Before The Pumpkins: The Day Two Women Defied Rome

Luke J. Wilson | 31st October 2025 | Halloween

In our last post, we walked with Perpetua and Felicity through the sands of the amphitheatre, their faith outshining Rome’s cruelty. Now for the final part in this series, we turn to another of the Church’s earliest heroes — one whose courage was matched by an unexpected wit. His name was Lawrence, a deacon of Rome, remembered across centuries as the man who kept his humour even while lying on the griddle. The Setting: Rome, AD 258 Under Emperor Valerian, a fresh persecution of Christians swept through the Empire. Bishops, priests, and deacons were hunted down, their property seized, and their churches closed. The bishop of Rome at that time was Sixtus II — a gentle and wise shepherd who, like the apostles before him, was soon to drink from the same cup as his Lord. Among his closest companions was Deacon Lawrence, entrusted with overseeing the Church’s treasury and distributing alms to the poor. The Acts of St Lawrence tell us that when Sixtus was arrested and led to execution, Lawrence ran after him, crying out that he would not be left behind. Where are you going, father, without your son? Where are you going, priest, without your deacon? You never used to offer sacrifice without me as your minister! To which Sixtus replied: My son, I’m not leaving you. Greater trials are waiting for you. In three days you’ll follow me. Sixtus was beheaded soon after. Lawrence, meanwhile, was arrested and brought before the Roman prefect who, hearing that Lawrence had been the keeper of the Church’s wealth, demanded that he hand it over to the empire. The True Treasure of the Church The exchange that followed has been remembered ever since, partly for its irony, partly for its courage. “Bring forth,” said the prefect, “the treasures of the Church — the gold, the silver, and the precious vessels — that the emperor may possess them.” Lawrence asked for three days to gather them, which the prefect granted, no doubt imagining chests of glittering riches being prepared for him. Instead, Lawrence went through the city, gathering the blind, the crippled, the widows, the orphans, and all who were destitute or suffering. On the third day, he presented them before the prefect and declared: These are the treasures of the Church. Behold the gold and silver that I promised thee — the eternal jewels in whom Christ dwells. The prefect, enraged at being mocked, ordered that Lawrence be scourged and tortured, then laid upon an iron gridiron above a slow fire. The Martyrdom The ancient texts, mingling reverence and humour, tell the story that has echoed down the ages and had left an impact on me purely for the humour that I find in it! They laid him upon the iron bed, and beneath it kindled coals, that his flesh might be roasted little by little. And Lawrence, lying there, lifted up his eyes to heaven and gave thanks to God for counting him worthy to suffer. After some time, the account continues with words that have made Lawrence one of the most memorable of all martyrs: Having been a long time on the fire, he said to his tormentors with a cheerful countenance: ‘This side is done; turn me over and eat.’ It is difficult to read those words without laughing at how funny it sounds! It matches the kind of dark humour that I can have and often think of, which is probably why the story of Lawrence appeals to me so much, it’s the kind of silly thing I would think to say (though I’m not sure if I would in Lawrence’s place!). In the face of unbearable agony, Lawrence mocked his tormentors and even death itself. His humour was not flippant, but a final victory over the fear that his persecutors wanted to instil. His joke was an act of defiance against the gods whom Decius implored against the power of Christ within Lawrence. Despite how hot it must have been, Lawrence declares a worse fate on Decius, warning him of the fire he will face because of this, saying that the “burning c...

Luke J. Wilson | 25th October 2025 | Halloween

Picture the scene: the year is somewhere around 155–160, Polycarp has just been arrested and brought to the city. The crowd roared in the stadium. The smell of sweat and fear mingled with the dust of Smyrna’s arena. And in the centre of it all stood an old man — calm, unflinching, his face marked with years of faith. The Roman proconsul urged him again: “Swear by the fortune of Caesar. Curse Christ, and I will release you.” Polycarp looked him in the eye and replied with a defiant response that has echoed down the ages, Eighty and six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me? Those words have become immortal in and of themselves, reverberating from pulpits, prison cells, and whispered prayers in dark times. They belong to Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, and one of the clearest windows we have into the courage of the early Church. The place of Polycarp’s martyrdom was not Rome, as many assume, but the bustling city of Smyrna, in what is now western Turkey. Smyrna was one of the great cities of Asia Minor — wealthy, loyal to Rome, and proud of its grand stadium where games and public spectacles were held. It was in that very stadium, believed by archaeologists to have seated up to 20,000 people, before the watching crowds and the Roman proconsul of the province, that the aged bishop was brought to stand trial. The same stadium that once echoed with cheers for athletes and gladiators would now resound with the final testimony of a Christian who refused to curse his King. The Roman stadium of Smyrna, located on the slopes of Mount Pagos, fully excavated in 2014. (Source) A Disciple of the Apostles Polycarp was no obscure figure on the fringes of history. Born around AD 69, he lived at the very hinge between the apostolic age and the developing life of the Church. Tradition tells us that he was a disciple of the Apostle John, friend and fellow bishop with Ignatius of Antioch, and a mentor to another great bishop — Irenaeus of Lyons. Through Polycarp, we stand just one generation away from the eyewitnesses of Jesus Himself. He served faithfully as bishop of Smyrna (modern-day Izmir, Turkey), a bustling port city of trade, culture, and imperial devotion. When persecution began to stir, Polycarp was not a young zealot but an elderly shepherd who had spent his life guiding others in Christ’s way. His story is preserved in The Martyrdom of Polycarp, one of the earliest martyr narratives ever written, likely composed by those who knew him personally. How the Stadium would have looked in the time of Polycarp. Image: İzmir Time Machine The Arrest and the Trial When soldiers came to arrest him, Polycarp did not run. Instead, he greeted his captors with hospitality, ordering food and drink to be brought to them. He even asked for an hour to pray, and they granted it. His prayer was so fervent and filled with grace that several of his guards later regretted their role in his capture. Brought before the governor, Polycarp was told to swear by Caesar’s name, to prove his loyalty to Rome. He could have chosen silence. He could have muttered a few words to save himself. But instead, he stood firm in his faith and act boldly with confidence in his Saviour, who, when entering the stadium spoke to him by voice from heaven saying, “Be strong, and show thyself a man, O Polycarp!”. The other believers who were with Polycarp also heard the voice but no one saw where it came from. Due to Polycarp’s advanced age, the proconsul tried to persuade him to just declare what was asked of him and say, “Swear by the fortune of Cæsar; repent, and say, ‘Away with the Atheists’”. In this context at the time, “Atheists” referred to Christians because they denied the pantheon of Roman gods. But Polycarp, he wasn’t so easily intimidated. Looking around at “all the multitude of the wicked heathen” in the stadium seats, he waved his h...

Luke J. Wilson | 20th October 2025 | Halloween

The sound of chains echoed through the streets as Ignatius of Antioch was led from Syria to Rome. The old bishop’s body was frail, but his heart burned with the strength of Christ. Each clinking step brought him closer to the arena — and to the wild beasts that would tear him apart — yet his letters brimmed with joy and passion, and a sense of urgency inspiring others to unity, obedience, and unwavering faith. For Ignatius, death was not defeat; it was the completion of discipleship, crossing the finish line of faith… the moment when imitation of Christ became complete. Ignatius of Antioch is one of my favourite Early Church Fathers mainly for how much reading his letters had an impact on me. His letter to the church in Rome, especially, as you could really sense his passion and dedication to his faith and conviction to see through his impending martyrdom head on, fearless in the face of death! And as one of the earliest martyrs outside of the New Testament, his story is the perfect place to begin this series. A Disciple of the Apostles Ignatius lived in the generation just after the apostles, serving as bishop of Antioch in Syria. Tradition says that Ignatius was the small child whom Jesus held in his arms in Matt. 18:2, though this cannot be verified as Ignatius himself never states it. A more trustworthy tradition 4tells us that he was a disciple of the Apostle John, and this lineage can be felt in his writings. His letters echo the same themes and emphasis on Christ as John does in his Gospel around the incarnation, never failing to highlight the physical nature of Jesus as well as his divine which can be seen with such statements like “Jesus Christ our God” (Epistle to the Ephesians). During the reign of Emperor Trajan (around AD 107), Christians were increasingly viewed as enemies of the Roman order. Refusing to worship the emperor was seen as defiance, and Ignatius, as one of the most visible leaders of the Church, became a prime target. He was arrested and sentenced to be taken to Rome to die in the arena by wild beasts. Letters from the Road As he travelled under heavy guard, ten soldiers he referred to as “being bound between ten leopards” (Letter the Romans, 5), Ignatius wrote seven letters to various Christian communities along the way: to Ephesus, Magnesia, Tralles, Rome, Philadelphia, Smyrna, and to Polycarp himself, the bishop of Smyrna. These letters are among the earliest Christian writings outside the New Testament, and they give us an amazing insight into the heart of a man preparing for martyrdom. Not many things touch me emotionally, but these letters did. Again and again, he speaks of unity and humility, urging believers to remain bound together under their bishop just as the Church is bound to Christ. He warns against false teachings that denied Christ’s true humanity, writing passionately: “Stop your ears, therefore, when any one speaks to you at variance with Jesus Christ, who was descended from David, and was also of Mary; who was truly born, and did eat and drink.”. But above all, his letters shine with a desperate longing for his final witness, pleading with the Roman Christians not to “show an unseasonable good-will” towards him and prevent his martyrdom. His desire to face his fate still gives me chills when I read it; I’m encouraged and also challenged so much by his words: Suffer me to become food for the wild beasts, through whose instrumentality it will be granted me to attain to God. I am the wheat of God, and let me be ground by the teeth of the wild beasts, that I may be found the pure bread of Christ … Rather entice the wild beasts, that they may become my tomb, and may leave nothing of my body … Let fire and the cross; let the crowds of wild beasts; let tearings, breakings, and dislocations of bones; let cutting off of members; let shatterings of the whole body; and let all the dreadful torments of the devil come upon me: only let me at...

Luke J. Wilson | 12th October 2025 | Halloween

It’s that time of year again when pumpkins appear in windows, skeletons hang from doorways, and debates resurface about whether Christians should have anything to do with Halloween. Some will say it’s entirely “pagan” in origin, others that it’s harmless fun — and many of us fall somewhere in the middle, just trying to work out what’s right (or try to ignore it!). But what if we’ve forgotten that Halloween began not with ghosts and ghouls, but with grace and glory? Hallowe’en — “All Hallows’ Eve” — was never about celebrating darkness; it was about remembering the light. It marked the night before All Saints’ Day, a day to honour those who gave their lives for Christ — the martyrs and the faithful who stood firm when the world turned against them. The very first commemorations of this kind go back far earlier than medieval Europe. Around 135 AD, Christians were already gathering at the tombs of martyrs like Polycarp of Smyrna, treating their remains as “more precious than the most exquisite jewels”. By the third century, Cyprian of Carthage was writing that the Church should record the dates when martyrs were killed so that their witness could be remembered each year. The faithful didn’t gather to mourn their loss, they gathered to celebrate their victory over death by attaining the reward of eternal life. Over time, as persecutions multiplied, there were simply too many to commemorate individually. So the Church dedicated a universal feast: first in May, then later moved to November 1st — All Saints’ Day — to honour every witness who had finished the race and kept the faith. That’s the true origin of Halloween’s eve: not a night of fear, but a vigil of remembrance. And so, as the world lights candles inside pumpkins, we light ours in memory of those who shone brightest in the darkness. Saints and martyrs remind us that the Christian story is one of life conquering death — of love refusing to yield to hatred. Their courage wasn’t rooted in despair, but in the unshakable hope that Christ has already triumphed. This October, we’ll look back at a few of these extraordinary lives — men and women who carried the light through the fires of persecution: Ignatius of Antioch, Polycarp of Smyrna, Perpetua and Felicity, and Lawrence of Rome. Each of them teaches us something vital about what it means to be a witness. As we journey through their stories, perhaps we can recover what All Hallows was always meant to be: a time not for horror, but for holy remembrance. As we pause to remember these men and women of faith, we take our place among what the writer of Hebrews calls “so great a cloud of witnesses”. Their stories are not distant echoes but living testaments and voices that still urge us to “run with perseverance the race set before us.” From Stephen, whose face shone like an angel as stones rained down upon him, to those who came after — Ignatius, Polycarp, Perpetua, Lawrence — the line of faithful witnesses stretches unbroken through history. Each one bore the light of Christ into the darkness of their age, refusing to give up or give in even when the cost was their life. Today, we stand on the shoulders of these giants of faith. Their courage reminds us that our lives, too, are part of this great story; that our endurance, our love, our quiet faithfulness all take their place among the saints who have gone before. As we begin this journey through their lives, may the same Spirit who sustained them stir our hearts anew. For though centuries divide us, we walk the same road, a road marked by the cross, but leading always toward resurrection! Dive into the lives and testimonies of these faithful men and women who can still inspire faith in us even now: Before The Pumpkins: The Road To The Lions Before The Pumpkins: Faith In The Flames Before The Pumpkins: The Day Two Women Defied Rome Before the...

Luke J. Wilson | 29th December 2025 | Christmas

January 6th marks the day in the liturgical calendar when the arrival of the Magi visiting baby Jesus with their gifts is celebrated. But with it comes the often distressing account of what is known as the Massacre of the Innocents. Matthew places this moment of revelation of Jesus as King alongside one of the darkest episodes in his Gospel, and it’s a stark contrast: one King is here to bring peace on earth, as the angels declared, the other king brought death and destruction. For some readers, this raises an immediate historical question. If Herod truly ordered the killing of all the male children under two in Bethlehem, why does no other ancient historian mention it? Josephus, after all, delights in cataloguing Herod’s cruelty. He records the execution of Herod’s wife, his sons, and numerous political rivals. Herod was paranoid and vicious. As for Herod, if he had before any doubt about the slaughter of his sons, there was now no longer any room left in his soul for it; but he had banished away whatsoever might afford him the least suggestion of reasoning better about this matter, so he already made haste to bring his purpose to a conclusion. He also brought out three hundred of the officers that were under an accusation … whom the multitude stoned with whatsoever came to hand, and thereby slew them. — Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 16.11.7 So, why the silence here about Bethlehem? The answer, I would say, isn’t anything nefarious or made-up by Matthew, but just something simply down to scale. Bethlehem Was a Very Small Place Bethlehem in the early first century was not a city. It was a village — small, agricultural, and politically insignificant. Most historians estimate its population at somewhere between 300 and 1,000 people, with around 500 being a sensible midpoint. Once we factor in ancient demographics, the numbers become surprisingly modest. Modern demographic research into pre-industrial societies consistently shows that nearly half of all children died before adulthood, with the highest concentration of deaths occurring in the first two years of life. These findings align closely with conditions in Roman-period Judea and support conservative estimates for the number of infants living in a small village such as Bethlehem. Source: Mortality in the past: every second child died — Our World in Data   In pre-modern societies with high infant mortality, only about 2–3% of the population would be living children under the age of two at any given time. Many children were born; far fewer survived those earliest years. Applying a conservative 2.5% figure to Bethlehem gives us roughly: 7–8 children under two in a village of 300 12–13 children under two in a village of 500 25 children under two even at the extreme upper estimate of 1,000 inhabitants Herod’s order, however, targeted male children only. Statistically, that halves the number. This places the likely number of victims somewhere between three and twelve boys. Matthew’s reference to ‘Bethlehem and the surrounding region’ does slightly widen the scope of Herod’s order, but not by enough to change the demographic picture. Even when nearby settlements are included (e.g. farmsteads, shepherd settlements, etc. not major cities/towns), the total number of children under two likely remained in the dozens rather than the hundreds, maybe anywhere between 14–45 boys maximum if we make an educated estimate. This is entirely consistent with what we know of population size and infant mortality in the ancient world. This is an important number to realise and consider. Not because the deaths are insignificant simply due to being so few, but because ancient historians did not record history the way we do now. A small number of peasant children killed in an obscure village would not have registered as a notable event alongside palace intrigue, royal executions, or political upheaval. For Josephus, it wou...

Luke J. Wilson | 13th December 2025 | Christmas

How can God beget a Son? Does that mean Jesus is His creation? This question comes sharply into focus during Advent, when the Church contemplates the Incarnation: the eternal Son entering the world as a baby in Mary’s womb. And to understand this, we turn to language the Church has treasured for centuries — especially that crucial distinction between begotten and created. And C. S. Lewis describes this with a real concise clarity: We don’t use the words begetting or begotten much in modern English, but everyone still knows what they mean. To beget is to become the father of: to create is to make. And the difference is this. When you beget, you beget something of the same kind as yourself. A man begets human babies, a beaver begets little beavers, and a bird begets eggs which turn into little birds. But when you make, you make something of a different kind from yourself. A bird makes a nest, a beaver builds a dam, a man makes a wireless set — or he may make something more like himself than a wireless set: say, a statue. If he is a clever enough carver he may make a statue which is very like a man indeed. But, of course, it is not a real man; it only looks like one. It cannot breathe or think. It is not alive. Now that is the first thing to get clear. What God begets is God; just as what man begets is man. What God creates is not God, just as what man creates is not man. By saying that Jesus is begotten from the Father, we are saying that Jesus is fully God and not a creation of God (Arianism), nor is the Son of God simply a mode or action of God (Sabellianism). This is the heart of Christian theology: begotten = shared nature created = different nature Begotten Means “of the Same Essence” When the Father begets the Son, He is not constructing or manufacturing Him. Begetting is not an act inside time. It is an eternal relationship. Just as: light is never without radiance a fire is never without heat the Father is never without the Son There was never a moment “before” the Son existed. The Son is eternally from the Father, sharing His nature, His essence, His Godness. As John says in the opening of his Gospel, Jesus as the Son was/is “in the bosom of the Father”. This was historically understood that the Word always existed within the Father. When Christ Is Misunderstood: Modalism and Arianism Two ancient heresies emerge from misunderstanding “begotten, not made.” 1. Modalism (Sabellianism) This claims that: Father, Son, and Spirit are just different forms or roles of one person. This erases the real distinctions within the Trinity. If Modalism were true: Jesus is praying to Himself. The Father sending the Son is theatre. Christ’s baptism is a staged illusion. Modalism collapses the Persons into one persona wearing different masks. 2. Arianism Arius taught that: Jesus was created by God ex nihilo He is a divine-like being, but not equal in essence This makes Jesus the highest creature… but still a creature. If Jesus is created, then He cannot: reveal God perfectly unite humanity to God save us entirely and absolutely Only God can reconcile us to God. The Nicene Creed: Drawing a Line in the Sand At the Council of Nicaea (325 AD), the Church responded boldly and clearly: God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one being with the Father. This was a decisive boundary. begotten — of the same nature not made — not a creation of one being (homoousios) — equal in essence, not similar The Creed functioned like a theological guardrail. Christ is not “like God” — He is God. The creeds act as guardrails for orthodox interpretation Proverbs 8: Wisdom Begotten, Not Created The Fathers saw Proverbs 8 as speaking of the Son under the title “Wisdom”: The Lord begot me at the beginning of his work...

Luke J. Wilson | 31st October 2025 | Halloween

In our last post, we walked with Perpetua and Felicity through the sands of the amphitheatre, their faith outshining Rome’s cruelty. Now for the final part in this series, we turn to another of the Church’s earliest heroes — one whose courage was matched by an unexpected wit. His name was Lawrence, a deacon of Rome, remembered across centuries as the man who kept his humour even while lying on the griddle. The Setting: Rome, AD 258 Under Emperor Valerian, a fresh persecution of Christians swept through the Empire. Bishops, priests, and deacons were hunted down, their property seized, and their churches closed. The bishop of Rome at that time was Sixtus II — a gentle and wise shepherd who, like the apostles before him, was soon to drink from the same cup as his Lord. Among his closest companions was Deacon Lawrence, entrusted with overseeing the Church’s treasury and distributing alms to the poor. The Acts of St Lawrence tell us that when Sixtus was arrested and led to execution, Lawrence ran after him, crying out that he would not be left behind. Where are you going, father, without your son? Where are you going, priest, without your deacon? You never used to offer sacrifice without me as your minister! To which Sixtus replied: My son, I’m not leaving you. Greater trials are waiting for you. In three days you’ll follow me. Sixtus was beheaded soon after. Lawrence, meanwhile, was arrested and brought before the Roman prefect who, hearing that Lawrence had been the keeper of the Church’s wealth, demanded that he hand it over to the empire. The True Treasure of the Church The exchange that followed has been remembered ever since, partly for its irony, partly for its courage. “Bring forth,” said the prefect, “the treasures of the Church — the gold, the silver, and the precious vessels — that the emperor may possess them.” Lawrence asked for three days to gather them, which the prefect granted, no doubt imagining chests of glittering riches being prepared for him. Instead, Lawrence went through the city, gathering the blind, the crippled, the widows, the orphans, and all who were destitute or suffering. On the third day, he presented them before the prefect and declared: These are the treasures of the Church. Behold the gold and silver that I promised thee — the eternal jewels in whom Christ dwells. The prefect, enraged at being mocked, ordered that Lawrence be scourged and tortured, then laid upon an iron gridiron above a slow fire. The Martyrdom The ancient texts, mingling reverence and humour, tell the story that has echoed down the ages and had left an impact on me purely for the humour that I find in it! They laid him upon the iron bed, and beneath it kindled coals, that his flesh might be roasted little by little. And Lawrence, lying there, lifted up his eyes to heaven and gave thanks to God for counting him worthy to suffer. After some time, the account continues with words that have made Lawrence one of the most memorable of all martyrs: Having been a long time on the fire, he said to his tormentors with a cheerful countenance: ‘This side is done; turn me over and eat.’ It is difficult to read those words without laughing at how funny it sounds! It matches the kind of dark humour that I can have and often think of, which is probably why the story of Lawrence appeals to me so much, it’s the kind of silly thing I would think to say (though I’m not sure if I would in Lawrence’s place!). In the face of unbearable agony, Lawrence mocked his tormentors and even death itself. His humour was not flippant, but a final victory over the fear that his persecutors wanted to instil. His joke was an act of defiance against the gods whom Decius implored against the power of Christ within Lawrence. Despite how hot it must have been, Lawrence declares a worse fate on Decius, warning him of the fire he will face because of this, saying that the “burning c...

Luke J. Wilson | 25th October 2025 | Halloween

Picture the scene: the year is somewhere around 155–160, Polycarp has just been arrested and brought to the city. The crowd roared in the stadium. The smell of sweat and fear mingled with the dust of Smyrna’s arena. And in the centre of it all stood an old man — calm, unflinching, his face marked with years of faith. The Roman proconsul urged him again: “Swear by the fortune of Caesar. Curse Christ, and I will release you.” Polycarp looked him in the eye and replied with a defiant response that has echoed down the ages, Eighty and six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me? Those words have become immortal in and of themselves, reverberating from pulpits, prison cells, and whispered prayers in dark times. They belong to Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, and one of the clearest windows we have into the courage of the early Church. The place of Polycarp’s martyrdom was not Rome, as many assume, but the bustling city of Smyrna, in what is now western Turkey. Smyrna was one of the great cities of Asia Minor — wealthy, loyal to Rome, and proud of its grand stadium where games and public spectacles were held. It was in that very stadium, believed by archaeologists to have seated up to 20,000 people, before the watching crowds and the Roman proconsul of the province, that the aged bishop was brought to stand trial. The same stadium that once echoed with cheers for athletes and gladiators would now resound with the final testimony of a Christian who refused to curse his King. The Roman stadium of Smyrna, located on the slopes of Mount Pagos, fully excavated in 2014. (Source) A Disciple of the Apostles Polycarp was no obscure figure on the fringes of history. Born around AD 69, he lived at the very hinge between the apostolic age and the developing life of the Church. Tradition tells us that he was a disciple of the Apostle John, friend and fellow bishop with Ignatius of Antioch, and a mentor to another great bishop — Irenaeus of Lyons. Through Polycarp, we stand just one generation away from the eyewitnesses of Jesus Himself. He served faithfully as bishop of Smyrna (modern-day Izmir, Turkey), a bustling port city of trade, culture, and imperial devotion. When persecution began to stir, Polycarp was not a young zealot but an elderly shepherd who had spent his life guiding others in Christ’s way. His story is preserved in The Martyrdom of Polycarp, one of the earliest martyr narratives ever written, likely composed by those who knew him personally. How the Stadium would have looked in the time of Polycarp. Image: İzmir Time Machine The Arrest and the Trial When soldiers came to arrest him, Polycarp did not run. Instead, he greeted his captors with hospitality, ordering food and drink to be brought to them. He even asked for an hour to pray, and they granted it. His prayer was so fervent and filled with grace that several of his guards later regretted their role in his capture. Brought before the governor, Polycarp was told to swear by Caesar’s name, to prove his loyalty to Rome. He could have chosen silence. He could have muttered a few words to save himself. But instead, he stood firm in his faith and act boldly with confidence in his Saviour, who, when entering the stadium spoke to him by voice from heaven saying, “Be strong, and show thyself a man, O Polycarp!”. The other believers who were with Polycarp also heard the voice but no one saw where it came from. Due to Polycarp’s advanced age, the proconsul tried to persuade him to just declare what was asked of him and say, “Swear by the fortune of Cæsar; repent, and say, ‘Away with the Atheists’”. In this context at the time, “Atheists” referred to Christians because they denied the pantheon of Roman gods. But Polycarp, he wasn’t so easily intimidated. Looking around at “all the multitude of the wicked heathen” in the stadium seats, he waved his h...