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two large Torah niches at one end, and an ancient marble table (older than the synagogue) at the other. It is presumed that scrolls would have been ceremonially carried from a niche to the table, where they could be unrolled and read to the congregation.

Patmos

A tour of what remains of ancient cities in Turkey that were home to some of the earliest churches came with the option of spending three days on a cruise through several Greek islands, culminating with a day in Athens. The first stop was Patmos, where the apostle John was exiled for some time, and where he received the visions that culminated in the book of Revelation. Local tradition holds that he was holed up in a cave while getting the message from God. It’s in the land of the Greek Orthodox, which means the interior of the cave is now covered with gold, silver, tapestries, and ornate wooden screens, with little left that looks like a cave.

Some of the inscriptions read, “This small niche in the wall is where John, who was an old man, would put his hand to help him get up from the floor.” “This larger niche near the floor is where John would put his head, like a pillow, when he lay down to sleep.” “Notice the cracks in the ceiling of the cave. We believe that when the voice of God came to John, it split the ceiling into three parts symbolic of the Trinity.”

Mars Hill in Athens Christian visitors are often drawn to the stony outcrop known

as the Areopagus, or Mars Hill. The Greek name combines Ares, the Greek god of war, with pagos, the word for a big piece of rock. The Roman god of war was named Mars, so they called it Mars Hill.

Standing above the public agora, or marketplace, Mars Hill is a

relatively small hill of solid rock that is slick, uneven, and difficult to walk across. Yet, the high visibility of the outcropping made it ideal for public trials, and from the fifth century, B.C., it served a judicial function. People accused of serious crimes were brought before judges seated on the hill, and verdicts were rendered. In

Around the time the Book of Revelation was written, the emperor Domitian had his likeness stamped on a Roman coin with the words “Dominus et Deus,” “Lord and God.” But the Christians said, “We will not say ‘Dominus et Deus’ to the emperor for, while we are citizens of two realms, our ultimate political loyalty, what Paul calls politeuma in Philippians 3:29, is not to the empires and kingdoms of this world, which rise and fall, and come and go. We will not say ‘Kurios Kaiser,’ for there is another sovereignty we must acknowledge. Jesus alone is Lord, and him we must follow.” To be a baptized Christian was to have made this commitment, and there was no going back. In Polycarp’s day, there was an easy way out, of course. For 86-year-old Polycarp, on Sunday, February 23, in the year 155, it was simple: The proconsul offered him a way out. “Just take a pinch of incense and place it on the altar of the imperial deity. A simple gesture. Symbolic, that’s all. Then you can go on worshiping Jesus all you like. We’ll check you off our list.” Polycarp was not the only Christian put to death that day. There were 11 others before him. He was the twelfth. Once again, the proconsul pressed Polycarp and said: “Take the oath, and I will let you go. Revile Christ.” But Polycarp said: “For eighty and

six years have I been his servant, and he has done me no wrong, and how can I now blaspheme my king who saved me?” Polycarp offered a prayer in the name of the triune God, and then he was bound. The wood and faggots were lit. Like Jesus, who was crucified naked, Polycarp entered the flames without his clothes, but when they saw that his body could not be consumed by fire the executioner was ordered to stab him with a dagger. And so the ground of Smyrna was made holy by the blood of the martyr. The believers gathered the charred bones of Polycarp as a

reminder of his faithfulness unto death. And every year on the anniversary of his martyrdom, they would gather to pray and to remember not his death—but his birthday, as they called it. And they did not mourn but rejoiced, for martyrdom is the place where sacrifice and joy become inseparable.

And so we are here in Smyrna, where it happened, to remember Polycarp and all of the martyrs, for this is not just a Sunday School story from long ago. It is a living part of our Christian witness today. Timothy George is the founding dean of Beeson Divinity

School of Samford University and chairs the BWA Commission on Doctrine and Christian Unity.

OCTOBER/DECEMBER 2014 17

Roman times, a council concerned with ethical, religious, and cultural matters was also called the Areopagus, after the meeting place.

It was such a debate that brought the Apostle Paul there during

his visit to Athens, as recorded in Acts 17:16-34. Paul had created such a stir with his teachings in the synagogue and marketplace that a group of Epicurean and Stoic philosophers invited him to appear before the esteemed council. Paul, standing in full view of the temples on the Acropolis, noted that he had observed a number of altars to various gods and even one “to the unknown god.” He declared that he had come to teach them about the true god, the one they had sensed, but not yet known. As is often the case, the proclamation had mixed results. A few believed; most did not. Remembering Paul’s defense while standing on the slick but uneven stone of Mars Hill, often struggling for balance, one cannot help but be thankful for the God Paul proclaimed, the one “in whom we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Tony Cartledge is chair of the BWA Communications Advisory Committee, contributing editor of Baptists Today, and a professor of Old Testament studies and various ministry courses at Campbell University Divinity School in North Carolina in the United States.

Mars Hill in Athens