Naamah walked down the main street of Salonika, tightly holding her father’s hand as they made their way toward old town. The constant wind from nearby mountains stirred up the dust in the road so that the street vendors appeared like ghosts in the smoky, brownish-orange haze. The sellers and buyers seemed to be in a yelling-contest, and Naamah drew closer to her father, trying to put as much distance between her and the angry people.
Neither of them was smiling; in fact, one could hardly tell that they were on their way to celebrate anyone’s birthday, but who could blame them? It had been just three days since Barnabas had been murdered--pulled from his home by a bloodthirsty mob, stirred up by the local Oracle who blamed Barnabas for the plague.
Barnabas did not resist them, nor did he fight back when they began to beat him, mercilessly. To his last breath, he kept praying for them, quoting the holy texts, which only angered them more. Again and again, he said, “Father, forgive them,” and “Blessed are you who are mistreated.” The crowd hissed at him like vicious vipers getting ready to lunge.
From the shadows of a nearby doorway, Naamah’s father, Kadmus, saw the horde throw stones at the poor, old missionary until blood ran like a river from his head and his heart gave out. Worried that he, too, would be murdered by this frenzied pack of wolves, Kadmus stole back to the safety of his home to tearfully tell his family what had happened. The loss was devastating to the whole community of believers, and it felt unbearable.
Kadmus and Naamah approached the entrance to the city cemetery. As he swung open the rusty gate to enter the graveyard, he cautiously glanced around. The street seemed empty; few people wanted to visit such a morbid location. They slipped through the gravestones and chalky tombs to the back of the necropolis, and entered a small, marble vault.
The chamber, itself, was unassuming with plain walls, no windows, and one modest sarcophagus near the back of the room, but its looks were deceiving. The crypt contained a well-hidden passageway leading down to the ancient catacombs that lay underneath the city. A small oil lamp burned on the sarcophagus. Kadmus picked up a small candle from a box lying on the ground near the opening, lit it, and then holding Naamah’s hand, they moved into the catacombs. He said to her, “Stay close.”
Naamah was surprised at the smell of the underground passage. The earthiness was there, yes, but the faint odor of incense and perfume also wafted from the wall niches containing the dead. It didn’t take them long to move through the maze of alcoves before they came to a dimly-lit room occupied by several people—three men, two women, and another child.
Kadmus let go of Naamah’s hand and rushed to the eldest man in the group, and they embraced. Naamah heard her father softly weep into the old man’s shoulder, and she saw the man gently pat her father on the shoulder. It troubled her to see her father so sad.
“Courage, Kadmus. This is not the end; it is only the beginning,” he said.
Kadmus responded, “I . . . know, Thaddeus. It’s just that he was the one who first told me about Yeshua, the one who saved me.” Thaddeus kept Kadmus at arm’s length, and said, “Yes, Barnabas was an amazing man who shared the love of the Father with all he could. Truly, Yeshua would have been proud of him…and you, my friend.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Kadmus said, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Believe it, brother.” Thaddeus walked to a center table in the room with one big, bright candle on it, and said, “What I do know, friends, is that Barnabas wouldn’t want us to wallow in sorrow for him, because he’s now with Yeshua, in unimaginable joy and comfort, as we all will be, eventually.”
Naamah heard one of them say, “Amen,” and others quickly echoed her.
“Violent men are filled with darkness because their gods are false; they have no hope; they have nothing to soothe the pain in their hearts, but we do. Yeshua taught us what Love really means, and from where true hope rises, like the water from a spring that no one can stop.”
Thaddeus picked up the candle from the table and moved to the wall behind him, which was covered with unlit candles.
“They try to snuff us out, but they can never put out the light of God.” Thaddeus held up the candle above his head. “And this light is shared by the Holy Family—Father, Son, and Holy Sprit.” He lit two candles near the top of the wall.
“God’s light illuminates the hearts and minds of all who embrace it.” He lit three more candles underneath the top two.
“Even though some die for the faith,” he said, lighting two red candles under the five; “Even though some pass over more peacefully,” he said, lighting two white candles beside the red ones; “The love of God shines ever brighter with each believer that lovingly shares it with his brother and sister.” Soon, all the candles were lit on the wall—a mixture of red and white luminescence. Finally, he placed the white candle at the top of the wall. The light cascaded down it and the whole room was filled with the candles’ radiance.
“So, as we celebrate the birth of the Savior Yeshua this winter morning, let’s not forget what was spoken to the shepherds in the fields long ago. Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.”
They all began to sing a hymn, and Naamah felt the warmth of the candles on her face and in her heart.