They Went Anyway

After Jesus ascended into heaven, there was a moment of stillness that Scripture barely pauses to describe. A holy suspension of breath. The disciples stood there, eyes fixed upward, watching the space where His body had been only seconds before. The One who had called them, taught them, corrected them, loved them, and died for them was no longer physically present. The air must have felt thinner. The ground less steady beneath their feet. Everything they had built their lives around had shifted from tangible presence to promise.

Acts 1 tells us that angels had to interrupt their staring. Not gently. Not casually. Almost urgently. “Why do you stand looking into heaven?” they asked. As if to say, you cannot remain here. The work is not finished. What you have witnessed is not meant to end in awe. It is meant to begin in obedience.

This moment matters because it reveals something deeply human. The disciples were not immediately brave. They were not instantly strategic. They were stunned. They were grieving and wondering and recalibrating. They were learning how to live in the space between what had been and what was now required of them. And in that fragile moment, heaven itself intervened to remind them that the story was still moving.

They did not go home.

That alone is extraordinary. They did not retreat to familiar places to process privately. They did not scatter in fear or seek anonymity. They did not decide that preserving their own lives was the wiser course. Instead, after waiting in prayer and obedience, they stepped forward into a world that had just executed their Lord. They knew exactly what kind of danger they were facing. The cross was not an abstract symbol yet. It was a fresh memory.

They did not sit down to write careful accounts of miracles from behind locked doors. They did not attempt to control the narrative or preserve their safety. Instead, they scattered intentionally. Jerusalem gave way to Judea. Judea gave way to Samaria. Samaria opened into the ends of the earth. They crossed borders that religious men avoided. They entered cultures that despised them. They spoke languages not their own. They walked straight into empires built on violence and hierarchy, carrying a message that dismantled both.

What compelled them was stronger than fear. Stronger than instinct. Stronger than self preservation. They were desperate, not for recognition, but for revelation to be shared. They had touched something eternal. As John later wrote, “That which we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you.” Silence was no longer possible. The truth they carried pressed outward, demanding to be spoken, even if it cost them everything.

Theological Foundation for Their Urgency

The early Church did not act out of idealism or sentimentality. Their urgency was not emotional momentum. It was theological conviction. They understood something that remains difficult for us to grasp. Jesus was not simply a good teacher whose memory they were honoring. He was the resurrected Lord, physically raised from the dead, and His resurrection changed the nature of reality itself.

Paul later made this unmistakably clear in 1 Corinthians 15. If Christ had not been raised, then faith was pointless. Preaching was empty. Hope was a lie. The resurrection was not a footnote to the gospel. It was the gospel. Without it, there was no reason to endure suffering, persecution, or death.

New Testament scholar N T Wright argues that the resurrection shattered every existing Jewish and pagan category of belief. It was not resuscitation. It was not metaphor. It was not spiritual symbolism. It was bodily, historical, and disruptive. The early believers believed that God had inaugurated His kingdom within history itself. Time had bent. The future had broken into the present.

This meant the world was no longer neutral ground. Every city, every ruler, every temple, every household now stood in relationship to a risen King. The disciples were not waiting for truth to arrive. Truth had already arrived, and it was moving outward through them.

This conviction reframed everything. Suffering was no longer meaningless. Death was no longer final. Obedience was no longer optional. If Jesus had conquered death itself, then the worst thing the world could do had already been defeated. This is why they moved forward with such clarity. They were not reckless. They were resolved.

Acts and the Pattern of Suffering

The Book of Acts is not a tale of predictable victories. It does not fit the structure of modern success stories. Instead, it is a record of grit, perseverance, and costly obedience. From the moment the Holy Spirit descends at Pentecost in Acts 2, opposition begins. Peter and John are arrested in Acts 4 for healing a man and preaching about Jesus. By Acts 7, Stephen becomes the first martyr of the Church, stoned to death while proclaiming a vision of Christ at the right hand of God.

“Those who had been scattered preached the word wherever they went.” Acts 7:4

The very attempt to crush the message of Christ caused it to spread even farther. Fear did not silence the early Church. It mobilized it.

This scattering is not accidental. It is divinely orchestrated. Jesus had already commanded them in Acts 1:8 that they would be His witnesses not only in Jerusalem, but also in Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. Persecution became the catalyst that moved them out of comfort zones and into mission fields.

The early Christians did not remain huddled behind closed doors. They moved forward with a deep internal urgency. They carried a message too powerful to be domesticated or delayed. Their understanding of success was not tied to influence or numbers. It was tied to faithfulness in the face of suffering.

The mission of Christ was not halted by opposition. It was accelerated by it.

Paul’s Testimony: A Life Marked by Obedience and Affliction

The Apostle Paul’s life illustrates this pattern more than any other. Once a persecutor of the Church, he became its most tireless missionary. After his dramatic conversion on the road to Damascus in Acts 9, he immediately began to preach that Jesus is the Son of God. From that point on, Paul’s life was one long encounter with danger, discomfort, and deliverance.

In 2 Corinthians 11:23–27, Paul provides a deeply personal list of his trials. He writes,

“Five times I received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was pelted with stones. Three times I was shipwrecked. I spent a night and a day in the open sea.”

These are not the words of a man complaining. They are the words of a man convinced that obedience was worth the cost. Paul believed that suffering for Christ was not an unfortunate side effect of ministry. It was part of the calling. In Philippians 3:10, he declares

“I want to know Christ, yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death.”

This theology of suffering was not theoretical. It was deeply personal. Paul did not pursue pain, but he did not flee from it when faithfulness demanded it. His life was not about preserving comfort, but proclaiming Christ.

Faithfulness Over Fame: The Theology of Obedience

The early Church understood that success in the kingdom of God looks very different from the success praised by the world. Obedience was not transactional. It did not guarantee blessings in the form of ease or popularity. It simply meant saying yes to God regardless of the outcome. Jesus had prepared them for this. In John 15:18–20, He says:

“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first... If they persecuted me, they will persecute you also.”

The disciples were not blindsided by the hatred they faced. They expected it, and they endured it.

The cost of following Christ was high. Yet the conviction of the early believers was that the reward was even higher. They believed that in choosing obedience, they were aligning with the purposes of God in history. Their present trials could not compare to the glory that would be revealed (Romans 8:18).

They were not motivated by fame. Most of them did not live to see the impact of their witness. Their names were not etched on book covers or conference stages. Instead, they became the foundation stones of a Church that would eventually reach every continent.

Bonhoeffer and the Echo of the Cross

Centuries later, Dietrich Bonhoeffer would live and die by this same conviction. A German pastor and theologian during the rise of the Nazi regime, Bonhoeffer resisted Adolf Hitler, participated in efforts to rescue Jews, and ultimately joined a plot to overthrow the dictator. He was imprisoned and eventually executed for his faith and resistance.

In his book The Cost of Discipleship, Bonhoeffer famously wrote, "When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die." For Bonhoeffer, as for Paul, death was not always physical, but it was always a dying to self. To follow Christ is to surrender control over reputation, safety, and the illusion of certainty.

Bonhoeffer’s insights reflect the same truths we see in the early Church. True discipleship demands total surrender. It may lead to isolation, rejection, suffering, and even martyrdom. But it also leads to a life rooted in eternal purpose, unshakable hope, and resurrection joy.

The Invitation Still Stands

The message of Acts is not a historical curiosity. It is a living invitation. The Church today still exists in a world that resists the Gospel. Faithful obedience still requires courage, self-denial, and sacrifice. But the story of Acts reminds us that even in seasons of loss, the mission of God will never be stopped.

Persecution has not silenced the Church. It has often purified and expanded it. What was true then is still true now. The Spirit of God empowers ordinary people to proclaim an extraordinary truth: that Jesus Christ is Lord, risen from the dead, and worthy of our everything.

This kind of faith is not fragile. It is not cultural. It is rooted in resurrection and carried forward by lives that refuse to be silenced.

May we find ourselves counted among those who, like Paul, say with boldness and joy,

“I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace” (Acts 20:24).

Historical Evidence of Martyrdom

The deaths of the apostles were not legends invented centuries later. They were recorded within living memory by those who knew them or knew of them. Clement of Rome, writing near the end of the first century, refers to the martyrdoms of Peter and Paul as established facts within the Church. These were not distant heroes. They were leaders whose deaths left real gaps in real communities.

Eusebius of Caesarea later compiled these accounts, drawing from earlier sources and oral traditions that were still circulating. Peter’s crucifixion upside down is referenced by Origen and preserved in early Christian writings. Paul’s beheading under Nero aligns with Roman legal practice, which reserved crucifixion for non citizens and execution by sword for citizens.

These deaths occurred close enough in time that falsehood would have been easily challenged. Instead, they were accepted, remembered, and honored. The willingness of these leaders to die rather than recant became one of the strongest testimonies to the truth of the resurrection. People do not willingly endure torture and execution for what they know to be false.

Nero and State Sponsored Terror

In July AD 64, a catastrophic fire consumed much of the city of Rome. It raged for six days, destroying ten of Rome’s fourteen districts. Emperor Nero was suspected by many of having started the fire himself—perhaps to clear space for his grand architectural plans like the Domus Aurea, or Golden House). To divert blame, Nero needed a scapegoat.

He chose the Christians, a relatively new and widely misunderstood group in Rome. Christians were already viewed with suspicion because they refused to worship Roman gods or the emperor. Their private gatherings and refusal to participate in public festivals fueled rumors of immorality and even cannibalism (based on misunderstandings of the Eucharist). Nero’s persecution marked a turning point. Christianity was no longer merely a misunderstood sect. It became a target of imperial violence. The historian Tacitus, who held Christians in contempt, nonetheless documented their suffering with chilling clarity. His account confirms that believers were not punished for crimes, but for their identity. Tacitus writes:

“To get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace.”

He explains that the founder of the name, Christus (Latinized version of Christ), was executed by Pontius Pilate during the reign of Tiberius. Tacitus then details the horrific punishments inflicted on Christians:

“Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination when daylight had expired.”

“Nero offered his gardens for the spectacle, and was exhibiting a show in the circus, while he mingled with the people in the dress of a charioteer or stood aloft on a car (chariot/ceremonial platform).”

They were scapegoats. Public spectacles. Tools for terror. And yet, the faith did not collapse. It deepened. Tertullian’s later observation that the blood of the martyrs was the seed of the Church was not poetic exaggeration. It was historical reality.

The more Rome tried to extinguish the light, the more it spread.

Archaeological Witnesses in Stone and Bone

Beneath the bustling city streets of modern Rome lies a hidden world. It is not gilded or grand. It is carved in haste and humility, in the cold embrace of volcanic rock called tuff. These are the Roman catacombs—labyrinthine burial chambers and gathering places etched by early Christians in the first few centuries after Christ. To those unfamiliar, they may seem like simple tombs. But to the faithful who once walked these halls by torchlight, they were sanctuaries. Sanctuaries of grief. Sanctuaries of hope. Sanctuaries of dangerous worship.

More Than Tombs: A Hidden Church

For centuries, Christianity was illegal within the Roman Empire. Christians were viewed with suspicion, accused of cannibalism (for their language of eating the body and drinking the blood of Christ), atheism (for refusing to worship Roman gods), and sedition (for claiming allegiance to a King other than Caesar). As a result, they were often persecuted, imprisoned, tortured, and killed.

In that environment, churches did not have steeples or stained glass. They had candlelight and secrecy. Many of the early Christian gatherings, especially funeral rites and worship services, were held in these catacombs beneath Rome. The catacombs became not just places of burial, but places where believers gathered to remember Christ, celebrate communion, and comfort one another in the face of mounting persecution.

Symbols of the Underground Faith

Carved into the walls of these catacombs are symbols—not of despair, but of unshakable faith. These were not merely decorative. They were theological statements. Coded, yet bold.

• The Fish (Ichthys): An acronym in Greek Iesous Christos Theou Yios Soter which translates to Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior. It was a quiet password between believers. A secret handshake of sorts carved into stone.

• The Anchor: A symbol of stability and hope. As Hebrews 6:19 says, “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” For those whose lives were marked by fear and hiding, the anchor declared trust in an eternal harbor.

• The Chi Rho: One of the earliest Christograms, using the Greek letters Χ (Chi) and Ρ (Rho), the first two letters in Christos. It boldly proclaimed Jesus as the Messiah in a time when that proclamation could cost your life.

• The Good Shepherd: Often depicted carrying a lamb, this was a favorite image among persecuted Christians. It reminded them of John 10:11: “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”

These symbols were not meant for tourists. They were not art commissions. They were carved by trembling hands, in fear and in hope. Each image a declaration: “We are not ashamed of the Gospel.”

The Names of the Faithful

Inscriptions etched beside graves often include phrases like “In peace,” “In Christ,” and even “Martyr” were words that show a defiant confidence in the resurrection. These are not written centuries later by monks or mystics. Archaeologists and epigraphers have confirmed that many of the catacomb inscriptions date to the second and third centuries AD while Christianity was still illegal.

Some graves include the names of those believed to have died during persecution. Others simply speak of rest and hope. They are quiet witnesses, yet they tell us something profound: the early Church believed in a life beyond death, and they were willing to die proclaiming it.

Mamertine Prison: Where the Stones Still Echo

In the heart of Rome near the Forum, the Mamertine Prison still stands. According to Christian tradition, this is where both Peter and Paul were held before their executions where Peter was crucified (upside down by his request) and Paul was beheaded (as a Roman citizen). Whether or not every detail of that tradition can be verified, the early Church held these places sacred.

Pilgrims began visiting the prison as early as the 4th century. Graffiti left behind on its walls includes early Christian markings like crosses, prayers, and names. The prison’s existence itself, paired with strong textual tradition and early pilgrimages, offers a tangible reminder of the cost of faith.

More Than Myth: Verified by Archaeology

The importance of these sites is not confined to religious belief. Archaeological evidence, carefully dated and catalogued, supports the claims of early persecution and the vibrancy of Christian worship in the underground.

• Excavations in the Catacomb of Priscilla and St. Callixtus have uncovered over 170,000 burial places with many of them belonging to Christians.

• Paintings and inscriptions found in these tombs consistently reflect Christian theology and iconography from the earliest years of the faith.

• Scholars like Dr. John Bodel from Brown University and Dr. Robin Jensen from Notre Dame have extensively published on these discoveries, affirming their historical authenticity.

A Church Forged in Suffering

The earliest followers of Jesus did not have power, privilege, or political protection. Their worship cost them everything. And yet, they sang hymns in catacombs. They carved their hope into stone. They passed down stories of miracles and martyrdom. They kept going. They believed that to follow Jesus meant to carry a cross, sometimes literally.

As we remember Christmas, Easter, or any season of faith, let us not forget the quiet halls of the catacombs. Let us not forget the anchor, the fish, the shepherd. Let us remember that we are not the first to suffer for the name of Christ.

The Church was not born in comfort. It was born in a graveyard, where death gave way to life.

They endured because their hope was not anchored to circumstances. It was anchored to resurrection. Jesus had already warned them that trouble would come. He had also promised that He had overcome the world.

They believed Him.

Obedience did not guarantee safety. It guaranteed presence. God was with them in prisons, in flames, in exile, and in death. Paul could write from confinement that to live was Christ and to die was gain because death no longer held power over him.

What This Means for Us Now

Christmas is not merely sentiment. The incarnation was an invasion. God entered flesh knowing it would lead to suffering. The disciples followed Him knowing it would cost them everything.

And still, they went.

When faith feels heavy. When obedience feels costly. When waiting stretches longer than expected. We are standing inside a story far older and deeper than our own. We are not abandoned. We are surrounded by witnesses who endured far worse and still declared God faithful.

This season calls us not into comfort, but courage. Not into ease, but trust. Not into silence, but proclamation.

They went anyway.

May we have the courage to do the same.