Listening, Part One

            Prokhor was an unusual child to say the least. Born in Kursk, Russia to loving and faithful parents, he would speak little, watch, listen, and remember every conversation to which he was privy, glean wisdom, rejecting foolishness, and wondering why so many people regarded him as odd, when it was them who followed strange, unnatural customs which drew them away from that which made one truly human.

              From the day he could talk, he would frequently wander away from home to find anyone who was speaking, to listen, to watch, to understand, and to marvel at the behavior of so many that was clearly foolish and unnatural. As he would come upon any conversation, he would stop and listen, staring wide eyed, taking in every word and internally criticizing and analyzing what was being said, comparing to the wisdom he heard from a small handful of people.

              Regardless of time, or day, or weather, little Prokhor would travel from one end of town to the other, seeking out adults in conversation, learning what he could, understanding what he could, and remembering every detail to then hurry home and write down the rare comments of wisdom so as to fill himself with excellence rather than silly distraction as he saw in the other children.

              After a particularly long day on the streets of the city, gathering the occasional nuggets of wisdom, he returned home to see his mother sitting on the edge of his bed reading his notebook of wisdom. "What is this, my son?" she asked. In response, Prokhor explained how he spent his time, the bits of wise comments and thoughts that he would hear on occasion and his burning desire to write them down so they would not be lost. As he spoke, his small frame was racked with a coughing spell, eventually bringing blood into his mouth.

              His mother saw the trickle of blood emerge from between his lips and in a panic rushed him into his bed, urging him to stay put while she gathered ingredients to make him some soup. As she left the room, he pulled himself up into a sitting position in order to read his book of wisdom, which eventually led to his falling asleep.

              In his dreams, he saw a beautiful young woman who promised to heal him of his infirmity, but this would only take place after some days when a group of men would proceed past his house. He woke to the sound of his mother calling his voice and he leaned over onto one elbow to receive spoonful's of hot soup, which washed away the salty taste of blood from his mouth.

              As the day came to an end, his father returned home from his job and came into his room, a look of deep concern on his face and an insistence that a doctor be called, for Prokhor was his only son and to lose him would be a devastating loss. Midday the following day, an elderly man entered his room and examined the small boy with a variety of instruments, salves, and ointments that Prokhor knew would actually tell him nothing. The doctor, looking downcast, told his mother that there was nothing he could do to help the boy and his future recovery did not seem likely.

              Several days passed and Prokhor could only look out the window, sad at his prognosis, sad about his confinement to bed and his loss of opportunity to find and document wisdom. Feeling somewhat stifled, he swung his feet from the bed and slightly opened the window, relishing the cool, flesh air. As he enjoyed the change of environment, he would hear a large number of people cheering, forcing him to rise to his feet, open the window further, and lean out to try to see what was taking place.

              As he continued to lean out, he heard his mother rush into his room and pull him back inside, bundle him up in multiple layers of clothing, insisting that he accompany her outside for the Kursk icon of the Theotokos was unexpectedly approaching. Despite the rain and cold, he and she stood at the edge of the road and waited for the procession to arrive, and as it passed in front of their house, his mother lifted him from his feet and pressed his face into icon. As they approached, he realized that the woman thereon was the same woman from his dream, carrying the same kind smile with bright loving eyes.

              As his lips touched the written image, he felt as if an explosion went off inside of his chest, causing him to take in a huge breath of fresh, cold air. He and she hurried back into the house, where he was placed back on his bed, urging his mother that he suddenly felt perfectly whole and restored and no longer needed to be confined. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed, while his mother hurried down the street to bring the doctor back to their home. He once again examined little Prokhor and marveled at what seemed to be a miraculous recovery.

              After the doctor left, Prokhor undressed, took a bath and ate a normal dinner of solid food rather than the thin, hot soup that had been his staple for the past several days. Submitting to his mother's request, he stayed home until his father returned, promising to eat and rest well until the next day. In the back of his mind, he knew that with the first morning light, he would be back on the streets, listening, watching, and documenting every morsel of wisdom he could find.

              At the end of his third day on the streets seeking wisdom, he saw the parish priest and inquired of the location of the Kursk icon that had passed his home a few days prior. The priest took him by his hand, led him to the parish and showed him exactly where the icon hung near the iconostasis. A burning erupted in his chest, and he sank to his knees in front of the icon, where he remained until the full darkness of night fell. It was only when his father arrived that he was forced to go home and sleep in his own bed.

              The next day with the first morning light, Prokhor rose from his bed before either of his parents had woken and hurried to the parish to once again kneel before the icon. Within an hour, he was joined by seven men dressed in all black with long beards and strange circular little, black hats. Even while gazing up at the icon, he could overhear them talking and he marveled at the quality and insight of their words. They spoke like no one he ever before had heard and he put in extra effort to remember everything that they said and within a short time, they all left as a single body.

              As the noon hour arrived, the priest entered the parish and knelt beside Prokhor, asking if he had been there all day. Prokhor confirmed that this was true, and he then asked who the seven men were who had come earlier. The priest explained that these were monks visiting from an ancient monastery found deep in the northern woods and that he would be happy to take Prokhor there for a visit, if his parents approved.

              The priest then left and returned a few moments later, to confirm that his mother gave permission to take Prokhor to the monastery and after walking for an hour through the thickest and deepest of forests, he and the priest arrived at a collection of small huts and a small chapel. It was at that moment that Prokhor knew his time of wallowing in the foolishness of those in the city was over. For the next seven years, he would walk every day for an hour through the forest to this collection of small, dirty huts in order to listen to, embrace, and document the wisdom from these radically different men.

              On the day of his 18th birthday, he approached the priest and asked if he, now an adult, could go and live among the monastics, for the noise, chaos, and emptiness of the city had no appeal for him. The priest agreed but only once Prokhor would first inform his parents of his desire to do so. Within an hour, he returned to the parish wearing a massive copper cross, a gift from his mother, which she trusted would be something to remind him of her and his father while he was away. She begged him to come visit on occasion, and he told her that he would do his best to make that journey, though his heart was not inclined to return to the vacuous nature of the city.

              Young Prokhor joined the other monks, moving into one of the small huts in order to have a place to sleep that would offer protection from the cold and the rain. Every day he would follow the other monks around, listen to their wisdom, offer to do work for them simply as a means to spend time immersed in their wisdom.

              After a time, he gained the nickname, "the listening one", and eventually began imitating their speech, their movements, and their schedule, trusting that he too could one day share wisdom with others. Seven years passed, and he returned to the city to visit his parents, to see the overjoyed response in their face as he showed up at their door. The noise and ugliness of the city made him feel lost and dirty and after the sacrifice of a visit to his former home, he vowed to never again return to this ugly, empty place filled with people of ugly, empty souls, who seemed to care more about earning money, being comfortable and being well fed.

              He returned to the monastery and after two more years came to understand that he had surpassed all of his monastic brothers, prompting him to request permission from the abbot to withdraw into the forest further north in order to be alone, focus on silence, prayer, and destroying the passions. Receiving the blessing to do so, he disappeared into the deeper, more secluded forest, to then fall ill. In his solitude, he knew that he was incapable of remaining in such a state in solitude, so he returned to the monastery to become bedridden, once again, but this time for three years.

              His thoughts returned to his childhood sickness, his dream of the beautiful woman, and the Kursk icon that passed in front of his home. As he drifted in and out of dreams, wakefulness, and consciousness, he cried out to the Theotokos to visit him once again. After the passing of how much time he did not know, the Theotokos and an older gentleman appeared to him in a dream and she pointed at him and spoke to the older man, saying, "He is of our lineage." She then reached out and touched him, setting off the same sort of explosion within him as he experienced in his youth.

              As he fully expected, a massive intake of cool air filled him and brought him back to full health, reviving in him, once again, the desire to flee into the solitude of the further northern forest. He shared his desire and request to the abbot but was declined until he officially became part of the monastery, being ordained as a hierodeacon, and committed to speaking his wisdom to any who would hear him. 

            Prokhor submitted to the abbot's direction and guidance, to then commit himself to a different kind of solitude, where he spent all of his free time in the chapel before the iconostasis, immersed in prayer. Though he was alone, he still spent all of his time listening, thinking, and embracing the wisdom that came to him from his visions of eternity and of angels.

Between the Filth and the Glory

            It was the sound of angry voices that jarred Tyrell from his sleep, eliciting a groan from his once peaceful and relaxed frame. He rolled to his side to crack open one eye and see that it was 3:30 in the morning, a mere two hours before his normal waking time. Yelling out of his partially open window would achieve nothing but additional hostile words and probably some sort of vandalism to his front door.

              He recognized the voices as belonging to his neighbors, it wasn't Spanish, it wasn't Russian, and it certainly wasn't Arabic, so he decided on Portuguese as the only possible option. Eventually falling back to sleep, as it seemed that the cause of the hostility had been resolved, he wakened in what seemed moments later to his alarm clock. A cup of microwaved coffee, three-day old doughnuts and a quick shower left Tyrell feeling awake, refreshed, and ready for another day of stock trading.

              His co-workers, all soft, middle-aged, white men from Manhattan never stopped questioning him as to why he lived in East Harlem when his salary could easily handle a home in Tribeca, NoHo, Central South Park or even Nolita. After three or four times of trying to explain himself, he eventually gave up trying, knowing that their soft, weak hands, their vain hearts, and their love for comfort would never understand his passion for things other than self.

              After an unusually successful day at work, Tyrell called ahead and pre-ordered sushi for dinner, to be picked up on his way home, remembering to remind his roommate that he was doing so and to get a bottle of Pinot Noir on his way home. The two trays of sushi sat on the seat next to him as he drove past an unabashed drug deal, a gaggle of prostitutes and a gang of Neo-Nazi's unleashing their aggression on a small Arabic boy. Tyrell made note of every detail, every tattoo, and every face in the last crowd of skinheads, determined to make a phone call when he arrived home.

              He parked in his private, secure garage across the street from his home and carefully crossed the street at the crosswalk at the end of the block, stepping over piles of human feces, bags of garbage, discarded syringes, and used condoms. The unavoidable death and disease that surrounded him always made him gag and, like always, made him begin to reconsider his seemingly fruitless efforts at improving his neighborhood.

              Tyrell and Jerome ate their sushi while watching the final episode of a Korean drama, the name of which neither one of them could pronounce. Tyrell swallowed the last of the Pinor Noir and leaned back on the couch with a big sigh. "I don't know how much more of this I can do," he said, "No, I'm not talking about the Korean drama but the filth, disease, corruption, and ugliness of this world we live in. I've been thinking through a different future for myself since I've been home. And don't worry, I've set aside enough money to cover my portion of the bills while I'm away."

              Lying in bed that evening, Tyrell's mind was traveling in a hundred different directions, struggling to find the perfect place to land, to explore, to understand, and to embrace as his own. With the blaring of the five thirty o'clock alarm, he followed his normal morning routine, to then place a phone call to his boss informing him of his decision to immediately take a vacation for at least six weeks, with the promise that he would stay in touch as time progressed.

              He spent the remainder of the morning searching through maps, feeling within himself what exactly it was he needed, and finally deciding on an off the grid cabin in the remotest region of the Rocky Mountains. Through an online app, he reserved the cabin for the next six weeks, paid in full, left a note for his roommate and made a trip to the sporting goods store to find and purchase everything needed for an escape such as this.

              With a fourteen-hour drive ahead of him, he cut the trip in half to spend the first night in a hotel and complete the drive the following day, marveling at the massive forests, the silence, the emptiness, and the perfect lack of people. He found the cabin an hour before dusk set in, giving him time to unload and wander the immediate area, creating an experience he never before imagined. He sat on the front porch in his boxers, surrounded by forest and a silence that revealed a gentle hum in his ears that was never before noticeable or possible to hear in the chaos of the city.

              "Let's go natural," he thought, "there is no need to watch the time, the stock markets, social media, or the news." When full darkness rested upon him and the forest around him, he slowly walked to the small yard behind the cabin to stare up into a black sky, untouched by electric lights, in awe of the beauty of possibly millions of stars, a sight never before ever reaching his sight.

              Waking with the sunshine each morning, eating whatever he felt like eating, napping whenever he wanted to nap, taking walks through woods filled with insects, small creatures, and large creatures, the latter group never actually seen, stirring up feelings of hopefulness, joy, and satisfaction, very much unlike his life in the city surrounded by corruption and violence.

              So many days passed that he completely lost track of days or even weeks, as far as he knew, creating a new rhythm within himself, a natural sort of life that felt more right than anything he had ever thought possible. After a light lunch on whatever day it was, he took a walk through the forest, perfectly at ease and at home, crunching through the undergrowth, to drop to his knees and breathe in the rich, pungent smell from the virgin earth and leaves. As he threw armloads of leaves into the air, a sudden sharp blow erupted in the center of his back, forcing him to flail around to determine the source of the stabbing pain, to discover an arrow protruding from just below his right shoulder blade.

              Struggling to his feet, he staggered back to the cabin to see a large black SUV slowly driving away, to recognize the profile of Lawrence from the office, as well as three other men in the vehicle with him. Still obscured at the edge of the tree line, he was certain that they did not see him, and he was almost certain that they presumed he was dead, for who, after all, would survive an arrow shot directly into one's back.

              He waited until the silence of his glorious vacation returned, the running of the engine, the crunching of the tires and the cheers and laughter from his attackers were all now absent, no longer polluting his heavenly abode. He moved slowly across the patch of grass that separated the cabin from the woods and wedged the arrow in the crook of the front porch supports, to slowly pull himself forward with the arrow inching out as he moved.

              It seemed that the arrow had struck no arteries or large veins as the blood merely oozed from him, creating a slowly increasing red blotch on his shirt. The recollection of seeing a medical kit in the bathroom gave him hope that he would not end his days in the obscurity of an unknown cabin in the literal middle of nowhere. Slathering a handful of bandages with anti-bacterial ointment, he created a sling to create pressure on the wound, to then lie still for several hours, trusting that the oft heard phrase "just put pressure on it" was legitimate.

              He woke with the morning sun, still flat on his stomach on the mattress in his clothes from the day before. He moved slowly from his prostrate position into the bathroom to create a new clean bandage, angling the mirrors to see his back, to be thrilled at the cessation of blood flow. The blood had somewhat crusted over, releasing a small spurt of fresh blood as he removed the bandage. He replaced the old with the new, using the same process as before.

              Carefully gathering his belongings, he loaded his vehicle and drove toward the nearest town in search of a hospital, a clinic, or even a small-town doctor, certain that he would need stitches. He fabricated a story of falling on the splitting maul, which seemed to satisfy the nurse who cleaned and stitched his wound, to send him on his way in less than an hour.

              He drove back to the same hotel he had visited on his drive away from the chaos of city life, slept well, ate the free continental breakfast, and arrived at home before the onset of darkness. The noise, the smell, and the filth of the city had remained the same. He parked his car and weaved through the feces, the garbage, the syringes, and the used condoms to be greeted at the door by his roommate sporting two black eyes.

              "Sorry, man," he said, "some of your co-workers insisted on forcing your address out of me. Judging by the way you're walking, I'm guessing they visited you as well, and I'm glad you survived whatever they did."

              "It's okay, no big deal," Tyrell answered, "I think they think they killed me but obviously they didn't. So, I'll need to lay low for awhile and heal up before I go back into work and I'm glad you're still in one piece. I'll figure out the best way to respond to this."

              "You said you'd be gone for six weeks, and it's only been four," his roommate said, "so you've got two full weeks to recover. We can take care of one another, order food in and watch a lot of streaming."

              "That sounds great," Tyrell said, "and I'll get the stuff out of my car tomorrow. I'm too tired and sore right now. Got any leftovers, cause I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast and a meagre breakfast at that."

              The two men talked through all that they had gone though over the past month, Tyrell's experience sounding vastly superior than his roommates time amidst the filth and chaos and the beating he received from Lawrence and his buddies. After two weeks of reconnecting, watching television, and eating delivered food, Tyrell felt rested and healed, to return to work, relishing and thoroughly enjoying the look on Lawrence's face when he walked back into the office.

              The two men made eye contact as he walked past Lawrence's office, to give small smirk, and cheery hello the front desk secretary. He received far more welcome back's than looks of confusion and anger from Lawrence and his friends. He slid right back into his work, feeling like a new person, having been away from the stress and ugliness for such an extended period. He chose to ignore the attack and pretend it never happened, knowing that doing so would only confuse Lawrence and his friends even more.

              After his third day in the office, he sat in the break room telling stories about his time away, the beauty and silence and peace of his vacation, talking as if the whole time could not have gone any better. By the end of that day, two of Lawrence's friends approached him in the copy room and offered what seemed to be sincere apologies, explaining that Lawrence basically forced them into being involved, and claiming that they knew it was wrong.

              He and they, as the clock ticked to five, entered the elevator, to be quickly joined by Lawrence and his right hand yes man, with an obvious intent to inflict further harm upon Tyrell. But three against two did not go too well for Lawrence and his lackey. Tyrell and his two new friends stepped over two bruised and unconscious bodies as they exited the elevator into the parking garage. The three men stood behind Tyrell's car and talked through all that had gone on over the past six weeks, with Tyrell doing most of the talking, describing in beautiful detail the glory and peace of his wilderness escape, encouraging them both to do something similar, as he felt like a completely different person for doing so.

              Making plans to meet at O'Reilly's Bar that evening at nine to share a pitcher of IPA, they shook hands and parted ways. Eight forty-five rolled around and Tyrell explained his plans to his roommate and hurried across the street to his parking garage to drive the nine blocks to the bar, finding his two co-workers waiting for him with a full pitcher and three glasses. They picked up the story as they enjoyed the IPA, played a few games of billiards, and left the bar just before midnight.

              Tyrell just reached his car to find everything suddenly turn black preceded by a sudden flash of stars from a blow to the back of his head. A volley of blows and kicks immediately followed and through the blood in his eyes, he caught sight of Lawrence, his lackey, and the other two co-workers, laughing as they punched and kicked him, mocking him for believing that they actually enjoyed his company.

              Seven days later, Tyrell's roommate stood with a dozen of Tyrell's co-workers at the open casket service at Holy Trinity Cathedral, the photo of a smiling Tyrell looking down upon them. As the next several months passed, his roommate began to see a change in his neighborhood as crime declined, less and less homeless people were evident, and a program of restoration seemed to have been put into place.

              The roommate received a letter in the mail with a return address at a lawyer's office, explaining that Tyrell had been developing a social impact program funded by his extra income to restore the neighborhood, written by Tyrell himself, explaining that he knew what was bound to happen, almost as if he prophesied his own death.

              Though it had been over three months, simply seeing Tyrell's handwriting wrenched a new flood of emotion from him, marveling at how even the death of a good man could lead to something good and restorative.

Hand and Tongue

 

            Maximus was exceptional in every aspect of his life and had been superior to his peers since the moment he could read. Taller than most, smarter than most, and his eloquence in speech and thought patterns set him apart, making him the oddball in every social setting and classroom. Completing his education at the age of sixteen, he was immediately hired as a scribe and translator for the governor of the region, and, as was expected, besting every one of his co-workers in his precision, clarity, speed of work and cheerful demeanor.

              With five years of work behind him, it came as no surprise to his parents, his friends, or himself that the emperor requested his transfer to the capital to work as his own personal assistant. Accepting the proposal, Maximus saw his income double, his quality and comfort of living radically improve, allowing him to send financial support to his parents, and travel more, seeing more of the Roman Empire than he ever thought possible.

              One year into his time as the emperor's personal assistant, he and the emperor stood together on a platform overlooking the Bosphorus Strait, discussing the possible means of increasing the efficiency of shipping through this body of water. Like an expert craftsman, Maximus weaved together the details of water currents, ship sizes, the impact of weather, and the varying quality of relationship between Constantinople and the surrounding nations.

              The emperor motioned for him to sit, allowing Maximus to finish his thought process, in a way that the emperor clearly felt satisfying, asking him to put his plan on paper and deliver it to all those involved in every aspect of shipping and international relations. He cemented his thoughts into his memory and enjoyed the sudden shift of conversation from shipping to small talk about society, culture, and religion.

              He understood the emperor's attitude and feelings about religious practice, the gods, and the exclusivity of some of the newer religions. He shaped and controlled his language with precision, speaking with enough ambiguity to avoid giving away his personal feelings and thoughts of religion, a sensitive subject in the kingdom at this time. The emperor suddenly stood up, pulled Maximus to his feet, thanked him for his time, and led the two of them back inside the walls of the city to enjoy a dinner with several dozen other military, civil, and religious leaders.

              He enjoyed the meal and subtly watched the behavior of this wide variety of powerful men, particular intrigued by those who called themselves Christians, followers of a failed religious leader in Jerusalem several centuries earlier who had been crucified for accusations of political and religious troublemaking. While the civil leaders and military leaders gorged themselves, and drank copious amounts of wine and beer, some of the religious leaders were subdued, mild, and self-controlled, which sparked many questions in Maximus' mind.

              He made a mental note of names and faces, curious about what would motivate someone to pass up full access to the very best food and drink their city could offer. The next day he visited numerous friends and acquaintances to track down the unusual guests from the previous night, driven to find them, watch them, explore their backgrounds, their lives, and the environments in which they lived.

              By the end of the day, he had addresses for them all, giving him the data he needed to send spies in among them to learn as much as possible. The following morning he received word back from his spies that everything with their prey couldn't have gone better or revealed better quality people. Maximus then made the decision to experience this for himself, tracking down each one, hoping that his face would not seem familiar, and earned enough trust from them to join them in one of their religious services.

              By the end of the evening, in a part of town that he in the past never would have visited, for its poverty and crime, he marveled at the kindness, genuineness, and generosity of these people, which eventually turned into multiple conversations that spanned the space of hours. Given a scroll as he was striving to end the conversation, he returned home, read the scroll three times, and finally turned in to hopefully pick up enough sleep to get him through the next day.

              Like an itch that couldn't be scratched enough, the words of the scroll tugged at his heart and mind, forcing him to question the shallowness and insecurity within him, a battle that ensued for weeks on end until he finally reached a point that being with the emperor, his servants, and the vain wealth made his skin crawl. Again he found himself on the platform overlooking the Bosphorus Strait and listening to the emperor laud his excellent insight into the shipping problem he had solved weeks before.

              "You seem to have a different attitude about you, Maximus," the emperor said, " has something significant happened to you because you are certainly different than you were a month ago."

              Unable to speak anything but the truth, Maximus gushed forth the change of heart that had taken place with his interaction with the unusual religious men from the dinner party and as he spoke he could see the emperor's face change and become dark. "This is possibly the worst decision you every could have made," he said, "these followers of Christ are nothing but trouble and I've heard that they actually consume human flesh in their ceremonies."

              The emperor then stood, pulled Maximus to his feet and led him from the platform and back into the palace. As they stood in silence in the grand hall, a handful of soldiers burst into the room and rushed toward the emperor, obviously troubled and somewhat disheveled. "Maximus, quickly gather your things and get out of the city, for we are under attack. We cannot allow the enemy to capture you and take advantage of your knowledge and abilities. Move quickly."

              Heeding the emperor's direction, he rushed to his home, packed as much as he could carry, to then go to the home of the leader of the followers of Christ with words of warning. Within thirty minutes, the man's home was flooded with his fellow believers, to then depart en masse toward the waterfront to mount a large fishing vessel in order to cross the Bosphorus. Reaching land on the other side, the group broke up into smaller groups and scattered in various directions, Maximus eventually finding himself at a monastery near Chrysopolis.

              When news of the fall of the empire reached the monastery, he and all of the other monks fled to Africa to avoid the persecution coming from the hands and weapons of the Persians. Decades passed as he became more and more engulfed, enamored, and grounded in his newfound religion. His razor sharp mind, his academic skills, and his oratory excellence made him a remarkable foe for anyone who opposed the Christian faith or who tried to twist that faith into something that was contrary to what the Church had always believed and practiced.

              As he drew near to his eightieth year, his theological output only continued to increase and to influence every corner of the Christian world, resulting in his regular involvement in councils, debates, and discussions. Holding fast to the historic faith, he refused to modify his beliefs, eventually being condemned and sent into exile. Despite his old age, he maintained his belief in the historic faith.

              In what would become the last year of his life, he was brought before the imperial court and emperor and rigorously questioned, hoping that his former relationship with the emperor would carry some weight and influence, he discovered that he was mistaken. When he absolutely refused to change his views, he was bound, tortured, had his right hand chopped off and his tongue uprooted from his throat, to then be sent off into exile into the Caucasus Mountains. Before the year was complete, he died from a combination of old age, fragility, and his physical torments.

              His memory, his writings, and his brilliant academic work was honored and retained, and his body was rescued and sent to the monastery in Chrysopolis, the place that had been his home for many decades. In less than twenty years, the finer points of Maximus' theology were recognized as accurate and embraced as in line with the historic faith. An official declaration was made that Maximus was correct in his teaching, even when it seemed that everyone else in the known world was in opposition to him.

Seven Entombed

 

            A sudden, violent knocking sounded on Epherium's door, jarred him from a brief afternoon nap. Quickly sitting up, he vigorously rubbed his face, trying to make sense of the angry, abrupt, and unexpected noise that brought his stomach up into his throat. He opened the door to face a pale and trembling messenger, looking more apologetic than anything, as he started to read from a scroll in his hands.

              "Governor Epherium," he said, "I've been sent with this message to inform you that all citizens of the city, all government officials, and all members of the military are required to offer up a sacrifice to the gods of Ephesus. This sacrifice must be witnessed by at least ten people in a public place during the city-wide celebration in honor of our gods. There will be no exceptions. Signed, the Emperor."

              The young man then quickly turned and ran away, heading to the next government official, he assumed, leaving Epherium shocked and confused with this unexpected declaration, as it clearly violated the laws of the city, allowing for freedom of religion, short of civil unrest or disturbance. He sat at his desk, sent a messenger to find a scribe, and waited a few minutes before the young man arrived with ink and parchment in hand. Epherium then repeated, verbatim, the message given to him by the Emperor, to deliver to the troops under his care.

              Without a doubt, he knew the response that would come from some within the military, so he walked downtown to the city square, curious of the general response of the city, and expecting to hear copious amounts of complaining from his men and from the general citizens. He lingered about the busy streets, watching for any signs of obedience, disobedience, or civil unrest, when he caught sight of a group of soldiers approaching him. Seven young men, easily no more than twenty years of age, approached him and voiced their intent to disobey the order from the emperor, claiming that his demand clearly violated their religious freedom.

              Epherium agreed with their discontent, advised them to be careful and act with caution and wisdom, and to know that their response would certainly have unpleasant consequences, not just for themselves but for their loved ones and could easily influence the thinking and response of others. He bid them farewell and wished the blessing of the gods upon them, to watch them depart from the city. He rushed home to find a messenger to follow the seven young soldiers, curious what they planned to do and where they were going.

              The seven young soldiers passed through the main gates of the city, removed their weapons and most of their military uniforms, making a definitive statement against the oppression that surely awaited them. They reached a fork in the road and with one mind stopped, all of them looking directly forward at a small hill in the distance. "There," one of them said, "we will go to Celion hill and hide ourselves there, for anywhere will be searched and our presence would be revealed."

              The young men spread out in a line, looking for what they did not know, until one of them called out in excitement, bringing the other six to his side. "Here, this is perfect," he said, "this cave is large enough to obscure our presence, our God will protect us, I am certain." The young men all agreed and silently slipped into the cave, but they failed to acknowledge the presence of two shepherds at the foot of the hill, watching them and listening.

              Within the hour, the young men sat deep within the cave, trusting that everything would be safe and secure, until they heard the sound of many men working, arguing, and shifting about what seemed to be large rocks. The oldest among them, Dionysius, silently crept toward the opening to realize that all daylight had been completely blocked, sealing them inside with no water, no food, and little for clothing. He returned to his friends and explained what he had discovered but was still faithful and trusting that the end result of their stand for truth would bring about an ultimate good.

              Later that evening, a servant of Epherium sat alone in a tavern, small and unassuming, listening in on a conversation between two soldiers, telling of a message from two shepherds about a group of young men in a cave and the soldiers sealing the entrance. The servant waited until the soldiers left the tavern and he hurried back to Epherium's home to tell the story to his friend, Eusignius.

              "I overheard a messenger speaking to Governor Epherium about these men," he said. "They refused to offer sacrifices to the gods of Ephesus, gave up their identities as soldiers, and from the sounds of it, went into hiding. I have an idea. We need to find a metal plaque, engrave their names on it and put it in a safe place near the cave entrance. What these men have done is a good and brave thing. We must honor them."

              Seventy years passed and Eusignius lay on his death bed, and called for a new young servant, sharing with him the story of the seven soldiers sealed in the cave on the hill called Celion. "Tell as many people as you trust," he told him, "We must always honor these men and make sure that their story is not forgotten." The young servant gave him his word and returned home to write the story down so as not to forget any of the details.

              Another seventy years passed and the young servant, now a nearly crippled and blind old man, repeated the process that Eusignius began with him, calling for a young man to share the story of those sealed away on the hill name Celion. The story was memorized by this young man and sixty years later, he went for a walk to and upon the hill named Celion to find the cave, now no longer sealed with stone, for shepherds had cleared the opening to build a shelter for their sheep. The elderly man stood several yards back from the opening and looked into the darkness, remembering all of the details shared to him about the soldiers.

              His grandson, an older teen stood with him and suddenly called out as the young men emerged from the cave, unchanged, unharmed, and glowing with a remarkable radiance as they entered the sunshine. "Go, tell everyone," the old man said to his grandson. "Something incredible has just taken place, we must tell as many as we can."

              Within the hour, a massive crowd of people joined them at the foot of the hill, looking up at the young men, healthy, robust, clean, and in clothing reminiscent of citizens from the past. The emperor arrived shortly after and approached the young to engage in conversation, seeking answers from them about their identity, under which general they served and what they hoped to do, now that they were free from their captivity.

              Confused and alarmed by the number of people around them, the radical difference in the fields, the clothing, and the size of the city, they joined the Emperor for several days, learning about all that had taken place over the last two hundred years. A full week came and went, and the young men separated themselves from everyone in the city, and made the decision to return to the cave, for clearly their God had done something remarkable in sustaining them and protecting them for such a long period of time.

              Before they left for the cave, Dionysius called for a scribe to take down a message for him to deliver to the Emperor no sooner than two hours from that moment. The young men spent a few moments walking through the town and were pleased to see that the former gods of Ephesus had disappeared, had lost all of their followers, or had been completely forgotten, hopefully all three they thought.

              As darkness fell for the evening, they passed through the shadows, left the city, and returned to the hill named Celion, to thankfully see no one anywhere nearby. They silently walked up the hill, and into the cave, to once again return to their places of rest for the last two centuries. In a singular collective breathe, the young men became as statues, untouched, beautiful, clean, and safe within the confines of the cave, no longer with a seal across the entrance.

              Two hours later, the scribe delivered the message to the Emperor, leaving the Emperor amazed and confused, wondering why such beautiful young men would choose to return to their tomb when they had so much more life to live and deeds to accomplish. As it was close to midnight, the Emperor thought to build golden coffins for them as a measure of honor, desiring to make up for what the previous Emperor had done wrong.

              Within the hour, the Emperor lay down in his bed with his wife and promptly fell asleep to only be awakened three hours later by a remarkable golden glow in his sleeping chamber. He sat up, shielded his eyes from the inexplicable presence of light, to catch a glimpse of the seven young men standing at the foot of his bed. Dionysius spoke to him with very specific instructions. "Oh Emperor," he said, "I know that you mean well, but do not disturb us, do not build golden coffins for us, seal up the cave and leave us in peace. For this is the future that God has created for us. We will see you after you depart your time here. Life awaits us all."