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The place is a dungeon in Caesarea, a seacoast city, Roman administrative center for Palestine. Seven men, their wrists chained, slump against the walls. An eighth man, small, stooped, his eyes alert, stands facing his visitor.

Why, Paul, why?
As you stand there
with chains hanging from your wrists,
why?
What has this business done for you?
What do you have against me,
that you wish me to become a Christian?
Should I end up like you,
beaten, in jail, or driven from city to city?

You've been in jail here at Caesarea for two years.
It began when you went to Jerusalem to worship.
Your enemies,
some of your own people,
found you in the Temple.
They raised a riot,
dragged you outside,
beat you and threw stones at you.
They'd have killed you in another minute
if the Roman soldiers hadn't rescued you.
Then, bruised,
with blood running down your face,
you stood there,
silenced the mob with a wave of your hand,
and told them of the risen Christ
who appeared to you on the road to Damascus.
I was amazed that they listened to you at all,
but listen they did
until you said the Messiah
had sent you to the Gentiles.
That was too much;
it started another riot.

You have a way, Paul, of starting riots.
The very next day they brought you
before the high priests and the council.
You began again with the resurrection of Jesus,
saying, "I am on trial concerning the hope
of the resurrection of the dead."
To you, these are two inseparable realities:
Jesus is the Messiah,
the fulfillment of all your hopes,
and Jesus is raised from the dead
and is alive.
But to your listeners, this was cause for another riot.
The council divided itself between Pharisees,
who believe in a resurrection,
and Sadducees, who deny it,
two sides fighting each other
and about to tear you into pieces.
Even Roman power couldn't keep you in Jerusalem.
Forty men took a vow not to eat
until they had killed you:
I guess they got pretty hungry.
When the Roman tribune heard of the plot,
he sent 470 soldiers to escort you to Caesarea.

There you were on the seacoast,
in the court of the Roman governor Felix.
In your trial before him,
you rested your case again on the hope
of Jesus' resurrection.
Felix knew you were innocent of any crime,
but that didn't do you much good.
He kept you in jail for two full years.
Oh, he was somewhat interested in what you believe.
He sent for you several times
to hear about your faith,
but when you talked of justice
and the forgiveness of sins,
that rascal's guilty conscience pulled him back.
Besides, the greedy schemer was hoping for a bribe.
As for you, you stayed in jail.

That's just the last two years.
You've been in trouble before, Paul,
ever since you became a Christian.
You had to escape from Damascus
in a basket lowered over the city wall.
On your missionary journeys you've been stoned,
beaten with rods, and jailed.
You've gone through all sorts of hardships
for that faith of yours.
Why, Paul?
Why do you do this to yourself?

This new governor, Festus, is an honest man,
but he's new.
He doesn't know anything yet about Judaism
or the prophets or Christianity.
That's why he invited Herod Agrippa
to hear you today.
We know what you said to him, Paul.
There is sheer drama
in your appearance before Agrippa.
His great-grandfather was Herod the Great,
king when Jesus was born.
His grandfather murdered John the Baptist
and sent Jesus back to Pilate.
His father imprisoned Peter and killed James.
Now you face him in the elegant Hall of Audience,
built by his great-grandfather.
He and his sister wear the purple robes of royalty;
Festus has his scarlet robe as Roman governor.
His officials are there,
with an honor guard of centurions and legionnaires.
There you stand, Paul,
small, stooped,
chains dangling about your gnarled hands.
But you are not impressed by Agrippa
or awed by Roman power.
When you speak,
your expression is magnetic,
your eyes glint with majesty,
and your voice cuts through all the pomp
and pretentiousness to center on one person:
Jesus Christ,
the first to rise from the dead,
to proclaim light and life
to everyone who turns to him in faith.

I've sensed a resilience in you Christians
who believe in the resurrection,
as if that Lord you believe in
has released your untapped energies.
I've seen it in others;
when they were at the limits of their endurance,
their faith infused them
with strength beyond their own.
You've shown it so often, Paul,
and you showed it in your answer to Agrippa,
"I pray to God that not only you
but also all who are listening to me today
might become such as I am -
except for these chains."

Yes, Paul, that's for you.
That's your commitment to Jesus Christ.
From the time of your meeting with him
on the road to Damascus,
you have known only one master.
But why, Paul, do you want to make me a Christian?
I've seen all the trouble,
dangers,
hardships
it's brought you.
Why do you wish this for me?

Is your answer the same for me as it is for yourself,
that you want me to know the same hope,
the same glory,
the promise and the light
and the forgiveness?
Is there a life given also to me
in the resurrection of Jesus Christ your Lord?

Is this your reason, in Jesus' words to you,
"I have appeared to you for this purpose,
to appoint you to serve and testify
to the things in which you have seen me"?
Am I also to be such a witness?
Would you have me show
the power of personal experience?
Is there an excitement in the Christian life,
such excitement that I would want everyone
to know Christ's resurrection
and what his resurrection
has done for me?

You say he sent you
"to open their eyes so that they may turn
from darkness to light ...
so that they may receive forgiveness of sins ...."
Paul, open your eyes and look at us!
Paul, I say it again, open your eyes and look at us!
We're part of a twentieth century western
civilization that has been losing its goals.
We've moved so far from our roots in
Christian faith and Christian morality,
both personal and social,
that some of our historians are calling this
the post-Christian age.
We don't need to look far
for evidence of moral decay.
But can we also see a light?
Is there a light for us in your risen Christ?

You say that through Christ
people may "receive forgiveness of sins ...."
Paul, you have the burden of those chains
on your hands.
There are so many people in our century
carrying heavier chains:
chained to a load of guilt.
Can we believe the good news that you bear:
that Christ breaks those chains,
that he forgives,
that he lifts the burden?
You say he offers
"a place among those who are sanctified
by faith in me."
We need a place.
Everyone needs a place.
Does your Lord offer us this place,
a place in the family of God,
a place in God's heart?

This is your experience, Paul.
Is this what you want for us also:
this hope you have found in Christ,
this awareness of his love,
this strength you have found in his strength,
this glory in his resurrection?
Do you want this same resurrection of Christ
to give us power to live with renewed lives:
lives of freedom and joy
within our daily twentieth century pressures?
Do you want us to feel
that we are never alone again,
for your risen Christ will be with us and in us?

Yes, Paul, you do not want us in prison as you are.
Yet, jail or no jail,
can we face anything and everything
by the same power
which raised Jesus from the dead?
Will the same power which is at work in you
be also at work in us?
Paul, do you want us to join you in praise,
in hope,
in thanksgiving to your risen Lord?

Why, Paul, why?
Why would you have us be Christians?