According to Roman custom, when a person is arrested, the prisoner is usually flogged as well. Yiskah and I were still bleeding from our wounds when we saw a boy dragged to the post.

"Have you gone mad?" I demanded. "He is only child!"

"He's old enough to steal!" the guard replied. "Now keep silent unless you want his reward!"

"I will not keep silent!" I argued. "Would you truly injure a mere child?"

"One more word, and you'll take his lashes for him!"

"Willingly!"

After all these years, I still hadn't learned to think before opening my mouth, and by the time the guard finished with me, I could barely move. The soldiers had to drag me by the arms to my dreary cell.

Yiskah gave me a kiss on the cheek. "That was very sweet of you, Shimown."

I took her hand. Although we had engaged in the occasional quarrel, as any married couple will do, Yiskah had been the ideal companion through the years. She was gentle as a lamb, but she had a hidden fire to her spirit, and when necessary, she would eagerly fan it into flame. I could never have fulfilled my ministry without her.

"I love you." I lightly squeezed her hand. "I wish they hadn't arrested you for my actions."

"I'm a grown woman, Shimown!" she argued. "I make my own decisions. I was arrested for my own actions." Yiskah put her head on my shoulder. "I love you too."

I began stroking my wife's hair. "Until death parts us."

"How?"

I frowned. In one word, she had made an entirely valid argument.

The guards rolled their eyes at our affectionate words.

Seeing movement out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the boy had also been thrown into our cell.

"We may have more peace if we get to know each other," I stated. "What is your name, young man?"

"Unwanted," he responded. "It's what everyone called me since my parents were sent to the arena three years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What were you called before this tragedy?"

"Ashtad."

I nodded to show I understood. "I am Shimown Bar-Yonas."

Ashtad's eyes widened. "Shimown Kephas? The loud man who knew Yehowshuwa?"

Yiskah laughed behind her hand.

"The same," I admitted.

"They say you're a traitor!" Ashtad stated.

I shrugged. "I am loyal to the emperor."

"But you're more loyal to Yehowshuwa, right?"

I nodded.

"I'm here for theft. I took a bolt of silk from a Greek merchant. If I had sold it, I would have had food for several weeks. Now I guess I won't need food anymore."

The door opened, and a wealthy man entered the jail. He looked around at the prisoners until his eyes finally came to rest on our cell.

"That's the merchant," Ashtad explained.

"What punishment have you devised for this cunning thief?" the merchant demanded.

One of the guards shrugged. "Mine. Galleys. Execution. What's it to you?"

Another guard gasped in horror and began whispering to his colleague.

"I'm sorry sir," the first guard began. "I didn't realize I was in the presence of one of the wealthiest merchants in all Greece. There's not a soul in any country that borders the Mediterranean that isn't influenced by your prosperity! Is it true that the emperor has decided to grant you citizenship in celebration of your success?"

"Just a rumor," the merchant replied, "but what's it to me? I have enough wealthy citizens throwing themselves at my feet."

"What brings you to this putrid example of Tartarus?"

"I want the boy." He smiled kindly. "I know the child stole not out of avarice, but out of hunger. I'm told he has no family. If he's willing, my wife and I will raise him as our own son."

The guards released the boy, who stared in disbelief at the merchant.

"Aren't you angry with me?" Ashtad wondered aloud.

"I was at first, but I would never put a scrap of material over a human life. Come now. Let's get you some food."

The boy began crying.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't understand!" he sobbed. "First that nice man takes my punishment; then you forgive me! Why do you even want me?"

The merchant pulled Ashtad into a close embrace. When the boy had calmed himself a bit, the man turned toward me.

"I'll send for a physician," he promised. "It's the least I can do to repay your kindness. Pity my brother isn't here! He actually had the chance to learn a bit from the renowned Loukas himself!"

The remainder of my time in prison has been monotonous. I regale the guards with tales of my time with Yehowshuwa, even when they protest. I sing to pass the time and give hope to other prisoners.

My beloved Yiskah was liberated from this torture yesterday morning. Just before the guards took her away, I embraced my wife a final time.

"You shall soon be home, dearest one," I assured her. "Remember the Lord. He understands your pain, and he will help you endure. Your reward will be so great that you will forget this day and all others like it."

She pressed her lips against mine for several moments before she replied, "Even death cannot part us. I'll see you tomorrow, Shimown."

By the time evening fell, she had departed this world. I hope my brother has remembered to welcome her properly. Perhaps my mother-in-law has already prepared some manner of refreshment.

I slept for a few hours, but I am thankful to have awakened in the middle of the night, for now the scribe will have the chance to record my vision.

As I slept, I saw Yowchanan sent to the mines. He prayed healing over those who were injured and told them of Yehowshuwa to give them hope.

The dream changed, and I saw him screaming in a vat of boiling oil, writhing in unspeakable anguish, but still alive. As the emperor watched, he relented the sentence and exiled Yowchanan to a small island.

Time seemed to fade, and I saw future believers speaking a language I did not understand. Yehowshuwa appeared beside me and touched my ear, and I was at once fluent in their language. He then touched my brow, and I understood the different terms used for inventions in the future world, but not in my own.

A pastor stood behind the pulpit as he faced his congregation. Something about his face reminded me of the centurion's servant who had been healed so many years ago.

"Brothers and sisters," he began, "it is with a heavy heart that I announce that today will be our final meeting together. The church is splitting because we could not agree on whether the new carpet should be aquamarine or teal. A lot of feelings were hurt in the process, so to avoid taking sides, I have decided to step down from my role as pastor."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Would the future church truly quarrel so bitterly over petty matters? What about all the martyrs who sacrificed their lives? Did they die so people could avoid church for another hour of sleep and become easily offended rather than working together to compromise with each other?

"Let us sing our final hymn together as we go into the mission field," the pastor concluded.

While the song lyrics were beautiful, I was able to hear the words that were truly in the hearts of the congregation members:

"Impoverished nation,

The oppressed are blind from tears.

No liberation

Have they ever known in years.

Lord, send a healer.

Broken hearts yearn to be free.

Send them a comfort, Lord.

Send anyone else but me!"

I thought of all my friends who had been brutally murdered. Had they truly died so future Christians could sit at home and complain about each other?

The scene changed, and I saw a group of adolescents talking. Two were sitting on a couch, and the third sat on a nearby chair.

"It's not right!" the young man in the chair protested. "They feed babies to guard dogs in work camps just because the parents are Christians!"

"I'll tell you what's not right," the other boy responded. "If you're offended by any other religion, you're a jerk who doesn't accept people for who they are, but you're actually encouraged to be offended by Christianity. I have people cuss me out just because my books exist! I don't see what the big deal is. I don't believe in talking animals, but I still enjoy a bit of folklore. Why can't you just enjoy inspirational fiction for the sake of a good story, even if you don't believe in God?"

"They're going to write freedom of religion right out of the Constitution! Just give them time. They've already started!" The first boy sighed. "Is this how persecution begins?"

"I pray the Rapture happens before it gets much worse," the young woman remarked. "Most Christians are too busy judging each other to band together. Divide the herd, and you can pick off individual targets at leisure."

"You watch way too many nature documentaries, sis."

Yehowshuwa smiled as he watched the scene, his gaze falling to an envelope on the table.

"What is it?" I asked.

"They're mailing seeds to a country where people don't have enough to eat because of their dictator," he replied. "Last month, they mailed baby clothes to an orphanage."

Could it be true? In this strange future, were there still people who understood what it meant to show the compassion of our Lord?

"Do you know them?"

I stared intently at the youthful faces. "The two on the couch have similar features to the Celtic child you once blessed."

"And the one in the chair?"

"He looks as if he may have Samaritan ancestry."

The scene changed again. I saw younger children playing together on a playground.

One girl announced to the others. "Simon says touch your ears!"

The children touched their ears.

"Simon says touch your toes."

The children bent down and touched the ends of their shoes.

"Simon says, 'Even if all others forsake you, I will never deny you!'"

I rolled my eyes. Was the memory of my foolishness truly so amusing to future generations?

One woman sighed impatiently as she stumbled on the sidewalk, barely keeping herself upright. "Oh, for Pete's sake! Can I get through one day without a mishap?"

I frowned. "Do they always use my name that way?"

"You should hear the ways they use mine," Yehowshuwa answered. "We have one last place to visit."

I suddenly found myself inside a beautiful cathedral with stained glass windows that depicted scenes from the earthly ministry of Yehowshuwa. I marveled at the splendor until I saw a figure of an old man with a circle of light around his head and a fish in his hand. Under the figure was inscribed the name "St. Peter."

"This is madness!" I exclaimed. "I am no more holy than any other man. Are not all believers considered saints?"

My vision ended abruptly. When I tried to describe it to the guards, they dismissed it as a dream. Perhaps it was. After all, my mind has become duller with age.

In a few hours, I will stretch out my arms and cast my face to the ground in humility as I pray for a quick end to my suffering. I pray once more for the strength not to deny him as soon as I feel the pain of my execution, and I pray for the future church.

My friend, do I now bid you farewell forever, or shall we meet face to face someday?