Now in the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, Pontius Pilate being governor of Judea, and Herod being tetrarch of Galilee, and Philip his brother tetrarch of Iturea and the country of Trachonitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilina: Under the high priests Anna and Caiphas: the word of the Lord was made unto John, the son of Zachary, in the desert. And he came into all the country about the Jordan, preaching the baptism of penance for the remission of sins. –Gospel of John

Crossing the Sinai, Paki, the Egyptian, and Timoleon, the Greek, felt they aged years. The trials were extreme. The desert brutal. The trek endured beyond a moon cycle, well over forty days. Their guides were local Bedouins, nomads of the sand. Timoleon had the worst of it. Physically, he suffered immensely. Spiritually, he fared none the better. A nightmare, the crossing aged both men immensely.

Timoleon, a man who traveled throughout the Greco-Roman world, discovered his match in the Sinai. The crossing of sand situated between Egypt and Asia was a tortuous, bitter ordeal. The land of the wanderings of Moses and his people fleeing Egypt was a torn land, a massive mass rent asunder through the ages; geographical plates colliding, wedges driving, continent splitting. Desert and mountains prevailed. Here was the abode of the unnamed God. Here am I screamed the bitter sandy wind.

A kenosis, Timoleon changed in ways only a man encountering death could during the desert days and nights. The injuries started with a bite from his camel. He rode the only male of the herd, a spirited youth followed by three older females. In handling, the camels were a mystery. He could not get used to traveling with them. They were truly beasts of burden. As a herd, they were hysterical upon approach; a boisterous rebellion erupting when humans came near. Humans only meant onerous loading. The camel’s ornery disobedience was just the beginning of their indecencies. Timoleon, a refined man, struggled mightily with his obstinate camel.

Led by the Bedouin guides, venturing away from clearly defined paths, Timoleon became complacent after eight hours of travel. The sun was relentless. The group of travelers: Paki, the three Bedouins, and Timoleon; were spread out in a line, a distance almost beyond sight. Surrounding emptiness spellbinding, melancholy subjugated Timoleon as he fell further and further behind. He was not in the best of moods. Never had he experienced the searing sands. He knew the sea and the world of man, yet this scorching empty place he did not know. The heat was constant, as was the lack of escape. The sun never ceased.

Within the extreme, something grander than life emerged, existence, geography, everything shaped by a ruthless scorching wind. The unnamed God was here, one superior, logos seemingly absent, reason abstract and ineffective. Sweltering nothingness extending, the sand drifts were amazing, barren, roasting under the hot sun. Many and never ending, a metamorphism shrouded by a bedazzling whiteness awaited. Those foolish enough to penetrate into the depth of the desert were marked for life. Eyes focused upon an otherworldly distance their brand.

Timoleon was slothful, suffering from insomnia, cloudiness dominating him. A severe headache agitated his disposition. Everything seemed wrong. The previous month, he had a molar pulled in Alexandria. Since the dental treatment, he suffered headaches. One now plagued him as he fell behind his companions. Naturally, he was last in line. In reference, the Bedouins travelled quickly. Paki was the only one who remained within sight. The Bedouins were smaller, sitting upon their knees in an odd fashion, hooking their right leg across the camel’s neck, effortlessly urging their camels forward with the bouncing of their body. Timoleon could not master the riding style. He felt he was too large. He settled upon an odd side-saddle position, holding on for life, many times desperately wrapping his arms around the camel and his saddle. There was no way he could match the gait of his companions. He was positive the Bedouins had given him the worst of the camels. He relied upon Paki. Paki saw the forward sand dwellers, so Timoleon followed him.

His following was inefficient. He wandered from the path of his companions via the will of his camel. The beast was intent upon his own direction. The camel ventured to a bluff, lee side of a drift. Timoleon heard something unseen beyond the mounted sand. Eagerly, he dismounted, happy to be upon his own feet, intent upon investigating the sound. The camel broke free from his grasp, sauntering away, yet not fleeing.

Timoleon found it was not too difficult to scale the accumulated sand. Ascending, he sank some, yet was able to advance. The grunting beyond the dune was distinct. It sounded like a camel feasting. At the drift’s apex, Timoleon encountered the gruesome sight of a starved camel eating the innards of a deceased camel. Chewing, bloodied mouthed, the skeleton-thin camel looked to Timoleon. His opinion of the camel as an animal darkened. The biting to come would only further his dislike of the beast, another biting was present for the moment.

Timoleon fell to the sand. The absurdity of the scene before him broke his spirit. The camel returned to eating one of his own in breed. Timoleon’s headache was peaking as a tremendous sense of panic attacked, a fear of nothing and everything rearing its head. The unnamed God was dispensing wrath. The Israelite prophets screamed in his head. He read them, not understanding, and now they were shrieking. Timoleon dropped to the sand, allowing gravity to consume. In motion, he experienced an incredible decelerating of time. Something next to him was moving fast, striking out with aggressive intent. It was a cobra.

The serpent sank its fangs into Timoleon’s shoulder, quickly slithering back to anonymity beneath the sand. The impact registering the severity of the punch of a large man. The snakebite snapped Timoleon back to the efficient rational man he developed himself in to. Interiorly, reason was not dead. He was ashamed he had fallen so far from his education, allowing such a moment of weakness and despair to overwhelm him. An immense sloth had to be overcome. Death was at hand. Calmly, Timoleon sat himself, understanding nothing more was to be done. He knew some men attacked a snakebite with their dagger, yet the act was foolish, an ineffective vain attempt to hold on to life, practically only inviting infection. Timoleon choose to prepare himself for death. The moment he focused his life upon was now upon him. He was at peace, centering himself within gratitude, the opportunity to experience life. The end was near.. A voice came from nowhere.

“Your camel was fast without your body burdening it.” Speaking Greek, Paki’s voice took form. In background, other voices murmured. The Bedouins were present.

“Paki my friend, I was bitten by a cobra.” Timoleon looked to Paki.” Watch over me, yet leave me space to think about life and my time in it. In this place of death, I will concede to my time ending.”

The Bedouin who understood Greek ordered his companion with a pointing of his hand. He was impressed with Timoleon’s acceptance of the snakebite. A second Bedouin followed the path of the snake. The final Bedouin seated himself upon the sand, intrigued with the opportunity to watch the tall impressive foreigner die. The man was strong. He had been sickly during travel; however the desert did this to foreigners. To watch the tall strong Greek die would be entertaining. It was not long before the snake following Bedouin returned with the headless serpent in his hand. He spoke excitedly to his companion as he set the serpent upon the sand for all to see. With his dagger, the man sliced open the cobra, revealing a dead desert mouse.

“That mouse may have saved your friend’s life. The cobra just ate him. Maybe all of his poison was used on the mouse. It was a big mouse. It is still dangerous though. If he lives past the next moments he can still die from infection.”

Paki moved toward the camels. Timoleon spoke. ”Wait to clean it Paki. Let me prepare for death. If it was not a dry bite, I will die within the hour. In this time, I would like to compose myself. Call no man happy until you see how his life ends.”

Paki acceded with a bowing. In observance, the attending sat with Timoleon, yet far enough away to give him solitude. Seating himself cross-legged, Timoleon closed his eyes and turned to the sun, clearing his mind of thought, concentrating upon his breathing, feeling the heat of the sun burning his face. Time passed and his breathing continued. Timoleon visually placed himself thoughtlessly into the darkness, succumbing to a roar.

An old woman roused Timoleon. She carried sticks, several she gathered in preparation for a cooking fire. Her presence was not of this world. Timoleon continued his breathing, observing. The woman neared, yet she was preoccupied.

“Peace grandmother. I am traveling through the desert with my friends. I was bitten by a snake and wait to die.”

“It has not rained for years. Now is a time for dying.”

“Do you have food? My companions wait with me. They could use something to eat. It has been a difficult journey.”

“I only have a little food. I have a grandson, a little one, I watch over. I have only a handful of flour in a jar and a little oil in a jug. I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for my grandson and myself. That we may eat it and die.”

The old hunched woman, acquiesced to a final meal, turned and walked away. After the woman parted, an emaciated child hustled into vision. Boils and scars littered the boy’s body.

“You know so little foreign man. You think everything is outside of you, that knowledge is to be collected. I am hungry and my grandmother is not long for the world. Our interest is only in eternal survival, in healing.”

Timoleon continued breathing, eyes closed, mind barren.

From behind a voice cried,

“In the wilderness prepare the way for Yahweh.
Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley will be raised up;
every mountain and hill will be laid low.
The stumbling blocks shall become level
and the rugged places smooth.
The glory of Yahweh will be revealed,
and all mortals together will see

Timoleon recognized the voice as one of the Israeli poets, or prophets as they were renowned by their compatriots. The poets of dour grandeur, who spoke for the Israeli God: Yahweh, Elohim, Adonai, Lord, I AM; names for one beyond names. The unnamed God as Timoleon recognized him. Before him appeared a wearied old man, his head resting in his right hand, a thousand mile stare directed below. To the rear, other old men mingled about; some reading, some pacing, one pissing against a wall. Never lifting his eyes, the wearied old man spoke.

Lift up your eyes and see:
who has created all this?
He has ordered them as a starry host
and called them each by name.
So mighty is his power,
so great his strength,
that not one of them is missing.

Timoleon’s admiration of poetry brought forth a fondness for words. Within words, creative power existed. Through words, greater awareness, truth, was attainable. Platitudes and definitions were not as important as the beauty and mystery of divine poetry. Facts did not matter so much. Clandestine, truth was the essential. In accuracy, beauty and mystery were not for knowing, rather living and loving. Timoleon concentrated upon his breath; in his submission embracing the unnamed God.

Again the old man spoke,

Look, I am doing a new thing:
now it springs forth.
Do you not see?
I am opening up a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.

The old man, acknowledging a severe domineering omnipresence, raised his head, lifting it from its perch, his withered right hand. The old skeletal prophet lifted his eyes to Timoleon. An eruption of brightness, whiteness engulfing, burst as living and spirit eyes met. Blinded, death ready, Timoleon continued breathing.

Enduring, brightness dimming, blindness subsisting, another prophet, one named Strong Is God, one amidst a pile of dust and bones, appeared. Reciting, playing the bard, he read from a scroll.

Behold, I Myself will search for My sheep and seek them out. As a shepherd cares for his herd in the day when he is among his scattered sheep, so I will care for My sheep and will deliver them from all the places to which they were scattered on a cloudy and gloomy day.

The prophet amongst the bones lifted a barber’s razor, shaving his head of its flowing kempt hair and long white beard before continuing with words. The endeavor mystically conducted in a matter of breaths.

Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean; I will cleanse you from all your filthiness and from all your idols. Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.

Bleeding from the rough shaving, Strong Is God finished his prophesying. The surrounding bones began to vibrate and rattle, dust ascending with the sounding of his voice.

The hand of Yahweh was upon me. He brought me out and led me in spirit to the middle of the valley which was full of bones.
He made me walk to and fro among them and I could see there was a great number of them on the ground all along the valley and that they were very dry.
Yahweh said to me, “Son of man, can these bones live again?” I said, “Lord Yahweh, only you know that.”
He then said, “Speak on my behalf concerning these bones; say to them:
Dry bones, hear the word of Yahweh!
Yahweh says: I am going to put spirit in you and make you live.

Strong Is God reposed to sleeping. Timoleon perceived his breathing, inhalation then exhalation, absorbing his faded visions. Heart beating, blackness ensued.

Paki and the Bedouins watched, waiting for death or the continuation of life. It was well over three hours. They were impressed with their traveling companion’s bravado in confronting his demise. Finally, the Greek speaking Bedouin rose, informing Paki to tend to the bite.

“He will live.”

Timoleon opened his eyes, tasting the sun upon his lips. He felt nothing, emptied. His companions stood before him as silhouettes, backlit by the intense sun. They appeared as trees standing. His sight was adjusting to the bright light. He rubbed his eyes briskly, causing alterations of perception, reflective remembrance of moments just passed. Entrenched, the visions of the powerful Israel prophets forced contemplation, the symbol of a shepherd, and the notion of wisdom being ungrasped. His life of extensive study seemed exhausted; abandonment, knowledge discarded, indifference and bewilderment arising, surrender emerging with the realization of a continuing life. Roused from meditation, disoriented, Timoleon heard a lamb bleating as if before the slaughter. He looked forward. The trees he knew were companions stood before him, silhouettes and five in number. His companions numbered four. He opened his eyes again, forcing accurate perception, shading with his hand. There was Paki and the three Bedouins.

“Rest well my friend. All is good. We will eat and drink a little.”

Timoleon stretched out in the burning sand. Fresh from the clutches of death, he mused. How did a master’s life truly embrace knowledge? All his life he pursued knowledge, yet now he questioned its worth. He recognized that knowledge could corrupt, and that many of the corrupt were full of knowledge. Wisdom was elusive, more than knowing things. This God of the Israelites he saw as perfection, the ultimate source of existence. The Creator sublime, one who from nothing makes something. Everything this One creates is good. Where did the perversion originate? Where did the wandering start? How did knowledge become corrupt? A God of truth was superior to knowledge for He involved Himself not in corruption or other forms of imperfection. For if God was corrupt, curious, or mischievous then all hope was lost. Timoleon rested upon his Stoic foundation, acquiescing. The baking sun, the serpent bite and death created greater interior space. The unnamed God was becoming a fixture, a point of adoration. The desert crossing to come would only get worse.

The first worsening came with the departure of the Bedouins. With the abandonment of the nomads, Paki took responsibility for the camels. He was gaining mastery. The camel’s nature was unlike any animal he knew, yet Paki was good with animals. Horses were a love. He saw the camels demanded their independence, yet they were herd animals, never wandering far, understanding humans meant feeding. The Bedouins were masters of their camels. They loved them as pets, off-springs. Paki watched the camel masters closely. The Bedouins felt Paki would prove capable with the three purchased camels. Warfare consumed the Bedouins. A group of twenty fellow Bedouins intent upon seeking revenge against a rival clan for deaths and stolen property convinced the guides to join them, leaving Paki and Timoleon alone with three camels.

One of the Bedouins wanted to tell Timoleon a story before he parted. He could not speak Greek so he told his story to the Bedouin who mastered the foreign tongue. The Greek speaking Bedouin argued with his companion for some time before turning to Timoleon.

“He wants you to know his story, however he is not a good storyteller. He speaks too much about himself, and tends to tell the story differently every time he tells it. I know the story so I will tell you the truth. Many years ago, there was a raiding party traveling to steal camels when they came across lone travelers, one walking. There were two in total, a warrior guiding a young woman astride a camel. The raiding party saw no threat, yet they desired the camel, a marvelous beast. The leader of the raiding party ordered one of the men to ride to the two and demand the camel. The men sat mounted upon a ridge, allowing the passing man and woman to observe them.

When the assigned rider approached, the warrior leading the young woman, the walking warrior, lance in hand, rushed the provocateur. Reaching the rider, he easily dispatched the man with his lance. Calmly, the victor brought in the camel of the attacker, tethering the beast behind the young woman. Slowly and deliberately, without looking at the mounted observers, the warrior continued walking on his way. The raiding party was astounded, sending a second rider. Though the second rider attempted to defend himself, defeat was his doom. Again the walking warrior, gathered the camel before serenely setting off, given no regard to the observing men. A third man charged, however he fared none the better as the walking man brought him down with seemingly no effort. However, with the death of the third attacker, the lance of the walking warrior broke into two pieces. The warrior gathered the third camel, tethering it to his growing train. With no lance, never considering the witnessing raiding party, slowly the walking warrior calmly continued on his way. The raiding party as a group of eleven approached the two. The walking warrior, unarmed, began to sing, paying attention only to the path ahead.

Ride on in peace, my Lady fair
Secure and safe and calm
Be confidant and debonair
And free from all alarm
I cannot flee before a foe
Except he taste my arm,
The boldness of my charge he’ll know
Who seeks to do thee harm.

Horsemen, turn back! Allow my love
To ride on undisturbed,
Rabia stands between ‘twixt you and her
With visage unperturbed.
His hand grips firm his shining lance
Which will not be deterred,
A wound from it will cast thee down
To die without a word. *

The walking warrior’s words and voice so moved the approaching men they forgot about their dead comrades. The leader, intent upon killing the warrior, now wanted to honor the man. He give his lance and four of his men to the walking warrior. He said his men would ride as protectors for the warrior and his lady. Safely reaching his people, the walking warrior sheltered his woman before gathering men to slaughter his escorts, gaining as spoils the camels of the deceased men.”

With the conclusion of the story, the non-Greek speaking Bedouin appeared proud, dignified in glory. The Greek-speaking storyteller informed Timoleon that his companion was the son of the walking warrior and his woman. The story of his father was known throughout the dessert. The Bedouins parted, as the story remained fresh in the minds of Paki and Timoleon. Timoleon laughed, amazed by the story and his near death experience. Paki turned his attention to the camels.

Paki was convinced he could handle the camels. The two men discussed in great depth with the Bedouins the proper reading of the stars for a successful passage of the Sinai. Timoleon demonstrating intrinsic knowledge. Together they felt confident they could manage the desert crossing. Disaster struck when a strong windstorm lasted for weeks, the sand blowing so furiously vision was impossible. The stars rendered hidden. Days became long sheltering. Timoleon did not want to sit. He knew the destination was east and felt confident in his sense of direction. Even though a stranger in a strange land, the four directions were still the four directions. Paki questioned his confidence, content to sit still. Timoleon insisted, emphasizing the Bedouins told of the camel’s familiarity with an easterly watering hole, the direction of the land of the Israelites. Instinctively, the camels would wander to the water. Timoleon assured Paki. In conversation, he always presented answers. The camels survived for generations in this accursed land. Let them lead. Blinded by the thrashing sand, they could still make progress. It was better than sitting still. Moving was doing something. Anything is better than doing nothing.

Days passed and still the southerly wind did not stop. Timoleon lost all sense of direction. Then he realized the camels were gone. Timoleon’s swelling throat was at its worst. His swollen tongue immense. Now the camels were gone.

The previous evening, the camels refused tethering, set free based upon weariness. Exhausted from the pelting sand, Timoleon and Paki sought shelter and sleep. In the morning, vision obstructed, the camels were nowhere to be found. The tooth-rooted headache coupled with the constricted breathing made matters difficult for Timoleon. Logic was impossible. Thoughts were painful. It took all of his learning and discipline to maintain a sense of calm. He had survived the snakebite, yet conditions presented suffering beyond the passing of life. A battle internal ensued. The knowledgeable level-headed Greek, once again, brought to his limits by the desert.

Timoleon and Paki halted, sheltering once more underneath blankets, determined not to move until the wind ceased. Timoleon fought to compose his thoughts. Pain, rooted in his jawbone, seared his brain, and the swollen throat forced him to use a polished walking stick to ease his air passageway. The stick forced down his throat supplying a soothing sensation in its roughness. The sound of the desert wind became a roar. The same roar he experienced preparing for death.

Sitting under the minimal shelter, a rain of something solid began to assail their sheltering. Something larger than sand pebbles was striking. The impacts were not severe or damaging, yet the frequency increased in rapidity until only a steady pressing occurred, a continuous afflicting bombardment of strange objects. The mystery forced Timoleon and Paki to lower the blankets for identification. There caught in the strong wind was thousands of desert locust, grasshoppers of the sands in vast numbers. The horde of dead insects thronged down upon them. Timoleon and Paki decided there was nothing to do except anchor down. The plague of insects lasted for a time beyond belief. The amount was staggering.

Paki, the clairvoyant, felt a spiritual assault. He dropped his shelter and investigated the omnipresence of locusts. It was an omen of dread. The locusts stung, yet did not hurt. His mouth and eyes demanded defense. So many insects captured by the powerful desert wind and tossed to a distant fate. Paki called forth spiritual assistance, however the only result were tears flowing from his eyes.

Both men fell asleep, beaten by the wind, insects, and ubiquitous sand. Sand scraped and annoyed every inch of their bodies. Its presence knew no boundaries. Everything they ate and every breath tasted of sand. Sand was consuming them.

Waking, Paki and Timoleon discovered stillness. The desert was calm, bright, and hot. All was well. Timoleon saw the risen sun. It was a sight of joy. He knew the direction they must take. Paki also agreed. The sun was clear and scorching. The only object suspended in the blue sky. The men began walking. It was not long before they came across one of their camels. It was dead. No reason for the death was apparent.

“It is another bad omen. Something strange is happening.” Paki spoke. He sensed difficulties ahead. The spirit world was changing. Something immense was occurring.

“Look. More signs.” Paki pointed to a swopping hawk.

The hawk dove furiously, latching on to a black cobra, lifting it into the air. The hawk rose, holding to the middle of the serpent. The cobra over four feet in length, curled itself, managing to strike its predator. Three times the cobra struck the hawk. The hawk began to fall from the sky, when an eagle assaulted it. The hunter became the hunted. Viciously, the eagle drove the hawk and serpent into the sand with its talons, tearing with its beak the head from the serpent, inflicting death amongst airborne blood and disrupted feathers.

“It is not good.”

Awestruck, Timoleon felt the shrill cries of the birds of prey, hearing an ominous depth in their tones. Death was still near, an omnipotent presence. Paki read the sign as a conquering, greater force prevailing. It was not bad, simply reality. He perceived the eagle representing good and the hawk and serpent evil omens. The eagle was easily victorious. The altercation brought him hope. Death would not claim him here in the accursed sand. His confidence was contagious, raising Timoleon’s spirits. However hours of walking under the desert sun, once again, induced despair for Timoleon. The man of learning and physical training felt his sixty plus years. Profusely, sweat poured forth. The rationing of their water supply prevented the quenching of dehydration.

After six days of wandering, Timoleon felt certain they were going to die. He was confident he would see a future, yet he saw no way they could survive. Paki’s resilience kept him going, motivating. Paki was without doubt. They would see future days. They suffered during the multitude of desert days, yet they were interiorly expanding, undergoing formation. Now endless sand, scorching sun, hunger, and a devouring thirst were their only corporeality. Internal solace was their only escape, continual prayer their only authenticity. With the Bedouins, they feasted upon an ibex killed by one of their guides. Now they saw no signs of animals, aside from anticipating vultures.

Timoleon’s health concerns became so complicated he refused to move. His lack of motion brought forth bravado from the vultures. Swooping, they tested him. Timoleon ignored the buzzards, enjoying the break from monotony a small field of plant growth provided. The Bedouins explained that vegetation was not consistent. It was based upon local rainfall. If it rained, buried seeds would germinate, taking root, blossoming days after the rain. The plant growth would survive, life enduring, for months. Timoleon did not want to move from the vegetation. His throat and pounding head were unbearable. There was another health concern. His feet were badly swollen, calloused and cracked. The cracks brought pain, and the swelling alarm. It was a warning sign of fluid collecting in his lower extremities.

“I cannot walk. Let us stay here. Some animal must come to feed and you can kill it. We have both lost so much weight. It has been weeks since we ate properly. Let us rest until we enjoy a real meal.”

Paki inspected his companion’s feet. He was leery of the swelling. He knew it opened the door to death.

“Your feet look terrible.”

“Yes my friend. They are raw with pain.”

“I will find us meat. Our end is not to come here in the desert.”

“Damn near close to it.”

“Very close, yet we will escape its grip.”

* This poem/song is a Bedouin classic. The author is unknown. The story of the walking warrior is a traditional Bedouin tale. Similar to the tumbling story I posted, I like to tap into traditional ideas.  I have no intention of seeking publication. I have many ideas on that, including the fact I am convinced there are absolutely too many books in existence. There are too many writers, too many artist, too many musicians, too many serious thinkers.  There are too many individuals who take themselves too seriously. There is too much information bombarding. Another reason, I whole heartedly embrace St John of the Cross’ emphasis upon darkness leading to greater spiritual growth. One needs to turn off, alienate, from all the influences seeking attention. I want to concentrate upon relevancy. The eternal is my focus.

There is an interesting book by Jewish scholar Rodger Kamenetz connecting the Jewish writers Rabbi Nachman (great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Hasidism) and Franz Kafka. Both gained posthumous prominence for their writing. Both left strict instructions that their unpublished writings were to be burned after their demise. Placing ideas, works of creative effort, out into the world demands accountability upon the soul of the creator. I think of the way Catholicism’s second judgment at the end of time was explained to me. During the second judgment individuals would be made intimately aware of their impact upon the world. All the ripple effects caused by their splash into life, time and space, would become known. To the extreme, an artist like Madonna would understand the influence she played in the degenerating of dignity in the lives of girls and young women, and the harm she caused to Catholicism in her self-serving coarse, lack of respect, attitude toward the faith of her upbringing. At the other end of the pendulum, a saint dedicated to the faith like Maximilian Kolbe would understand the positive impact, affirmative contagious imprint, he made upon contemporaries and generations to come.