My family and the other tourists sat gratefully upon the wooden benches. I lingered, wary of touching anything, looking at anything, or unintentionally discovering anything. As a compromise I sat hugging my knees to my chest while leaning against my dad. I was sure he would protect me in the event of a revival of the dead. I pinched my brother for good measure. “Many say that the catacombs were used to hide the early Christians from persecution, but most were really built in the first and second cent’ries after Christianity was made legal. But when santo Sebastiano was killed, there was indeed a terrible time of persecution in Rome. The emperor, Diocletian, tried very, very hard to destroy all minority gods—any gods against-a Rome’s gods. This room was used to worship the God who claim’ to be greater and better than all-a Rome’s gods together.” The tour guide smiled warmly not at us, but at the candle on the altar behind which she stood. Her face was brown and leathery, like most aged Italian women’s skin, but it had never appeared as sun-kissed as it did in the light of that lone flame which gleamed beneath the earth’s surface. Like Moses before the burning bush, the tour guide stepped away from the candle with reverence, and studied the floor as though it were holy ground. She allowed silence to embrace the room, as she looked from face to face, analyzing our expressions, and questioning our hearts. None of us dared to speak. We feared the silence, and yet were strangely in awe. For a moment, I forgot about ghosts and listened to that invisible something that breathed life into the room. I’m not sure I understood the gentle whisper then. I’m not sure that it is something anyone can fully understand until the day dust embraces one’s body like a mother embraces her lost child, and eternity embraces the spirit like a prodigal father embraces his found son. The whisper I heard then has become clearer and louder: “Do you really know Who I AM? Do you understand why these saints chose the I AM in the face of death?” The tour guide ran her palm over a picture etched into the stone wall. “See this-a fish? It is the symbol for the God who was worshiped in this room—the same God for which santo Sebastiano, santo Peter, and santo Paul died. But they knew it was life, not death, into which they passed.” Some of the tourists seemed suddenly uncomfortable in their seats. They broke their gaze with the guide and memorized the tour pamphlets they had picked up in the
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airport, and then peered longingly into the dark tunnel they had so recently feared. The guide moved further down along the wall, her fingertips familiar with every crevice. She stopped slowly, savoring the room. “And this,” she whispered, as though she were sharing the location of a priceless treasure with us, “This is the name ‘a their God. It’s in Greek. It says, ‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.’” Some of the tourists glanced around at one another in confusion. They had come to see ancient graves, not hear a sermon. But I felt a connection with this place, as though I belonged. I could almost imagine the guide as a near relative, a grandmother. The dust in the tombs was the earthly remains of my brothers and sisters whose souls had already been perfectly reborn in eternity to be with our Father. I was so used to people who hated my God and mocked my faith. All I heard at school was, “Nothing and no one matters but you. Believe whatever makes you happy. Live for you alone.” You. You. You. It was some obscure tribal chant that civilized savages taught their children. They taught us how to dance around the fire of lies without getting burnt. At least, we thought we weren’t getting burnt. But the smoke was so thick, and our blood so hot, we did not even realize that the flames lapped at our souls. But here, in this catacomb, you wasn’t what mattered. We could see the thousands of graves enclosing the cold, breathless dust of past “you’s” whom no one knew and no one remembered. The tour guide continued to speak, “The early Christians use’ this-a room to remember what Jesus Christ had done for them—to remember his-a death on the cross.” Then the old woman took out her worn Bible, took out the message which had condemned the soldier Sebastian, and told us the Good News that had caused so many of the surrounding graves to be filled. The other tourists looked as if they would flee, but they didn’t know the way out. It was too dark beyond this room, too twisted. They were trapped in this sepulcher to be told the way to eternal life. A man in the corner sat silently beside a woman with diamond earrings and two designer-brand kids. He pulled at his polo shirt and pressed shorts, looking at his cellphone every few seconds in anticipation. This man had no use or time for a sermon. His two kids argued amongst themselves, their cultured voices soft with anger. The mother’s eyes flashed like her diamond earrings as she ordered
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