The children suffer for the sins of the fathers,” answered Petronius.

“I don’t understand.”

“Didn’t you hear what the slave called out to Tigellinus? And didn’t you get the meaning? Tigellinus set fire to Rome, and his child was therefore thrown to the beasts.”

This bitter witticism was repeated and became very fashionable in Rome.

“What? Infants too set fire to Rome?”
“The children suffer for the sins of the fathers.”

And everyone knew who and what was meant.