The Mamertine

From Keith,
To the Congregation.

Mark 6:31 “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.

Mamertine

 I know not all of you will be able to do the following. But I am trying in some small way to help you capture the moment. So go into the bathroom or another room in the house where you can make it dark and where you have access to water. (Yes, I know you have your computer or phone and that is a light source.)Now turn on the water, not full, but just so it drips very slowly. Turn off the lights, and sit on the floor or any hard surface. Now sit in total quietness and darkness for a few moments. Listen to the rhythmic dripping. Turn back on the computer only after you feel uncomfortable.

The water is your only friend and enemy. It is the only way you can mark time accurately Its irregular cadence at least lets you know the next moment has arrived and you are still alive. The water comes from above and below. It seeps between the stones of the roof and gurgles in the spring at your feet. The spring water is fresh. The water from above is a mix of urine and every other form of putridness from the civilization above. In a city that officially has no prisons, you are a prisoner. And what is more you have been deemed so seditious that to have you among any population, even other slaves, could corrupt them with your insidious and persuasive ideas. Most prisoners would serve as galley oarsmen, be enslaved in the salt mines or marble quarries, or as household slaves or even gladiators. But you are considered too dangerous. It is not your hands or weaponry but your words. You will not stop speaking of the Way. Its message is sweeping the empire on the wings of your words. You and just a handful of men risk their lives daily to share the good news. So they hope you will just be washed away.  Maybe the water will kill you from hypothermia or maybe you will die of dysentery, but either way, in Nero’s mind, it would be good if you just died. There are some days the thought occurs to you as well. Perhaps it would be best to die. But you argue with yourself.

“I don’t know which is best. To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. But there are those who still need my encouragement, words of hope and life. So which is better, to go on living for the sake of others or to die and be with the Lord?”

 It was one of your visitors who took down your words recording these musings. Now you are again waiting, hoping there will be another who risks a visit to you.

There are voices above. It is the shift change for the guards. The guards gather around a makeshift fire they have lit for meager heat. A bit of its stray light filters into your darkness through the hole.

Your prison is not bars and bricks. Your prison is a grotto in stone, a tullianum (dungeon). It is an ancient artesian spring. But this 15x20  “spring of darkness” has long since been abandon for its uneven flow.  The only entrance or exit is a manhole size hole cut into the ceiling ten feet above.  It was once intended for clay jars to be lowered through to gather water. Now, it’s only use is to toss in prisoners, rations, or lower an occasional visitor.  The walls are marked with the stains of the ebb and flow of high water marks. At its worst, the water has risen the height of a man. At that level, 55 degree water spelled certain death from hypothermia.

There are sounds that filter in as well. You can hear the shouts that emanate from the Coliseum. 70,000 people pack the palatial arena for games. Gladiators duel and elaborate hunts are staged for with animals imported from the furthest regions of the empire. Hippopotamus, lion, elephants enraged, bears, tigers  and wolves all are “hunted” in the arena for the entertainment of the crowds. But it is more often the sounds of the citizens from the Circus Maximus. 300,000 people fill these stands daily for games. Chariot races, cavalry, and infantry wage battle for the enjoyment of the crowds. Of  course all the debaucheries of man accompany the crowds. Ovid, the poet wrote that this was the place of horses and prostitutes. The people of Rome have become much more enraptured with their entertainment than their work; leave that to the slaves.

You call into the darkness. “Luke?”… John Mark?...Onesimus?” How you hope it is Mark. You ask him to bring you your cloak. Winter is coming so soon and the walls of stone are relentlessly chilling.

But the words are Latin not Hebrew. But it is the voice of the only guard who has shown any kindness. “It is I, Paulus.” Tito is a young man named after the Caesar who had defeated Jerusalem. He is part of the Praetorian Guard. Their legion and detail guards Nero himself. There is the soft thud of a piece of bread hitting the floor of your cell. It is a gift. Your chains rattle against the rock as you make your way to the place you heard it hit. A little groping and your hands find its hard exterior. You have gotten good at finding morsels in the dark.

 

“Your friend will be here soon. He was waiting to see who was on duty tonight. I saw him and told him my duty time, so he would know when he could enter and exit. He must be finished before I get off or he will be at the mercy of the next shift. They may not be so merciful to let him exit.

“Thank you, my brother in Christ.”

You gather your thoughts. What words will you dictate to your friends at the young church in Philippi?

The drops of water mark the moments. Then a rope ladder descends along with Timothy  and light. A Holy Kiss and you set to work. The visit will not last long. You must  work quickly.

To all God’s holy people in Christ Jesus at Philippi, together with the overseers and deacons:

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.I thank my God every time I remember you.  In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy  because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now,  being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

It is right for me to feel this way about all of you, since I have you in my heart and, whether I am in chains or defending and confirming the gospel, all of you share in God’s grace with me."

This is the scene I imagine as I stand in the mamertine prison. He speaks of joy and I do not see how he can conjure joy in these circumstances. But that is exactly the point. Happiness is dictated by circumstances. Joy is a state of being. One electric light illuminates the area. There are three others who stand with me. We are not speaking a word. Then the light goes out and we are plunged into darkness. Only the faint whisper of the light that comes through the entrance speaks to us of the outside. Suddenly, I am transported in time. I am Paul’s visitor. My toes instinctively grip the stones beneath my feet. I don’t know how long we stood there. I was totally gripped with the sadness I felt for this man who had endured so much to write to me the “prison epistles”. When the light came back on I realized tears marked my cheeks. I was not alone. Each of us was crying.This, thus far, has been the most profound experience of the trip.