Hi, I'm David Bercot, and tonight, and for the next several nights, I want to read to you a book that I wrote titled, Will the Real Heretics Please Stand Up? Now, I wrote Will the Real Heretics Please Stand Up in 1988, nearly 20 years ago. Now, as a result, there will be a few phrases that will obviously be dated. I might refer to the 20th century, which now would be the 21st century. If I catch those as I read, I will probably change them as I go along, but I doubt I will catch all of them.
The other thing I want you to take note of is, when I wrote the book, the audience I was writing for were Bible-believing conservative evangelicals. My spiritual journey has taken me some distance from those circles today, but the book reflects my attitudes and viewpoints of things as they were back there in 1988.
So, in various chapters of the book, when I speak firsthand about my viewpoints and attitudes, I'm, of course, speaking of what my viewpoints were in 1988, not necessarily what they are today in the year 2006. At the same time, the message of this book and what I wrote about the early Christians, I believe, just as firmly today as I did when I wrote this nearly 20 years ago. The first chapter is entitled The Prisoner.
As the chariot rumbled through the stone-paved streets of Smyrna, the prisoner could already hear the roar of the frenzied crowd in the arena. Scavenger dogs followed the chariot through the streets, barking wildly. Olive-skinned children scurried out of the way, their eyes wide with excitement. Nameless faces peered out of windows along the street.
Halting outside the massive walls of the arena, the guard brusquely dumped the prisoner out of the chariot as though he were a sack of garbage, injuring the prisoner's leg. For weeks, the public had clamored for this man's arrest and execution, but he hardly looked like a dangerous criminal, a frail old man, his face etched with wrinkles. His hair and beard were as white as the clouds that dotted the Mediterranean sky that afternoon.
As the aged prisoner limped into the arena under armed guard, word quickly spread through the crowds that this was Polycarp, the vile criminal whose death they had come to see. His crime? He was the local leader of the superstitious cult known as the Christians. As the crowd roared with bloodthirsty excitement, the soldiers led the prisoner to the stand where the Roman proconsul was seated. As the proconsul stared at the limping old man, his face flushed with embarrassment.
So this was the dangerous criminal who had caused such an uproar, just a gentle old man. The proconsul, his purple robe flapping in the breeze, leaned forward in his seat and privately addressed the elderly prisoner, saying, "The Roman government doesn't make war on old men. Simply swear by the divinity of Caesar, and I'll let you go." "I can't do that." "Well, then simply shout away with the atheist, and that will be sufficient.
Since the Christians had no temples or images of any god, many Romans assumed that they were atheists." The prisoner calmly stretched out his wrinkled arm and turned in a circle with a sweeping gesture toward the hate-filled crowd. Gazing intently toward heaven, he shouted, "Away with the atheist!" The proconsul was momentarily taken aback by the prisoner's response. Though he had done what was commanded, the proconsul knew from the reaction of the crowd that he dare not release Polycarp yet.
"Curse Jesus Christ," he demanded. For a few moments, Polycarp stared with his piercing brown eyes into the stern countenance of the proconsul. He then replied calmly, "For 86 years, I've served Jesus, and he has never wronged me in any way. How then can I possibly curse my very king and savior?" The crowd, unable to hear the conversation, was growing impatient with the delay.
So the proconsul anxiously urged the prisoner again, "Swear by the divinity of Caesar." "Since you keep pretending that you don't know what I am, let me simplify your task," Polycarp replied. "I declare without shame that I am a Christian. If you'd like to learn what Christians believe, set a time, and I will tell you." Fidgeting nervously, the proconsul blurted back, "Don't try to persuade me, persuade them," pointing to the crowd.
Polycarp glanced at the faceless mob who were eagerly waiting for their bloody entertainment to begin. "No, I won't cheapen the teachings of Jesus by trying to persuade such a throng." The proconsul shouted angrily back, "Don't you know I have wild animals at my disposal? I will unleash them on you immediately unless you repent." "Well, then unleash them," Polycarp replied. There was no fear in his voice.
"Whoever heard of repenting from what is good in order to follow what is evil?" The proconsul was accustomed to intimidating even the strongest, most hardened criminals, but this old man was getting the best of him. He lashed back at the prisoner, "Since wild animals don't seem to scare you, know here and now that I will have you burned alive if you don't immediately denounce this Jesus Christ." Infused with the Holy Spirit, Polycarp was now beaming with joy and confidence.
"You threaten me with a mere fire that burns for an hour and then goes out. Haven't you heard of the fire of coming judgment and of the eternal punishment reserved for the ungodly? Why do you keep delaying? Do whatever you want with me." It wasn't supposed to have worked this way. The proconsul was supposed to be the mighty conqueror with the prisoner on his knees begging for mercy. But this prisoner, an old man, had vanquished the proconsul. The proconsul sank back into his seat in humiliating defeat.
Because of the vastness of the stadium, heralds were sent to several different stations throughout the arena to announce what Polycarp had said. When his final statement was announced, a wave of fury swept through the crowd. They would do with him what they wanted. Screaming for Polycarp's death, they spilled out of their seats into the corridors and through the exits. Running wildly through the city streets, they gathered wood from wherever they could find it.
They looted stores and even stole the firewood piled inside the public bath. Then they thronged back into the arena, their arms laden with fuel for the executioner's pyre. They piled the wood around an upright stake to which the soldiers began to nail Polycarp's limbs. However, he calmly assured the soldiers, "Leave me as I am.
The one who gives me the strength to endure the fire will also enable me to remain motionless against the stake without having to be secured." After allowing Polycarp to pray, the soldiers lit the fire. By burning Polycarp, the people of Smyrna thought they would blot out his name forever and bring an end to the hated superstition called Christianity. But like the proconsul, they grossly underestimated the vitality and conviction of the Christians.
Rather than intimidating other Christians, the death of Polycarp inspired them. Rather than disappearing, Christianity grew. Ironically, what the Romans couldn't accomplish was eventually accomplished by professing Christians themselves. Today, the name of Polycarp has been largely forgotten, and the Christianity of his day is unknown to most Westerners.