I once heard the story of this great martyr in the early Christian church. During the first century, he was quite active in the expansion of Christianity despite heavy persecution imposed by Roman rulers. Eventually though, he was arrested and sent to prison for his disruptive faith. There he stayed for quite some time, though he was given the promise of freedom should he renounce his faith and declare that the emperor was God. The man refused to deny Christ and was consequently given a death sentence.
His execution was said to be a lesson for other Christians throughout the empire and it was thus planned to be brutal and severe. A bonfire was built as his deathbed, and he was tied to the tops of the logs at the tip of the teepee. Below him the kindle was gathered, ready to light, when the man was given one final opportunity to deny Christ and be set free.
The soldiers stood with torches in hand, inching towards the dry wood, when the man once again refused to deny his allegiance to Christ. On that cue, the soldiers narrowed in and lit a fire beneath him.
As the flames jumped up the pile to which he was tied and the man disappeared behind the swelling smoke, he cried out one final prayer. The martyr said, “Father, thank you for counting me worthy of this day.”
(leading worship at sunset in an abandoned house that overlooks our village)
I think of this story often. It comes to mind in moments of great difficulty – when I’m living on the edge of a mountain and my body seems to be withering away, or when I’m faced with absolutely horrific poverty every single day, or when I become exhausted by this lifestyle of living out of a backpack and not showering and always saying goodbye.
When these difficulties push down against my heart and give me a heaviness that doesn’t seem to lift as quickly as I’d like, I remember the prayer of the martyr who gave thanks to God for the opportunity to suffer for the sake of the Gospel. My heart is convicted as I remember the description of Christ as a “suffering servant” (Isaiah 53), so deeply acquainted with the deepest grief and sorrows known to mankind. I know that “with increased knowledge comes increased heartache” (Ecclesiastes 1:18). I know, deep inside me, that misery for the advancement of the Gospel is in some seemingly twisted, backwards way, an honor and a privilege.
The story of the martyr comes to mind at other times as well.
Last Sunday, a few of my teammates and I decided to pack lunches and hike up to the castle that is literally in our backyard. We hiked for almost an hour before we finally reached the top of the hill where the ancient castle walls have started to crumble and fold, as if bowing in defeat after so many centuries of looking out over the countryside and watching helplessly as everything changed.
The view from the top was absolutely stunning. One could see our little village, Siria, and then all the surrounding farm fields stretching out for miles. On a totally clear evening, I’ll bet one could see fifteen or twenty miles out into the horizon.
We all climbed around for a bit, then spent some time taking pictures, making sandwiches, and laying in the grass to eat our lunches. At some point though, our chattering and excitement dwindled and we all became quiet. Looking out at such a remarkable landscape had a silencing effect on us I suppose.
I sat on a boulder with my sandwich in hand and stared out at the scene before me. I thought about how, almost exactly a year before, I was in Turkey climbing a castle and trying to figure out where God had disappeared to for the past eight months of my life. Then I thought about the rest of last summer – the times I worshipped on my tenth floor balcony, the conversations I had with God as I went on long runs in the early evenings, the moments of stunned awe I had when the Lord told me He loved me as I drove past gigantic sunflower fields.
Sitting on top of that boulder, looking out at half of Romania, my heart bowed in worship. I couldn’t resist praising the Lord for His sovereignty, His grace, His faithful pursuit of me. My heart couldn’t help but be in awe of Him.
And I thought, “Lord, thank you for counting me worthy of this day. And thank you for counting me worthy of all the days that brought me to this moment.”
(all photos from Jonathan Garner)
