EPILOGUE

IN THE THREE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIRST YEAR OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR, JESUS CHRIST

The commission went out from Constantine, the first Roman emperor who had converted to the cause of Christ, the same ruler who had abolished the ancient punishment of crucifixion. He wrote the letter to Eusebius, the bishop of Caesarea in Palestine, a respected leader in the church. The emperor needed the bishop’s help.

I have thought it expedient to instruct your Prudence to produce fifty copies of the sacred Scriptures, the provision and use of which you know to be most needful for the instruction of the Church, to be written on prepared parchment in a legible manner, and in a convenient, portable form, by professional transcribers thoroughly practiced in their art.

Eusebius started immediately, assembling the books that had proven most useful in the instruction and encouragement of the church, the books that had shown themselves to be inspired by the Holy Spirit. He enlisted the most diligent scribes to copy the sacred pages. They wrote each word carefully on new parchment, counting the letters and words on each page, dividing the pages into three or sometimes four columns. They bound the books with sturdy leather and inscribed the cover with gold letters.

The sacred Scriptures.

Four years after their delivery, Eusebius and the other bishops were called to Constantinople to deal with a heresy being espoused by Athanasius of Alexandria. During his time there, Eusebius was granted a private audience with the emperor.

He was pleased to see that Constantine had kept a copy of the Scriptures for himself and even more pleased when he learned that Constantine had read every word. The emperor had some vexing theological questions about the divinity of Christ and other weighty matters that had troubled the church. Eusebius answered as best he could.

But the emperor had a practical question as well. It was about the books written by Saint Luke.

“Who is this man Theophilus?” the emperor asked.

“Nobody actually knows, Your Excellency. His identity has been lost to history. There are some theories, however.”

Constantine waited, and Eusebius took it as a cue to continue.

“Some say he was a generous benefactor of Luke. Others suggest he may have been an investigator for Nero in preparation for Paul’s trial. Still others believe the name is a code word for Nero himself.”

Constantine seemed to consider this, though his expression soured with the thought that the notorious Nero might have been Luke’s intended audience. Like every other Roman, the emperor was well aware of Nero’s infamous reign and cowardly death. Repulsed by the people, condemned by the Senate, and hunted by the Roman legions, Nero had struggled to even muster the nerve to take his own life. When he finally did, with the help of a servant, his last words were fittingly narcissistic: “What an artist dies in me!”

Following his death, the Senate had issued a damnatio memoriae, condemning even the memory of the man, erasing his name and visage from all public documents and places.

It was no wonder that Emperor Constantine recoiled at the thought of such a man being the intended recipient of Saint Luke’s writings.

“What is your thought on the matter?” Constantine asked Eusebius.

The bishop mulled the question for a moment. “The name Theophilus means ‘lover of God,’” he eventually replied. “In that respect, it may be that the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles are general epistles, addressed to every believer who loves our Savior.”

The emperor walked to his desk, opened the sacred volume, and read the words again. “‘Most Excellent Theophilus,’” he murmured. He looked at Eusebius, pinning the bishop with his incisive eyes. “Is that the view to which you subscribe, Eusebius?”

“Yes, Your Excellency, though it’s difficult to prove such a thing. Still, it’s my belief that there is a small part of Theophilus in all of us.”