The
Martyrdom of Telemachus
With the recent events unfolding in Ferguson, MO and many other cities around the United States, I thought the story of Telemachus would be better suited for today's Formation Friday post.
The point of these posts, again, are to help us move forward in our own personal spiritual formation by looking back at some of the ancient and present heroes of our faith and learning how they interacted with the problems life tossed their way. I hope first and foremost that we begin to see how Scripture impacted them and how they truly lived out the words that they claimed to believe. With the rioting going on in the U.S. and the cries for justice and the cries for peace, for those who are happy about the decision and those who are angry I hope that we can see through the story of Telemachus that one person can change a system. One person, brave enough to stand up and peacefully proclaim the Gospel can impact the entire world.
From Fox's Book of Martyrs: The Last Roman "Triumph"
(The Romans finally defeated the Goths and there was now a time of peace for the entire empire. This called for celebration... This called for Gladiatorial Games!)
After this fortunate victory over the
Goths a "triumph," as it was called, was celebrated at Rome. For
hundreds of years successful generals had been awarded this great honor
on their return from a victorious campaign. Upon such occasions the
city was given up for days to the marching of troops laden with spoils,
and who dragged after them prisoners of war, among whom were often
captive kings and conquered generals. This was to be the last Roman
triumph, for it celebrated the last Roman victory. Although it had been
won by Stilicho, the general, it was the boy emperor, Honorius, who
took the credit, entering Rome in the car of victory, and driving to the
Capitol amid the shouts of the populace. Afterward, as was customary
on such occasions, there were bloody combats in the Colosseum, where
gladiators, armed with swords and spears, fought as furiously as if they
were on the field of battle.
The first part of the bloody
entertainment was finished; the bodies of the dead were dragged off with
hooks, and the reddened sand covered with a fresh, clean layer. After
this had been done the gates in the wall of the arena were thrown open,
and a number of tall, well- formed men in the prime of youth and
strength came forward. Some carried swords, others three-pronged spears
and nets. They marched once around the walls, and stopping before the
emperor, held up their weapons at arm's length, and with one voice
sounded out their greeting, Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant! "Hail,
Caesar, those about to die salute thee!"
(Now the thing about these games is that more times than not, these Gladiators were not only killing each other, but rather they would be teamed up to fight innocent slaves, prisoners of war, enemies of the Empire, prisoners that the Emperor deemed worthy of the death penalty, religious zealots that caused too much commotion, etc. There was a different definition of what it meant to treat people, even enemies, with dignity and respect. There was no such thing as human rights for those who were not Roman.)
The combats now began
again; the gladiators with nets tried to entangle those with swords, and
when they succeeded mercilessly stabbed their antagonists to death with
the three-pronged spear. When a gladiator had wounded his adversary,
and had him lying helpless at his feet, he looked up at the eager faces
of the spectators, and cried out, Hoc habet! "He has it!" and awaited
the pleasure of the audience to kill or spare.
If the spectators
held out their hands toward him, with thumbs upward, the defeated man
was taken away, to recover if possible from his wounds. But if the
fatal signal of "thumbs down" was given, the conquered was to be slain;
and if he showed any reluctance to present his neck for the death blow,
there was a scornful shout from the galleries, Recipe ferrum! "Receive
the steel!"
Privileged persons among the audience would even descend
into the arena, to better witness the death agonies of some unusually
brave victim, before his corpse was dragged out at the death gate.
The show went on; many had been slain, and the people, madly excited by
the desperate bravery of those who continued to fight, shouted their
applause.
But suddenly there was an interruption.
A rudely clad, robed
figure appeared for a moment among the audience, and then boldly leaped
down into the arena. He was seen to be a man of rough but imposing
presence, bareheaded and with sun-browned face. Without hesitating an
instant he advanced upon two gladiators engaged in a life-and-death
struggle, and laying his hand upon one of them sternly reproved him for
shedding innocent blood, and then, turning toward the thousands of angry
faces ranged around him, called upon them in a solemn, deep-toned voice
which resounded through the deep inclosure. These were his words:
"Do
not requite God's mercy in turning away the swords of your enemies by
murdering each other!"
(Don't celebrate the fact that God helped you defeat your enemies by murdering each other! How is this glorifying to Him?)
Angry shouts and cries at once drowned his
voice: "This is no place for preaching!--the old customs of Rome must
be observed!--On, gladiators!"
The Emperor remained silent.
Thrusting aside the stranger, the
gladiators would have again attacked each other, but the man stood
between, holding them apart, and trying in vain to be heard.
"In the name of Christ, STOP!"
"In the name of Christ, STOP!"
"Sedition!
sedition! down with him!" was then the cry from the audience; and the gladiators, enraged
at the interference of an outsider with their chosen vocation, at once
stabbed him.
Blood began to pour out of his wounds, but he became all the more fiercer in his plea, "In the name of Christ, stop!"
Blood began to pour out of his wounds, but he became all the more fiercer in his plea, "In the name of Christ, stop!"
Stones, or whatever missiles came to hand, also
rained down upon him from the furious people in the crowds, and thus he perished, in
the midst of the arena.
His dress showed him to be one of the
hermits who vowed themselves to a holy life of prayer and self-denial,
and who were reverenced by even the thoughtless and combat-loving
Romans. The few who knew him told how he had come from the wilds of
Asia on a pilgrimage, to visit the churches and keep his Christmas at
Rome; they knew he was a holy man, and that his name was Telemachus--no
more. His spirit had been stirred by the sight of thousands flocking to
see men slaughter one another, and in his simple-hearted zeal he had
tried to convince them of the cruelty and wickedness of their conduct.
He had died, but not in vain. His work was accomplished at the moment
he was struck down, for the shock of such a death before their eyes
turned the hearts of the people: they saw the hideous aspects of the
favorite vice to which they had blindly surrendered themselves; and from
the day Telemachus fell dead in the Colosseum, no other fight of
gladiators was ever held there.
The Emperor himself, eyes opened to the dreadful game that he had allowed, his heart stirred at the site of the slaughtered Telemachus, three days later decreed the Gladiatorial games to be illegal.
In the name of Christ... they stopped.
---
One man, can change the world.
Sure, this story is about a man who laid down his life for something he believed in so strongly, but we as Christians can practice the discipline, and art, of denying ourselves daily. Putting ourselves on the line of death, by caring for the broken, helping the innocent, even defending the cause of criminals.
I pray that we, as a people beloved and chosen by God, would begin to look more like Christ than the rioting Jewish crowd that called for His crucifixion.
I pray that we, as a people who the very Spirit of God indwells, would begin to look more like Telemachus than the rioting Roman audience demanding death and hatred for their enemies.
I pray that we, as a people who the very Spirit of God indwells, would begin to look more like Telemachus than the rioting Roman audience demanding death and hatred for their enemies.
The church has always been the ones who fight down on our knees, we have always dared to love our enemies.
We die to ourselves so we can live to serve.
For further study:
A less detailed account of the story of Telemachus is found in the writings of Theodoret, Bishop of Cyrrhus in
Syria (393-457 A.D.). Theodoret's Ecclesiastical History covers
the period of time up until 429 A.D. (the early fifth century).
Theodoret of
Cyrus (Cyrrhus in Syria), The Ecclesiastical History Book
V, Chapter XXVI: Of Honorius the Emperor and Telemachus the monk.
*The above story was from Fox's Book of Martyrs. Public Domain. Explanation in parenthesis is my own.
---
Nathan Bryant
Christ's Kingdom is bigger than our causes.
Christ's Kingdom is bigger than our boundaries.
Follow him on Twitter: Follow @nathanpbryant
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Follow him on Twitter: Follow @nathanpbryant
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