Sons of Light

Seth, in street clothes, stood on the stone quay before the ship that would take him to the city—the Imperial city—Constantinople. He had been reassigned from the army of a frontier theme to a unit within the city. No reason had been given for this transfer. A possible promotion did not excite him , though the money would be appreciated. A soldier’s life had taught him to be content in the present, with his Lord.

His eyes widened at the expanse of sea beyond the crowded harbor. The sea breeze upon his face entered his clothes, lifted the fabric from his sweaty, sticky skin. He held tightly to his two large, bulky seabags. The sun was hot; the light, blinding white as it reflected from the light-colored stone of the quay. The bags were heavy with armor, battle dress, boots, weapons.

Though he certainly would be allowed to draw new equipment from his new unit, he could not part with this battered gear. Dependable gear that had not failed. His grip loosened; the bags gently touched the quay. He was thankful his route from the frontier had passed through his stepfather’s estate. The first visit to home in over a year. He had been to Constantinople once as a child and did not look forward to crowds and noise—he was a country boy at heart.

He had a gentle feeling of excitement, adventure, advancement. He had killed men in battle, been pierced by arrow and lance. He had survived ambushes, encirclement by superior enemy forces, attack while in retreat, and advances upon superior enemy forces. He had faced the end of his life many times. Much more than a promotion or reassignment—even to the seat of the Empire—was necessary to truly excite him. Yet, his curiosity had been touched. He possessed an extrapolating mind. His stepfather, once a governor and senator, no doubt had been promoting the virtues of his stepson. His superiors on the frontier had always thought well of his soldiering skills, and promotions had followed. He could say without pride that he was a good soldier and he had deserved what acknowledgments he had gotten.

He knew that more than soldiering skills were necessary for promotion in the Empire. The Empire was a political battleground, contested by men of wealth and position; men within the royal family, the civil government, and the church jockeyed for power. Was one a lover of icons and the traditions of the church? Or did one abhor icons as idolatry and seek a new tradition? This was the present battlefield. Seth took his hands from his heavy seabags, realizing the mild tension of the traveler that held him close to his belongings.

The crew lounged on the deck, waiting for the arrival of the captain. Passengers gathered behind Seth on the quay. He searched the circumference of the harbor from a traveler’s curiosity, because there was the consciousness of finality and uniqueness. The sky was dabbed with white fleecy clouds. He heard the lapping of the waves upon the stone quay and the ships of the harbor. The riggings of the ships bobbed with each undulation. The hills behind him were green with shrubs and trees; behind the hills, the mountains rose, crisply defined against the pale-blue sky.

He knew that by chance—or by God’s purposes—he had unwittingly played a correct and crafty political game. His stepfather thought of him as a lover of icons and the church, for this was how he was raised. No doubt his stepfather had presented him to the clergy as a man of their hearts.

His commanders knew him to be indifferent to the traditional faith of the church—the army opposed the church. His commanders proclaimed him as one of their own. He would let both sides play their games; he would remain loyal to his God.

His new faith—no, his life in Christ—made the traditions of icons or the absence of icons seem like spiritual deadness. Let all believing men and women decide for themselves the course of their salvation: to have icons was good and to have no need of icons was good.

He studied the boats in the harbor. The fishing boats were small, exposed, battered, smelled of fish. A few pleasure craft were pulled up on the beach; these were neat and trim. The merchant ships were most numerous. Their spacious hulls were being loaded with grain, cattle, wine, and lumber. Quarry stone was loaded for ballast. He enjoyed watching the dockmen load and unload the cargoes, and he was thankful that he was not sweating in the hot sun and had leisurely time away from his own toil.

The passengers behind him had formed a loose line. There was a family, a man and his wife, three young children. The children were whining, restless, irritable in the heat. The father kept them from wandering with a deep voice that threatened punishment—or perhaps to the children, simply violence. Behind the family were two drifters—men who worked a job till they were bored or had the money for a passage to another port or had a ship on which to work for passage. The city was most likely their destination. They were strongly built men with large arms, chests, legs. They had pride in their strength and in the capacity of their manly vices. They looked at Seth with an aggressive, disdaining contempt, tempered by the width of Seth’s shoulders and his confident gaze.

Seth knew the men wished to be first with the contemptuous stare, for they had received such a stare so many times from his class that they expected it. He had no contempt; he judged men by their virtue, not their standing in society. He smiled to himself. He feared no one, not even those who could defeat him. There was no pride in an imagined invincibility. Many men were his better, and he survived and won by the grace of God. He disliked few men, only those who willfully loved to do evil. He had found that it takes too much from a man to hate another.

Behind the drifters were three men of the church. Two were dressed in the long robes of the monk. One was a youth; the other, fatherly in age. The older monk was thin, and there was no movement in his body—no scratching, no shifting of weight from one leg to the other, no hand rising to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was contemplative but aware of his surroundings. The dark eyes had a calmness, an almost unfailing lucidity. The eyes reminded Seth of Lucian, his first commander and the man who had brought him to Christ.

The third man of the party was a priest. The crucifix hung heavily from his neck. His eyes held mirth. Seth thought the priest and the monks had met by chance and, bound by the church, they kept company.

Seth turned his gaze from the churchmen, knowing he had stared beyond a casual glance and might be obligated to speak to them. Lucian was a good man; could this monk be as good? It was difficult to judge a man by his appearance, even the look within the eyes. He had seen murderers with calm eyes and kind actions. He had seen men of perverse mind with demeanors of serenity. He had known kind men whose minds were always agitated and their words, rough. There were no rules for judging; sometimes knowledge, sometimes feeling. Thoughts, words, deeds, appearances hid the inner heart, and they sometimes exposed the heart.

There was loud talk. A group of men were by the ship’s forward gangplank. Among the men was the captain. The captain shouted orders to the men, now alert on the deck. The captain was olive-skinned, his hair black. He wore his emotions upon his face, in his voice, in his eyes. Every current and every turn of the quick, racing mind swirled on his face. He wanted his ship ready, his men working. The men on deck had scattered in fear. The men surrounding him broke apart. Some hustled up the gangplank; others clung to his rapid walk, offering excuses or pleading some landward request before departure carried them onto the sea. They were dismissed with wild waving of his big hands.

Horses had been led onto the quay. Would they find themselves in the hippodrome of the city? Arms were waving, men were leading the thoroughbreds into the hold of the ship. The heat was oppressive. Seth was tired; sleep had not come until early in the morning. For a moment, he felt empty and desolate, then his mind sought the Lord and the emptiness left.

Seth did not love the world, and sometimes he thought he did not love life. Things once pleasurable—hunting, the company of friends, a fine meal—no longer gave taste to life. The forbidden things, women and wine, did not tempt and were of his past life. He longed for a woman, children. Perhaps she was waiting for him in the city. There was only his work, his profession; for this he had a desire—not a consuming desire, simply a keen interest while about his duties. When his duties were done, the campaigns over, his interest vanished.

Through his work, he sometimes did what was pleasing to the Lord. He had subdued murderers and mobs. He had forced money lenders and merchants into fairness. He had saved children from infanticide and slavery. He had crushed rebellions that would have revived injustice and repression. He had fought and often beaten the raiding Muslims who wished to devastate the land and plunder, kill, and enslave Christian peoples. With his soldier’s pay, he fed starving children, had wells dug and fountains built.

He did not hope to change the world by his actions. The good he accomplished only revealed the vastness and power of evil. If he fed one starving child, hundreds would come to him. Digging one well could not alleviate the despair of an expansive drought. If he brought one murderer to justice, the murderer would have scores of relatives and friends wishing, by whatever means, to set their man free. The Muslims came every year, raiding and warring; each year he tasted more defeat than victory. Every year, the Muslims took from the people their lives, property, dignity, freedom. A good year was when they took less.

The world was bound by evil. Even so-called Christians were warped, twisted, overwhelmed by the passions and lusts of their flesh. The Empire he had vowed allegiance to many times turned against him. He had suppressed rebellions and then had been ordered to execute all prisoners without regard to the level of their involvement or complicity. He had witnessed torture and mutilation in the name of truth and justice. He had been ordered to imprison men he knew had committed no crime.

He ameliorated, compromised, disobeyed whatever order went against the truth of his Christ. He held onto his integrity no matter how far he was taken from it. He was a soldier who never thought of career or advancement while performing his duties. He was a man who never desired to swear; never wished to utter an unkind word; never allowed his own weaknesses, failings, prejudices to influence his actions. He did not hope to change the world. He hoped that someone would see Christ within him, want Christ for themselves, and be taken out of themselves and the world, into Christ.

A shouting was hitting him. The captain was looking directly at him. Seth laughed at his own inattention and remembered a time when he could not have laughed—that time before Christ when he would have mocked himself for his inattention. He walked up the gangplank onto the ship.

Seth studied the beauty of the coast; the rugged, green, wooded slopes; the high range of mountains inland. On one rugged hillside, he spied what he thought might be an ancient tomb. Was the bare rock, showing through the dense trees, carved into columns? He thought of the ancient peoples of the region, the passage of time. Civilizations appeared, prospered, died. What killed a way of life? Enemies from without or within, or a people who had forgotten their purpose?

The timbers creaked, the sails were stiff, the sun was warm. Periodically, he searched the open water of the south and west for the dreaded sight of a Muslim pirate sail. He had taken off his tunic midmorning. His face and arms were deeply tanned, the newly exposed skin would soon match in color. He opened the heavy pouch he had brought up from his berth. Letters from his stepfather, Justus, and Galen. The latter two were soldiers with whom he had served.

He opened his stepfather’s letter first and read. His stepfather had handed him the letter when he had arrived at the estate unexpectedly. Their visit was brief, a day. His stepfather told him to read it on his way to the city. The letter contained pessimism about the future of the Empire. The mention of two nubile women. Seth remembered one as frivolous—disinterested in all but parties and her friends. The other he remembered as vapid. People changed; perhaps they had become more than what they were, or had seemed, and had found character through whatever trials life had brought to them.

He did not want to think of women. One moment he desired a wife, and the next he thought singleness the greatest state of being. Had not the apostle Paul said as much? If he were not a soldier, he would marry. Once there had seemed an urgency to take a wife, back when his lust ran wild and he wished to hide his troubles in a woman’s love. He convinced himself, through his own will, there was no reason to marry.

He kept himself from women, knowing their warmth, their voices, their feminine musings and perceptions would tempt him to breaking. If his will was broken, an affair would follow—an affair with nothing gained—and his integrity and devotion to duty would be lost. Lust would be revived, breaking the peace and cleanliness of his mind.

He glanced away from the letter to the coiled anchor ropes at his feet. The spiraled ropes were thick, bristling with broken fibers, heavy with absorbed water. Sometimes he felt as if these same ropes were tied around his heart, his emotions. He wanted to love a woman, delight in her presence, and share his life. He focused on the letter. His stepfather’s letters were witty, incisive, gossipy without idleness or rancor. His stepfather had a great love of people, a concern for their weaknesses and faults, a tolerance for their evils. That he had taken another man’s child and raised him as his own, with love, spoke deeply to Seth.

Seth folded the letter, placed it tenderly within the pouch. He held the letter of Justus in his hands. He knew correspondence from Justus would be terse and crammed with military observations ranging from descriptions of barbarian weapons to the logistics of an army. The two men had seen much of each other since their first meeting during the insurrection in the eastern theme and the death of their common friend and commander, Lucian. They had fought together on two campaigns against the Muslims before Justus had been called to another assignment.

Seth remembered the first campaign, when Lucian had died. Seth and his men had not been informed of the course of the battle and were isolated, watching the approach of a superior enemy force. To retreat was to lose their defensive works and be caught on a barren plain. To stay was to be overrun. The day was brutally hot, the water running low. His head had pounded within his helmet, and his body had shaken in terror. The presence of death had been palpable among the men. It was Justus who, seeing their plight, rushed his men to a nearby ridge, poured countless volleys of arrows into the confidently charging Muslim cavalry, and gathered Seth’s men into his defensive works.

Justus was always the man who brought victory from imminent disaster. Always the man whose courage and grasp rose to the occasion of greatest need and confusion. Seth admired Justus as a soldier. As a man, Justus sometimes seemed to lack human warmth. He was cheerful, mannered, and desired and delighted in friends. Yet, he was oblivious to the plight and condition of humanity. Justus didn’t hear the cries of the wounded or the tortured; he did not look upon the orphaned child in the dust beside a dead mother; heavy losses did not disturb him.

Had Justus transcended human suffering or callously closed his mind to its implications? Or had his own emotions died? Seth thought that the Lord had been pushed far from the thoughts of Justus. Justus knew only a social religion, not a relationship with the living God. Seth had not spoken of his concerns to Justus. He was waiting for the Spirit of the Lord to reveal the time.

Seth read the letter, and it was as he had expected. Justus told of the Muslim pirates and their ships, fortresses, arms, tactics; of a failed campaign in Sicily. There was little personal information, except the mention of a woman. Women came and went in the life of Justus. They were sought for physical needs and discarded for convenience, yet always treated with respect.

Seth tired of the reading; his body demanded movement. His sweat had stained the wooden deck. The wispy clouds were gone, replaced by a salty haze. Still the breeze was strong. When he stood, the wind found his wet skin, and a tingling coolness ran through him. He thought of helping the sailors with their tasks or grooming the horses below. He could practice his swordsmanship or exercise. None of these tasks energized his will.

The family was on deck, sitting by the mast. The children, lulled by the rocking ship and made lethargic by the heat, slept. The father played a game of chance with himself. The monks were by the bow, watching the blue-green waves break against the dark wood. The priest was not on deck.

Seth approached the monks, who had girded up their robes in response to the oppressive heat. Seth had put on his shirt to avoid sunburn. The wind had forced the monks to remove their tall, rimless hats. The older man with the lucid eyes turned from the sea; the eyes were pensive yet friendly.

Greetings, soldier. Come join us and watch the waves split under our keel. The voice was deep and kindly. The monk touched Seth’s shoulder with a firm, kind grip. My name is Timothy, and this is Titus.

And I am Seth.

Titus gave an awkward acknowledgment, not fully facing Seth. There was a shyness and an unfamiliarity with social graces in the boy. Timothy moved aside and placed Seth between himself and Titus at the rail.

They gazed at the sea and the parting waters. Seth had been surprised at Timothy’s cheerfulness and now at his relaxed silence. At first glance, one might think of Timothy as a man of mental slowness or of great calm, but certainly not as gregarious and cheerful. There was a quality in Timothy like Lucian, but which Seth could not define. Seth breathed deeply. The sea air was good. He enjoyed the conversation of others and the making of new friends. He hoped Timothy had some depth of knowledge. He had listened to so many people since joining the army—from whores to generals, bakers, tanners, governors, and patriarchs. He spoke little himself, preferring to listen.

What does the soldier believe? Timothy’s voice came strongly; still, there was the pensiveness. The uniqueness of the wording, the simultaneous depth and broadness and the political neutrality, amused Seth. He laughed.

This soldier believes Christ will come again, judge, and punish the evil of this world.

Well said. And what a soldier would say, for order and peace are your concerns.

What are a monk’s concerns?

Prayer, meditation, contemplation.

The calm, dark eyes looked into Seth’s eyes and then out to the sea. There was a brokenness in Timothy. He lived within a dead body; there was no spirit in the flesh. The mind had the spirit. Seth knew this man had given his very life to the Lord. That is what Timothy and Lucian had in common.

But there was some quality about this deadness within Timothy that rankled in Seth’s soul. Lucian had been dead to the world, yet his body held the life, energy, and power of the Lord. Lucian had been in the world even as he wasn’t of it; he had worked for the Lord, facing life’s challenges and dangers. A monk hid from the world, produced nothing, changed no lives. Monks were men who had crumbled under the reality of life and hid. Where was Christ’s power in their lives? He remembered the monks of his childhood who had taught him. Weak, timid, almost effeminate, in some ways. No wife, no intimacy in the marriage bond, no children, no stake in the future. Timothy seemed to sense Seth’s discomfort.

Does the Lord live within you, Seth?

Yes, as scripture says, ‘It is not I who lives but Christ within me.’

I sensed the Spirit of the Lord within you as you stood on the quay. You don’t think much of a monk’s life—I could see that in your eyes.

Such a life wouldn’t be right for me.

"We work in vineyards and fields; tan leather; produce domestic ware, crucifixes, icons; we copy the Holy Word and send the message far and wide; we teach the young, provide shelter for the traveler, staff hospitals and orphanages, and we pray and move mountains of doubt and despair. We change the world by faith and action.

"We live apart from the world but very much in it. Even soldiers live in barracks. We are not much different than you, except for our prayer life.

I was a soldier once. I went left when everyone went right. In combat my knees trembled, my breathing was like a fish gulping air, and my strength fled. I was not a good soldier. Timothy chuckled sadly. "I was a teacher once. I stammered over every word. I was not a good teacher. I once had a wife, before donning this robe, and she left me for a young fisherman from the next village. Since wearing this robe, I’ve had peace.

I’ve sinned a thousand times since. My life seems to consist of chronic humiliation and failure. When I began with the Lord, I thought that perfection was possible, my problems would be gone, and life would be victory after victory.

Timothy paused. Timothy seemed to want validation for his experiences, and a desperation was also present, thought Seth. This was a hurting man. Seth spoke quickly.

Are you asking for advice? he said. I’ve failed too, Timothy. I am truly amazed when anything good comes from me. Seth felt sympathy and sadness. Yet, he admired a man who could so readily admit to his failings and weakness. Such a man was detached from his love of self, and he was stronger than the man who denied imperfection.

I want you to know that the Lord is still with me and within me, Timothy said.

That last sentence didn’t need to be spoken. Seth readily admitted he was wrong in his thinking on monks; they were workers and producers, they made life better for all. His teachers who had been monks had been his best teachers. Seth felt as if more should be said. Timothy seemed content for the conversation to end or change topics. Timothy hadn’t been pleading for sympathy. Or had he been? Why had he spoken of this subject? Was this a conversation of a troubled mind or a lesson from a wise man? Seth had promised the Lord never to turn away from a person in distress.

Timothy spoke. Titus is joining our monastery. I recruited him from the village in which I was born.

Where is that monastery?

On a small island in the Aegean.

The conversation ceased, and a relaxed silence descended as the men watched the water ahead and rolled with the swells, as the timbers pressed deep into water. Seth waited for direction. The heat and the gently pitching ship sapped his energy. He would be content to throw a line into the water and fish. He had bought hooks, line, a sinker, and bait early in the morning from a fisherman. The Lord was silent. He turned to Timothy. I am sure we will talk again. I’m going to throw a line from the stern.

God’s bounty, assured Timothy.

The line trailed from the stern, well away from the rudder. The expectant waiting, peering into the blue-green waters, had turned to boredom. Seth sat on the deck, tied the line to projecting piece of wood, and began reading the letter from Galen.

They had entered the army in the same group of recruits, had trained together, and fought side by side during the theme’s insurrection. Seth pulled his thoughts away from a painful memory welling up from within that time. It seemed Satan would always have the power to cause his soul to wince. The agonizing events of that time had opened him to Christ—and there was the victory. Galen had given him forgiveness and friendship in a desperate time. That had been the beginning of their friendship. After the rebellion, when they had fought under Justus, Galen remained in the theme, while Seth went to a military academy and then to an adjacent theme to rebuild its army.

Galen and Seth had fought in the same campaigns against the Muslims but in different units from different themes. Galen was a steady soldier who remained calm in times of crisis. Galen did not welcome strife or seek excitement. He was happily married with two children. Soldiering for him was an occupation that supported his family. The land given him for his soldiering was his true vocation. Galen found peace through God and fulfillment in the love of his family.

Galen’s letter was short: he mentioned the health of his wife and children and his latest projects on the farm, and he expressed congratulations and sadness on Seth’s transfer. Seth thought that in time they would have drifted apart as friends, as Galen’s family absorbed more of his time and the land, more of his effort. A feeling of emptiness came over Seth. A wife would have been good.

The fishing line went taught. Seth jumped up, pulled against the fish. The fish was deep in the water and heavy. He pulled the line in slowly, till he developed a sense of the line’s strength and the aggressiveness of the fish. The broad, fat fish flapped on the deck. Seth knew nothing of saltwater fish but guessed, by its appearance, that his catch was edible. The laughter and approbation of the helmsman seemed to support Seth’s belief. He rebaited his hook and threw the line into the sea as the ship pitched and the sun pulled the sweat from his skin.

***

The sky was vast, black, stained in stars. Timbers cracked, creaked, twisted. The ship rolled gently; the sail still remained taut. The wind was warm. The captain was jovial, relaxed, pleased with their rate of progress.

A mysterious beauty imbued the night. Seth yearned for life; his imagination played with the possibilities of his call to the city. His life was an adventure. He was living fully an abundant life. His body was strong, resilient; his mind was steady, innovative. He knew his soldier’s trade, had learned it under the harshest of conditions. He thanked the Lord that he had become the man he had always envisioned.

He breathed deeply, smelled the horses below deck, heard their hooves upon the planking. The odor of hay mingled with tar, sea salt, and the cooking fire within the stone hearth. The coals glowed in a soft orange color, fanned by the breeze. Everyone aboard had eaten fresh fish caught by Seth. Even the sharing of the fish was part of his happiness.

By the hearth, the sailors gathered together talking of ports, women, ships, cargoes, and pirates. The language was rough, but the conversation studious—one man speaking, others adding to his words or questioning. They were men who had seen the Frankish ports and Spain, men who had seen the long Viking ships, who had engaged in great naval battles, who had seen the liquid fire burn men alive. They were men who had been captured by pirates, men who had seen harems and Christian slaves. Seth realized the smallness of his own experiences and wished for more of life.

By the bow, he saw men’s silhouettes. Timothy, no doubt, was one. Seth approached the bow; one figure broke away from the others—the priest. The priest walked slowly along the starboard enjoying the night air.

Greetings, Timothy.

Good evening, Seth.

Titus nodded a greeting to Seth, hoping that was sufficient.

Greetings, Titus.

Hello.

Timothy pointed into the night. See, there are other ships about, moving in our direction. We are overtaking them.

Seth strained his eyes, caught the outline of distant ships. He felt the need to talk to Timothy about their earlier conversation but hesitated. Why should there be the hesitation? Weren’t they both in Christ—brothers? He did not wish to offend Timothy, but he sensed a problem.

What was the intent of your conversation this morning, Timothy? Kindness and care clung to Seth’s tone.

I suppose to teach a lesson, but I think your confidence agitated me—perhaps because I have so little. Timothy laughed sadly. "See how Satan would keep his people apart? I wanted to teach you of the world, the flesh, and Satan. I was like you once: confident in the Lord, when it was me I was confident in. Confident of greater successes from His hand when they were really my victories I was planning. Then, I failed, failed again and again. I lost my nerve, my confidence, because my experiences taught me that I was a failure. But the Lord is not a failure…I was the failure. I wanted you to remember me when you failed, just as the Psalms remind us of the failures of David, yet he was loved by God. That is all I wanted to plant within you—that someone had failed who loved the Lord. So that when your time of failure comes, you do not lose heart or feel that you are alone."

I understand what it is to fail. I know that I never shall be perfect in this life. Seth knew Timothy needed his life to mean something, to have some wisdom to impart. He needed a shoulder to cry upon. Surely Timothy had a confessor, whether priest or monk, who listened and knew him. I thank you for your knowledge. I thank you for caring enough to impart it. When failure comes, I will not lose heart or feel that I am alone. I will remember your words.

Timothy’s tenseness suddenly melted. It was replaced by a smile and contentment. His shoulders dropped, and his body seemed to sigh. Seth wondered what words he should impart, if any. Seth spoke, I must live if I am to serve. I can’t be hobbled by the fear of failure. I must live and maybe fail. Should I stop living so that I do not sin? Then, the Lord cannot use me. Like you, I want to be used. I want to kick the fetters from my feet and run. Seth wondered if Timothy was hobbled by his failures, afraid to run. The Lord must work this out through the Spirit in the heart of Timothy.

Seth saw the mind of Timothy working. The mind and body still had peace. Timothy was about to speak but did not. Why speak? Yes, he was hiding from life till that time the Lord lifted him up from the pit. Everything Seth embraced was the truth. Was that quiescence the result of peace or a deadened spirit? The Lord must reveal the answer, and he would wait, doing nothing, until the answer was revealed. Even the unmoved pawn was part of the Lord’s plan.

"Let us pray for each other, Timothy, until that time we meet again. That includes Titus.