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 | 06th January 2025 | Christmas
As the Church celebrates Epiphany, we reflect on the Magi's visit to the Christ child, guided by a star—a sign of God’s revelation to the nations. This story, steeped in wonder and mystery, has sparked fascination for centuries. What was this “Star of Bethlehem” that led the wise men to Jesus? Was it a miraculous light, or could it have been a natural astronomical event designed by the Creator to herald the birth of the King of Kings?
The chart is from the SkySafari app
The Great Conjunction
In December 2020, the world witnessed a rare astronomical event called a “great conjunction.” Jupiter and Saturn appeared so close in the night sky that they seemed to merge into a single brilliant light. Such conjunctions are infrequent, occurring roughly every 20 years, but the alignment of 2020 was the closest in nearly 800 years.
These celestial phenomena prompt awe and wonder, reminding us of Psalm 19:1: “The heavens declare the glory of God.” They also offer an opportunity to consider how the natural world might point us to the divine. Could a similar conjunction have been the famed “Star of Bethlehem”?
Saturn and Jupiter appear to close in on each other as the Great Conjunction 2020 approaches on 21 December (apparent distance given in degrees and arcminutes). Credit: Pete Lawrence
Astronomy and the Magi
The Magi, often referred to as “wise men from the East,” were likely Persian astrologers skilled in interpreting the stars. Around 7 BC, a triple conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn occurred in the constellation Pisces. To the Magi, this alignment carried profound symbolism.
Jupiter, the planet of kingship, coronations, and the birth of kings. In Hebrew, Jupiter was known as Sedeq or “Righteousness,” a term also used for the Messiah.
Saturn, associated with divine protection
Pisces, later linked to the birth of Jesus as the “fisher of men”
In September of 3 B.C., Jupiter came into conjunction with Regulus, the star of kingship, the brightest star in the constellation of Leo. Leo was the constellation of kings and was associated with the Lion of Judah.
Together, these signs might have suggested the birth of a royal figure in Israel. Compelled by this celestial message, the Magi embarked on their long journey, seeking the child born to be King.
Following the Star
The journey of the Magi culminates in Bethlehem, where the star appears to “stop” over the place where the child was. This detail aligns with the phenomenon of retrograde motion, where planets appear stationary in the night sky due to their orbits. Could Jupiter have been this “star,” guiding the Magi at just the right moment?
In December, 2 BC, the Magi arrived and visited Jesus in Bethlehem. At this point, Jesus may have been about a year or two old — toddler age. The verse in Matthew 1:11 suggests Jesus was no longer a baby at this point based on the Greek word used: παιδίον (paidion) meaning a young child. Jupiter was then right above Bethlehem when viewed from Jerusalem due to its paused retrograde motion, which lasted for about six days, which aligns with the Biblical text:
Matthew 2:9 When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was.
A Sign of Revelation
Epiphany invites us to marvel not only at the star but at the God who uses creation to reveal His glory. Whether the Star of Bethlehem was a miraculous light or an astronomical event, it points to Jesus, the true Light of the World. In Jesus, God’s love is made manifest — not just to Israel but to all nations.
The Magi’s journey reminds us of our own pilgrimage of faith. Like them, we are invited to seek Christ, to bow in worship, and to offer Him our treasures: our hearts, our lives, our devotion, as “living sacrifices” (Rom 12:1).
Jesus, the True Star
As we celebrate Epiphany, let us remember th...
Luke J. Wilson | 23rd December 2024 | Christmas
The Christmas tree is one of the most recognisable symbols of the festive season, adorning homes, churches, and public spaces with its evergreen beauty. But where did this tradition originate, and how did it become a central feature of Christmas celebrations? Looking into the history of the Christmas tree has turned out to be a fascinating historical story woven from various cultural and theological strands.
The Paradise Tree and the Feast of Adam and Eve
The connection between the Christmas tree and the Feast of Adam and Eve offers a large clue into its origins. In medieval Europe, December 24th was observed as the feast day of Adam and Eve, a commemoration tied to their expulsion from Eden. One of the most notable elements of this feast was the “Paradise Tree,” used in mystery plays and home displays to symbolise the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden.
These trees, typically evergreen, were decorated with apples to represent the forbidden fruit and wafers symbolising the Eucharist. This imagery reflected both humanity’s fall into sin and God’s redemptive plan through Christ. The Paradise Tree served as a visual catechism of sorts, teaching the story of salvation from the Fall to the Redemption. In a later tradition the wafers were replaced by cookies of various shapes, and candles, symbolic of Jesus as the light of the world, were often added to the trees.
Pre-Christian Traditions and the Evergreen
Evergreens have long been associated with life and resilience in the darkest days of winter. In pre-Christian European traditions, evergreen boughs were used during festivals like the Roman Saturnalia and the Germanic Yule. These practices celebrated the endurance of life through the cold and darkness, offering hope of the spring to come. While these customs were not inherently Christian, they provided a cultural framework that could be adapted to Christian theology.
The evergreen tree, in this context, became a symbol of eternal life in Christ, as suggested by John 10:28: “I give them eternal life, and they will never perish.”
Martin Luther and the Candlelit Tree
A significant figure in the history of the Christmas tree is the Reformer Martin Luther. According to tradition, Luther was struck by the beauty of a starry winter sky shining through the branches of an evergreen tree. To share this moment of wonder with his family, he brought a tree into his home and decorated it with candles to represent Christ as the “Light of the World” (John 8:12).
While this story is likely apocryphal, it reflects the theological connection Christians saw in the evergreen tree as a symbol of Christ’s enduring presence and light in the darkness. Luther’s influence in Protestant Germany may have helped popularise the use of Christmas trees in Christian households.
The Spread of the Christmas Tree
The tradition of the Christmas tree gained popularity in Germany during the 16th and 17th centuries. By the 18th and 19th centuries, German immigrants brought the custom to other parts of Europe and North America. One pivotal moment in its wider adoption was the depiction of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert around a decorated Christmas tree in an illustration published in the Illustrated London News in 1848.
This royal endorsement sparked a surge in the tradition’s popularity, particularly in Britain, where it came to symbolise the domestic warmth and joy of the holiday season.
Prince Albert, Queen Victoria, and the British royal family gathered around the Christmas tree at Windsor Castle, from the Illustrated London News, 1848. Source: Britannica
St. Boniface and the Sacred Oak
One of the most compelling narratives about the Christmas tree’s origins involves St. Boniface, an English missionary whose evangelistic efforts in 8th-century Germany played a pivotal role in shaping this enduring custom. According to tradition, Boniface encountered a group of pagans venerating an oak tree dedicated to Thor, the Norse ...
Luke J. Wilson | 07th December 2024 | Christmas
When we think of St. Nicholas, two contrasting images often emerge: the cheerful, gift-giving Santa Claus and the fiery bishop who supposedly punched Arius at the Council of Nicaea. The latter story, popularised through memes and tales of “righteous anger,” portrays Nicholas as a defender of truth through violence. But how much of this tale is rooted in fact?
St Nicholas of Myra slapping Arius at the Council of Nicaea.Fresco from the Soumela Monastery (Turkey)
The truth is both simpler and more profound: St. Nicholas embodied the teachings of Christ, not through impulsive acts of aggression, but through a life of love, generosity, and devotion.
Separating Fact from Legend
The infamous story of St. Nicholas striking Arius comes from hagiographies written around 1000 years after the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD. These accounts describe Nicholas, angered by Arius’s denial of Christ’s divinity, delivering a blow during the debate. However, contemporary records do not corroborate this tale. Even Nicholas’s attendance at the council is uncertain, as his name is absent from the earliest participant lists.
The story likely arose as a dramatic embellishment to highlight his zeal for orthodoxy. Over time, it has been embraced as a symbol of righteous indignation.
Roger Pearse, of the Tertullian Project, summarises this legend succinctly:
To summarise again: there is no ancient evidence whatever that St Nicholas punched or slapped Arius at the First Council of Nicaea. The story is not found in any text before the late 14th century, and even that one mentions only “a certain Arian”. In the next two centuries the legend mutates into Nicholas slapping Arius; and is then disseminated in works of popular fiction, and by the paintings of icons. It has no historical basis whatever.
The Problem with Celebrating the Slap
In a culture that often glorifies bold, confrontational responses, the idea of a saint who resorts to physical violence can seem appealing. It aligns with a desire to see truth defended at all costs. However, this narrative stands in stark contrast to the teachings of Christ.
Jesus, in the Sermon on the Mount, calls His followers to a radical standard of love and forgiveness:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.” (Matthew 5:38–39)
“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:44)
If St. Nicholas truly slapped Arius, it would be an action in direct opposition to these commands. As a bishop of Christ, Nicholas would have been called to model patience, kindness, and forgiveness — even in the face of heresy. His life of service suggests that he likely did.
A regular meme I see online annually
The True St. Nicholas
The real St. Nicholas is remembered for his compassion, humility, and selfless love. Legends of him secretly providing dowries for poor families, rescuing sailors in peril, and helping the unjustly accused paint a picture of a man deeply committed to Christlike living.
Rather than resorting to force, St. Nicholas lived out the Gospel through acts of generosity and care. His actions reflected the spirit of Jesus’ words in John 13:35: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Strength in Love, Not Violence
The enduring appeal of the slap story may stem from its simplicity — it frames St. Nicholas as a hero who stood up for truth in an immediate, tangible way. But true strength often lies in restraint and in choosing love over retaliation.
St. Nicholas’s greatest acts were not dramatic confrontations but quiet, consistent demonstrations of love. His life reminds us that defending the faith does not require violence or aggression. Instead, it calls for humility, courage, and a willingness to follow Christ’s example —...
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 | 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 | 29th October 2025 | Halloween
In the last post, we looked at Polycarp — a faithful bishop who faced the flames rather than deny his Lord. His courage in the face of certain death became a rallying light for generations of believers after him. But his story is only one among many in the long line of the cloud of witnesses who ran the race before us (Hebrews 12:1). Today, we step forward a few decades to another account of extraordinary faith — that of two women, Perpetua and Felicity.
Perpetua left an account of her own martyrdom (technically a Passion) which is considered historically reliable. What makes it extraordinary is that Perpetua herself wrote a portion of it in Latin before her death, making it one of the earliest known writings by a Christian woman! It was then continued by another who witnessed the events once she entered the arena.
The Setting: Carthage, AD 203
Our story takes us to North Africa during the reign of Emperor Septimius Severus. Christianity was still seen as a threat to the Roman order, and anyone refusing to sacrifice to the emperor’s image could be imprisoned or executed. Among the arrested were a small group of catechumens (new believers preparing for baptism) including a young noblewoman named Vibia Perpetua and her servant, Felicity.
Perpetua was only twenty-two years old and the mother of an infant son. Her father, a pagan, begged her to renounce the faith and save her life, but she would not. In her prison diary — one of the earliest surviving Christian texts written by a woman — she records their suffering and her unshakable resolve and faith. After she was arrested with her companions, she wrote of a moment when her father came and tried to persuade her to sacrifice to the Emperor and deny her faith:
When my father, out of love for me, tried to turn me from my faith, I said to him: ‘Father, do you see this vessel here — a water pot or whatever it may be? Can it be called by any other name than what it is?’ He answered, ‘No.’ Then I said to him, ‘So too I cannot call myself anything other than what I am — a Christian.’
A few days after this they were all baptised while imprisoned under house arrest awaiting their trial before being moved to the more restrictive Roman cells once they were formally condemned to die by wild beasts. After her baptism, the Spirit spoke to Perpetua and told her that she must “pray for nothing else after that water save only endurance of the flesh”.
Perpetua and Felicity await their fate in the Roman prison
The prison was dark, so dark she said she had “never known such darkness”, plus it was hot and crowded, the soldiers mistreated them all and she was trying to care for her child! Thankfully, later on a couple of deacons, Tertius and Pomponius, who were ministering to them managed to somehow pay the Romans to allow Perpetua and Felicity some respite in a better part of the prison where the child could be better fed and later handed off into the care of Perpetua’s mother.
Dreams of Victory
While in prison, Perpetua received a series of visions that strengthened her for what lay ahead. In one, she saw a golden ladder reaching up to heaven, guarded by a fierce serpent below, and sharp iron spikes along either side. Only those who stepped on the serpent’s head and climbed the ladder could enter. She interpreted this as her coming trial — the climb of faith through suffering to eternal life, realising that God wasn’t going to deliver her from this trial, but that it should be her passion (i.e. her death). It’s an image of triumph through endurance that echoes Christ’s own words: “Be faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life” (Revelation 2:10).
Felicity’s story is just as moving. She was heavily pregnant at eight months when arrested and gave birth in prison mere days before the execution. Roman law forbade torment of a pregnant woman, so she would have stayed in prison until the birt...
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...
